Page 95 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“He’s a duke,” Lynch said. “They won’t obstruct him.”

“He’s not going to Scotland,” Dessie said. “He’s taking her to Lannington.”

“What? Why?” Lynch blanched. “No! He wouldn’t.” Then he smacked one fist into the other palm. “Why would you even think that?”

Dessie choked up, so Ophelia gave a quick account of their trip to St Pancras station.

Lynch set his jaw. “No. No, I refuse to believe it.”

His certainty renewed her hope. She didn’t want to believe the worst.

Eli chimed in, “Not unless he’d gotten a special license first.” Then he hmm’d. “No. No time for that. And she’s underage. I’m with Lynch. I don’t believe it.”

“Believe what?” That voice.

Everyone whirled at once to face the door. Trentham stood in the doorway.

Ophelia’s breath caught. He didn’t do it. He didn’t do it. How could she have thought…she didn’t deserve him…thank God, he didn’t do it.

Silence fell. And stretched.

He repeated, “Believe what?”

Chapter Thirty-One

Life was full of the unexpected. And the unpleasant. Trentham certainly hadn’t anticipated Dessie storming across the room to slap his face. The force her little palm was capable of delivering was another surprise. An awful sting. It would leave a mark.

“You horrible, horrible man!” She rubbed her palm against her hip.

Lynch bore down on them rapidly. Trentham wasn’t sure if he should prepare to duck.

“Dess, Robin isn’t to blame. He can’t be two places at once.”

“Oh, he’s guilty enough!”

No doubt that was true. But of what? A wave of nausea hit him—proposing to Lady Elizabeth? But no, that wouldn’t require him to be in two places at once. He tried to keep his voice light. “Would someone please explain what it is that I am supposed to have done?”

He cast his gaze around the gathering. His chest tightened when he noticed a round-bellied, gray-haired gentleman standing inconspicuously in back, leaning against the marble mantelpiece. Beside him stood a pretty older woman, a little taller than the man. The woman looked embarrassed; the man, entertained. This was not the introduction to Miss Delancey’s father that he would have chosen. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t do to have a complete stranger listen in while everyone discussed whatever his latest sin was. He nodded to the fellow. “Good day, sir. You must be Mr. Delancey.” He looked to the woman. “And you are”—bollocks, he’d only ever heard Lynch mention one name for her—“Aunt Grace. I am the Duke of Trentham.”

“Delighted to meet you, your lordship,” the old fellow blundered.

“Your Grace,” Dessie said in an exasperated tone. “He’s a duke. He’s addressed as ‘Your Grace’.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Trentham said. Too many “Graces” here. As long as the fellow didn’t call him “Robin”. He couldn’t understand why this was so hard for Americans, but he did know, as Dessie should, that a daughter oughtn’t correct her father in public. “I’m more interested in what it is that Lynch and Mr. Cameron can’t believe.” He shot Dessie a sour look. “But apparently you can.”

And Miss Delancey? Had she weighed in on whatever it was?

“Well, I don’t believe it anymore,” Dessie said, pouting.

“Lynch?”

“It’s absurd. Start to finish, absurd.”

Trentham listened as Lynch related what he’d heard that morning in the coffee shop while meeting with Lord Selborne.

Bloody hell! So, they had known, since early in the day, that he was now betrothed to Lady Elizabeth. Miss Delancey must hate him. She should hate him. Although desperate to see her expression, he also dreaded it, and couldn’t force his head to turn.

“Robin,” Lynch continued, touching his arm, bringing back his attention, “Dessie and Ophelia went to talk with Lady Elizabeth and found her gone. She left a note saying she’d eloped. Barrington maintains she did it for spite, and that you did it to avoid a marriage contract.”