Page 60 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

His heart wrenched. “Julia and the boys. They’ll have to hear their mother’s name dragged through the mud.”

“They’ll know her innocence. Robin, this will blow over. It will. But your involvement will only make things worse.”

Trentham could make no reply. It was Sir George who must stand by her. A decent husband would. But that man hadn’t a decent bone in his body. Trentham wished he might break every indecent one of them. The only reason anyone might be tempted to believe the worst about Felicity was that they were thinking as he did: She should retaliate with an affair of her own.

He trudged up the stairs and into his home, Eli at his heels. He would do something. He had to. But first, he had better speak with his lodestar. And he wasn’t about to go over to Lynch’s tonight, and subject Miss Delancey to his company yet again.

“I’m going to open a bottle of gin.” He needed to not dwell on this tonight. “Join me?”

“No.” Eli grabbed his elbow. “Not this time. Drink will cloud your judgment, and I’m not racing after you if you go roaring off into the night. Come to the music room. We’ll play a few duets.”

Trentham hesitated, annoyed, defensive. “Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast, eh?”

“If you’d rather, I’ll play La Campanella.”

Eli did not offer that exalted experience lightly. Trentham nodded. Eli was right. “Better drunk on Liszt, I suppose, than on gin.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The following morning found Ophelia in the Lynchfords’ music room, a soothing place. At least, Ophelia had previously considered it to be so. A thick rug, brocade curtains, and an intricate wall tapestry woven with birds, trees, and flowers muted any distracting echoes. In contrast to Trentham’s music room, which must have been designed for hosting musicales, Lynch’s was not vast. There was seating for just eight, including the piano bench and the stool by Ophelia’s new harp. If one squeezed in extra chairs, only perhaps a dozen and a half people could be comfortably accommodated. As neither Dessie nor Lynch were musical, Ophelia had adopted the private space as her own.

For a little over two hours, she played first her scales and then the piece Mr. Cameron had given her to work on for tomorrow, her second lesson. She felt compelled to practice, even though her fingers were as nimble as ten wooden sticks and she could not possibly concentrate.

Lynch hadn’t been at home last evening when she and Dessie returned from their thwarted mission. He was at his club, so they’d dined alone. There was only so much they could say about Lady Townes’ awful husband, Trentham’s obvious anger, and their own powerlessness under the circumstances. Dessie had explained in greater detail the bill that Lynch was trying to pass to give women more legal protections. Protections against men like Sir George. So Ophelia had no doubt that Dessie and Lynch had discussed Lady Townes after he’d returned. Maybe, Ophelia hoped, he might have a better solution than kidnapping Trentham’s sister and niece and bustling them off to New York.

Just as Ophelia reached the end of the new piece and was considering whether to play it through one more time, she heard Dessie’s quick, light footsteps in the hall.

Dessie burst into the room, breathing heavily. “Here you are! Oh!” She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around Ophelia’s shoulders. “It’s awful! Awful! It’s so much more horrible than we imagined.”

Ophelia shuddered. “Is it Lady Townes?” Had Sir George injured her? Or…worse?

“No. No. It’s Robin.” She moved to the harp stool and collapsed, as if she were skin and blood, but no bones.

Ophelia had never seen her like this. She wanted to ask what about Trentham was so terrible, but her mouth had gone dry and she couldn’t speak.

“Lynch was supposed to meet me for breakfast, but he didn’t. So, I went to find him in his study. I thought he’d been caught up in his correspondence or speech writing.” Dessie groaned. “But that wasn’t it. He was with Robin.”

“At this time of day?” It wasn’t even noon.

“Yes, and they were arguing. Their voices were raised so they must not have heard me coming, and I didn’t dare interrupt. I didn’t mean to listen, but…”

Dessie’s chin was quivering so violently it chilled Ophelia’s blood.

“But?”

She whispered, “I know what he did.”

Ophelia heard the noise of the men approaching. Hurriedly, she asked, “What Trentham did?” Please, don’t let it be horrible.

Dessie nodded. She glanced quickly at the door, then said, “He slept with another man’s wife.”

Ophelia’s insides crumpled. “Oh,” she murmured. So he was a rake. Worse than a rake.

“She was his friend’s sister.”

Ophelia tried to respond, but only a choked cough emerged. He’d committed adultery with the sister of a friend. Was it someone they knew? Someone they’d had tea with or talked to at a party?

“That isn’t all,” Dessie whimpered. “They fought a duel. With pistols.”