Page 33 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

He fell into step with his friend and waited for a verdict. But Lynch was worried about something else.

“I’ve lost Falstaff.”

The name raised Trentham’s gorge. “You don’t want Falstaff. If he ever votes with you, you are on the wrong side.”

“Maybe so.” He still sounded bothered.

“How did you ‘lose’ him?”

“I declined to introduce him to Ophelia.”

For a moment, Trentham felt deprived of the ability to speak. Then, pushing open the glass door to the terrace, he said, “Good.”

“Dessie doesn’t agree with you. She said I’m being patronizing. Ophelia can take care of herself.”

“Even if Miss Delancey could swim, I wouldn’t tip her into the Thames.”

Lynch gave him a sideways look, then grinned. “Precisely.”

They were not the only ones to seek refuge outside. Lord and Lady Beming were arguing quietly near the balustrade. He and Lynch moved to the opposite end of the terrace. Here, one could gaze out over a large English garden that was surrounded by a high iron fence. The gate must be far in the back. The fence was being overrun by London creep: weeds and stray grasses and unidentifiable seedlings. All that would have to be cleaned up; two or three more gardeners put on the staff…

Lynch pulled his snuffbox from his pocket, pinched, sniffed, and sneezed.

Trentham shook his head. He could not comprehend the allure.

“Leave it be. It is the only vice I have,” Lynch said.

“Because you never bothered to sample any of the others. You’ve missed out on quite a good bit.”

Lynch shrugged. “Virtue is its own reward.”

For a moment, Trentham considered whether this was the nod he’d been waiting for, but decided no. It was simply Lynch stating his own rather priggish creed. Enough of that. It had always been his job to shake Lynch out of it when he got too intense for his own good. Distract him. Remind him of the finer things in life.

“Dessie is looking particularly fetching tonight.”

Lynch stiffened a moment, then relaxed. “Yes. She is.”

The stiffening was odd. “Is she…over whatever it was that had her so worn out?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘over’ it.”

So there had been something.

Lynch looked off toward the stars. “But she’s moved along from sleepy to weepy.” He smiled. It was a strange smile that Trentham couldn’t interpret. “Drop of a hat, she cries.”

“Crying?” How was that amusing? How could Lynch find that amusing? How badly was he neglecting his wife? “Laurence, this has gone too far.”

Lynch whirled to face him, surprised. “Gone too—?” He shook his head. “Lud, Robin, I hadn’t pegged you for a hollow cap.”

“What?” What was he missing? “Tell me what is going on.”

“It isn’t something I can tell,” he said, chest expanding with indignation. “People don’t bandy such things about. Not, of course, that that stopped Dessie from running first thing to Ophelia.” He stared hard, as though his eyes would drill the information into Trentham’s brain. “But I am not allowed to tell you. I thought you’d guessed.”

Light dawned. He was an idiot.

“Laurence! Good show!” He clasped his friend’s shoulder. A flash of unmitigated joy swamped him. “I’m happy for you. For you both. This is wonderful news.”

“Thank you.”