Page 4 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“You’re going to the poetry reading?”

“To bring Lynch and your sister back. Rather, they will bring me back. No one else needs to know you were here.” His eyes clouded. “Except I’m not sure Lynch will believe this was not somehow my fault. This is all rather farfetched. Will Dessie believe you?”

Ophelia lowered her head into her hands. The last thing Dessie needed was a scandal dropped on her doorstep. “That I misread an invitation meant for the three of us, hid it from them, and sneaked out to a party on my own, on the wrong evening?” She groaned. “She’ll believe it. Lynch too. Why wouldn’t he believe you?”

“Perhaps because my first words to Dessie were ‘please tell me you have a sister.’”

She glanced up, startled, then smiled weakly at his straight face. “Oh, you are joking.”

“Yes, I am hilarious. I’ll go fetch Eli and Foster.” He stepped briskly toward the door, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t stand near the piano while he plays. Don’t fawn over him. And, for God’s sake, don’t let Foster leave the room. Eli’s had brandy.” Shaking his head, he said, “I’ll see how quickly I can politely extricate Lynch and Dessie from Lady Walpole’s.” She heard him snort as he exited the room, “Politely? Good God. That’ll never work.

Chapter Two

Robert Wormsley, the seventh Duke of Trentham, waited while his oldest and soon-to-be “ex” friend, the Earl of Lynchford, handed his lovely American countess into the carriage. Dessie’s evening dress, a deep violet color, studded with pearls, was not quite as fetching as her sister’s, but it was appropriate for the event she’d been attending, not a ballgown at a private party. Until tonight, Trentham had assumed Dessie must be the most beautiful woman that that silly new country could produce. But apparently the place teemed with them. Lynch vaulted up after her, fury evident in every taut muscle. It was a wonder the man didn’t sproing apart when his backside hit the seat.

Having taken a page from the book of the charmingly gauche Miss Delancey, Trentham had sent his own coach back. Therefore, Lynch had no choice but to cart him home, post-haste. Trentham climbed into Lynch’s landau and seated himself opposite Dessie, then pulled a lump of rose-perfumed lap blanket out from beneath him. Some soft ruffled thing. Gad. Marriage even ruined a man’s carriage. He tossed it aside without comment. Dessie regarded him with a worried expression. Lynch glared. The carriage eased from the Walpoles’ drive.

Trentham unbuttoned the neck of his great coat, set his hat on the seat beside him, and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Where to begin? Backwards, surely.

“It’s soon enough mended.” He gestured vaguely. “I’ll send flowers tomorrow and a very abject note, begging permission to call at her convenience to hear her delightful poems. I’ll even go. I’ll wax enraptured and insist she publish her lines, and when she presses her awful booklet upon me, I’ll be as grateful as a petted puppy. And Walpole won’t hold it against you. You cleared me out quick enough.”

Lynch said nothing for a moment, then muttered, “Hopeless. You are hopeless.”

“Yes, I know. Two steps forward, one step back. But—”

“More like one forward, three back. Coming foxed to Lady Walpole’s recitation?”

“She was delighted to see me!” he protested.

“For five minutes. Till you passed out and bloody snored! While she was reciting! Robin, you are the one who swore you needed to rehabilitate your reputation. Not me. Still, I thought you had turned a corner! But this is the most appalling stunt since—”

“Since insulting Arbuckle’s bone-setter at Tattersall’s last week. Though, truly, this latest masterwork is not at all my fault.”

Lynch’s eyes narrowed. Dessie rescued them both.

“What is wrong, Robin?”

He scowled. He hated that name. His mother, God rest her soul, and his sister could call him that—no one else. But Lynch had known him since his “Robin” days and the moniker had stuck. Mistaking the name for one of endearment—though surely she was not that thick-witted—Dessie had adopted it. Americans. He should insist upon “Your Grace.”

Lynch answered for him, disgusted. “He’s drunk as a wheelbarrow, that’s what.”

“Hmm.” Dessie tapped her chin. “I admit the flask was a nice touch. Give it here.”

Ah, Dessie. Too clever by half. Trentham pulled the flask from the pocket of his coat and handed it to her. He watched, admiringly, as she twisted off the cap, sniffed, and took a swig. Lynch’s eyes popped from his head.

Dessie made smacking noises, then a gagged face. “Is that supposed to be lemonade? Or throat tonic?”

“I don’t know. It’s been in there a while.”

Lynch snatched the flask from his wife’s hands, sniffed, then grimaced. “Whatever it is, it has turned.”

Trentham ignored Lynch for Dessie. “What gave me away? Was I not convincing?”

“You were horribly convincing. I fell for it until we gathered round the carriage just now. Foxed? I don’t think so. I’ve breathed in the fumes when men have been drinking. It oozes from their pores. You smell like soap. Though you certainly don’t look washed.” She no longer appeared worried. Just curious. “Robin, why the farce?”

He leaned forward and stretched out his long arms, placing his hands firmly on Dessie’s shoulders; then he tilted and shifted her until she was draped across Lynch’s broad chest.

“Don’t let him leap at me.”