Loretta Chase - The Devil's Delilah Read Free

relieving his own frustrations at the expense of the hapless Mr. Atkins. After berating the poor fellow unmercifully for nearly revealing their connexion, his lordship proceeded to an unkind analysis of said connexion.
    The world knew Lord Streetham as an enthusiastic book collector. Mr. Atkins knew him as a secret partner in his publishing business. That this was a closely guarded secret was perhaps because of the firm's tendency to offer the British public some of the naughtiest volumes ever to be hidden under mattresses or tucked away in locked draw-ers. Despite readers' regrettable affinity for anatomy manuals, directories of prostitutes, reviews of crim con cases, and guides to seduction, the business had not done well of late — as the earl was at present pointing out.
    Atkins was obviously a failure, his lordship observed, perhaps a fraud as well. Be that as it may, he now had leave to plunge into bankruptcy solo. In short, Lord Streetham proposed to cease tossing good money after bad.
    "But, My Lord, to give up now — when a brilliant success is practically in my grasp — virtually in the printer's hands." Mr. Atkins squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. "Oh, my. I had not meant — oh, dear me."
    Lord Streetham paused in the act of bringing his glass to his lips and studied his companion's face over the rim. Then he put the glass down and fixed his pale blue eyes on the publisher.
    "What hadn't you meant?" he asked.
    The man only stood speechless and terrified, gazing back.
    "You'd better speak up, Atkins. My patience is quite at an end."
    "My — My Lord, I c — cannot. I'm sworn to's — secrecy."
    "You have no business secrets from me. Speak up at once."
    The publisher swallowed. "The memoirs, My Lord."
    "I am not in the mood to catechize you, Atkins, and you are provoking me."
    " His memoirs," the publisher said miserably. "Mr. Desmond has written his memoirs and I have paid him — partially, I mean, as an incentive to complete them speedily. That is why I am here. I learned he was travelling to Rossingley to visit relatives, so I came up from Town to — to spare him the trouble of bringing them to me."
    "Written his memoirs, has he?" Lord Streetham asked as he absently poured more wine into his still nearly full glass.
    "Yes, My Lord. I saw them — at least part of them — myself. He had written to ask whether I had any interest, and naturally, being familiar with his reputation — as who is not? — I made all haste to examine the work. I had to travel all the way to Scotland, but the journey was well worth my while, I assure you. All of Society will be clamouring to read Devil Desmond's story. We'll issue it in installments, you see, and — "
    "And have you got them?" his lordship asked.
    Mr. Atkins was forced to admit he had not, because Mr. Desmond had raised difficulties.
    "Of course he has," said the earl. "If you know his reputation, you should know better than to give Devil Desmond money before you have the goods in your hands. You are a fool. These memoirs do not exist. He showed you a few scraps of paper he'd got up for the purpose, and you were cozened."
    The publisher protested that the manuscript must exist, or Miss Desmond would not have been so eager to interrupt the meeting with her father. "He's ready to publish," Atkins explained, "but she won't let him. She's afraid of the scandal. The girl's looking for a husband, you know. That's why Mr. Desmond has returned to England."
    The earl sneered. "Devil Desmond's daughter? A husband? The wench must be addled in her wits. I suppose she means to find herself a lord — a duke, perhaps?" Lord Streetham chuckled. "Silly chit. What's one more scandal to her? As it is — but no, ancient history bores me. Still, the public dotes on such sorry tales, and you are correct. These memoirs, if they truly exist, are certain to be popular. Unfortunately…" He paused and lightly drummed his fingers on the table.
    "My Lord?"
    "People change, Atkins,"