Page 38 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

Still, it was true that Ophelia had refused a couple of proposals. So, she parroted what her “Aunt” Grace, her mother’s dearest friend, had taught her. “Rejections should be swift, kind, and unequivocal. If you mean no, say no.” But then, her situation was different from Lady Elizabeth’s. “Are your parents insistent that you accept him?”

“Not insistent. Worse. They are hopeful. They think it will solve everything. And they’ll be mortified by my ingratitude.” She bowed her head and Ophelia worried the girl might start to sob. “I wish he wouldn’t court me! I know he doesn’t want to. He looks positively squeamish when he comes to call.”

Ophelia couldn’t imagine Trentham squeamish about anything.

“I’m sorry.” Lady Elizabeth raised her chin, then faced Ophelia. The sheen of tears in her eyes was heartbreaking. “I have been disingenuous. You see, I can’t say no to Trentham. But I’d hoped he might be persuaded to give up his pursuit.”

“Persuaded?”

“If, perhaps, Lord Lynchford would convince him to do so.”

“Lynch?” Why would he… “Oh.” Her chest tightened. “You’d like Dessie to talk to him. That’s why you—”

“No! Well, at first, yes. I did invite you to tea to ask the favor, but I couldn’t bring myself to be so mercenary. Not after spending time with you. I do want us to be friends. Truly. But if Trentham and I are wed, we will both be unhappy. He must see that as well as I do.”

Did he? Why was he pursuing her if they were so unsuited?

“I suppose I could ask Dessie to talk to Lynch.” Would Dessie think she was being self-serving? Was she?

“I would be so grateful. But it would have to be our secret. If my parents were to find out, if His Grace found out the request came from me, it would be worse than if I were simply to tell him no.”

Dessie would keep no secrets from her husband. And Ophelia wasn’t sure Lynch could be relied upon to not tell his best friend that it was a scheme. It might possibly come down to Trentham knowing he’d been preemptively rejected and keeping quiet about it. He should; it would be quite a blow to his pride. But—

“Oh!” She had a sudden thought. “Everyone expects him to ask for you, don’t they?”

“Everyone who matters.”

“What will they say if he doesn’t?”

“That he is a terrible rogue.” Lady Elizabeth lowered her eyes, and sounded remorseful, but then her voice thinned and rose higher. “But he is. Everyone says he is. This will only confirm it. A leopard can’t change its spots.”

Ophelia wanted to protest, but how could she? After the advantage he’d taken in Lynch’s library? And the insult he’d delivered at the ball?

Disappointment weighed down like a millstone on her chest. Why try to convince herself he was something he was not? She couldn’t deny what it appeared everyone knew. He was a terrible rogue.

Chapter Fourteen

Trentham generally woke early, a habit ingrained in Canada in his Queen’s shilling days, where he’d been a lowly non-commissioned officer whose duties were more clerical than military. He was up at sunrise even when he’d spent the better part of the night in a bottle, something he rarely did anymore. But although he’d gone to bed last night dead sober, he found it difficult to rise and greet the morning. It was time he should pay another call at the Barringtons’. Never mind that he’d rather spend the day hiding under his bedclothes. Once he arose, the only paths open to him were those leading to self-loathing.

But he’d committed to a path. Now, on with it.

He got up, slipped on his banyan, and trudged down the stairs. He grew aware of noise coming from the music room. Not noise. Eli never produced noise. But it was something funereal. He changed course and stomped toward the sound.

“For God’s sake, Eli, stop that racket. Do you imagine I like waking to a dirge?”

Without pause, Eli switched to a lighthearted sonata. But after a few measures, he stopped. And quietly swore.

“What is wrong?” Trentham asked.

“I’ve heard from the ambassador.” He drew the words out. Mournfully. “He has found a Prussian music master to replace me.”

That was not unanticipated. Eli was supposed to have reported for duty a month ago.

“I’d take that as good news. You didn’t want to go to Prussia.”

“No, but nor do I want to live on your charity.” His voice climbed an octave. “I need to work, Robin.”

“You need to not call me Robin.” Not a jest, though he expected Eli to treat it as one. But the fellow didn’t respond at all, which was disturbing. As was the fact that Eli had neglected his hair wax, and the usual poof of his Brutus was now a flattened clump on the top of his head. “And don’t be ridiculous. You are not a charity case. You are a friend and a guest.”