Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was nearly ten o’clock at night. Ophelia had spent the whole day listening for Trentham’s knock that never came. And now, they were waiting for Daddy and Aunt Grace, who should have been there hours ago.
Ophelia and Dessie sat in the ladies’ parlor playing cards.
They both hated cards, but Ophelia had suggested it because she was out of diversions.
She’d practiced piano and harp, written letters to friends back in New York, embroidered a blob that was supposed to be a rosebud on a silk handkerchief, then picked the stitches all out.
She wasn’t bored. She wished she was bored. She was agitated enough to explode.
Dessie laid her cards face up on the tea table. “Good thing we aren’t playing for money. I’d have bankrupted myself.”
“How? I haven’t won a hand in three rounds.”
Dessie shrugged. Then she rose and stretched, arms above her head, bending side to side. She finished by putting her hands on her belly. “Can you tell?”
“Not unless I know to look.” She was thicker, but that could just be British food.
“Be careful not to say anything to Daddy or Aunt Grace until I do.”
“Of course not!” Ophelia scowled.
“Where are they?” Dessie was not generally a foot stomper, but Ophelia heard an implied stomp in her voice.
And then she heard something else. “Is that a carriage?”
They raced to the front door. Ophelia flung it open.
The coach in the drive was obviously leased and hard used.
Daddy climbed from the carriage, then reached back to help Aunt Grace.
They both moved a bit clumsily, as if stiff from the ride.
Not old. They weren’t old. Daddy looked heavier, but his hair, though graying, was still abundant.
And Aunt Grace was dignified and pretty in a mazarine-blue traveling dress.
Peters appeared beside Dessie. “I’ll summon the footmen and grooms.”
“Yes, good,” she said, then she grabbed Ophelia’s hand and they ran outside.
In moments, they were caught up in hugs and kisses, talking over one another, laughing with joy. Forget Trentham, Ophelia thought—all was right with the world.
“The coach I leased snapped an axle. We had to exchange it for this,” Daddy explained, gesturing. Then he slung his arms over the shoulders of his daughters and eagerly guided them toward the house. Aunt Grace trailed behind after giving directions to the footmen who were now swarming the coach.
Lynch stood in the doorway and greeted his guests with handshakes. “Welcome. It’s good to see you both again.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting, my lord,” Daddy said solemnly. Ophelia held back a giggle. He was still a little overawed by Lynch’s title.
“Not at all. Come in. Would you like to be shown to your rooms to rest? Or would you like to see the house?”
“The house,” Aunt Grace said. “We’ve been cooped up in a carriage for hours. I’d love a walk about.”
So they made a quick tour of the Lynchford townhome, with Daddy admiring everything in it, then moved on to champagne and sandwiches in the parlor.
While enjoying the refreshments, Aunt Grace and their father told them about sights they’d seen together in Paris.
They were particularly impressed with the Catacombs.
When Aunt Grace described the intricate stacking of bones and skulls, all Ophelia could think was she was glad to have missed that.
Not from squeamishness, but she envisioned herself toppling the piles.
Then Daddy regaled them with amusing anecdotes from his Atlantic crossing. He sat back, hands on his knees, grinning broadly, obviously pleased with their laughter.
“I have one more story. But it’s more interesting than amusing.”
They encouraged him with expectant smiles.
“I had a bit of excitement. I was nearly brained by a deck chair.” He chortled at their gasps. “I got too close to a pair of fellows brawling over a girl. They managed to bloody one another good before a steward pulled them apart and tossed them in the brig.”
“Daddy! What an awful story!” Dessie said.
“Yes, but here’s the interesting part. I was at the captain’s table at dinner that evening, and the ship’s physician was there, too.
Talk turned to the fight. Seems the physician had to do the stitching up and it was ugly.
One of our tablemates turned up his nose.
He made the case that the lower classes were no better than animals. ”
Ophelia and Dessie exchanged glances. Daddy hated that kind of snobbery. He was able to hold an elevated view of the aristocracy without looking down on the less fortunate.
“Were the brawlers gentlemen?” Lynch asked, as though anticipating the joke.
“No. No, they weren’t. But the physician, an Englishman, set him straight anyway. It seems, several years ago, he was prevailed upon to attend a duel between two British lords.”
Ophelia thought Lynch tensed.
“All very hush-hush,” Daddy said, “because dueling had been outlawed.”
Lynch set his champagne glass down with a thud. Daddy didn’t notice, but Ophelia did, and Dessie’s pinched expression showed she did too.
“Ha! It was quite a show, according to the doctor. One fellow was very young and the other old, yet they were dueling over a lady. The young fellow deloped. That’s a gentleman thing,” he said, catching Ophelia’s eye, then Dessie’s. “It means he shot into the air.”
“Missed on purpose,” Dessie said, rolling her eyes. “We know what it means.”
Their father grinned. “Here’s where it gets odd.
Duelers don’t want to be shot. They try to make themselves as small a target as possible.
They take off their jackets. Wear close-fitting shirts.
” He rose from his chair. “And they stand sideways, extending their firing arm.” He demonstrated, then chuckled and patted his belly. “You wouldn’t want one of these.”
A chill coursed through Ophelia as she pictured the scene. Trentham would be a hard to hit target.
Daddy sat back down. “But the young gentleman wore a loose greatcoat. Didn’t even fasten the buttons. The coat flapped in the wind. He faced his opponent head on. And the damned old fellow took aim and shot!”
Dessie yelped. Ophelia felt faint. Lynch ground his teeth, stone-faced.
“The doctor said the young lad dropped like a stone. Then he popped back up with a rent in his coat! Bullet missed by inches. He was furious!” Daddy sounded almost gleeful.
“Of course, he was,” Aunt Grace said, patting his arm as if to tamp down his enthusiasm. “He expected his opponent to delope as well.”
“Well.” Daddy paused. “I suppose here is where the good doctor made his point. The young gentleman threw down his pistol and charged. By the time the seconds pulled them apart, he’d broken the other man’s nose.
His jaw. Ribs. Throttled him, too. If they hadn’t stopped him, he would’ve killed the old man. ”
He never shot anyone.
Ophelia’s heart raced. She could feel her pulse in her neck.
“Doc said he’d never seen worse. And that was a gentleman did that.” He looked around at his audience, the appalled stares, then flushed and dropped his gaze.
Dessie recovered first. “The rest of the dinner must have been awkward. How did the snooty fellow react?”
“Oh, he said there were rotten fish in every barrel.”
Lynch stood, managing at best a sickly smile. “I’m sorry to break up the party. However, I have an early meeting in the morning, and I trust you are tired from your travels. We have weeks to celebrate being together. Tomorrow will be soon enough to plan our agenda.”
Tomorrow. Ophelia dreaded the thought. What if Trentham finally came to call? She’d have to send him away. She’d have to. He’d nearly killed Fanny’s husband with his bare hands.
*
Lynch was gone to his meeting by the time they all roused themselves for breakfast. Ophelia had had a bad night.
She wished there had been time for a heart-to-heart talk with Dessie, but Daddy was awaiting them in the morning room.
The most they’d managed was a whispered consultation outside the door.
“Ophelia, Lynch said the doctor was exaggerating to make his point. And he left out the part where Lord Stanley pulled a second pistol from his belt and shot again, when Robin was unarmed.” Desse bit her lip. “Lynch said Stanley deserved what he got.”
“So Lynch is willing to talk about it now?”
“Enough to insist he doesn’t fault Robin. He said Robin is a crack shot, and if he’d wanted to kill Lord Stanley, he could have. Come on. Let’s not think about it.” She nodded, pulling Ophelia toward the door. “We have Daddy and Aunt Grace to entertain.”
So they went in.
They ate biscuits and rolls, and lingered over tea, catching up on news about friends from home.
They made plans for sightseeing in London—nothing definite.
Nothing soon. Ophelia marveled at how soothing it was to simply sit with each other and be.
Aunt Grace kept sliding studying glances at Dessie.
Ophelia suspected she’d guessed. Likely Dessie would end up confessing before long, and Daddy would be both ecstatic and worried.
Then Ophelia would tell him she was remaining in London, and he’d understand.
She almost wished he wouldn’t. Life would be less complicated if he dragged her home.
On the stroke of eleven, Peters came into the morning room to announce a visitor. Ophelia caught her breath. Trentham? She wasn’t ready to see him, emotionally or physically. Moreover, she wasn’t dressed for company. Her hair was down, in her nighttime braid, and she was wearing slippers!
“Mr. Cameron asks if you are available for your lesson, Miss Delancey.”
Only Eli. She breathed.
Dessie answered for her. “Bring him in! Daddy, you’ll never guess who is giving Ophelia piano lessons.”
“Lessons?” her father said, shooting her his first frown of the visit. “You’re already too good for lessons, luv.”
Dessie rolled her eyes. “Mr. Cameron. Mr. Elias Cameron.”