Page 43 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

Mr. Cameron had ceased taking part in the discussion in order to devour his tartlet. Now he wore a drooping expression, as though mulling over a private injury.

“Will you be in London a while longer, Mr. Cameron?” She thought it strange he hadn’t gone away yet.

“Ah, yes.” His face fell even more. “I’m not going to Prussia.” He seemed to get hold of himself and gave her a half-hearted smile. “Trentham graciously offered to host me for now.”

Of course he did.

“So, you aren’t teaching the ambassador’s children?” When he shook his head, Ophelia felt a jolt of excitement. “Does that mean you are free of obligations? Currently?”

“I am.”

“Oh! Oh, Mr. Cameron, please! Work with me! I haven’t had any real instruction in years. Not since my coming out.” Worried about her single-mindedness, Daddy had said enough was enough, and fired her tutor. “And that was six years ago. Six wasted years. I haven’t improved at all. In fact, I’ve been getting worse. Especially on the piano.”

He stared, wide-eyed, before lowering his gaze and murmuring politely, “I’m sure that isn’t true.” But after a grimace, he said, “Bother. Of course it’s true. You have talent, but if you are not exercising it, naturally your skills will deteriorate.”

“Then you will teach me?”

“That might be unwise,” Trentham said.

Startled by the interruption—she hadn’t known he was listening—Ophelia turned to see him regarding them both with narrowed eyes.

“Why?”

“Why? You need ask? Miss Delancey, you’ve seen him in action with pretty pupils.”

“Come now, Robin!” Mr. Cameron protested. “Young ladies are always safe with me. I flirt because it is expected. It’s practically required. But I don’t take advantage. I’d never work again if I did.”

“Even so, your reputation should concern Miss Delancey.”

“His reputation as a brilliant pianist?” Ophelia said, growing angrier by the minute. How priggish Trentham sounded. Moreover, he was the one who was mysteriously notorious. And—the hypocrite—he was the one who stole kisses from young ladies! “What concern of yours is my musical education?”

Lynch stretched out his hands as if to calm a tempest. “I think it’s a fine idea. We’ve had the piano tuned, and Ophelia also has her harp. To stave off the gossips, Dessie or Milly can chaperone.”

Ophelia shot Lynch a grateful look, and avoided giving Trentham a smug one, before turning to Mr. Cameron. “Obviously, I wouldn’t expect you to do it as a favor. I’ll pay your usual fee.”

Reddening, he said in an undertone, “I am—I am expensive.”

With a toss of her head, she said, “That’s all right. I’m rich.”

Dessie giggled, and Ophelia recalled a conversation where she’d told her sister she wasn’t going to buy herself a pretty piano player. She’d accept teasing later, but prayed Dessie wasn’t about to bring that up now.

Trentham sat very stiffly, his frown making him look every bit the haughty duke. “Pardon me. It’s none of my concern.” Even his voice was stiff. “Lynch? Should we retire to your study? Dessie said you had something you wished to discuss.”

“Lynch has nothing to tell you,” Dessie cut in, after a quick glance at her husband. “It’s only that I wanted you to come to dinner. Ophelia and I didn’t have the opportunity to thank you appropriately for rescuing us this afternoon.”

“It was my pleasure.” Trentham’s smile appeared wooden, and his eyes didn’t crinkle. “Even though I ruined a perfectly decent set of clothes.” He chuckled, but it sounded no more natural than his smile looked.

“Why don’t we all go into the music room,” Dessie said, rising. “You can have your brandy there, and Ophelia and Mr. Cameron can play for us.”

Dessie’s chin quivered as she spoke, a nervous tic, something that happened occasionally when she was overly excited or very upset. Ophelia thought she was the only one who would notice. But the next moment, Lynch jumped up and took his wife’s hand. “A grand idea. Then we can do this again in a few weeks, and see what wonders Eli has wrought.”

*

After the guests had left, Ophelia slipped off to her bed chamber, smiling. How different life looked now, compared to a mere few hours earlier, when she’d been coated with filth and brooding over Trentham. She hadn’t touched an instrument since before the Barringtons’ ball, so she was embarrassingly out of practice. During their initial duet, Mr. Cameron kept shooting her scowls, and she worried he might be regretting agreeing to tutor her. But by the end of the evening, with her fingers limbered up, he was nodding approval as she played.

Lying down on her bed, she hugged herself as if holding on tightly might help contain her excitement. She had once told Dessie that her wildest dream was to run off on tour with Elias Cameron. But that thought hadn’t thrilled her—not like this—because it was pure fantasy. This was real. He was going to mentor her. She would get better. Much better. She could feel it.

She could feel, too, the unspoken agreement between them. He was not going to play the naughty music master, a role that demeaned him. And she would not expect him to flirt, or feel miffed when he did not. She imagined it must be tiresome for a man of his talent to be admired more for his good looks—and it sounded as though he often had to use his good looks if he wanted to be employed.