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At about the time Miss Desmond was agreeing to run away with her desperate swain, Mr. Langdon was being recalled to consciousness by his valet, who had been summoned by a hysterically babbling Joseph.
Though Mr. Langdon was confused and in great pain, he was in sufficient possession of his wits to know he had not passed out from drink. Nor did Mr. Fellows need to point out that his master must have been struck on the back of the head with the bust of Caesar Augustus. The bust, being made of marble, lay undamaged upon the carpet. Mr. Langdon’s head, being made of more delicate material, was in the process of producing a large, throbbing lump.
Mr. Fellows expressed his disapproval. He could not think what the world was coming to when young gentlemen must behave like the veriest ruffians, engaging in brawls in respectable households and bashing one another’s skulls.
“Damn it, man, it wasn’t a brawl,” Jack growled as his valet helped him to his feet. “He came up on me from behind and—” He broke off as his gaze fell upon the disorderly heap of wrapping paper and books on the floor by a chair. Thrusting his valet aside, Jack tore into the heap, flinging away paper and books in a perfectly demented manner and leading Mr. Fellows to observe aloud that his master was suffering from concussion.
“He’s taken it,” said the unheeding Jack in stunned disbelief. “He knocked me unconscious and stole it.”
“Inbreeding,” Mr. Fellows pronounced. “That is the trouble with the aristocracy. In another generation, mark my words, they’ll all be precisely like His Majesty.”
That he was nonetheless moved by the present situation was apparent, for Mr. Fellows immediately set to restoring order himself, instead of requiring the dumbfounded Joseph to do so. The valet picked up the books and placed them neatly on a nearby table—which was when he saw the folded piece of note paper.
He handed it to his employer, saying, “I suppose there is some delirious explanation in it.” He turned to Joseph. “You needn’t stand there gaping like an imbecile. Go find some ice.”
Mr. Langdon staggered to a chair and sat down to read the note, though the letters seemed to dance before his eyes. Fortunately—and uncharacteristically—it was brief. No more than five apologies and a dash of purple prose clouded the main point, which was that Tony had relieved his friend of the manuscript because he had a greater need for it, Love taking precedence over all other human concerns.
When Jack arrived at Potterby House, he found Mrs. Desmond, who’d only moments before come downstairs, standing in the hall upbraiding her aunt.
“Unchaperoned, Aunt Mimsy?” she was saying, her voice deeply reproachful. “With him, of all men?”
Lady Potterby was opening her mouth to defend herself when Jack hurried forward.
“She’s gone?” he asked, too agitated to remember his manners. “Miss Desmond has gone out?”
Mrs. Desmond’s glance took in his ashen face, the wreck that was once his starched neckcloth, and the ruin of his frantically raked hair. “The parlour,” she said quickly. “Aunt Mimsy, go to your room.”
Mr. Langdon spent no more than five minutes in the parlour—only enough time to make Mrs. Desmond promise to say nothing to her husband. Or, if this was impossible, she must at least do all she could to keep him at home.
“Then I must lie to him, Jack,” she said, “and I’ve never done so before.”
“This is no time for scruples, ma’am. Tell him she’s with me. She will be, I promise you.”
From Potterby House Mr. Langdon rode directly to Hyde Park. The hour being relatively early, the place was not yet jammed with vehicles. He did not therefore require too much time to ascertain that Tony’s curricle was not there.
With increasing sense of foreboding, Jack left. He had no idea where Tony could have taken Miss Desmond. There was only one hope of discovering a clue.
Not long after he’d left the park, Jack was at Melgrave House, crashing the knocker against the door.
“Lord Berne,” he demanded of the stony-faced servant who opened the door. “Where is he?”
“His lordship is not at home, sir.”
“Damn it, I know he’s not home. Where’s he gone?”
The porter retreated a step from the wild-eyed figure before him, though he maintained his frigidity.
“An extended trip, Mr. Langdon,” he answered curtly as he attempted to close the door.
Jack pushed him aside and stormed down the hallway. “Where is Lord Streetham?” he shouted.
The shout brought out the butler and several other curious servants, none of whom seemed inclined to cooperate with this madman. That he was not taken up and thrown out bodily was attributable only to his being considered more or less part of the family. Thus, though unhelpful, no one attempted to prevent him as he stomped towards the earl’s study, where he met the gentleman at the door.
“What a devil of a noise you’re making, Jack,” the earl reprimanded. “Don’t tell me you and Tony have taken to quarrelling again as you used to.”
“Where has he gone?” Jack demanded. “You would know. You know all his hideaways. Where has he taken her?”
“My dear boy, I haven’t the least idea what you’re raving about.”
“Tony has run off with Miss Desmond,” said the dear boy in some heat.
Lord Streetham’s lip curled in contempt. “Is that all? He’s run off with a wench. What of it? This would not be the first time.”
“All?” Jack echoed incredulously. “This is not some ballet dancer we speak of, but Mr. Desmond’s daughter. Lord Stivling’s grand niece—”
“I know who her relations are, “said Lord Streetham. “Most of them do not acknowledge her existence—and rightly s
o, if what you announce is true. She has bewitched my son and he has made her his mistress—as she no doubt has schemed for from the first. Well, I wish her joy of the transaction, for not a penny will I give that stupid boy to throw away on her.”
Upset as he was, Jack could see that pleading Miss Desmond’s innocence would be futile. Though certain she’d been deceived—may even have been rendered unconscious, as he had—Jack could never convince the earl of that.
Only one prospect might rouse Lord Streetham from his sneering complacency.
“I think, My Lord,” said Jack, “you underestimate how thoroughly ‘bewitched’ Tony is. Not two hours ago he was at my house, informing me he intended to marry her.” He went on to repeat as much as he could remember of Tony’s speech, with particular emphasis on his friend’s expressed defiance of his parents.
“All talk,” said the earl at the end of the recital. “More of his absurd speeches. I am sure he believed himself—for at least ten minutes.”
Nonetheless, a flicker of uneasiness had crossed the older man’s face. That was the only hint, but it was all Jack had. A few minutes later, he’d taken his leave.
Mr. Langdon waited in the mews until he heard, with unspeakable relief, the summons for Lord Streetham’s carriage.
After another endless wait, the carriage was readied. A short while later, it was on its way, with Mr. Langdon following at a discreet distance. Not until night had fallen did Jack feel sufficiently sure of its direction to dash ahead.
They were headed north, which could mean Gretna Green. Unfortunately, it could also mean Lord Streetham’s hunting box in Kirkby Glenham. Still, the earl could not be certain either, unless Tony had been unusually confiding in his valet. At any rate, Jack told himself, his lordship must stop to make enquiries along the way, and it would be wisest to precede him.
Darkness had descended and the air, consequently, had grown chilly. Miss Desmond, wrapped in a thick rug her thoughtful spouse-to-be had provided, was only uncomfortable inwardly. The farther they retreated from London, the more she repented her decision, and the harder it became to understand why she had made it, why she had so little considered the pain her act would cause others.
