Page 7 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“Trentham.”

“Oh!” Ophelia frowned even though she wanted to laugh. “He isn’t that bird-faced.”

“What-faced?”

“You know.” She drew her lip down, crunched her nose, crossed her eyes, and made pecking motions.

“Jesu, don’t do that!” Dessie swore, gulping a laugh. “His name is Robert Wormsley. Duke of Trentham. His friends call him ‘Robin’. Some do.” Her forehead wrinkled. “I think.”

“If they are friends, they shouldn’t. He’s just bird-faced enough for it to be mean.” Ophelia thought a moment, then bit back her own giggle. “Robin Wormsley? How did he ever live that down?”

Dessie shrugged. “He’s a duke. They don’t have to live things down.”

“Hmph.” Ophelia stepped closer to her sister’s closet, a whole roomful of clothes, yet nothing familiar. Nothing from their New York dressmaker. Not even a New York bonnet. How easily Dessie had shed her past. Daddy would come to London in two or three months for a short visit, then he and she would go home. And Dessie, the Countess of Lynchford, would remain here.

Here.

The Lynchford townhome was more compact than Trentham’s, but located in a tonier part of the city, according to Dessie. Ophelia still hadn’t figured London out. However, toney though it might be, Ophelia couldn’t help noticing that the building was in need of repair. Lynch had only taken the lease on the house for the past two years, and part of that time he’d been in New York. The furnishings were fairly new. Good quality, if rather sparse. The family heirlooms had been moved to the country estate, those that hadn’t been sold. Lynch was not, had never been, impoverished, merely trending that way. Daddy’s money reversed that trend. Still, there was no doubt in Ophelia’s mind that her sister had made a love match.

If only it had been a love match made closer to home. How readily Dessie had shed her.

She put a false buoyancy into her voice. “What do you have that’s green? I feel like wearing green. Something cut fuller so I’m not bursting out of it.”

“Oh! I know just the thing.”

Dessie dove into the recesses of her closet and emerged with a washed silk gown in emerald-green with tiny rows of darker green gauzy ruffles across the neckline. There were laces across the bust that could be loosened. The skirt was full, the bustle small. It would be a comfortable dress to perform in, if Eli asked her to. Which he would. He already had. It would be hard to say no again if he pressed her in front of an audience.

“This will be perfect!” Dessie pronounced.

It would have to do. According to Dessie and her London modiste, Ophelia’s New York gowns were hopelessly out of fashion.

“Or you could wear your mauve, if you want to finish off poor Trentham.”

Ophelia’s cheeks heated. “Don’t tease me. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. I should have asked Milly to help me rifle through your closet last night, but it didn’t occur to me.” Milly was Dessie’s new lady’s maid, and Ophelia was still getting used to her. At home, they’d had Daisy, whom they both adored, but Daisy refused to come abroad. She said she was scared of the boat. After her own horrific bout of seasickness, Ophelia couldn’t blame her. “I must have seemed horribly left-footed, but I was so anxious to hear Eli play.”

“Mr. Cameron.”

“I wouldn’t have expected them to both be so kind to someone as stupid as I was.”

“Both?”

“Trentham and Eli.”

“Say ‘Mr. Cameron,’ Ophelia. You can do it.”

Right. The men and Foster had called him “Eli” all night, and the name was stuck in her brain. She had better unstick it. British etiquette was even stuffier than that in New York.

“Mr. Cameron looked skeptical when I asked if I could play with him—”

“If you worded it like that, I think you misinterpreted his facial expression.”

Ophelia stuck out her tongue. “Interpret that.” Then she smiled, a little wistfully. “But he was so kind. He just took the music from me and sat back down to play.”

“Sat back down? What was he doing standing up?”

Ophelia paused. “Well, it was a little awkward. At first.”

Dessie brushed aside a pile of gowns and dropped onto her bed, sighing like a disappointed governess. “You’d better tell me.”