Page 91 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

A pattering of footsteps sounded overhead. Then raised voices, a man’s and a woman’s. Then a woman’s loud, desperate sob.

“What is going on?” she whispered to Dessie.

Dessie shrugged. “I can’t hear either. I don’t think you need to whisper.”

They waited. And waited.

This was ridiculous. “I think they’ve forgotten us.”

“I know!” Dessie exclaimed. “It’s very rude!” She went to the door, pulled it open further, and peeked her head out.

“Is anyone around?” Ophelia asked, wringing her fingers. They couldn’t wander about exploring.

“No. Do you think we should go out, knock, and come back in?”

“If we leave, they might not answer the door again.”

“Can you, you know, smash something loudly? That ugly vase maybe?” She pointed to something that might be Ming.

Ophelia scowled. “You’re not funny.” Dessie was referring to another broken vase, one belonging to Mrs. Astor. An heirloom. Breaking it had been mortifying enough, but then Daddy made the mistake of offering to pay for it, and Ophelia had wanted to melt through the floor.

Dessie slammed the door shut, opened it, and slammed it again. When no one came, she said, “Let’s go into the hall. This is absurd.”

She marched out of the room to the foot of the grand staircase, Ophelia at her heels.

“Is anyone home?” Dessie yelled.

Ophelia cringed. It would be nice to be a countess and get away with such things. But then, she thought, she was a countess’ sister, so why not? She steeled herself and called out, “Anyone at all?”

The next moment, they heard a door upstairs opening. The marquess and marchioness appeared and came down the staircase at a pace rapid enough to raise Ophelia’s concern for their safety. Lord Barrington was choleric and heaving, his jacket unbuttoned and flapping. Lady Barrington was red-eyed but pale; her tower of false hair leaned to one side.

“How dare you show your face here,” Lord Barrington said to Dessie, seething. “Lynchford is not innocent in this. Those two are thick as thieves.”

Who two?

“What are you talking about?” Dessie asked, with admirably feigned calm. She’d always been the better actress. “And where is Lady Elizabeth? We came to see her.”

“Bah! Did your husband send you? Is this part of the scheme?”

Dessie turned to Ophelia. “I believe the marquess has gone mad.”

Don’t bait him! Ophelia’s gut churned. She took a deep breath and addressed Lady Barrington. Very sweetly. “Good day. Is your daughter at home to callers?”

“For God’s sake!” the woman hissed. She held out her fist and opened it to reveal a crumpled piece of paper. “This! Explain this!”

Ophelia took it and smoothed it. Dessie peered over her shoulder. The writing was cramped, but legible.

We’ve eloped. I’ll send word when we are settled. I’m sorry. –Bitsy

Ophelia fumed. This was the very last straw. She’d duel Trentham herself, as soon as he returned from…wherever he and “Bitsy” eloped.

“Bitsy?” Dessie said, taking the paper from her.

Ophelia gave her a sharp elbow. “But they’re engaged, aren’t they?” she asked the Barringtons. “You gave your permission. Why on earth would they elope?”

“To cheat Elizabeth out of her marriage portion!” Lord Barrington spewed spittle. Addressing Dessie, he said, “Your husband is a bloody hypocrite! Crying out for women’s rights when he married a dollar princess. And now, Trentham stole Elizabeth away without a contract, the greedy bastard!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Dessie said, seemingly ignoring the insult to her husband, though Ophelia ached to set the man straight. Lynch was sincere, and Trentham…not greedy. “Why would she agree to elope when she didn’t want to marry him at all?”