Chapter Twenty-Three
Trentham had slept poorly, agonizing over presenting such a foul scheme to his sister.
Initiating a divorce? Their ancestors would simultaneously roll over in their graves.
Yawning, he entered the breakfast parlor, then halted mid-yawn.
The room had an enticing aroma. And Eli was at the table, dressed in his best black jacket as if for visiting potential patrons.
Trentham greeted him with, “You’re up already?” Unusual for Eli. The two of them kept different hours. Trentham rose unfashionably early for a London gentleman, while most days Eli did not emerge from his room until at least noon, as though he was to the manner born.
Eli raised his head. “Yes, well, Lady Grafton asked me to call on her at her earliest convenience.”
Trentham chuckled. “What is she arranging this time?”
“She’s raising funds for a hospital.” He waved his hand in the air, indicating, Trentham supposed, that which hospital was immaterial, so he didn’t ask.
“I don’t expect she’s after you for a monetary donation.”
Eli snorted. “Then she’d be bothering you. No, she’s having a concert of some kind.”
Trentham took his seat. Cinnamon. That’s what he smelled. He glanced at Eli’s plate. Buttered toast, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. A child’s breakfast. “Will you perform?”
Eli dipped a strip of toast into his cup. Not coffee or tea. It was a creamy cup of chocolate. Was this what the man usually ate upon rising? To fortify himself to wrestle with the piano?
“I don’t know.” He slurped the soggy bread, then swallowed after a brief chew. “It wouldn’t hurt, I suppose, to remind people I exist. But I’ll be sharing the stage with dilettantes.”
“As you did at my musicale.”
“That isn’t the same. That was a private party at the home of a friend.” He sighed. “I fear people believe I’ve amassed a comfortable fortune and am ready to settle into a life of charity work.” He rolled his shoulders. “I’ll end up saying yes, I suppose. Refusing will put the biddies’ backs up.”
A maid came into the room. Stout, robust Sally who had been with the family since he was a boy. “Your Grace?”
“Ah, yes.” He scratched his jaw, feeling self-conscious. “I’ll have the same as Mr. Cameron.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” She turned to go, but halted and turned back, her expression skeptical. “The chocolate, too?”
“Oh, God, no. I’m not a tot. Coffee will do.” He returned his attention to Eli in time to see his smirk. “You’ve dripped on your chin.”
Eli hastily grabbed his napkin and blotted his face. It occurred to Trentham then that he might not see his friend until very much later in the day, if at all. And there was no reason Lynch’s steps one and two had to be completed in the original order. Reversing them might serve better.
“Eli”—he lowered his voice almost without intention—“you said I ought to ask more of you.”
Eli cocked his head to one side. “Yes?” Trentham was touched that there was no wariness in his expression. That was trust.
“Lynch has suggested that Felicity should sue for divorce before Sir George does. He recommended a solicitor—”
“Are you serious? Is that even possible?”
“It is. But very difficult. Everyone knows he’s unfaithful, but we’d need someone involved to swear to it in court, and, moreover, for her suit to succeed, we would also have to prove he was violent.”
“You mean his victims would have to testify.”
“Victims, or perhaps servants who witnessed these things.”
Eli was quiet a moment, swirling his finger in the sugary dust on his plate. Then he licked the finger. “You need those witnesses?”
“We do.”
He picked up his cup and drained it, then wiped his mouth before rising and giving Trentham a nod. “I’ll find them.”
*
Trentham felt he was playing at cloak-and-dagger. Right after breakfast, he’d sent a boy to 114 St. Martin’s Street with a message asking Mrs. Gorse and Mrs. Whyte if he might pay a call upon his sister in their home. He’d received a quick reply:
–Your Grace, my sister and I would be honored to receive you for luncheon at one o’clock. Please arrive in a hackney cab and enter through the servants’ door. Yours humbly, Mrs. Gorse
So, now, he was being escorted into their parlor by a jittery Mrs. Gorse, who wore an even gaudier pink dress than her previous yellow monstrosity, and an equally shocking-to-the-eye lace cap.
“My sister and I are both widows,” Mrs. Gorse explained in an overloud, shaky voice, as if the excitement of the subterfuge might overcome her. “Dear Phineas left me well-provided for, but not so Mr. Whyte. So you see, this is why Agnes and I are sharing a home.”
“Very generous of you,” he said, only half-listening.
The hallway was dark and narrow, and everything smelled vaguely of face powder.
He didn’t know whether to sneeze or stop breathing.
Since neither convulsive sneezing nor not breathing were options, he soldiered on.
“Not at all. We’ll do anything for our sisters, won’t we, Your Grace?
” She gave him a sidelong, conspiratorial smile.
“Yes, indeed.” He sounded clipped, he knew, and regretted it, but he was anxious about Felicity and hadn’t the energy to pretend the situations were anything alike.
She indicated an open doorway. He had to duck to step through it. The parlor was small, square, and every surface was covered in something knitted, painted, potted, or sewn.
“Robin.” Felicity rose from a worn celestial blue davenport and came forward. She grasped both of his hands. Her eyes looked sunken and her cheeks had no color at all. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. I told you that you can rely on me.”
He turned his gaze around the room, waiting for the hostesses to excuse themselves.
He was certainly not going to have this discussion in front of near strangers.
When they didn’t move, he utilized a preemptory, ducal tone, and said, “Thank you, ladies.” He nodded toward the door, then stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
He didn’t speak again until the women were gone.
Then he went to the door and closed it. “I suppose they’ll think me rude. ”
She sniffed. “They expect rudeness from a duke. Trust me, they are thrilled.”
He returned to the center of the room. “I have a plan. Lynch and I do.” He suspected that Lynch’s involvement would reassure her. “But it is a difficult road. I’d like for you to have an alternative. If you and Julia would prefer, I will arrange to have you whisked to my villa in Bellagio.”
“You mean for me to flee?” Her jaw set. So much like their father’s. “No. That would make me look guilty. I won’t give George the satisfaction. What does Lynch say?”
“He recommends going on the offensive.” He watched her brow furrow with confusion. “Felicity, we think you should divorce George.”
A snort emerged from her. One that sounded more disbelieving than amused. But after studying him, she said, “You mean this?”
“I do. We do. Listen,” Trentham said. “You must sue for divorce on the grounds of infidelity and excessive cruelty.”
She was quiet a long moment. Her face flushed; her eyes clouded with distress.
He supposed she was ashamed, although the fact that her husband hit her was not her disgrace but his.
He watched her eyes slowly clear. She nodded.
“If there is going to be a divorce, then yes. I want to be the one to initiate. But, Robin, it will blacken our name.”
“It will blacken our name if George spews his lies about you. Charging him with his guilt will…” He trailed off. It would be a lie to say it would salvage her reputation. A divorced woman was still a divorced woman.
“It will give me the satisfaction of throwing his villainy back in his face.”
“So you agree?” He felt a strange mix of tension and relief. “Lynch has recommended a solicitor experienced with these sorts of things.”
“Fine. Good.” Her expression was tight. “How does it work? I can’t testify against George, can I?”
“No, but I believe Eli will be able to find witnesses who will support your claims. It will help if you have any names…where he might look…?”
She shook her head. “He dismissed my lady’s maid months ago. I don’t know where to find her. George’s steward hires and fires staff so often…let me think a while.”
“And any of his—his lady friends? Any who have suffered from his violence?”
“I’m sure there are some, but the names are all rumors and I wouldn’t want to accuse anyone based on gossip.” Her voice thinned. “Robin, will this work?”
He wanted to swear to her ‘yes.’ To give her courage. But he couldn’t lie. “We have a good chance of success, but I can’t promise it. All I can promise is that, no matter what, I’ll stand by you.”
Her eyes grew sheeny, and she turned away. “Thank you,” she murmured. After a moment, she squared her shoulders, so bravely, and said, “Tell Lynch and Eli thank you, too. I want to do this.”
“Good.” He tried to smile with confidence.
“Now we really must invite the ladies back in. They’ll want you to stay and share luncheon. They’ve been so good to me. It isn’t too much to ask.”
To grace them with the presence of a duke for luncheon? Gad. “Yes, of course.” He could manage politeness. “But I can’t stay long. I have to get ready for a dinner party tonight with Lynch and Dessie.” And Miss Delancey. “Dessie has a harebrained plan to make Lady Elizabeth reject my suit.”
Her mouth pursed, an exasperated expression he recognized well. She was his older sister, after all. “Has it gotten to that point?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Do I dare ask what the plan is?”
Trentham hesitated. The plan exploited miserable marriages. Rather insensitive under the circumstances. “No. I’ll tell you later. If it works.”