Page 80 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

Ophelia huffed with irritation. What was wrong with her? He’d come when he could. He had ducal duties. And brotherly obligations. Moreover, he had to disentangle himself from Lady Elizabeth. She’d told him not to come around until he did. And when he did, she’d have to ask him if he was a murderer. Ugh. Maybe he should take his time.

Meanwhile, she was busy following Dessie about. Her sister was in a tizzy because Daddy and Aunt Grace would be there tomorrow. She’d had four different bedchambers aired before deciding on two others, smaller and less lavish, but with views out over the gardens. She’d torn up the first set of menus for the week, and Ophelia would not be surprised if she tore up the second and started a third. She’d sorted all her pending invitations into “send regrets” or accept with conditions—the condition being whether or not Ophelia was also invited and if she could wangle two extra invites for Daddy and Aunt Grace. For every minor decision, Dessie asked for Ophelia’s opinion, but still hemmed and hawed and more often than not, failed to decide.

Ophelia wasn’t worried. Once Daddy and Aunt Grace arrived, they would all be so pleased to be together that Dessie would remember she didn’t need to fuss.

After luncheon, Dessie retreated to her bedchamber to rest, at Lynch’s insistence. He left to meet with some men from a liberal faction of Parliament who wanted to hear his take on a tax bill of some sort. Ophelia slipped into the music room to practice. Mr. Cameron had sent apologies two days in a row, and she half expected him to bow out again.

She’d been running through scales and a few easy ditties for almost a full hour when she heard the door open behind her. She ceased playing and turned. Mr. Cameron walked in, wearing his usual plain black jacket and trousers. However, the collar of his white shirt looked limp, his hair lay flat on his head, and he sported a day’s growth of beard. Still, his was the type of handsome that a little dishevelment improved.

“You’re here. I didn’t think you’d come.”

Mr. Cameron gave her a weak smile. “I do apologize. I—”

“Don’t be silly. Lady Townes’ suit is more important than my lessons. Have you—” She caught herself. “No. I’m sorry. I’m being nosy. It’s none of my affair.”

He plodded toward her. “I hope I haven’t promised Trentham more than I can deliver. The ill-treated women are out there, but not so eager to testify against a baronet.”

“Dessie and I are willing to state what we saw, but I’m afraid that wasn’t ill-treatment enough.”

He sighed. “He broke a woman’s arm, you know. An actress. Shoved her down the stairs. But he gave her five pounds to stay quiet about it, and the daft woman feels beholden to keep her side of the bargain even though nothing was signed.”

“Good heavens,” she muttered. Someone ought to break his arm and offer him five pounds for his troubles. “What will happen if you can’t find witnesses?”

“I can find them. I have found them. But Mr. Derry will have to compel them to testify, and that might not go as well as if they spoke voluntarily. He wants to move quickly, before Sir George does. I’m supposed to provide him with a list by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! Then, Mr. Cameron, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Of course I should. This is my profession. You’ve hired me. I won’t take advantage of…of friendship, if you’ll permit me to call it that.” He flushed. “Come. Let’s hear the piece you’ve been practicing.”

She turned back to the keyboard, deciding not to mention the concert Dessie wanted him to put on. Let him concentrate on one thing at a time.

She wished she could concentrate—on something other than Trentham’s unconfessed duel. Despite her efforts, she played poorly, plunking the keys like a novice. When she hit a disastrously wrong chord, Mr. Cameron winced audibly, then pressed his hand upon hers, flattening it.

“Where is your head, Miss Delancey?”

She sighed. “I suppose it’s with Trentham and Lady Townes.” That was half true. She shuddered, unable to bear her ignorance any longer. “Mr. Cameron, was Trentham really in the army in Canada?”

He whisked away his hand. “Of course he was. What has that to do with anything?”

“Did he…kill anyone? In the line of duty, I mean.”

He sniffed. “He’s not going to kill Sir George, if that’s what’s bothering you.” He paused. “He didn’t see any fighting in Canada. He was essentially a secretary to his commanding officer. They wouldn’t risk a duke’s son.”

“So he has never shot anyone?”

Mr. Cameron gave her a long, studying look, so disapproving that her skin began to crawl. Then he rolled back his shoulders and said in a miffed, angry tone, “Miss Delancey, I don’t appreciate being manipulated. I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, but no. He has never shot anyone.”

Trying not to sigh with relief, she murmured, “I didn’t believe he would.”

He looked at his watch, mouth pursed with impatience. “We’re wasting time today. You’re obviously too distracted to work.”

She could hardly protest, so she watched him collect his sheet music, then move to the door, quickly, but with an awkwardly stiff gait. She’d made him uncomfortable, prying at the edges of his loyalty to Trentham. That was wrong of her.

“Eli,” she called after him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—to try to take advantage of our friendship.”

He halted and turned, the hard line of his jaw softening. He nodded. Solemnly, he said, “Talk to him. Not about him. He has a passionate hatred of gossip.” As he exited, he called over his shoulder, “Practice. I will see you tomorrow, Ophelia.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven