Page 28 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

Ophelia nodded. Oddly, Lady Townes had not mentioned Trentham’s views on the matter. And, come to think of it, neither had Dessie.

“Listen to us.” Lady Townes laughed softly. “The men are no doubt in there arguing about brandy and racehorses while we discuss politics.”

“Is your brother—” She stopped. This surely counted as a conversation she was not supposed to have.

“Is he what?”

“One of Lynch’s supporters. I know they are good friends, but…” She tried to phrase it inoffensively. “He does not seem politically minded. Not that I would have reason to think that. I certainly have never tried discussing politics with him.”

“That is complicated. I have no doubt he believes as Lynch does on this issue, but Robin and Lynch are in different parties, and there is an expectation that he will follow the political leanings of our father. Which were decidedly conservative. He has…old connections. Old obligations. Men whom he cannot afford to disappoint. So he keeps his own counsel.”

“That sounds…” Cowardly. “That does not sound very brave.”

“Maybe not. But it is not as simple as bravery. If the vote is as skewed as we expect it to be, there is no point in Robin supporting Lynch. They both know that. And if Lynch is wildly successful,” she smiled weakly, “well, then, he will not need Robin’s vote.”

“If it is close?”

Lady Townes pressed her lips tight and shook her head. “I expect he will vote his conscience. But for his sake, I hope he will not. I’m sorry. I should not have wandered down this path. Now, I must go ask Lady Wrotham how Binny is doing. I hope you and your sister will have tea with me sometime. I am going to be in London a few weeks longer than I thought.”

“That would be lovely,” she answered. “And I should see if Lady Melvin would like to borrow Caldwell’s Secret when I’m finished with it.”

Lady Townes moved away, but Ophelia took a moment to collect her thoughts.

Trentham would not vocally support his good friend in a cause he also believed in? She would not have thought him to be so spineless.

Perhaps she did not admire him quite so much after all.

Chapter Ten

Trentham had already imbibed more wine at dinner than he had intended, turning to his glass to distract himself from the fact that the only person at the table with whom he wished to be talking was the charming Miss Delancey. He had no interest in Lynch’s brandy, even if it was superb with just the right notes of cherry. More to the point, he did not want to stand about in the cigar-smoke-filled cardroom watching his friend bend over backwards to win Wrotham. Not that they would discuss the new bill tonight. This was a social event. But mellowing the opposition was a time-honored tactic. Wrotham was grumpily against, but thought to be swayable. Melvin, on the other hand, was firmly against, but good natured about it. Good nature could be a bulwark. Lynch would never sway him.

So much effort expended with so little chance of success. Ah! His staunchest ally had always set him a good example. An easy goal was not worth attaining.

After one glass, he conceded the superiority of Lynch’s new cognac, then pretended to suddenly notice the grotesque stain on the arm of his jacket.

“Simms will make my life miserable,” he said with a chuckle. The others would understand. He was not the only peer who lived in dread of irritating his valet. “Lynch, excuse me for a bit, if you would. I’m going to sneak into your kitchen and see if one of the scullery maids can find me a dab of water and bicarbonate.”

“Mrs. Dobbs will help you,” Lynch said.

With a nod, Trentham stepped out. It would be harder to face the formidable housekeeper than Simms.

It took a few turns and the help of a maid to locate the kitchen, a fact that saddened him. He had practically grown up in the previous Lynchford home and had known every nook and cranny: he and Lynch had run the staff ragged when they were boys on break from school. Their one-time friend Gilliam, an overly earnest third wheel, had joined them too, on occasion, he recalled with a twinge of unease. Oh, call it by its name: guilt.

The old Earl of Lynchford kept looser tabs on “the scamps” than did the old Duke of Trentham. Lynch’s father was lax; Lynch was disciplined. Trentham’s father had been strict. And Trentham had run rather wild. There was no lesson to take from that observation. Only it had hurt to see the old Lynchford home sold.

Mrs. Dobbs took one look at his jacket sleeve and tutted. “You ought to have taken care of that sooner.”

“I was at supper!” His voice squeaked like a pubescent’s.

“Hmph. Well, you might take it off and let me have a go.”

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t ask that.” The staff had enough to do in the wake of a party. “Just a damp cloth. If I can’t rub it out, I’ll let my man throw it away.”

That earned him another harrumph. But she left and returned with a dampened bit of cloth.

He stepped into a corner and shrugged out of the jacket. It was not his habit to wear jackets that required two valets and a bootjack to plaster the wearer into or out of them. That cut flattered the broad-shouldered and trim-waisted—of whom there were surprisingly few considering the popularity of the style. He would not stoop to padding either; false shoulders were absurd. One risked leaving them behind if one turned about too fast. Growing up, Lynch used to tease him that he was of a fortunate build. In a scrap, his strength came as a surprise to his opponent while he was also an impossible-to-hit target. That joke that had not aged well.

The corner of the kitchen was a dim place. He couldn’t see what he was doing. He folded the jacket over his arm and left to seek somewhere quiet with a good strong lamp.