Page 8 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“It was my fault. I’m sure Trentham left strict orders for El—Mr. Cameron. But after he finished the first piece, I had this face.” She gazed ahead, moonstruck, mouth slightly open, eyes moist. She even panted a little.

“You didn’t!”

“I couldn’t help it. He stood up and walked toward me. His smile was rather louche. But that sweet little Foster stood up too, planting his feet and crossing his arms. He looked like a gnome with his lower lip all jutted out. Then Mr. Cameron said—” She made her voice a little British and husky. “‘Foster, be a good lad and run and fetch my brandy. I left it upstairs.’” She dropped the accent. “And Foster just said, ‘No.’”

“Well, thank goodness!”

“I don’t know. There are worse fates, certainly, than—”

“Please, don’t finish that sentence. Mr. Cameron is a piano player!”

“He’s a concert pianist. Not some saloon tinkler.”

“Well, so Foster saved your brother-in-law from shooting a pianist. What happened next?”

“I asked him, begged him really, to play a duet with me. He looked skeptical, as I said, but when I put the score in his hand, he gave it a glance and nodded, and was not too disagreeable about trying. Interesting, that music. It was a few loose sheets on the stool by the harp. I didn’t recognize the composer, but the music was lovely. It took a few tries, naturally.”

“You were sight-reading?”

“I was at first, yes, but it was something he’d played before. We had just about gotten it right when you all walked in the door.”

“I’d say more than ‘just about right.’ It was gorgeous. Is that what you hope to play tonight?”

“I hope to not play anything. You know I don’t like performing before strangers. In any case, we’d have to play something we’ve both practiced more.” And she needed to be wearing something tweedy and dowdy.

“So what are you hoping for? Tonight?”

“Just to listen to Mr. Cameron.” She stroked the silk of the dress. “Maybe an invitation to practice together sometime.”

“Hmmm. He’s leaving in a week. You do know that.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, I know. But—”

“But nothing. A musician? Daddy will have both our heads.”

“I don’t want to marry a title, Dess. Or a fortune hunter.” She held up her hand. “I know that’s not you and Lynch. You’d only play Daddy’s game to a point. You would have fallen for Lynch if he was a stevedore. And he wouldn’t have cared if you were penniless. But lightning doesn’t strike twice.”

“Lightning doesn’t strike twice?”

Ophelia plucked up a pillow and tossed it at her sister. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” she laughed, batting it aside. “I got my fairy tale ending. So, what is yours? What is your wildest dream? Your reach for the stars? Is it really to marry Mr. Cameron? I mean, even now, having met him?”

Ophelia hesitated. Then confessed. “Of course not.” Her childish dreams of the Elias Cameron, promising young musician heard through the floorboards, were silly. The reality was less romantic. And still silly. “It’s that, astounded by my talent, not my décolletage, he will sweep me off on tour with him.” Dessie’s eyes went too wide. “Wildest dream, remember? Fairy tale. I’m not saying it could happen.” If Elias Cameron were to sweep her away, it would be to have another ornament in his collection. And she would still be loath to perform before strangers. “I’m not good enough to play professionally. I guess my greatest wish is that I was.”

*

Now this, Ophelia thought, was what a high society soiree should look like. There was a line of carriages in the drive. The butler stood at the front entrance while guests filed through the door. Just inside, a small army of servants carted away hats and wraps. And, in the entry hall, the Duke of Trentham greeted a sampling of the ton.

He looked different tonight. Ophelia’s memory, and her embarrassment, had exaggerated the hook of his nose. Of course, he’d shaved; that helped. And his attire was not vaguely rumpled as it had been last night. He had that inaccessible peer-of-the-realm look. Lynch could do it too, but not as well.

A lady stood beside Trentham, his hostess. She, too, was tall and slender. She was older, with strands of gray in her hair, and, despite the smile on her face, her close-set eyes looked a little sad.

Ophelia was impressed by the way Lynch made introductions as though she and the duke had never met before; then Trentham introduced her to his sister, Lady Townes. It was all very formal. Very well acted. It was even a little annoying, seeing as how he looked past her to his next guest even before Lynch ushered them along.

The chandeliers were brightly lit tonight. The hallways were crowded and most of the doors were open, displaying charming rooms filled with things that appeared both staid and ornate. And old. In one, men had gathered to smoke cigars.

Lynch leaned close to his wife’s ear. “Darling, there’s Lord Jemson.”