Page 5 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“Trentham, take your hands off my wife.” Lynch had perfected the languid tone of voice most peers could only hope to mimic poorly: bored and dangerous.

Trentham did as commanded, tempted to laugh. He settled back against the leather upholstery and asked, “Have you not seen the invitation I sent round? Musicale? Tomorrow night?”

“I hadn’t heard anything of it until just this evening. Jamison asked if we were going. It mortified him to have asked, since I answered I knew nothing about it. I suspect it will soon be all over London that we’ve fallen out. I hadn’t realized we had.”

“Ah, not yet, we haven’t.”

“A musicale?” Dessie asked.

“Eli is in town. Elias Cameron. An old friend—”

“Elias Cameron!” She bounced away from Lynch and kept bouncing on the bench. “Oh! Ophelia will sprout wings and fly! How could you have neglected to send us an invitation?”

“I did not neglect you.” He rubbed his chin, then pressed ahead. “This is no one’s fault.”

Lynch groaned. “Famous last words.”

“It seems your sister found the invitation. She mistook the date.”

For a moment, two pairs of eyes focused upon him. Then one pair blinked.

“She’s at your house!” Dessie erupted with delighted laughter.

How pleasant such innocence must be. Lynch gazed at her adoringly. When her giggles subsided, Lynch tucked her under his arm and turned to face Trentham. He looked disconcerted, as though he was beginning to see what a visit from his wife’s sister would mean.

“No harm done, I suppose.” It was grudgingly stated. “So long as you didn’t leave her alone with Eli.”

“Not alone. Foster’s with them.”

“Foster! Fetch-this-shiny-penny Foster?” Lynch shook his head. “My God. I’m going to have to shoot Eli.” He sounded quietly appalled by the workings of Fate.

“Foster has grown up. Some.” Trentham turned his face to the side of the carriage. “And that joke is not funny.”

“No,” Lynch said quickly. “It wasn’t.” His voice was low. Apologetic as one always was when a joke went badly wrong. Trentham took pity.

“Besides. You can’t shoot Eli. He’s not a gentleman. There are rules.”

*

They rode in silence. Dessie was clearly bursting with questions, but Trentham thought it was best not to encourage her to ask. Let her sister answer them. Amusing as it had been, no one needed to hear about the attempted window escape. Anyway, for full appreciation, that had to have been witnessed. There may even have been a tantalizing bit of ankle, but he’d been too befogged to look, damn it.

He wondered if he should mention the dress. No. Definitely not.

After all, he was no arbiter of ladies’ fashion. Perhaps in New York, low-cut ballgowns were all the rage at small private evening gatherings. She might have gotten away with it had the room been crowded with befeathered females. Probably even start a new trend. She wore it so well.

But Lynch would never believe that he hadn’t noticed. He couldn’t believe he’d just walked away without leaving a puddle of drool on the floor.

The landau rolled up the drive of the Trentham townhouse, a comfortable old place—three stories, the necessary outbuildings, and an acre of gardens—though nothing to compare with his country estate in Hampshire. Or the lake cottage in Italy—that was a treat. Trentham preferred grounds. He liked views. He liked to be able to breathe the air without choking.

That wasn’t to say London didn’t have its attractions.

They disembarked and approached the steps. Trentham had second thoughts about the ballgown. He couldn’t pretend not to have noticed.

He touched Dessie’s elbow. “Before we go in, I have to say, your sister is absolutely stunning.”

Dessie smiled. “Yes, she is.”

“No. But I mean, very stunning.”