Page 90 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“I’ll have to speak with Felicity first,” he said, though he could anticipate what she would say. He pursed his lips. “I’ll arrange another meeting through Mrs. Gorse and Mrs. Whyte.” He thought they might be enjoying the excitement, though it was unkind of him to imagine so.

“It would be best to do it quickly.” Derry gathered back his papers and returned them neatly to his bag. “As far as the rumors already circulating, if they can feign a reconciliation, Society will soon lose interest. Then they can go their separate ways.”

Lynch was right. The fellow knew his business. “I expect they will manage to be seen together at a ton gathering.” Perhaps at his own wedding to Lady Elizabeth.

The solicitor rose, pulling at his jacket to straighten it. “Good. If you would let me know your sister’s decision, I’ll talk to Cavanaugh and your man of business. We’ll buy up Sir George’s I.O.U.’s before he gets wind of what’s going on. The quicker we start, the better. Then I’ll alert Claxton, Sir George’s solicitor, and present your conditions. That should put a stop to all this. Unless, of course, Lady Townes wishes to pursue things further.”

*

Mrs. Gorse and Mrs. Whyte were eager to assist. Trentham went through the same nonsense to sneak into their home, while Felicity was again invited for a supposed luncheon with her neighbors. The sisters left Trentham to wait in their parlor alone, with tea and cakes. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long.

Felicity looked terrible. She’d lost weight that she couldn’t afford to lose. She had dark hollows beneath her eyes. There was gray in her hair he hadn’t noticed before. Of course, he didn’t say this. Rather, as she came into the parlor, he went to take both her hands in his. “I have good news.”

Her eyes brightened, just a little. “Do you? Thank God. I need some good news. Julia is ill from nerves. She doesn’t know everything, but she has overheard enough. Naturally, George is blaming me.”

Trentham swallowed a burning knot of anger. “Come, sit.” He led her to the davenport, then took the chair beside her. “I’ll tell you what Derry found. Then you tell me what you’d like to do. I’ll support whatever choice you make.”

He repeated what the solicitor had said about Sir George’s debts. And how simple it would be to convince George to change his plans.

“But that puts you in a terrible position, Robin.” Felicity sighed. “And you’ll be stuck with bad debt—”

“Neither of which matters a whit. Don’t worry about me. Tell me what you want.”

She rose from the davenport and walked to the window. Looking out, she said, “As much as I despise George, I don’t want to be a divorced woman. Not if there is another way to settle this.” She turned to face him again. “You remember what it means to be an outcast. It would be even worse for me than it was for you. And it would be terrible for Julia. The boys’ prospects would likely also be damaged. George may not care, but I do.” She inhaled. And exhaled with a shaky, nervous laugh. “Thank you, Robin. This is a tremendous weight lifted. I’ve been dreading going through a trial.”

Trentham nodded. That much, he understood. “I’ll go talk to Derry.”

*

Trentham went straight from seeing his sister to the solicitor’s office to let him know her decision. Much as he needed to talk to Miss Delancey, his own problems had to wait. Thank God, her father was supposed to have arrived in London yesterday. A family reunion should keep them all occupied and away from ton rumor-mongers. He couldn’t imagine what she would think of him if she heard of his betrothal from anyone else.

Actually, he could imagine it. He just didn’t want to.

And it was all such a wicked twist of Fate! If only Derry had proposed this solution one day sooner. Then he would not have been coerced into proposing to Lady Elizabeth. But now, he’d asked and been accepted, and their solicitors were involved. If he were dishonorable enough to break the engagement, Barrington could sue him for breach of promise, Elizabeth would be humiliated and even less marriageable, and he would be involved in yet another scandal, another legal battle, indefensibly guilty as before.

He thought he’d done penance enough for Fanny, but apparently, the punishment was never-ending.

Once more, he entered the stately building he’d visited with Lynch. He announced himself, and a clerk hurried off to find Derry. The solicitor emerged almost at once from an inner office. If he’d been with another client, the fellow would naturally take second place to a duke. They stepped into an empty room and shut the door.

“I’ll be quick,” Trentham said. “Lady Townes no longer wants to sue for divorce.”

Derry smiled a genuine, toothy smile—Lynch wouldn’t believe it. “I’ll speak with Cavanaugh in the morning. And bring you word directly when we have the promissory notes. It won’t take long.”

“Thank you.” Trentham shook the man’s hand. “Good day. And sincerely, I thank you.” It would be the best resolution. And he was not above taking some petty satisfaction from holding Sir George’s debts.

That was accomplished, but Trentham wasn’t half done. That had been his good deed. Now, he must face Miss Delancey. He checked his pocket watch on his way out the door. His stomach was rumbling. It was late for luncheon, but too early for tea. Never mind the time. He would go to his club for a quick bite to eat, then perhaps home, to change his clothes, and then, to Lynch’s. His heart sank down to his feet.

He was stalling. But he may as well allow her another hour or two to enjoy her father’s visit, before he told her…what? That he was honor-bound to wed Lady Elizabeth after all?

Chapter Thirty

The Barringtons’ butler admitted Ophelia and Dessie. Dessie handed him her calling card. “We are here to see Lady Elizabeth.”

In Ophelia’s experience, butlers were generally unflappable. Yet as he led them to a small corner room—a room that had been closed off during the ball—he wore an inexplicably puzzled, nervous expression. “I will see if…if she is receiving callers.” He abandoned them there without lighting the gas lamp, and since the room’s musty drapes were closed, they were left standing practically in the dark. As Ophelia’s eyes adjusted, she considered, then immediately rejected, the thought of sitting. The chairs looked like something salvaged from a Norman castle: heavy, blocky, wood-framed, with crimson cushions, the nap worn to an uneven sheen. The things were probably haunted.

Dessie harrumphed. “Apparently they stick Americans in a storage closet.”

Even outside of the room they currently occupied, the atmosphere in the house felt oppressive. Ophelia remembered how impressed she had been on the evening of the ball. They must have hired extra servants and spent days cleaning and polishing. In contrast, now there was an emptiness. A stillness. An air of decay.