Chapter Twenty-Six
Trentham had said he loved her. At least, that’s what Ophelia thought he’d said, before she’d stopped him from saying more. Leaving him in his carriage, she started up the stairs to Lynch and Dessie’s front entrance, her mind in a whirl. He loved her.
It was past time for her to admit, at least to herself, that she didn’t just “care for him a little”—she loved him, too.
Oh, but how could she? The man was awful.
He had no excuse, none, for sleeping with Fanny except that he’d wanted to.
He was no sacrificial lamb. Redemption, he’d called it.
He meant to rescue himself, not Lady Elizabeth.
And now, he claimed he intended to pay his addresses to her, when all of London knew he was trying to woo the marquess’ daughter.
The Barringtons would hate her. And by extension, Dessie. And that wouldn’t do Lynch any good.
She didn’t bother to use the knocker, but simply opened the door and went in. She shut it, leaned against it, and sighed. He wasn’t awful. He’d made a terrible mistake a decade ago and was still paying for it. Trying to scramble out of a hole while digging it deeper.
On the other hand, he might be worse than awful, because an adulterous affair might not be the wickedest thing that he’d done. Did killing an opponent in a duel count as self-defense? That was the question she should have asked. Not “was she beautiful?” But rather, “is he dead?”
Before Ophelia gathered her wits, Dessie came hurrying from the parlor.
“You’re back!” she cried, her face lit with excitement and pleasure. “That was quick!”
Ophelia tried not to grimace, anticipating her grilling. “Yes, I am.” She gestured back toward the door. “Trentham couldn’t stay.” Should she mention the ride? The pretty park? The sunshine? No, superficial blather wouldn’t do. “You see—”
“We’ve had a telegram from Daddy. He’s in Paris with Aunt Grace and he’s bringing her here!” Dessie grabbed Ophelia’s hand, danced a step, then raised Ophelia’s arm to twirl beneath it. “They’ll arrive Friday night.”
Ophelia stared. He wasn’t supposed to come abroad for another month. And to go to Paris first? How long was he there? And why hadn’t they known? “Friday? In three days?”
“Isn’t it wonderful!” Dessie shook Ophelia’s arm as if to wake her. “We’ll have so much fun. Think how excited he’ll be when we introduce him to Lynch’s friends. Dukes and earls and whatnot. Perhaps we’ll host a ball, do you think?”
“Dessie, you can’t throw a party. Not now. Think of Lady Townes!”
She dropped Ophelia’s arm. “It will show we’re not concerned. We can even invite Lady Townes.”
“Sir George won’t let her come.”
“Then we will invite Lord Hayworth!” Dessie laughed. “Ophelia, it will be grand. Society loves a party. And it will do well for us, for Trentham too, to be seen celebrating, not hiding our faces waiting for the wave of scandal to break over us. Lynch agrees with me. And you know Daddy will, too.”
True. Their father insisted upon tackling problems head-on. But Dessie wasn’t aware of the latest twist. Trentham was ready to drop poor Lady Elizabeth, who had all of society’s sympathy, and then turn around and woo an outsider, another American.
“He’ll want to see the country house,” Dessie went on.
“But we should save that for later. We need to be in London for Lady Townes’ trial.
If there is one. Apparently, it all hinges on whether or not Mr. Cameron can find witnesses.
He’s not coming for your lesson today, by the by. He sent word.” Dessie jumped. “Oh!”
“What is it?”
“I just had an even better idea. Not a ball. We’ll rent out a theater and Mr. Cameron can give a recital.
” She squeezed Ophelia’s elbow. “I can’t wait!
” Abruptly, she frowned. “I’m going to have to talk to Mrs. Dobbs and redo all the menus.
” She beamed again. “No, I can’t possibly sit still. Let’s go buy new bonnets!”
*
Ophelia could not sit still either. Her body was in the carriage with Dessie, but her thoughts were still lodged in Trentham’s curricle, hearing his “this time, it’s for love.
” Her mind kept taking detours from her attempts at practical good sense to revisit the previous night in the library, and to daydream of more kissing.
And that particular delight. If it was anything like his kisses…
But did he love her? What if he’d told Fanny he loved her too?
And for pity’s sake! He hadn’t even mentioned the duel! What if he’d killed Fanny’s husband? Or brother? A shudder ran through her. Why did he fail to confess that?
Rather than going straight to the milliners, Dessie told the carriage driver to take them first to Gunther’s for tea and ices.
Dessie was suddenly ravenous, despite having just lunched.
Ophelia wondered if she would tell Daddy that he was soon to be the grandfather of the next Earl of Lynchford.
He was bound to notice that his daughter was no longer slender, took frequent unexpected naps, and ate like a horse.
Dessie was so full of plans for entertaining that she showed no interest in Ophelia’s outing with Trentham. Thank goodness. And as usual, her sister’s enthusiasm was contagious. It would be fun to have Daddy and Aunt Grace in London.
Arm-in-arm, the Delancey sisters entered the tea shop, giggling together over memories of New York.
Gunther’s was nearly full. Shoppers of all ages crowded around tables, their packages and parcels stacked on metal chairs beside them.
The air held a delightful scent of steaming tea.
But the moment they sat at an empty place, Dessie’s laughter stopped. She gaped. Then nudged Ophelia’s arm.
“Look there. No, wait! Don’t turn around. Just, slowly, look behind you.”
How was she supposed to look behind without turning around? “Who is it?”
“Lady Elizabeth and her maid. With Viscount Hayworth.” She grinned. “Good gracious. They look like two children, huddling over their cakes. Whoops! She sees us.” Dessie gave a wave. Now Ophelia turned. Lady Elizabeth rose with seeming reluctance and came to them.
After an exchange of “good afternoons,” Lady Elizabeth fiddled with her sleeve cuffs, then said, “Lord Hayworth and I are continuing our discussion of Orchomenus.” For a moment, her eyes lit up. “He’s befriended Sophia Schliemann. A woman archeologist. She works with her husband.”
“How lovely!” Dessie said, her all-purpose response to someone else’s enthusiasm.
Lady Elizabeth slid into an empty chair and leaned forward to whisper. “Are you going to tell His Grace?”
Ophelia and Dessie stared at her blankly. Then Ophelia asked, “Tell him what?”
The girl let out a sigh. “That you saw us here. Together.”
Ophelia nearly laughed, but Dessie put on an air of solemnity and said, “Not if you don’t want us to.”
“I don’t know,” she whined. “I would if it would put him off. But nothing does! When Lord Hayworth came to take me for a carriage ride, Mama said it would be a good idea for me to go.” She lowered her voice. “To make him jealous.”
“Trentham?” Dessie asked, frowning.
Lady Elizabeth nodded. “But I don’t want him to be jealous. I don’t want to spur him to offer for me. You both know that’s the last thing I want.”
Ophelia swallowed the lump of guilt in her throat.
Trentham would not be jealous. Nor would he feel pressured to propose by the threat of a rival.
Lady Elizabeth was going to end up appearing even more pitiful in the eyes of Society.
And what would Lady Elizabeth think of her?
She wasn’t a dishonest person. She had never in her life stolen another girl’s beau.
But Lady Elizabeth would remember sitting here, discussing Trentham’s courtship, and she would know that Ophelia had not told the truth.
“Well, we’re hardly going to run tattling to Trentham.” Dessie took Lady Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it. “But he might find out. We’re not the only ones to see you together.”
Lady Elizabeth hung her head. Then she stood up, pouting. “It isn’t fair. I wish I had some control over my own life.”
They watched the retreating figure, and after a moment, Dessie muttered, “How ridiculous. She does have control. All she has to do is tell Robin ‘no’.” Then she snickered. “Lady Barrington is absurd. Can you imagine Robin jealous of Hayworth?”
This was the opening Ophelia needed to make her own confession. But she merely shook her head. Not now. Not here. “Never in a million years.”
*
Trentham had disappeared.
No, he hadn’t. They’d gone for their carriage ride on Tuesday, and it was now Thursday. It had only been two days. Two very busy days. Not even that. It was still morning. He might still come today.
Ophelia huffed with irritation. What was wrong with her?
He’d come when he could. He had ducal duties.
And brotherly obligations. Moreover, he had to disentangle himself from Lady Elizabeth.
She’d told him not to come around until he did.
And when he did, she’d have to ask him if he was a murderer. Ugh. Maybe he should take his time.
Meanwhile, she was busy following Dessie about.
Her sister was in a tizzy because Daddy and Aunt Grace would be there tomorrow.
She’d had four different bedchambers aired before deciding on two others, smaller and less lavish, but with views out over the gardens.
She’d torn up the first set of menus for the week, and Ophelia would not be surprised if she tore up the second and started a third.
She’d sorted all her pending invitations into “send regrets” or accept with conditions—the condition being whether or not Ophelia was also invited and if she could wangle two extra invites for Daddy and Aunt Grace.
For every minor decision, Dessie asked for Ophelia’s opinion, but still hemmed and hawed and more often than not, failed to decide.
Ophelia wasn’t worried. Once Daddy and Aunt Grace arrived, they would all be so pleased to be together that Dessie would remember she didn’t need to fuss.
After luncheon, Dessie retreated to her bedchamber to rest, at Lynch’s insistence.
He left to meet with some men from a liberal faction of Parliament who wanted to hear his take on a tax bill of some sort.
Ophelia slipped into the music room to practice.
Mr. Cameron had sent apologies two days in a row, and she half expected him to bow out again.
She’d been running through scales and a few easy ditties for almost a full hour when she heard the door open behind her.
She ceased playing and turned. Mr. Cameron walked in, wearing his usual plain black jacket and trousers.
However, the collar of his white shirt looked limp, his hair lay flat on his head, and he sported a day’s growth of beard.
Still, his was the type of handsome that a little dishevelment improved.
“You’re here. I didn’t think you’d come.”
Mr. Cameron gave her a weak smile. “I do apologize. I—”
“Don’t be silly. Lady Townes’ suit is more important than my lessons. Have you—” She caught herself. “No. I’m sorry. I’m being nosy. It’s none of my affair.”
He plodded toward her. “I hope I haven’t promised Trentham more than I can deliver. The ill-treated women are out there, but not so eager to testify against a baronet.”
“Dessie and I are willing to state what we saw, but I’m afraid that wasn’t ill-treatment enough.”
He sighed. “He broke a woman’s arm, you know. An actress. Shoved her down the stairs. But he gave her five pounds to stay quiet about it, and the daft woman feels beholden to keep her side of the bargain even though nothing was signed.”
“Good heavens,” she muttered. Someone ought to break his arm and offer him five pounds for his troubles. “What will happen if you can’t find witnesses?”
“I can find them. I have found them. But Mr. Derry will have to compel them to testify, and that might not go as well as if they spoke voluntarily. He wants to move quickly, before Sir George does. I’m supposed to provide him with a list by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! Then, Mr. Cameron, you shouldn’t be here.”
“Of course I should. This is my profession. You’ve hired me. I won’t take advantage of…of friendship, if you’ll permit me to call it that.” He flushed. “Come. Let’s hear the piece you’ve been practicing.”
She turned back to the keyboard, deciding not to mention the concert Dessie wanted him to put on. Let him concentrate on one thing at a time.
She wished she could concentrate—on something other than Trentham’s unconfessed duel. Despite her efforts, she played poorly, plunking the keys like a novice. When she hit a disastrously wrong chord, Mr. Cameron winced audibly, then pressed his hand upon hers, flattening it.
“Where is your head, Miss Delancey?”
She sighed. “I suppose it’s with Trentham and Lady Townes.” That was half true. She shuddered, unable to bear her ignorance any longer. “Mr. Cameron, was Trentham really in the army in Canada?”
He whisked away his hand. “Of course he was. What has that to do with anything?”
“Did he…kill anyone? In the line of duty, I mean.”
He sniffed. “He’s not going to kill Sir George, if that’s what’s bothering you.” He paused. “He didn’t see any fighting in Canada. He was essentially a secretary to his commanding officer. They wouldn’t risk a duke’s son.”
“So he has never shot anyone?”
Mr. Cameron gave her a long, studying look, so disapproving that her skin began to crawl. Then he rolled back his shoulders and said in a miffed, angry tone, “Miss Delancey, I don’t appreciate being manipulated. I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, but no. He has never shot anyone.”
Trying not to sigh with relief, she murmured, “I didn’t believe he would.”
He looked at his watch, mouth pursed with impatience. “We’re wasting time today. You’re obviously too distracted to work.”
She could hardly protest, so she watched him collect his sheet music, then move to the door, quickly, but with an awkwardly stiff gait. She’d made him uncomfortable, prying at the edges of his loyalty to Trentham. That was wrong of her.
“Eli,” she called after him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—to try to take advantage of our friendship.”
He halted and turned, the hard line of his jaw softening. He nodded. Solemnly, he said, “Talk to him. Not about him. He has a passionate hatred of gossip.” As he exited, he called over his shoulder, “Practice. I will see you tomorrow, Ophelia.”