Page 58 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

Trentham sent his carriage on without him and walked. The distance from Felicity’s house to his own was less than two miles, and he needed to do something to work off his rage. His entire body felt heated enough to spontaneously combust. His hands hurt from how tightly they’d been clenched. His hands, and his jaw. Hands and jaw and every part of his body that could be clenched had been clenched.

He’d come close to pummeling Sir George. That the man deserved it was beside the point.

He shook out his arms and walked briskly, so briskly it made his gait awkward. At this speed, it would feel more natural to break into a run. But dukes didn’t trot down the mucky, uneven streets of London. And he couldn’t outrun himself.

Slowly, the crazed fury leeched away, leaving him with a more manageable anger. A man—a shopkeeper, Trentham assumed by the loose cut of his coarse brown jacket—gave him a wide berth as they passed one another at the street’s edge. He must appear stark raving mad.

Damn. Trentham slackened his pace. His thoughts grew more coherent, but only in that he could put words to his confusion. He didn’t know whether to curse himself over the murderous wrath that had swept through him, or to congratulate himself for not giving in to it. He’d thought he’d outgrown his violent impulses. But as it turned out, the only thing he’d learned was to refrain from acting upon them. And it had been too near a thing at that.

He had literally seen red, there in Felicity’s parlor. The blackguard had been hurting her! Sir George had been bold enough to hurt her right in front of him, her brother, the duke—mocking his impotence. Good God!

He’d failed Felicity. He was failing Julia. And he’d made a spectacle of himself in front of Miss Delancey and Lynch’s wife. Lynch would hear of it, no doubt, and worry.

And Miss Delancey. She had applauded him for bloodying the noses of Eli’s oppressors, but she hadn’t been there. Had she been, she would have been aghast. He’d downplayed the scene as some quaint schoolboy scuffle when he’d been a damned berserker. And if he had started bloodying Sir George… No one in that room could have prevented him from finishing what he started.

Damn. His father’s furious condemnation echoed in his ears: A gentleman might box for exercise, but to brawl, to nearly kill a man with his bare hands—such a fellow is nothing but a brute, an animal…

Trentham halted at a street corner, wiped sweat from his brow, and looked around. Pedestrians were sparse; no one he knew. However, a steady stream of carriages barreled along the main street so that it would be taking his life into his hands to cross there.

He turned right and kept walking in a straight line, plodding through stinking puddles, treading on filth, until he recognized that he was now surrounded by tenements. This was not a street where gentlemen took leisurely strolls. He turned around, heading back for the corner where he should have crossed.

Walking had helped. His brain no longer felt overheated. He was able to redirect his thoughts away from killing Sir George. Unfortunately, they drifted to Miss Delancey.

How in God’s name did a lady fall out of a chair? Or perhaps, given the absurdity of the fashion, he should wonder why more ladies did not. The remarkable thing about Miss Delancey—one of the remarkable things—was how she took her misfortunes in stride. She didn’t cry, or blush, or rant. She was truly the clumsiest female he’d ever met. Yet it made her endearing. He liked, more than he should admit, being there to pick her back up.

Hell. She must have been annoyed to meet up with him again. It had to have been as awkward for her as it was for him. Last night, he had essentially told her he’d been toying with her affections. With a wince, he acknowledged that he had been. It wasn’t as though he could have kissed her by accident. That was not the way kisses worked.

He reached the busy street corner and paused again as he waited for an oncoming hackney cab to pass, but rather than go by, it drew up to him and halted. Before he could wave it on, the passenger leaned into view. Eli.

“Are you on your way home? Do you want to share the ride?”

Why not? He hauled himself into the carriage. The black leather upholstery was cracked and the air smelled as if a previous occupant had been transporting spoiled fish. Fine. The decrepitude suited his mood better than his own coach. The hackney rumbled forward.

“Coming from Lindy’s?” Eli asked, smirking.

“Lindy’s?” Trentham had heard the name somewhere, but couldn’t place it. “What is that? A tavern?”

Now his friend snorted. “Seriously? Try a house of ill-repute. If you weren’t there, you walked right past it.”

Trentham shrugged. There was something hollow in Eli’s voice. Something forced in his smirk and his snort. Or maybe it was his own disconnection that made it seem so. After a few moments, he said quietly, “I was at Felicity’s.”

Eli’s shoulders drooped and all signs of humor fell from his face. “Then, you’ve heard.”

“Heard what?”

His head jerked up. “You haven’t?” He emitted a low groan.

“Tell me.”

“Lud.” He pressed his hands together. “Robin, I don’t want to be the bearer. It’s just ugly gossip.”

“You haven’t a choice now.”

Eli let out a sigh. “I was at Garrick’s. I overheard the conversation behind me. It isn’t worth repeating.” Trentham glared until he continued. “Do you know a Lord Hayworth?”

It took a few seconds to pull the name from his memory. “I know of him. Viscount Hayworth of Dainswick? A daft old fellow. Never leaves his house.”

“Not him. The grandson. The new viscount.”