Page 3 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“Would you like to sit down? You say you aren’t going to faint—”

“I’m not!” Her corset pinched. “But I will sit down.”

As she came out from behind the piano, he moved toward her, then took her arm to guide her to a chair. She wore long evening gloves, but his hands were bare. He had very neat hands. Very warm hands. She felt gooseflesh rise on the back of her arms.

She sat. He took a chair across from her and studied her as if she were an oddity at a circus.

“You are Dessie’s older sister.” He stated it as a fact, yet sounded unconvinced.

“I don’t suppose my age is any of your business.” Dessie had reached the ripe age of twenty-one before she’d met Lynch. Ophelia was a decrepit twenty-four.

He shrugged off her complaint. “It isn’t as if I could have guessed by looking. Dessie has spoken of you. I expected something different.”

Dessie would only have said nice things, so Ophelia took that as a veiled insult. “‘Different’ is hardly a flattering assessment.”

“You don’t want to get me started. I am known to be a world-class flatterer.” He steepled his fingers and scowled.

“What—”

“I said don’t get me started.” He rose to his feet and took three steps away. “This is disastrous. I can’t think of a plan. All I know is Lynch is likely to knock my teeth out when he learns you were here. When everyone learns you were here.”

“It isn’t your fault.”

He muttered, “Punishment for past crimes.”

Past crimes?

“Wait!” he cried, spinning back toward her. “Did you say you came to hear Eli?”

“Mr. Cameron? Oh, yes!” For a moment, her enthusiasm returned. “You see, I’ve heard him before, faintly, through the flooring.”

“Through the flooring?” A crease formed in the middle of his brow.

“It was years ago. At my father’s friend’s house. I was supposed to be sleeping. Oh! But he was magnificent. I’ve always hoped…well, I could not have missed your musicale for the world.”

“Your eagerness is duly noted.” He gave a slight nod. A nod indicating her person. “He’ll be impressed. That, um, that color suits you.”

Her neck and face warmed. She heard the words he didn’t quite say. She supposed she was overdressed for the occasion, too eager, but it wasn’t to impress Mr. Cameron. Or maybe it was. She should never have listened to Dessie. Or the Parisian dressmaker. Both of whom had encouraged her to—no, insisted she must—improve upon her previous dowdy style.

It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t have the courage to return for the soiree tomorrow night, no matter what she wore. Not even to hear Mr. Cameron play. Likely, her reputation would be in tatters by sunset tomorrow. She’d have to flee back to New York…

“All right, Miss Delancey.” He interrupted her distressing ruminations. “I’ve thought of something. Eli is upstairs in my study, nursing a brandy.” He pulled his hand through his hair. “Probably his third by now, wondering where the hell, pardon me, where I’ve gone.”

“He’s here?” The air in the room grew thinner.

“Of course, he’s here. For one more week. Then he’s off to Prussia or some such godforsaken place.”

“My goodness.” She bit her knuckle. She was practically alone in the same house as Eli Cameron. Now she might faint.

“I’ll fetch Foster—”

“Foster?”

“My brother. Half-brother. He’s a good sort. I’ll bring him down with Eli. Eli can put on a little impromptu concert. Call it practice.”

“I don’t see how that is going to help.”

“Foster is twelve. Trust me. There is no more effective a chaperone than a twelve-year-old boy.” He grimaced. “I suppose I’ll have to rouse my valet. I can’t go to the Walpole’s dressed like this.” He rubbed a hand across his stubbled cheeks and added absently, “Though a little dishevelment would not be amiss.”