Page 47 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

At last, she said, “Going to museums.”

“Really!” How surprising. “I would think…” He halted, not about to call attention to her bluestocking reputation.

“I love learning about old things. Ancient things. And I like taking long walks.”

“But not trudging around in crowded museums,” he finished for her, “trying to see artifacts through glass.”

She nodded, awarding him the tiniest of smiles.

“Perhaps we might go for a walk in Hyde Park tomorrow,” he suggested. He tried to make his voice sound as though he wanted her to say “yes”, even though he desperately hoped for a “no”. Walking about the park in stoney silence would be torture. Was it possible she could derail this match? Were her parents coldhearted enough to force her to wed him when she was so obviously against the idea? “With your abigail, of course.”

“That would be delightful, I’m sure.” Lady Barrington’s voice boomed across the room. “Why don’t you bring your carriage around at three o’clock? We’ll have tea first.”

With that, and without waiting for Lady Elizabeth’s answer, he stood, murmured his thank yous and goodbyes, and hurried out.

*

His piano was audible the moment he crossed his own threshold. Potter’s Rondeau, if he was not mistaken. Trentham stood, listening, until he was certain of it, then went to the music room. When he paused in the doorway, he saw Eli take note of him, then continue to play as if he had not.

He entered the room and sat, waiting for Eli to finish. Or to stop short of the end. It was a game they sometimes played. A childish one. How long would Eli dare to ignore his patron when they were annoyed with one another?

The game ended quickly this time, when Eli banged a discordant chord and then spun on the bench to face him. “Well, Your Grace?”

They had been avoiding one another today. Until now. Best to get this over with.

“I apologize,” Trentham began. “I was an arse last night. This is the perfect solution for you, and Miss Delancey is exceedingly fortunate to have you.” The annoyance fell from Eli’s face and turned to puzzlement. Before he could ask questions, Trentham said, “I had a headache that soured my mood.”

Eli’s mouth opened, then closed. He nodded. “I accept your apology. But not your excuse. You were perfectly headache-less talking politics with Lynch.” He paused. “Would you like me to tell Miss Delancey that I cannot—”

“No! No, I told you. This is perfect for you both.” He couldn’t control the edge in his voice.

Eli nodded again, worriedly.

“Blast it, Eli, don’t look at me like that. I’m not angry.”

Eli sniffed. “You say you aren’t, but you look ready to spring.”

“My springing days are done.” He stood. “When do your lessons start?”

“Tomorrow. Lady Lynchford and Miss Delancey have calls to pay today.”

“Well,” he said, before realizing he had nothing else to add. He improvised. “Supper at eight. Here, if you care to join me. I’m not going to Pratt’s tonight.”

“I would, but I’m meeting a fellow at Garrick’s. About a possible position.” There was a sharpness in his tone. “If it is not in London, would you prefer me to take it and go?”

“I would prefer not to factor into your decisions at all.”

Eli frowned, then turned back to the piano and switched from the rondeau to another dirge.

Chapter Seventeen

As she descended from the Lynchford landau, Ophelia regarded the row of identical white terrace homes rising three-stories before her. They fronted almost directly on the street, each with a low stoop before the entrance door. The Towneses lived in fashionable Mayfair, but at its least fashionable border. According to Dessie, Lady Felicity Townes’ husband was a baronet, Sir George Townes, not Lord Townes, as if that explained all. They had a country estate that Lynch said was quite fine, but this home was leased.

Overhead, the sky remained the color she had come to call London gray, and the air was tainted with the typical odor of London soot, a heavier, staler scent than New York soot.

Ophelia stood aside, then turned to watch Dessie climb down from the carriage with care, one hand on the coachman’s arm. Dessie had wanted to pay calls yesterday, especially this one, but she hadn’t felt well in the morning, and Lynch refused to let her leave the house. Ophelia had spent the day hoping her sister would forget her scheme, but she hadn’t. The words we have to act quickly still reverberated between them, and this morning, Dessie was perfectly well.

Ophelia felt a frisson of nerves. She wasn’t bothered that they were visiting Trentham’s sister, but rather why they were. It was “step one.”