Chapter Twenty
Trentham sent his carriage on without him and walked.
The distance from Felicity’s house to his own was less than two miles, and he needed to do something to work off his rage.
His entire body felt heated enough to spontaneously combust. His hands hurt from how tightly they’d been clenched.
His hands, and his jaw. Hands and jaw and every part of his body that could be clenched had been clenched.
He’d come close to pummeling Sir George. That the man deserved it was beside the point.
He shook out his arms and walked briskly, so briskly it made his gait awkward. At this speed, it would feel more natural to break into a run. But dukes didn’t trot down the mucky, uneven streets of London. And he couldn’t outrun himself.
Slowly, the crazed fury leeched away, leaving him with a more manageable anger. A man—a shopkeeper, Trentham assumed by the loose cut of his coarse brown jacket—gave him a wide berth as they passed one another at the street’s edge. He must appear stark raving mad.
Damn. Trentham slackened his pace. His thoughts grew more coherent, but only in that he could put words to his confusion.
He didn’t know whether to curse himself over the murderous wrath that had swept through him, or to congratulate himself for not giving in to it.
He’d thought he’d outgrown his violent impulses.
But as it turned out, the only thing he’d learned was to refrain from acting upon them.
And it had been too near a thing at that.
He had literally seen red, there in Felicity’s parlor. The blackguard had been hurting her! Sir George had been bold enough to hurt her right in front of him, her brother, the duke—mocking his impotence. Good God!
He’d failed Felicity. He was failing Julia. And he’d made a spectacle of himself in front of Miss Delancey and Lynch’s wife. Lynch would hear of it, no doubt, and worry.
And Miss Delancey. She had applauded him for bloodying the noses of Eli’s oppressors, but she hadn’t been there.
Had she been, she would have been aghast. He’d downplayed the scene as some quaint schoolboy scuffle when he’d been a damned berserker.
And if he had started bloodying Sir George…
No one in that room could have prevented him from finishing what he started.
Damn. His father’s furious condemnation echoed in his ears: A gentleman might box for exercise, but to brawl, to nearly kill a man with his bare hands—such a fellow is nothing but a brute, an animal…
Trentham halted at a street corner, wiped sweat from his brow, and looked around. Pedestrians were sparse; no one he knew. However, a steady stream of carriages barreled along the main street so that it would be taking his life into his hands to cross there.
He turned right and kept walking in a straight line, plodding through stinking puddles, treading on filth, until he recognized that he was now surrounded by tenements.
This was not a street where gentlemen took leisurely strolls.
He turned around, heading back for the corner where he should have crossed.
Walking had helped. His brain no longer felt overheated. He was able to redirect his thoughts away from killing Sir George. Unfortunately, they drifted to Miss Delancey.
How in God’s name did a lady fall out of a chair?
Or perhaps, given the absurdity of the fashion, he should wonder why more ladies did not.
The remarkable thing about Miss Delancey—one of the remarkable things—was how she took her misfortunes in stride.
She didn’t cry, or blush, or rant. She was truly the clumsiest female he’d ever met.
Yet it made her endearing. He liked, more than he should admit, being there to pick her back up.
Hell. She must have been annoyed to meet up with him again.
It had to have been as awkward for her as it was for him.
Last night, he had essentially told her he’d been toying with her affections.
With a wince, he acknowledged that he had been.
It wasn’t as though he could have kissed her by accident. That was not the way kisses worked.
He reached the busy street corner and paused again as he waited for an oncoming hackney cab to pass, but rather than go by, it drew up to him and halted. Before he could wave it on, the passenger leaned into view. Eli.
“Are you on your way home? Do you want to share the ride?”
Why not? He hauled himself into the carriage. The black leather upholstery was cracked and the air smelled as if a previous occupant had been transporting spoiled fish. Fine. The decrepitude suited his mood better than his own coach. The hackney rumbled forward.
“Coming from Lindy’s?” Eli asked, smirking.
“Lindy’s?” Trentham had heard the name somewhere, but couldn’t place it. “What is that? A tavern?”
Now his friend snorted. “Seriously? Try a house of ill-repute. If you weren’t there, you walked right past it.”
Trentham shrugged. There was something hollow in Eli’s voice. Something forced in his smirk and his snort. Or maybe it was his own disconnection that made it seem so. After a few moments, he said quietly, “I was at Felicity’s.”
Eli’s shoulders drooped and all signs of humor fell from his face. “Then, you’ve heard.”
“Heard what?”
His head jerked up. “You haven’t?” He emitted a low groan.
“Tell me.”
“Lud.” He pressed his hands together. “Robin, I don’t want to be the bearer. It’s just ugly gossip.”
“You haven’t a choice now.”
Eli let out a sigh. “I was at Garrick’s. I overheard the conversation behind me. It isn’t worth repeating.” Trentham glared until he continued. “Do you know a Lord Hayworth?”
It took a few seconds to pull the name from his memory. “I know of him. Viscount Hayworth of Dainswick? A daft old fellow. Never leaves his house.”
“Not him. The grandson. The new viscount.”
“Is he? I hadn’t heard about the old viscount’s death.
” He scratched his chin, trying to recall anything about the grandson.
The son, he did recollect Felicity once telling him, had died in a carriage accident many years ago, along with the daughter-in-law.
“I might have seen the boy on occasion when I was out there visiting. He couldn’t have been more than eight or ten. ”
Eli rubbed his hands on his trouser legs as if his palms had grown clammy. “He isn’t a child anymore. Hayworth had been gone from Britain for years, is my understanding.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know where. That wasn’t discussed. Only that he came back when he inherited the title. He’s been in Dainswick for a few months, and he’s been calling on your sister and niece.”
Trentham wished Eli would get to the point. It sounded as though Hayworth was rather too much a stranger in his own home. Dainswick was a small town. Not a lot in the way of society. Who else would the young lord visit but Lady Townes? Maybe the vicar?
“And?”
Again, Eli groaned. “Apparently, he visits frequently. Villagers started to talk.”
“Talk—” Deep in his chest, he felt a burn.
“Julia is too young to inspire gossip. So the tittle-tattle—”
“Felicity? Oh, you can’t be serious! That is absurd!”
“Of course it’s absurd. But Sir George is holding her in London to keep watch on her—”
“The devil!” Trentham took in a deep breath, then let it out.
So that was why she’d been detained here.
“Felicity would never dishonor her marriage vows, but if she did, I’d applaud her.
She deserves better than that old bastard.
” He slammed his hands against the bench seat.
“Why did he not defend her? Does he want to be known as a cuckold?”
“I don’t know.” Eli pulled his hand through his hair. “Robin—”
“What else did you hear? How did rumor make it from Dainswick to London? Who would spread such filth?”
“What does it matter? How do rumors ever travel?”
“Why were they gossiping at Garrick’s today?
” It made no sense that Eli was just now hearing this noised about.
“Felicity has been in town for over a month. Sir George must have been aware since he has imprisoned her here, but it hasn’t become the latest ton scandal.
I’ve heard nothing. I would have heard sooner if it was all over London. ”
“I’m not sure that’s true,” Eli said in a low tone.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Was Eli implying people were keeping this from him? Trentham sucked in air and held it, counting until he had to breathe out. Of course, no one was brave enough to inform him.
He felt something break inside. His reputation had not improved over the years; it had evidently grown worse. He managed to murmur, “Thank you for telling me.”
“You can’t…you know you must let this burn itself out. It will. Your sister is blameless. Everyone who knows her knows that.” Eli cleared his throat. “And the reason it’s being bandied about now is that Hayworth is in London. The idiot escorted Julia and her governess on the train.”
“The cur,” Trentham muttered.
“What?”
“I thought he meant me. Sir George. He said, ‘the cur is here’. So he knows Hayworth is in London.”
The hackney slowed to a stop. They had arrived. Home, but not a haven. Given a choice, Trentham would be hidden away at his Italian villa, far, far away from the nattering ton.
After disembarking, Trentham fished the fare from his purse. The driver tipped his cap, then rode off. Trentham stared after the receding carriage, trying to think.
Eli put his hand on Trentham’s arm. “You can’t do anything.”
“The hell I can’t!”
“Robin! Don’t. You know Lady Townes won’t want you involving yourself—”
“Do you think it matters whether I do or don’t?
If I were to ostracize my sister, if I condemn her, do you imagine that will somehow help me avoid scandal?
” He felt sick. Kicked in the gut. He took two stumbling steps toward the door.
He would, of course, give Felicity his full, unwavering support.
But the devil! He’d done his damnedest to bury the past, and now it would be heaved up again when he was on the point of redemption.
And what a horrifically selfish reaction.
His heart wrenched. “Julia and the boys. They’ll have to hear their mother’s name dragged through the mud.”
“They’ll know her innocence. Robin, this will blow over. It will. But your involvement will only make things worse.”
Trentham could make no reply. It was Sir George who must stand by her.
A decent husband would. But that man hadn’t a decent bone in his body.
Trentham wished he might break every indecent one of them.
The only reason anyone might be tempted to believe the worst about Felicity was that they were thinking as he did: She should retaliate with an affair of her own.
He trudged up the stairs and into his home, Eli at his heels. He would do something. He had to. But first, he had better speak with his lodestar. And he wasn’t about to go over to Lynch’s tonight, and subject Miss Delancey to his company yet again.
“I’m going to open a bottle of gin.” He needed to not dwell on this tonight. “Join me?”
“No.” Eli grabbed his elbow. “Not this time. Drink will cloud your judgment, and I’m not racing after you if you go roaring off into the night. Come to the music room. We’ll play a few duets.”
Trentham hesitated, annoyed, defensive. “Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast, eh?”
“If you’d rather, I’ll play La Campanella.”
Eli did not offer that exalted experience lightly. Trentham nodded. Eli was right. “Better drunk on Liszt, I suppose, than on gin.”