Page 63 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

He put his cup down on the ebony desk, as always carefully positioning it over the ring of an old water stain—irrationally necessary for his peace of mind—and sat. His father’s chair was no-nonsense, like the man. No castors or carvings. The seat had a flat cushion, upholstered in dark brown leather, and there was equally thin padding on the arms.

Trentham possessed one very specific memory of sitting here on his sire’s knee. He could not have been older than seven. His father had been pontificating on a common theme of his: the responsibilities of a duke. Helping to steer the nation was one. But caring for Lannington, the ducal estate, that was paramount. Careful stewardship of the property, looking after its tenants and servants… Likely his father had been making an excuse for not taking him riding in the park that particular morning, but he remembered the man’s solemnity. And his own boredom. He’d spilled his sire’s tea on purpose for the chance to escape and took a caning for it. Idiot child.

With a sigh, Trentham regarded the short stack of correspondence that Henson had left on the corner of the desk. A few of those papers would be invitations. He would attend as many of the ton’s functions as was humanly possible, whether he would enjoy them or not.

What he would not do was attend the MacAlistairs’ ball tonight. He hadn’t been invited. Lynch and the Delancey sisters were going, of course. He was not fond of the MacAlistairs, so his exclusion didn’t bother him, but he was tortured by thoughts of Miss Delancey swirling away the night in the arms of others.

He wished he had asked her to dance at the Barringtons’ ball. He wished he’d danced only with her. Over and over. He wished his life had taken a different course. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Hell. Trying to fix his life with a dinner party? He shouldn’t ask for Lady Elizabeth’s hand if the girl was so dead-set against him. That put the onus on her to refuse. That would expose her to the full force of her parents’ disappointment. If he simply stopped courting her, he could always retire to his Lannington estate and become a recluse like the old Viscount Hayworth. But then again, her parents had watched her behave off-puttingly. They might blame her for his defection. They’d blacken his name in public and in private, make her life miserable.

And he’d be in an even worse position to help Felicity.

Lannington. Concentrate. He returned to the pile of mail and chose the thick envelope he’d been waiting for. The one from his steward. Jonathan March was worth his weight in gold. Trentham tipped the reports from the envelope to the desktop, then picked up his coffee for a sip, taking a moment to appreciate the rich aroma and bitter taste before settling in for the read.

The news was not good. There had been excessive spring rains, and the stream running through the northwest corner of his property had overflowed its banks again. Again? March had resettled the tenants who were “inconvenienced” by the event, finding places for them in town until the water receded. They would have to replant. Etcetera, etcetera.

Although infrequent, it is disturbing for the Pottses, Jenkinses, and Chisholms.

Trentham knew them. Pleasant people, he’d thought, but his father had complained of their shiftlessness. Their rents were sometimes late, or short. But could that have been because their fields had flooded? He raked his hand through his hair.

I have made inquiries, and a possible course would be to bring in a water engineer. The stream could be rerouted or dammed. From what I understand, a dam could create a pond that would be an attractive scenic addition to the property, if adequately landscaped. Of course, the expense might be prohibitive.

Prohibitive? By whose standards? March must have approached Father about fixing the problem. But for all the old man’s insistence upon ducal duty, he was highhanded and miserly. Trentham skimmed the rest of the report, which held nothing else out of the ordinary. Then he pulled a piece of paper and a nib pen from the desk drawer.

March, for God’s sake, call in an engineer. And a landscape architect. I want that pond. –Trentham

Next, he thumbed through the invitations. Fine. Fine. A knock on the door interrupted him. “Enter.”

“Your Grace?” Henson stepped into the room and held out a small silver platter. “You have callers.”

“Now?” He frowned. “Who calls before luncheon?” Even though he’d grumbled, he raised his hand and beckoned Henson to him, then plucked two calling cards from the platter. “Mrs. Gorse and Mrs. Whyte? Do I know them?”

“That is unclear, Your Grace.”

He must. Women without proper introductions did not call upon dukes. “What do they look like?”

“Middle-aged. Respectable.”

“Are they collecting for something?”

Henson pursed and unpursed his mouth. “Shall I tell them you are not at home?”

Trentham eyed the scattered papers on his desk. Speaking with two middle-aged, respectable women seemed marginally less dull than penning acceptances to engagements he had no interest in attending. Not unless Miss Delancey would be there.

“No, I’ll come down. Are they in the receiving room?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Fine.” He handed Henson the reply to March. “See that this is posted. I’ll attend to the ladies.”

*

“Pardon us for interrupting your morning, Your Grace.” The bolder of the two addressed him without preamble. She did appear to be in her middle years, but silly girlish ringlets framed her face, sticking out from her bonnet. She wore far too much rosewater; it made his nose itch from across the room. Her dress was a garish yellow, with the largest bustle he’d ever seen. He made a mental note not to offer her a chair.

“Think nothing of it, Mrs.…?”

“Gorse. And my sister is Mrs. Whyte.” She gave her sister a frantic hand signal and the woman dropped, blushing, into a curtsy. Mrs. Whyte was dressed in black, possibly in mourning, or possibly because in any other color, she would clash painfully with Mrs. Gorse.