Page 67 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“So, then, here is the plan.” Lynch held up one finger. “Talk to Felicity. Make sure she is prepared to pursue this course.” A second finger. “Enlist Eli.” And a third. “Engage Michael Derry.”

He’d have to impose upon Mrs. Gorse and Mrs. White. “I’ll arrange to see Felicity as early as possible tomorrow.” A farfetched plan was better than none.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Trentham had slept poorly, agonizing over presenting such a foul scheme to his sister. Initiating a divorce? Their ancestors would simultaneously roll over in their graves. Yawning, he entered the breakfast parlor, then halted mid-yawn. The room had an enticing aroma. And Eli was at the table, dressed in his best black jacket as if for visiting potential patrons.

Trentham greeted him with, “You’re up already?” Unusual for Eli. The two of them kept different hours. Trentham rose unfashionably early for a London gentleman, while most days Eli did not emerge from his room until at least noon, as though he was to the manner born.

Eli raised his head. “Yes, well, Lady Grafton asked me to call on her at her earliest convenience.”

Trentham chuckled. “What is she arranging this time?”

“She’s raising funds for a hospital.” He waved his hand in the air, indicating, Trentham supposed, that which hospital was immaterial, so he didn’t ask.

“I don’t expect she’s after you for a monetary donation.”

Eli snorted. “Then she’d be bothering you. No, she’s having a concert of some kind.”

Trentham took his seat. Cinnamon. That’s what he smelled. He glanced at Eli’s plate. Buttered toast, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. A child’s breakfast. “Will you perform?”

Eli dipped a strip of toast into his cup. Not coffee or tea. It was a creamy cup of chocolate. Was this what the man usually ate upon rising? To fortify himself to wrestle with the piano?

“I don’t know.” He slurped the soggy bread, then swallowed after a brief chew. “It wouldn’t hurt, I suppose, to remind people I exist. But I’ll be sharing the stage with dilettantes.”

“As you did at my musicale.”

“That isn’t the same. That was a private party at the home of a friend.” He sighed. “I fear people believe I’ve amassed a comfortable fortune and am ready to settle into a life of charity work.” He rolled his shoulders. “I’ll end up saying yes, I suppose. Refusing will put the biddies’ backs up.”

A maid came into the room. Stout, robust Sally who had been with the family since he was a boy. “Your Grace?”

“Ah, yes.” He scratched his jaw, feeling self-conscious. “I’ll have the same as Mr. Cameron.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” She turned to go, but halted and turned back, her expression skeptical. “The chocolate, too?”

“Oh, God, no. I’m not a tot. Coffee will do.” He returned his attention to Eli in time to see his smirk. “You’ve dripped on your chin.”

Eli hastily grabbed his napkin and blotted his face. It occurred to Trentham then that he might not see his friend until very much later in the day, if at all. And there was no reason Lynch’s steps one and two had to be completed in the original order. Reversing them might serve better.

“Eli”—he lowered his voice almost without intention—“you said I ought to ask more of you.”

Eli cocked his head to one side. “Yes?” Trentham was touched that there was no wariness in his expression. That was trust.

“Lynch has suggested that Felicity should sue for divorce before Sir George does. He recommended a solicitor—”

“Are you serious? Is that even possible?”

“It is. But very difficult. Everyone knows he’s unfaithful, but we’d need someone involved to swear to it in court, and, moreover, for her suit to succeed, we would also have to prove he was violent.”

“You mean his victims would have to testify.”

“Victims, or perhaps servants who witnessed these things.”

Eli was quiet a moment, swirling his finger in the sugary dust on his plate. Then he licked the finger. “You need those witnesses?”

“We do.”

He picked up his cup and drained it, then wiped his mouth before rising and giving Trentham a nod. “I’ll find them.”