Page 81 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

On Friday morning, Trentham found himself once more cooling his heels in the Barringtons’ receiving room. The housemaids had apparently gotten around to dusting, but there remained a faint odor of must and decay. He felt a twinge of unease. Of guilt. Certainly someone else would come along to marry the daughter and keep her from impoverishment. She was young. Her parents were not at death’s door. There was time.

He rehearsed again, in his head, the words he meant to say. Lady Elizabeth, although I admire you greatly, it is evident, I’m sure to us both, that we do not suit one another.

He shouldn’t have taken things this far. Yet mixed in with his regret was a strong impatience to have it over with. He’d wished he’d come yesterday. Then he could have returned, conscience clear, to propose properly to Miss Delancey. But the world didn’t stop turning so that he could sort out his love life. He’d had an appointment with his man of business about estate matters that it would have been neglectful to postpone, and then he had to sit through an unbearable committee meeting with several of his Conservative fellows, blathering about taxes and Poor Laws—wealthy men all, begrudging children a spoonful of gruel. He really needed to defect to Lynch’s party. And then he’d supped with Eli and heard his report, all of which was bad news. Sir George’s victims were frightened. The trial would be ugly.

Heavy footsteps, heavier than the butler’s, sounded in the hall. Then the door swung open. It was the marquess. Damn.

“Barrington,” Trentham said with a nod. He’d rather pay Lady Elizabeth the courtesy of an explanation, but it appeared he was going to have to withdraw his suit by speaking to her father, who would no doubt boot him from the house forthwith, before he could apologize to the girl.

The man stepped in and shut the door. “Right.” He glowered. “I am appalled. Utterly appalled. Don’t think you can play me and mine for fools.”

Trentham suppressed a wince. There were any number of things the marquess might wish to take issue with—but the most likely cause for his spleen was the rumor about Felicity.

He stalled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Barrington’s beady eyes practically glowed red. “I was warned you were immoral, but I’d hoped for better. Yet you were witnessed squiring that American chit about the park!”

Trentham started. A carriage ride? Unless the marquess had been listening in, taking a lady for a ride in the park seemed a rather low rung on the ladder of his indiscretions. Still, he wasn’t about to deny the truth. Yes, he’d gone to the park with Miss Delancey. He was in love with her, damn it. Let the marquess throw him out and be done.

“A pretty bit of muslin,” Barrington continued, snarling. “But if you must take a mistress, you should have the decency to be discreet!”

Mistress? He tasted gall. “How dare you malign Miss Delancey—”

“Enough! Elizabeth is in the parlor. You’ll have your fun with your common piece, I’m sure, but it’s about time you did your duty also.”

“My duty?” Surely, Barrington wasn’t saying he should propose now. The man had just accused him of gallivanting about with a mistress!

“You’ve toyed with my daughter’s affections long enough. She is prepared to answer you in the affirmative.” He puffed out his chest. “Our solicitors can work out the provisions, but I’m sure you’re aware that my expectations are great. Given the situation, I don’t expect you to quibble.”

Pah! The marquess disgusted him. “You’re saying you want to sell your child to me? Even though you fully expect me to treat her badly?”

Barrington stomped closer. A short fellow, his eyes came up no further than Trentham’s chin, but there was menace in his swagger. He jabbed Trentham’s shoulder with his finger. “You asked to pay court to my daughter.”

“I did. But she and I have discovered over the course of these weeks that we are ill-suited for marriage—”

“Balderdash!” Barrington took a step back. “She knows her duty to her family.” His face hardened. “While your father is rolling over in his grave. His heir is a rogue and his daughter, no better than she should be.”

Through gritted teeth, he said, “Lady Townes is—”

“Is soon to be exposed as an adulteress. Therefore, I think a quick, quiet wedding will better serve Elizabeth.”

“Better still for us not to marry at all!” How could he possibly wed her? How could he even stand here discussing marriage to the girl?

Derry was right: they had to move fast. They would clear Felicity’s name. Eli was meeting with the lawyer this morning. Trentham prayed they could put together a case that the judge would not dismiss out of hand, built, as it would be, on the testimony of servants, shopgirls, and entertainers. So much could still go wrong.

“But my sister is innocent!” he blurted.

Barrington sneered. “Of course, you’d say that. But your word carries no weight.” He curled his hand and rubbed his knuckles against the silk lapel of his jacket. “Lady Townes will lose all rights to her children. The girl, especially, should not be exposed to such wanton—”

“Bloody hell! Sir George has no proof!”

“Proof enough.” Words slipped from Barrington’s smug mouth as though coated with oil. “You see, my name does carry weight.”

Trentham stared, while a crushing premonition of defeat fell upon him. If Barrington had influence over the Divorce Court, it wouldn’t matter who filed suit first. They would deny Felicity a divorce, but grant one to Sir George, on his terms.

“You can’t mean you would allow a respectable lady to be destroyed. And surely you wouldn’t force your daughter into a marriage she doesn’t want.”

“My daughter’s mare was precious to her. I sold it yesterday. I had no choice. Trust me; Elizabeth understands what it means to have no choice.” He moved to the door and opened it. “And I suspect you now understand this as well.”