Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy (Victorian Entertainments #1)

Chapter One

Taking courage, though certainly not comfort, from the ultra-sophistication of her new Parisian gown, Miss Ophelia Delancey stood her ground in the doorway of a palatial London townhouse, and returned the wooden-faced butler’s gaze until he blinked.

She mimicked a haughty tone. “Of course, His Grace expects me. He invited me.” Or his social secretary did?

At any rate, she didn’t expect to have to show the card to gain entrance.

It was an invitation, not a ticket. “I am Miss Delancey.” For good measure, even though name-dropping was gauche, she added, “The Countess of Lynchford’s sister. ”

Countess of Lynchford. That still did not exactly roll off the tongue.

No doubt her accent gave weight to the outlandish claim, because the butler stepped aside. Even the servants would know the Earl of Lynchford had married an American heiress, a “dollar princess”. Ophelia hated that mercenary term!

She entered an echoey marble-floored hall.

Before the door closed behind her, she heard her brother-in-law’s carriage pull away, to return in four hours.

Lynch had graciously put the entirety of his estate at her disposal two weeks earlier when she’d arrived from New York via Paris—generous on his part, even if it was her father’s money propping up that estate.

Still, she suspected she was supposed to ask permission before commandeering one of Lynch’s carriages.

And she definitely was supposed to inform her sister Dessie before venturing out to a soiree.

She would have done both, but the Duke of Trentham’s musicale fell on an evening when Dessie and Lynch had other plans.

Important plans. Had Ophelia shown them the duke’s invitation, they would have sent regrets, and then Ophelia could not have gone.

She would never have snuck out alone if the invitation had not specified that Mr. Elias Cameron would be the star performer.

If there was one social event she simply could not miss, this was it.

Besides, there would be a crush of respectable ladies and gentlemen in attendance; why should she need a chaperone in a crowd?

This would not be an issue in New York, not when she was practically on-the-shelf.

“Follow me, if you please,” the butler said.

The duke’s residence was a rabbits’ warren of semi-darkened hallways and closed doors.

It made sense, given how much of the year the houses were essentially unoccupied, to keep most of the interior closed off and under dustcloths, at least until the Season was in full swing.

Yet it didn’t appear dust would dare to settle on the finely polished wood paneling of the Duke of Trentham’s walls or on the marble busts of what must be his multitudinous ancestors lining the hallways.

Or on the dimly lit yet glittering chandeliers.

The home reeked of money—a crass American thought. Yet the money had a weight to it, an old weight. Ophelia could not help wondering if Trentham, like Lynch, had resorted to pawning off heirlooms to pay his staff. Surely he could jettison a few of those stone ancestors without missing them.

None of which was her concern. One titled daughter would have to satisfy Daddy.

Ophelia was in London to visit her sister, not to snare herself a lord.

The very thought of learning all that English arcana that Dessie had had to learn in order to barely fit in made Ophelia slightly nauseated.

Navigating New York Society as a “new-money heiress” was awkward enough—smile at the wrong person and you were accused of being a social climber.

It hadn’t taken long to discover the London ton was a nightmare of a different sort.

She’d never get straight who to “Your Grace” versus who to “my lord.”

It seemed she couldn’t even time her arrival at a soiree appropriately.

Arriving early was out of the question. Yet, dreading the thought of arriving late and drawing attention to herself, she’d opted to arrive at nine o’clock on the dot.

She’d say a few polite “good evenings,” then sit inconspicuously in the back.

That was her plan. Had been her plan. The lack of other carriages in the drive had given her pause.

The dead silence of the house made her knees knock together.

The butler opened a door that looked solid enough to shield a bank vault.

“Please wait here. I will see if His Grace is at home.”

Ophelia nodded curtly. Of course he was at home. He would be hosting an entertainment in a few moments. Or so she had thought. Where was everyone?

The door closed. Glancing about for a clock, she realized she must be in the music room.

A gorgeous Broadwood piano graced a tall-windowed alcove and, next to it, a pedal harp.

She felt a pang in her heart and, simultaneously, an itch in her fingers.

Yet overshadowing her desire for music—to play it, to listen to it—was a growing unease.

Cushioned armchairs were scattered about, clustered here and there, but not lined up facing the piano for a performance.

Either musicales in London were entirely different beasts from those in New York and Paris, or something was amiss.

Naturally, it would be the latter. In her world, something was always amiss. Good gracious! A shockwave ran through her. Was she about to be compromised? She was alone in a house, late in the evening, with a man. That was ruinous all by itself.

She knew nothing about the Duke of Trentham, except that he was in Lynch’s close circle. And while Ophelia loved her brother-in-law now, she’d once thought him a disreputable sort, undeserving of Dessie. She couldn’t say it reassured her that he called Trentham a friend.

Ophelia ticked off the reasons to be suspicious.

The duke would, no doubt, be aware of her monetary value, even though the British claimed they never spoke of such things.

And Lynch knew of her weakness for music.

He wouldn’t set her up, of course, but a loose word at the wrong moment…

and the Duke of Trentham must have known about Lady Walpole’s party on this same night and that Lynch would be obliged to attend.

Ophelia’s palms began to sweat. She hadn’t even met the duke; she couldn’t pick him out of a crowd.

Could he be so desperate for funds he could not even be bothered to woo and win an heiress but would entrap the first wealthy girl to come his way?

And how horribly delighted Daddy would be—his daughters: the duchess and the countess.

No, no, no! She was jumping to insane conclusions.

Dessie was right; she read too many novels.

Something was clearly wrong, but it didn’t mean an impoverished peer had sent a phony invitation in order to lure her to his home, compromise her, and compel her to hand over her dowry.

He couldn’t have known she would nosily paw through Dessie and Lynch’s invitations before they’d had a chance to see them and then squirrel one away.

She should leave. Quickly. If only she hadn’t sent Lynch’s carriage home. Could she wait outside, hiding in the shrubbery? For four hours. No, she’d walk briskly to the street and find a hackney cab to take her home.

After two steps toward the closed door, Ophelia balked.

She had no idea how to get back to the entrance.

The myriad branching hallways had all looked the same, and she’d paid so little attention that the duke would find her at midnight wandering his house like a ghost. Or she’d bump into him on her way out.

Dash it.

But there was no need to surrender. She was on the ground floor and the room had windows. Large, old-fashioned, casement windows.

Ophelia hurried to the alcove. Slipping past the piano, she trailed her fingers wistfully across the keys, lightly enough not to cause any sound.

The piano had been her first love, before she’d discovered the harp.

She pushed aside a half-open drapery and put her face to the glass to look beyond her own reflection.

Although there was very little moonlight, it was enough to illuminate the grassy expanse of the rear yard.

Perfect. It would be easier to find her way back to the road from outside the house than from inside.

Even with her feeble sense of direction, she couldn’t get lost circling a building.

She ran her hands along the sash to find the latch.

There. But it wouldn’t budge. Rusted. His housekeepers were not as impeccable as she’d thought.

She put a foot against the sill—only a few inches above the floor, luckily—bent to grasp the latch with both hands, and yanked.

Just as she let out an unladylike grunt, the door to the music room opened. The latch did not.

“What in the blazes?”

Ophelia dropped her foot to the floor and hands to her sides as she straightened and turned. The man at the door was very tall; yet he had no need for size to intimidate her, not when she was acting like a burglar. She made an awkward curtsy.

“Your Grace?” He was a duke. “Your Grace” was right, right?

He glanced about the room, letting his gaze rest a moment on the fireplace. Ophelia followed suit. Kindling was artfully stacked in it but there was no fire. The room was not overheated. She had no cause to be forcing the window. He looked back at her.

“And you are Miss Delancey?” His expression was baffled.