Page 88 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

Dessie’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “All right. I say that Fanny incident was a decade ago.”

“Well, but that’s another thing.” Ophelia felt a warm flush steal up her neck. “He said he never cared for her. Not even a little. He only wanted…” Her voice sank to a whisper, worried she’d shock her sister. “Sex.”

“Of course, he wanted sex, silly.” It appeared Dessie was trying to scowl, but her eyes danced. Then she giggled. “It’s simply marvelous. You’ll see. You won’t ever want to leave bed again. I know I—”

“Oh, hush!” Now her face flamed. There were certain images she never wanted in her head. “You and Lynch were married.”

“Eventually.” Dessie snorted. “Don’t gape like that.”

Ophelia snapped her mouth closed.

“We knew we were going to marry. And it was my decision as much as Lynch’s. But you are right. It was mean of Robin to sleep with someone he never cared for, if she cared for him. But people do it all the time. Maybe she just wanted sex too.”

“What if he wants sex with me?”

Dessie smirked. “If?”

“I mean just sex.”

“No. He cares for you. That’s abundantly clear to anyone with eyes. And he dislikes Lady Elizabeth, even though he must realize she makes herself unlikeable to him on purpose.”

“But she is a marquess’ daughter. And he wanted to redeem his reputation. At least, that’s what he said. I don’t know. I can’t trust anything that comes out of his mouth. There are at least three different Dukes of Trentham. Which is he?”

“Ophelia, he’s Robin. If he was toying with you, I would never forgive him. And I would never let Lynch forgive him. And I’d wager anything that Mr. Cameron wouldn’t forgive him either.” She frowned, tapping her foot. “He said he loved you?”

Not in those exact words. “More or less.”

Dessie looked her up and down. “He’s not going to marry Lady Elizabeth. We won’t let him, because she doesn’t want him. But unless he has a very good excuse, a very good reason, for proposing to her, we won’t let him marry you, either.” She grabbed Ophelia’s hand and pulled her up from the bed. “Come on.”

“Come where?”

“Wash your face and finish getting dressed. We’re going to the Barringtons’ to talk to Lady Elizabeth and see if we can figure this out.”

“The Barringtons’? Dessie, it’s not even noon. And we can’t just barge in and tell her that her future husband is a bounder who kissed me and said he loves me.”

Dessie gave her a shove. “Oh, yes we can.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Trentham wished he’d told Mr. Derry to come earlier. Eli had gone out, so he had no one to converse with to kill time. Although maybe he’d burdened Eli with enough. With the music room empty, he passed an hour playing the harp, but it did nothing to settle him. He spent the rest of his wait wandering aimlessly about his house, even striding once through the main hall to rub the marble heads of his progenitors, a half-forgotten good luck charm from his youth, while conjuring up, then discarding theories of what the solicitor might have to say. Perhaps Felicity’s physician had come forward offering to testify. Or an angry husband, preferably a peer, might be naming Sir George in a suit for loss of consortium—although that possibility made him shudder, touching too close to the past he wished he could forget.

At last, just before the clock struck eleven, Trentham retreated to his study. He sat in his father’s uncomfortable chair, and sank his head into his hands, elbows on the desk. He was still in that position, praying quietly and probably too incoherently for even God to decipher, when Henson announced Mr. Derry.

He stood and gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Come in. Have a seat. Henson, will you bring coffee?” Trentham didn’t need coffee; he needed something in his hands to fidget with.

Derry sat, laying his bag over his knees. Although especially dapper today in a dark jacket and a white shirt with the over-starched hint of newness, he still looked grim. Never mind that Lynch had said that the knotted brow indicated enthusiasm.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Is it?”

“I believe so.” Something that might have been a smile whisked across his face, then disappeared. He opened his bag and pulled out a small pile of paper. “I presume you are aware of the details of Lady Townes’ marriage contract.”

“Not all the details, no.” He’d been a toddler in leading strings when Felicity married Sir George. He frowned. “I mean, I am aware there was one, but I don’t know the specifics. I do know that her marriage settlement was structured as an equitable trust.”

If not for their father’s machinations to create this separate estate, Sir George would have had full legal ownership of Felicity’s money as well as her body. A married woman was a feme covert. Marriage made two people one. And that “one” was the husband. Left to his own devices, Trentham would never have bothered to question that ancient legal tradition. Most men didn’t, or wouldn’t. But Lynch was fighting hard to change the law, to get rid of coverture. And, of course, Lynch’s stance was the right one. As matters stood, even with an equitable trust, Felicity’s property was under a man’s control. His. Which didn’t seem fair.

“I became the trustee when my father passed, but I’ve tried not to interfere. I do know that my sister’s marriage portion is substantial.”