Page 42 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“I know! It’s ridiculous. But there will be gossip, nevertheless. If Robin stops courting her, it could be ruinous for her too. And certainly, it will cast Robin in a villainous role.” She tossed her head. “Lynch says he won’t be party to that. Even if it is a sorry match. He says rather that I, or we, should talk to Lady Elizabeth and explain that she must refuse.”

“This is turning into a farce.”

“More a tragedy than a farce if they end up together.” Dessie wandered over to Ophelia’s dressing table. She picked up a hairbrush, then laid it back down. Ophelia could see her pensive expression in the mirror. “Maybe I’ll talk to Robin.”

“But if you do…” Trentham might imagine Ophelia had put her up to it. But no. Why would he think that? “Won’t Lynch be angry?”

“I don’t know.” Dessie threw up her hands. “It’s all so ridiculous. So a man dances with a lady and pays a few calls. Why is that a binding declaration?” She tsked. “Poor Robin.” Then she ducked her head and lowered her voice. “I lured him to dinner by saying Lynch needed to discuss something with him, but now there won’t be anything to discuss. He’ll think I’m a liar.”

That was the least of Ophelia’s worries. “Not a liar.” She put on a smirk for her sister’s benefit. “Just manipulative.” She only hoped Trentham wouldn’t imagine she had anything to do with it.

*

Conversation was general, since there were only five at dinner. Ophelia thought Trentham, in black tails, white waistcoat and bow tie, and a crisp white linen shirt, was obscenely appealing, playing the part of a lovable toff. First, he’d teased her about her “misfortune of the day” as if there was no tension between them. Then he’d launched into a story about Foster. Just before heading to Lynch’s, Trentham said, he’d received two letters, one from his half-brother and one from the headmaster at Harrow.

“The boy was running the schoolyard like a gambling hell. He writes, very contritely, that he didn’t realize that’s what he was doing.” Trentham added in a mutter, “The little liar.”

“Gambling on what?” Lynch asked. “When we were there, they didn’t allow cards or dice.”

“I imagine they’re still forbidden. Foster took bets on ridiculous things. How many times Mr. Sedgewick would clear his throat during a lecture. Or, on a scale of one to five, how raw the potatoes at supper would be. The boys would throw in a thruppence, and Foster split the pot with the winners.”

Lynch snickered, and Dessie giggled, so Ophelia didn’t think it inappropriate to smile.

“The boy is an entrepreneur,” Lynch said.

“Not at pennies a shot. He needs a lesson in risk versus reward.” Trentham shook his head, but he was smiling also. “Good fellow—he took his lumps without complaint.”

Lynch and Mr. Cameron both winced. Mr. Cameron said, “A caning?”

“No! No, at least, I hope not. I expressly forbade corporal punishment when I signed the enrollment papers. I don’t believe in caning. It certainly didn’t work in my case. Foster is not allowed to ride either his horse or his pony for a fortnight. Also, the headmaster confiscated his ‘bank,’ a little more than a crown, and offered to send it to me.” He sniffed. “I responded that he might donate it to some local charity.”

“Has Foster learned his lesson?” Lynch asked.

“He won’t get the other boys gambling again. But I’ve no doubt that next time it will be something worse.” A wry grin slid across his face. “Remember when we sneaked into the kitchen after hours and took one piece out of each of the next day’s pies?”

Laughing, Lynch said, “Or the time you, I, and Gilliam put…put…” He stuttered to a stop.

Ophelia watched the laughter die and felt a pall descend. Gilliam was another friend? Whatever they had done, apparently it didn’t bear repeating in mixed company.

Mr. Cameron jumped into the breach. “I, on the other hand, was a model student. As far as behavior went.”

“And a model friend,” Trentham said. “You wouldn’t join us, but you never snitched.”

Recalling that Trentham had bloodied the noses of Mr. Cameron’s oppressors, Ophelia wondered if that story would be retold. But instead, Lynch changed the subject to a popular play, a restaging of The Happy Land, that he said was supposed to parody Mr. Gladstone, the prime minister, among others. Trentham had seen it. Mr. Cameron had too; he considered it a fine play, but didn’t like the music, which he thought poorly done. Lynch was hesitant to go, afraid it would be too apt, and he would have a hard time looking Gladstone in the face afterward. Or Chancellor Lowe or Commissioner Ayrton.

Ophelia didn’t know the names they bandied about, but she was beginning to understand the gist of the political process. From the discussion, she gathered that those other men were in the Commons, the lower house, not the Lords, but so had Lynch been until his father’s death. He was a peer now, so had been promoted to the upper house, but he kept his ear to the ground, since most of the interesting work was being done in the Commons.

Footmen took away the soup course and brought in sliced beef and turnips in gravy. And more wine.

Ophelia began to relax. She had to admit that she still enjoyed Trentham’s company. She loved his refined accent and the way his steady tenor voice conveyed warmth and humor even when he was disagreeing with something Lynch said.

She shouldn’t hold onto her grudge. After all, if she was staying in London with Dessie and Lynch, she was going to spend a good deal of time with Trentham as well. Perhaps she could pretend his rude behavior at the Barrington’s ball had never happened. Or maybe he’d been foxed. And the little peck in the library? An impulsive mistake. She could put it aside. He seemed to have forgotten. Of course, this supported the theory that he was a rogue. But forewarned was forearmed.

She tried to push away the thought that Dessie had warned her. And her armor had been insufficient. And now she was too ready to forgive, considering how badly she’d been hurt. She would have only herself to blame if he hurt her again.

Dessert was served: fig-and-cream tartlets, sweet enough to curl the teeth.

As the others dove even deeper into politics, and she lost the thread, Ophelia turned to Mr. Cameron. If, five weeks ago, someone had told her she would be dining in an intimate party with the Elias Cameron, she would have said they were mad. And she certainly would not have believed that she could be seated beside Mr. Cameron and yet be more interested in the man diagonally across the table.