Delane stared at the world map as though seeing disaster in every comer. With his duty clear, he grabbed his cloak and started toward the door. Though the hour was late, still Burke had to be warned. Perhaps he could go home for a while, back to America beyond the extension of Eden's power, anyplace, but he must leave London until the hearing was over and Eden's attention had been focused elsewhere.
He'd taken less than three steps toward the door when suddenly he heard footsteps on the other side, running footsteps, or so it seemed, and in the next minute the door was pushed violently open, and filling the doorway was Burke Stanhope, his hair mussed, cloak-
less in spite of the chill evening, his coat undone, indeed everything undone, including the expression on his face.
Startled by the appearance of the very man he'd been on his way to see, Delane gaped, both men staring at each other with the weight of undelivered messages.
"Burke." Delane smiled, dropping his cloak back onto the chair and stepping toward the man, hand extended to assist him to a chair where he might regain his breath and composure.
But Burke needed no assistance and stepped further into the room, slamming the door behind him, confronting Delane directly.
"I know you said I am not to see you," he commenced, "and I wouldn't have come if it hadn't been necessary."
"No need," Delane soothed, still trying to guide him to the settee and perhaps a settling glass of brandy. What had caused this unprecedented agitation in his normally contained young friend he had no idea. Suddenly a grim thought occurred to Delane.
"Is your mother—"
"Well, thank you."
"That's good. I've been meaning to call. But I've been busy since my return. Come, Burke, I was just in the mood for a nightcap. Will you join me? We have much to talk about."
To the brandy Burke said no, but as Delane went to the sideboard he was aware of the man pacing behind him. Snifter in hand, Delane returned to his desk. He felt most comfortable there, ready to deal with any crisis, and as he sat his eye fell again on the parchment from Andrew Rhoades and, feeling a need to deliver his own message, he said, "I was just on my way to see you," and lifted the parchment toward Burke, who in his own anxiety either didn't see it or didn't care.
"I have need of a favor, Delane," he said urgently, dragging a chair directly before the desk, forcing Delane's attention.
"Name it. If it's within my power, it shall be done."
Slowly Burke shook his head. "I—don't know where to start," he faltered. "Do you remember that woman, Delane, the one who almost fell from the carriage door outside the gates of Eden? You knew her or said you had known her before."
"Ehzabeth?"
"Yes, that's the one," Burke said hurriedly. "I want you to go and see her, tonight if possible. No, not tonight; it's too late. First thing in the morning, though, I want you to go and see her and—"
"For God's sake, why?" Delane managed.
**I—need information/' Burke went on, stammering as though he knew he wasn't making a great deal of sense. "You—see, there was an accident of some sort, involving—"
"Elizabeth?"
"No, but the young woman who lives with her."
"Lady Mary Eden?"
"Mary," Burke repeated, as though it hurt to speak the name. He turned away, leaving Delane in a state of bewilderment, one hand playing with the stiffened comer of the parchment from Andrew Rhoades, baffled that both their problems involved Edens.
Delane noticed for the first time that he was wearing riding boots, the caked mud of a bridle path coating the heels. He'd never known Burke to show an interest in matters equestrian and, as each small mystery compounded the larger one, Delane pushed back his chair, took a long, mind-clearing swallow of brandy and, following the instincts of a journalist, calmly invited Burke to take a chair and start at the beginning.
At the invitation Burke appeared to draw a deep breath, then finally came words, the most incredible words that Delane had ever heard, an account of one chance meeting and recognition of the beautiful young woman who had held all of Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club enthralled for months, the same fair face with whom he had danced immediately preceding his expulsion from Eden. And all of this merely prelude to the larger madness of clandestine meetings in Hyde Park, the fascination growing to affection, the affection to—love, and finally, the most incredible of all, an aborted meeting and the gossip of a stablemaster who had implied that tragedy had befallen the young woman, and, as it was impossible for Burke to penetrate the fortress behind which she was confined, and, by his own confession, going mad with worry, he was now enlisting Delane's help.
The incredible tale concluded, Delane sat in a state of mild shock, torn between laughing his head off, which somehow seemed inappropriate considering the tragic slump of the young man on the settee, or clearing the residue of romantic nonsense from the room with a display of rage.
Instead, without a thought to choosing his words, Delane sat up in his chair and announced bluntiy, "I'm afraid you've made an ass of yourself."
He waited, certain that such an accusation would arouse a response from the man. When it did not, he tried again. "Are you hs-tening to me, Burke?" he prodded. "I frankly find it difficult to be-heve anything of what I've just heard."
"It's true."
"If it's true, it's madness. Out of all the available females in London, why—"
"I did not intend for it to go this far, nor did she.*'
"And how far has it gone?" Delane asked cautiously, thinking of the powerful ammunition that Eden could use against the man when and if Delane were forced to reveal his identity.
Burke sat up and conveniently used his hands as a shield for his face, "It's as I said, Delane. I—love—her."
"Touching," Delane murmured acidly. He decided to let the point of their intimacy pass. Perhaps it was best that he did not know everything. As it was, he felt that he knew too much.
He was aware of Burke standing before the desk. "Will you do it, Delane?" he asked. "Will you go tomorrow? I must know. Something has happened. Otherwise she would have—"
"Has it occurred to you, Burke," Delane commenced, hoping if not to shock him into good sense at least to mildly hurt him, "that the young woman was merely playing a game with you?"
"No."
"Why not? It is a good possibility. Her entire life has been a prolonged exercise in pampered boredom."
"That's not true."
"She must take her sport where she can find it, and how better than with an American who so outraged her cousin?"
"That is simply not true," Burke insisted, his hands on the desk.
Dear God, he appears to be literally unhinged. "Burke, please," Delane soothed, trying to ease him back into the chair and a degree of rationality. In spite of the fact that he did not sit, at least he was quiet. "What exactly is it that you want me to do with this—tale you've just delivered? Surely you don't expect me to take it seriously?"
"I want your assistance with one small matter."
"Small?" Delane asked, anger rising. "At the moment I am the chief target of Eden's rage. Look," he commanded and shoved the parchment from Andrew Rhoades across the desk, thinking that now
was as good a time as any. Let Burke see for himself the hazardous days ahead where the Eden family was concerned.
Distracted, Burke started to ignore the parchment, but then something caught his eye. Delane saw him lift the paper toward the light of a lamp.
"My God, is he still pushing it?" he muttered.
**Apparently.''
"Is this a subpoena?"
"No, not exactly, but I'd be a fool not to be there on the tenth of December."
"What will they ask you?"
"What do you think they'll ask?" Delane snapped, astonished at Burke's sudden denseness.
"My—identity?"
Delane nodded.
"And will you tell them?"
"Under oath I'll have no other choice."
Their eyes held, the full consequence of the hearing dawning on Burke. He read the parchment again, then tossed it onto the desk as though it were a matter of unconcern to him.
"Then do it," he announced coldly. "Tell Eden what he wants to know. It will come out sooner or later, anyway. In the meantime, will you please do this one favor for me—seek out Elizabeth and try to find-"
My God! One man in this oflSce was mad, and Delane knew who it was, and raged at the loss of his rational friend. "I will do nothing," he shouted across the desk, "for your own sake!"
"For my sakel" Burke replied, suffering anger of his own. **What am I asking that is so unreasonable?"
"If you don't know, there's no way I can tell you."
"Please do. I thought I could count on your understanding."
"In all matters, you can, except the ones that threaten to destroy both of us."
"How would a simple inquiry destroy us? The house does not belong to John Murrey Eden. Mary has told me so. What right does he have to tell your friend Elizabeth who calls or who doesn't?"
"John Murrey Eden does not need a rightl" exploded Delane, slamming his fist down against the desk. "I thought you knew the man better than that. A Demi-God. Your words, not mine. He con-
trols everything he touches. And for his enemies he reserves a special hell."
Slowly Burke stood up from his desk. *Tou're afraid of him," he accused softly.
Struggling for control and losing the battle, Delane scooped up the parchment, crushing it in his fist. "Do you know what this means?" he demanded, aware that he was trembling under the duress of his anger. "Not to me," he added. "I'm in a position of relative safety. My reputation will ultimately protect me. But to youl" He stopped, his mind m.oving to a piece of recent history, the gruesome suicide of a corrupt solicitor named Morley Johnson, who had abused the Eden fortune and, in the process, had incurred the wrath of John Murrey Eden. Perhaps the Divinity would say that Johnson had no right to live, but only a demon divinity would have hounded, pursued, humiliated and ultimately destroyed him as Eden had done. The man had been found hanging by the neck in a rat-infested flat near the docks, scarcely enough skin on him to cover his bones, festering sores on his limbs and a peculiar look of relief on his swollen face, as though it mattered not where he was going, heaven or hell, it would be preferable to this world and the pursuit of John Murrey Eden.
Unfortunately his memory, instead of tempering his anger, only served to increase it, as he replaced in his mind's eye Morley Johnson's face with Burke Stanhope's. He hfted the parchment for the inspection of the man opposite him.
"This could very well be your death warrant," he said quietly, aware of the melodrama of his words yet somehow feeling that they were not strong enough. "Quite obviously," he continued, "this could spell the end of my protection. Don't you see, it's not rne they are after. It's you. And the fact that I'm in possession of this parchment at all should tell you clearly of the man's need for revenge. And how precisely do you think he'll react when he learns that not only have you slandered his name but that you have compromised his cousin as well?"
"There has been no compromise," Burke replied. "Our meetings have been honorable."
"And secret."
"There was no other way."
"And there still is no other way," Delane stressed. "For your own
sake as well as the young lady's, I would strongly advise that you bring the entire episode to a close.'*
"I can't do that."
"You—have—no—choice!" Delane thundered, aware that nothing he had said had made the slightest difference.
"The matters are unrelated."
"God in heaven, Burkel Can't you hear yourself? You're not making sense."
"Perhaps not your kind of sense. But then you can't understand."
Delane started to say more but found that he couldn't. The young man standing opposite him had just made a strangely eloquent response, a look of resignation, a suggestion that all arguments were impotent.
Confronted by such a response, Delane felt for his chair, which had been pushed back in anger, dragged it forward and sat like a man defeated.
Having drained himself of all argument, he asked, "Would you consider going home for a while? Back to America?"
"There is nothing for me in America."
Delane rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes. "Then what do you intend to do?"
"As soon as I can, to find out precisely what has befallen her. As soon as I can, to see her again. As soon as I can, to ask her to become my wife."
Hearing the path to self-destruction spelled out so calmly, a groan escaped Delane's lips. Not until he heard the office door close could he jar himself out of this lethargy, and then it was too late.
"Burke, wait!" he called out.
But no one waited and, in a fit of anger, Delane picked up the empty brandy snifter and hurled it across the room, where it struck the edge of the table and shattered, the noise of destruction setting a proper tone for the days ahead.
He remained at his desk all night, his mind trying to work through to a simple solution. It was in this distracted and confused state that his assistant editor found him the next morning and informed him of the events of the London night which might be newsworthy for an evening edition of the Times: a carriage accident near the White Bear in Piccadilly and a spectacular fire near the river in an old abandoned barracks. Three corpses had been found among the smoking
ruins, their bodies burned beyond recognition. Transients probably, who had sought refuge in the old structure.
"Run them all," Delane said, only half listening to the news stories, which had nothing to do with his present burden, which was the need to know precisely how far John Murrey Eden would go in his quest for revenge.
Cambridge Late November 1870
For three days Richard had tried to shake the gloom brought on by John's letter announcing his imminent arrival sometime before the first of December^ a perplexing letter where each sentence provoked a question.