Pamela Sherwood (16 page)

When I am from him, I am dead till I be with him.

—Sir Thomas Browne,
Religio
Medici

There seemed little to say after that, and they both lapsed into silence, riding sedately back the way they had come. Some part of Sophie longed to say something,
anything
, to shatter the constraint between them, but another part of her—the part that had known disappointment and learned discretion—kept her tongue in check.

Not until they had reached Hyde Park Corner did she muster up the nerve to speak. “How long will you be staying in London?”

“A few more days as yet. At least until my solicitor has finished preparing the divorce papers.” He paused, then continued, almost abruptly, “Sara is staying with James and Aurelia at present. Their son, Jared, is her friend, and,” a faint smile warmed his eyes, “she is also fascinated with their new baby girl. In any case, I didn’t want her exposed to the unpleasantness between Nathalie and myself.”

“Of course not. That was very considerate of you. And exactly how a father
should
think, in these circumstances.”

“My motives weren’t entirely selfless,” he confessed wryly. “I was safeguarding my own interests as well. James and Aurelia know that I intend to seek a divorce. With Sara staying at Pentreath, it would be just about impossible for Nathalie to run off with her, as she’s threatened to do in the past.”

His face had gone grim again—no surprise if he’d had to live with that constant threat hanging over his head for four years. Sophie felt a fierce spark of anger at the thought: however unhappy a marriage, parents should never use their children as weapons against each other.

She said in her most reassuring tone, “Well, as Earl of Trevenan, James wields quite a lot of influence in the county. If anyone can keep Sara safe in your absence, it would be he.”

Robin sighed. “I tell myself the same thing. But I cannot deny that I think of her every day, and miss her sorely.”

“At least you know she’s in good hands, and that you’ll be seeing her again soon.”

The sound of laughter and approaching horses’ hooves reached them, and they quickly drew their own mounts aside to make way for a small riding party—ladies and gentlemen both—heading for the Row. Fortunately, the newcomers seemed far too intent on each other to spare Robin and Sophie more than a passing glance.

“I must be going,” Sophie said once the riding party was out of earshot. “I have an engagement this afternoon, and I should put in at least an hour’s worth of technique beforehand.”

He nodded acknowledgment. “I’m staying at Brown’s Hotel at present. If you should come to a decision—about us—within the next few days, you can write to me there.”

“Thank you.” Sophie summoned a parting smile as she urged her horse forward. “I will try not to keep you waiting too long for an answer.”

His own smile was bittersweet. “After the last four years, I assure you my patience is infinite. Take as much time as you need.”

***

Lost in thought, Sophie rode back toward the livery stable. Divorcing Nathalie—so he meant to do it at last. The question was, did she have the stamina to see it through with him, after everything they’d endured?

Four years ago, she wouldn’t have had to ask. But she’d been as confident then as she was apprehensive now. Afraid to hope, and haunted as well by how it had ended before. The pain might have faded, but she remembered all too clearly how much it had hurt. And how utterly helpless and bereft she’d felt in the face of Robin’s decision to walk away from everything they might have shared. Even understanding his reasons hadn’t diminished the agony.

Never
again
. She’d vowed that repeatedly to herself. No other man would ever have the power to devastate her like that.

And no other man had. She thought of the men whom she had described as “more than friends.” Her lovers, spaced out over four years: the young violinist on her first tour who’d been as lonely and in need of comfort as she; the dashing French composer who’d written a charming bagatelle of a song just for her; Sebastian Brand, a promising baritone who’d stepped into the role of Almaviva during those nights she’d played Susanna. Not so many—three in all.

But however much pleasure they had all derived from their brief dalliances, it had been music that bound them—a strong connection, though not the only one lovers could share. As well she knew. For none of her lovers, however talented and accomplished, had come close to supplanting Robin in her heart.

There were times when she had almost hated him for that.

On her return to Curzon Street, she discovered that her drawing room was filled to overflowing with flowers, sent by admirers who’d attended the concert. Lavish arrangements of full-blown roses and calla lilies jostled for position with exotic orchids in varying hues and brilliant blue hydrangeas.

“Where should these go, ma’am?” the footman inquired, holding up a basket of the latter.

Sophie considered the offering. “Oh, I think upstairs in my sitting room, perhaps.” The blue would go well with the color scheme there. “And that arrangement,” she indicated the roses and calla lilies, “can stay in the drawing room. It’s far too grand for any other place!”

“Very good, ma’am.”

More flowers awaited her in her chamber—along with something else. Curious and apprehensive at once, Sophie opened the velvet box Letty handed her, and stifled a gasp at the diamonds sparkling up at her: a delicate bracelet made up of three strands of glittering gems.

“Oh, miss!” Letty breathed, her eyes round as saucers.

“Put this on my writing desk, Letty,” Sophie said firmly, closing the box with a brisk snap. “I’ll write a note of refusal to,” she consulted the accompanying card, “Lord Ingram later.”

Still wide-eyed, the maid accepted the box and carried it away, while Sophie unpinned her hat with hands that shook only slightly. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, nor would it be the last if she continued in her chosen profession. No doubt Letty thought her touched in the head to refuse such a gift from a titled admirer. But magnificent as the diamonds were, Sophie knew they came with a price—a price she was not willing to pay.

She’d received her first offer of that nature several years ago, when her star had just begun to rise, and in retrospect, she’d been almost too astonished to take offense. What had
that
to do with singing, after all? Surely there were others more desirable and adept at such things than a provincial Cornish girl, green as grass and just beginning to spread her wings? Much to her relief, an older singer on the tour had seen her agitation and guided her through a polite refusal of the gentleman’s terms. Sophie had adhered to that position ever since, declining subsequent offers with as much tact and delicacy as possible. She might no longer be the innocent she’d been at seventeen, but there were some lines she would not cross. She’d offered, out of love, to be Robin’s mistress. Becoming anyone else’s, for material gain, was unthinkable.

Calm
, Sophie told herself. Whatever happened, she must maintain her composure and not succumb to vapors or dithering. She’d bathe, practice her technique—the work would steady her, as it always did—and then head over to the Sheridans’; her engagement there had to be her first priority. Putting thoughts of Robin and their tryst aside as best she could, she asked Letty to prepare her a bath.

***

“Darling Sophie!” Amy, exquisite in apricot silk, kissed her guest lightly on the cheek. “So glad you’ve come. Welcome to Sheridan House. Are you quite recovered from last night?”

“Perfectly,” Sophie assured her, returning the kiss. “Although rather relieved to have the luxury of a day off.”

“You’ve earned it, after that wonderful performance.” Taking Sophie’s hand, Amy led her to a sofa brocaded in soft greens and blues. “So, what do you think of the new house?”

“What I’ve seen of it is quite lovely. And you have a bit of private garden too.”

“That was one of its main attractions,” Amy told her. “Along with not being sandwiched between two other houses. And Thomas is
very
pleased with his new studio. It’s on this floor, facing east, so he gets the morning light, which he prefers. He’s been there for hours working, but he’ll be down to luncheon shortly. It’s to be just the three of us,” she added. “Mrs. Herbert has had to substitute at a garden party today for an accompanist who was suddenly taken ill. But she says if you’ll write out the list of your songs for her, she’ll come with the music tomorrow afternoon and you can go over the programme together before the soiree.”

“That should work out reasonably well,” Sophie conceded. Fortunately, she and Mrs. Herbert had worked together before and had developed a fairly good understanding of each other as performers. “Is there anything you particularly wish me to sing tomorrow evening?”

“Well, I always love it when you perform anything by Mozart,” Amy began, then broke off at the sound of approaching voices and footsteps in the passage. Much to Sophie’s astonishment, she sprang up from the sofa and closed the drawing room doors, holding a finger significantly to her lips. Baffled but obedient, Sophie remained silent as the voices came nearer.

“Straighten up, Marianne!” a rich, dark contralto admonished severely. “Really, Thomas! I can’t think why you are letting her slouch like that in her portrait. She’ll have to spend at least an hour at the backboard today to counteract the damage.”

“Miss Daventry feels most at ease in a reclining position, Charlotte. Additionally, she and I both prefer that she appear natural rather than overly stiff.” Sheridan’s cool, refined tones betrayed no sign of the irritation he must certainly be feeling. “It is, after all, her portrait.”

“A portrait that will be hanging in her uncle’s house and mine. On public display.”

“Well, then, if Guy wishes to view my sketches and approve Miss Daventry’s pose before I set paint to canvas, he is welcome to do so.”

“Guy happens to be fully occupied with his Parliamentary duties at present. There is to be an important bill presented in the House.” Sophie could picture the unseen Charlotte drawing herself up haughtily. “However, I shall tender him your invitation, and he may find occasion to call upon you as soon as he finds himself less busy. And speaking of callers, is this not Amelia’s At Home day? Perhaps I should stop in for a few minutes and give her my regards.”

Amy’s eyes widened with almost comical dismay.

“I believe my wife is presently conferring with the singer who is to perform here tomorrow night. She would prefer not to be disturbed at this time. But I will convey your greetings to her when she is available, Charlotte. Now, Miss Daventry,” Sheridan’s tone grew warmer, “shall we say the same time, two days hence, for your next sitting?”

A lighter, much softer feminine voice murmured an inaudible reply, which must have been an affirmative, because Sheridan responded briskly, “Very well, Miss Daventry—until then. Ladies, allow me to see you to your carriage.”

As footsteps receded down the passage, Amy breathed out an undignified “whew!” and returned to the sofa.

“Dear life, who
is
that Tartar?” Sophie inquired,
sotto
voce
.

“Lady Charlotte Daventry. Thomas has been commissioned to paint her niece and ward, Miss Marianne Daventry. And while Marianne is complaisant enough, Lady Charlotte tends to be… domineering.” Amy pulled a slight face. “Worse, she’s a distant cousin of Thomas’s on his mother’s side, and her husband, who’s an MP, is a favored protégé of his father, so he’s obliged to tolerate her presence—and occasional interference—while he works.”

Sophie grimaced in sympathy. “He must find that very trying indeed!”

“He tends to swear the air blue after she and Marianne are gone,” Amy confessed with a giggle. “Not in front of me, of course, but I’ve eavesdropped a time or two. He’s also trying to come up with some acceptable way to get her out of the studio so he can persuade Marianne to relax and appear less like a frightened rabbit during her sittings. Which isn’t easy—she’s just seventeen and thoroughly cowed by her aunt.”

“
I’d
be thoroughly cowed with such an aunt!” Sophie said fervently.

Amy rolled her eyes. “So would I! She
means
well, I suppose. And perhaps she can’t help being the way she is, and telling everyone what to do and how to do it. Her father is the Marquess of Dowbridge, who’s rather overpowering himself, according to Thomas. I find Lady Charlotte easiest to tolerate in small doses—like medicine.”

Sophie smiled at the comparison. “She does have a lovely speaking voice, though. I do notice that sort of thing in my profession,” she explained at Amy’s incredulous look.

“I suppose she does,” her friend conceded reluctantly. “And considerable presence too. Thomas says that she used to play breeches parts when they put on amateur theatricals as children—the big parts, like Hamlet and Romeo. I can almost picture her doing them.”

“Perhaps she’s a frustrated actress at heart,” Sophie suggested lightly. “I should think it would be far more interesting to play Hamlet than a political wife.”

“Oh, no doubt. It’s a pity women cannot stand for Parliament,” Amy mused. “Guy Daventry is very charming, but Lady Charlotte has twice the push and all the connections. I wonder if she ever tires of being the woman behind the man. I know
I
would.”

“Which is why I insist on your standing
beside
me instead,” Sheridan remarked from the doorway. “Lovely to see you again, Sophie,” he added, with a nod and a smile in her direction.

“Likewise,” she replied, smiling back.

Sheridan turned back to his wife. “I have seen the Daventrys off in their carriage, my dear, so you may now leave the drawing room with impunity.”

Amy flew to his side and kissed him soundly. “You are the very best of husbands!”

He returned the salute, cocking an ironic eyebrow. “Better love hath no man than to shield his wife from his most annoying relations?”