The look in Michael’s eye was one of bitter triumph.You see?he seemed to say.I know what you are.
“It’s not what you think,” Lyman began, but his brother-in-law already had his hand on the doorknob.
“I hope you’ll do the right thing,” Michael said, with a faint motion toward the documents he’d left. “I’ll be in touch.”
Then he was gone, slipping past the obsequious platitudes of Mr. Wood and down the stairs with the silent tread of a jungle cat.
Lyman was scarcely aware of his path to the entryway to meet the errand boy, who stood breathless as if he’d run across town. He probably had. Lyman recognized him at once, for he’d often seen him scurrying around Armstrong’s office.
“A footman brought it to the office, m’lord,” the youth said, producing a rumpled envelope from his pocket. Lyman tore it open and read.
I’m sorry, but they need me at the club tonight and I won’t be at home after all. You might meet me there after closing if you’d like. I should be free by 2 a.m.
—D.
A message from a lady, indeed. She’d actually dared to put her invitation in an envelope addressed to his publisher. What a foolish risk. She couldn’t have known that Armstrong wouldn’t snoop.
Lyman couldn’t think of Della now without a creeping sense of dread, the thrill of the morning withered up by the astringent of Michael’s visit.
She wanted him to come to her club, of all places. Of course she did. Gambling was her whole life. Hadn’t she said as much this morning? Hadn’t she shown him that plainly a hundred times over? And yet he insisted on seeing only what he wanted to see.
He’d let his desires guide him, and this was the result. Mixed up with the proprietress of a gaming hell. There could be no question what Michael and Ellen would think if they learned of it—they would assume he was running with the same fast crowd as before, still chasing his own ruination.
They’d be right.
He’d been lost in a fantasy today, but his brother-in-law’s visit had brought him crashing back to earth. The idea of any romantic connection with Miss Danby was ludicrous. They were both flirting with disaster.
If they were caught together, they couldn’t salvage her reputation with a hasty marriage. Even if Ellen succeeded in divorcing him, it would take months, maybe even years before he was free. And once he was, his name would be further tarnished by the stories Michael intended to spread to get what he wanted. No family with any affection for their daughter would want him darkening their door.
Della was completely exposed, with everything to lose and nothing to gain from their dalliance.
And he would fare no better. Even if his own reputation was already in tatters, there were other things Lyman could lose. His good judgment, for one.
As much as he feared he might destroy her, he was selfish enough to save the greater portion of fear for himself: that she would destroy him.
He knew how it would begin—the nagging temptation to go and visit her club, just as she’d invited him to do tonight. And then he would grow nostalgic for the days when he’d spent his time at White’s, in the company of all his old friends. He might get the urge to look in on them—just to say hello, of course, not to wager anything. Then perhaps it would just be one little wager, nothing too serious. And before he knew it, he would be spinning excuses and taking advantage of anyone foolish enough to place their trust in him, be it his friends, Della, or himself.
No. He couldn’t risk this. He would put a stop to it now, before he was lost.
Lyman bid the errand boy to wait at the door and carry his reply back to Della’s house for an extra tuppence. Fetching a scrap of paper from his writing desk, he jotted down a short line.
I regret that I cannot.
—A.
There was nothing else to say, at least nothing that he would trust to a letter that might fall into the wrong hands. He took her note back to his rooms once the boy had gone and burned it in the flame of his lamp, lest Mr. Wood or anyone else see such damning evidence of her indiscretion.
One day, this woman would get herself into some real trouble, but it wouldn’t be with him.
Unbidden, his mind conjured an image of Della receiving his reply, a half hour or so from now. A footman would bring it in to her with more formality than its contents warranted. Her eyes wouldlight with unbridled excitement as she tore the seal—the same spark that he’d seen a dozen times already when she spoke of a new idea for her book or tried to persuade him of the rightness of something she felt strongly about. That light would snuff out a moment later as she saw his curt refusal. The corners of her lips would fall, her smile extinguished. Anyone who looked at her would be able to spot the hurt in her eyes, the emotions she never managed to conceal.
Lyman could’ve done with a stiff drink, if he’d still indulged.
There’s no sense in feeling guilty. It’s for her own good.
He’d lost his head last night, but he was back in possession of his reason. He would do what needed to be done to keep them both safe. If that made him unfeeling, so be it.
***
