Page 18 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“What would you call it?” It was melancholy and pretty and mortifyingly revealing—and absolutely not something upon which a duke of the realm should be wasting his time.

He stepped behind the piano and pulled the window closed. But he didn’t lock the latch. Superstition, he supposed. Who knew when she would try tumbling through it again? He was still picturing the glass shattering. Then he moved his stool close to the harp and sat. He set the instrument against his shoulder and nodded to Eli to begin.

The piece was short. Too short. But it said what he’d wanted it to say. Or it did in his head. Or when Miss Delancey played it. His own performance lacked something.

He realized he was staring into space and the room was quiet. He stood abruptly and began to pace.

“That is lovely,” Dessie said.

“Hmm,” Miss Delancey added, a very noncommittal sound.

“It’s lovely when Miss Delancey plays it. And Eli got his part perfectly, naturally. But it’s different when I play; it isn’t quite right.”

“Come, sit,” Miss Delancey said, patting the ottoman. He didn’t have to be asked twice. It got him away from the harp and nearer to her. “The difference,” she said, “is that you are using all your fingers. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cameron?”

“What?” Eli hadn’t moved from the piano bench. He looked distracted. Fidgety. From long acquaintance, Trentham knew he didn’t respond well to minor disturbances. “Well, yes, I suppose.”

“Am I not supposed to play with fingers?” Trentham asked, joking, focusing his attention on Miss Delancey, hoping to peel hers from Eli.

“Not your fifth. I’ve never seen that done before. But it makes sense you would use that fingering, since you can.” Her lashes did a fluttering thing. “You have such large, strong hands.” Her voice had changed pitch. From matter-of-fact to sultry. “But you master the strings you pluck, instead of caressing the music out of them.”

Good God. His blood quickened. Then he heard Eli sniff. And Dessie snort.

Ah. Relief and embarrassment flooded him. Miss Delancey was mocking Eli, emulating his deft, practiced seduction. Trentham would applaud her performance, except it had been at his expense. He’d been halfway seduced.

Eli said, “It’s your composition, Trentham. I assumed it sounded the way you meant for it to sound. But I agree, it’s a better piece the way Miss Delancey plays it.” He added, with forced good-nature: “Caressingly.”

“Your Grace,” Henson announced from the doorway. “The doctor is here.”

*

Not broken. Sprained. Miss Delancey looked ridiculously triumphant at the diagnosis. Especially with that smudge of mud on her chin and the bits of grass still sticking to her dress.

“Stay off your feet for at least a week. Keep it elevated.” Dr. Ballantine finished wrapping a bandage around her ankle and leg with an admirably professional impassivity. “The shin is merely scratched. Keep it clean and dry.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Miss Delancey sounded bored.

“I could leave a bit of laudanum if the pain bothers you.” He furrowed his fuzzy white eyebrows with preemptive disapproval.

“Oh, no. I’ve had laudanum before. I’d rather have the pain.”

“Good, good, very sensible.” He nodded at the glasses and bottle on the floor and tutted. “A little of that goes a long way.”

Dessie giggled. “I told her to go easy.”

“And you, Lady Lynchford.” The doctor scratched his nose. “I thought I said this morning: no excitement.”

“This? This wasn’t exciting. I didn’t go out the window.”

“Well.” He looked flummoxed. “See that you don’t.”

Trentham took back control. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll walk you out.”

“Send the bill to Lynch,” Dessie said.

“To me,” Trentham corrected her, though arguing over bills with ladies was the crassest thing he could imagine. “My window.”

“My sister.”