Pamela Sherwood (30 page)

“Well, now you’ve pointed the finger right back at him,” Sophie said with satisfaction. “Tit for tat!”

“Perhaps.” Robin paused, then said abruptly, “You know, Taunton might not be the only one who thinks I arranged to have Nathalie killed.”

“He’s wrong,” Sophie said at once. “And so is everyone else who thinks that. No one who knows you
could
think that.”

His smile was faint but genuine. “Thank you for your faith in me.”

She took his hand, held it to her cheek. “I’ve always had faith in you, Robin.”

He lowered his head until his brow rested against hers. “I have to do something, Sophie. I can’t just sit idly by and leave all this to Taunton, especially not after this morning. If Nankivell continues to spread his poison…”

Sophie did not need to be told how damaging this could be. If Robin’s innocence wasn’t established beyond all doubt, he could face professional ruin. Who would frequent a hotel run by a suspected murderer? Harry had mentioned they were lucky the hotel was only half-full at present, and that they’d managed to keep the news of Nathalie’s murder fairly quiet. But the Season would end soon, and a flood of summer guests would descend on Cornwall. If Nathalie’s killer hadn’t been found by then, the backlash against Robin and the Pendarvis Hotel could be disastrous. And then there was the far greater personal cost, uppermost in both their minds.

Robin exhaled slowly, his breath warm against her cheek. “Sara had another nightmare last night—crying out for her mother and Cyril. She’s afraid to come home, and I’m almost as afraid to bring her. I
can’t
bring her, not until I’m sure she’ll be safe.”

Sophie stroked his hair, saying nothing, just letting him unburden himself.

“I have to do my part in solving Nathalie’s murder,” he went on. “For her own sake, because whatever she was, she didn’t deserve such a fate. And because someday I’ll have to look into our daughter’s eyes and tell her I did everything I could to catch her mother’s killer.”

She kissed him, touching her lips lightly to his. “Then tell me what you mean to do, dear heart. And I will help you in any way I can.”

***

“So, what are we looking for?” Sophie asked.

They stood on the threshold of Nathalie’s chamber, all icy blues and whites. All evidence of violent crime had been cleared away: the bed was freshly made, the furniture right side up. The occupant might have simply gone away on a trip, rather than been buried the day before.

“Anything the police might have missed,” Robin said with an apologetic grimace. “Not much to go on, I’m afraid, and Taunton’s men were fairly thorough when they searched this room before. But a fresh pair of eyes couldn’t hurt.”

Sophie walked gingerly over to the dressing table, where Nathalie’s body had been discovered. “If this were a Conan Doyle or even a Lewis Wells story, we’d find some brilliant clue that everyone else had overlooked. A distinctive button behind the vanity, perhaps, or a missing glove, or a monogrammed handkerchief. Pity reality is seldom as cooperative as fiction.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “And I’m no Sherlock Holmes, my love, but perhaps chance will favor us in spite of that. I’d rather make the effort than not.”

“Of course,” Sophie agreed. She turned back to the dressing table, noticing for the first time a photograph in a pretty silver frame. The children, unsurprisingly—Sophie recognized Sara straightaway, and the fair-haired boy of perhaps three, all dimpled cheeks and chin, must be Cyril. That cherubic smile… she paused, her memory teased, but she couldn’t quite lay her finger on why that smile seemed familiar.

“We had that taken last year,” Robin said over her shoulder. “We—weren’t sure how much longer we might have with Cyril. James recommended the photographer he employs for family portraits. It’s a good likeness of them both—I keep the same photograph in my office.”

“They’re adorable,” Sophie told him, with complete sincerity. “Cyril favored Nathalie?”

He nodded. “It’s probably just as well that he resembled her so closely.”

“Have you ever wondered about…?”

“Wondered, yes—but never for long. What would be the point? Cyril was
my
son.”

“He was indeed.” Sophie turned away from the vanity. “Where shall we begin?”

“If you take the wardrobe, I’ll search the dresser.”

They set to work without further ado. Sophie tried not to feel like an intruder as she opened the wardrobe. Nathalie Pendarvis was buried and—one hoped—at peace, not hovering like some malevolent ghost as they sorted through her gowns and unmentionables.

Very fine gowns, as it turned out, and unmentionables trimmed with lace. Easy to tell that Nathalie had spent much of her pin money on clothes. Evening gowns, lavishly trimmed and beaded, with an almost shocking amount of décolletage. Airy negligees and robes that made the one Sophie had worn in Oxfordshire look as demure as a nun’s habit. And because Nathalie had been French, after all, numerous pairs of perfectly matched gloves—several of them perfumed—and slippers.

Robin was going through the contents of the dresser, his face stonily impassive. Sophie wondered, with an unpleasant twinge, if Nathalie had worn any of these garments to entice him, then mentally kicked herself for being obtuse. Of
course
she had.

In the end, however, they had to admit defeat: their search yielded nothing of note.

“Well, we knew it was a slim chance at best,” Robin said as he closed the last drawer.

Sophie shut the wardrobe door. “Yes, but I couldn’t help hoping for better.” She glanced about the chamber. “Is there no other place we might search? How did Nathalie pass the time? Besides entertaining her latest lover,” she added as Robin cocked an ironic eyebrow at her.

“I asked Enid how Nathalie spent her last few days,” he replied, after a moment. “Apparently, she’d go riding in the mornings, then drive into St. Perran, or more often Truro, to shop, usually after luncheon. The afternoon before she… died, she ordered some new dresses from a ladies’ establishment in Truro. I received the bill a few days ago,” he added dryly.

“What else? Would she dine here or somewhere else?”

“She took her meals here, mostly in her chamber or her sitting room.”

“Nathalie had her own sitting room?”

“Not hers, precisely. It’s not connected to her chamber. But I did have a sitting room furnished for… a lady’s particular use.” He did not look at Sophie when he spoke, and she realized with a bittersweet pang that he’d planned that room with
her
in mind.

“Have the police searched there as well?” she asked, in a brisk tone that forbade regrets.

“Yes, though they found nothing unusual—just some dressmakers’ bills and a meal menu intended for the next day.”

“What about correspondence?” Sophie asked. “Might she have written to someone—Sir Lucas, perhaps? They must have had some way of setting up their assignations.”

“Nothing was found, but…” Robin’s brows drew together in thought. “She had ink stains on her fingers, so she must have been writing at some point that day.”

“Why don’t we search the sitting room too? We’ve nothing to lose, after all.”

Robin acceded readily enough, and they left Nathalie’s chamber, closing the door behind them with unspoken relief.

The sitting room, located two doors along the passage, was furnished and decorated very differently, and Sophie again felt a wistful pang. Yes, she would very much have liked a room like this: the wallpaper was a light, clear celadon, and curtains of willow-patterned Morris chintz decked the windows. The furniture was graceful and well-proportioned without appearing spindly or insubstantial: armchairs, sofas, tables…

Sophie paused, eyes widening. “That secretary in the alcove—Nathalie used it?”

Robin glanced at her, no doubt surprised by such an obvious question. “I believe so.” A faint, reminiscent smile softened his mouth. “Cyril hid under it once. He was too frail for most games, but he could play hide-and-go-seek. Nathalie found him and chased him out, though—it was one of the few times I remember her scolding him.”

Only half listening, Sophie crossed over to the desk, running her hand along the smooth mahogany top as she studied the arrangement of drawers: two large ones below, a set of smaller ones in the cabinet-like upper portion. “A bit too early to be Hepplewhite or Sheraton,” she mused, excitement sparking within her. “Chippendale? Or something very like.”

“I hadn’t realized you were such an enthusiast about writing desks,” Robin remarked.

“It’s not that, or not entirely.” Sophie looked up, took a breath to steady herself as her mind speculated furiously. “Chippendale, and other furniture makers of the time—they designed things—desks, sideboards, chests-of-drawers—that had hidden compartments.”

“Hidden…” Robin echoed blankly. “But the police didn’t find any—”

“You’d have to know
where
to look; they aren’t necessarily where you’d expect to find them. They’re
meant
to be a secret, to everyone except the owner and the craftsman.”

Robin shook his head in obvious chagrin. “I can’t believe I never thought of that…”

“No reason you should,” Sophie said consolingly. “Your expertise lies in buildings, not antique furniture. And I’ll wager Taunton and his men never thought of it either. It’s not that I’m such an expert myself, but I have a desk in my London home that’s very similar to this. Made a bit later, though,” she added. “Sheraton’s work—it doesn’t have those ball-and-claw feet.”

Robin eyed the desk. “How many secret compartments could that thing hold?”

“I don’t know. They tend to vary in size—some can be almost as large as a drawer, while others are just pigeonholes.” Sophie took a breath, mentally rolling up her sleeves. “Anyway,
my
desk has sixteen compartments—shall we get started?”

***

An hour and nine compartments later, they stared down at their findings: a few stamps, a handful of stray coins, a small notebook in which columns of numbers had been entered, and a tarnished silver ring, too large for a woman’s hand. From one of Nathalie’s lovers? Sophie wondered; it seemed the most likely assumption.

The stamps and coins held no mystery, being neither rare nor valuable, so she picked up the ring instead. “It looks like some sort of signet, but it’s so old—and worn. You can barely make out the crest.” She held the ring out to Robin. “A boar’s head?”

“I don’t think so. No tusks. But those do look like horns—a ram, perhaps. Or a bull.”

“And there’s a collar too.” Sophie peered at the ring again. “Do you know of any families in England that have a bull’s head as part of their coat of arms?”

Robin shook his head. “I know next to nothing about heraldry. And coats of arms weren’t particularly important to
my
branch of the family. And don’t forget that could be a French signet just as easily. We don’t know how long Nathalie’s had that ring in her possession.”

“It could be her father’s, I suppose,” Sophie acknowledged reluctantly. “You mentioned that he was an Englishman. What was his name?”

Robin’s mouth quirked. “Edward White—very prosaic, I’m afraid. Nathalie and her mother called themselves ‘Leblanc,’ instead.”

For which Sophie couldn’t blame them: “Leblanc” did sound more impressive than its English equivalent. “Then the ring’s
not
likely to be his. May I take it, for now? Our library might have a few books on heraldry. And James almost certainly has some at Pentreath.”

“Very well,” Robin said, almost absently, as he started leafing through the notebook.

“Anything useful?”

“Not sure—maybe a little. This seems to be a record of Nathalie’s private expenses—money coming in and going out. Unsurprisingly, the latter exceeds the former,” he added dryly.

He turned over a few more pages in silence, then paused, his brows lancing together.

“What is it?” Sophie asked at once.

“A loose page, tucked into the notebook.” Robin pulled it out and unfolded it, his frown deepening. “It looks like part of a letter,” he reported, after a moment. “In French.”

Sophie’s own French was passable, but Robin was the one who’d lived in France for four years. Concealing her impatience, she waited until he had finished reading.

When he looked up from the page, his face was pale and as grim as she’d ever seen it.

“A
billet-doux
?” she ventured.

“Not exactly.” He folded the page again, his expression now carefully impassive. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Nathalie was writing to the father of her baby. Asking for money—and threatening exposure.”

Music for a while,

Shall all your cares beguile,

Wondering how your pains are eased…

—Henry Purcell,
Tiresias

From Aurelia, Lady Trevenan, to Sophie Tresilian

…While still adjusting to her loss, Sara seems to be in better spirits today and perhaps in the mood to be diverted. I think, my dear, the time might be just about right for that matter we discussed last week. Shall we say, four o’clock tomorrow afternoon?

***

Sophie had spent less time choosing what to wear for a concert held before half of London than for tea at Pentreath with Robin’s daughter. To dress too frivolously—lacy gown and lavishly trimmed hat—would be insensitive. Sara was in mourning, after all—indeed, she’d probably been wearing black frocks since January, after Cyril’s death. Yet neither did she wish to appear gloomy and forbidding. The child had surely had her fill of sorrow this year. This visit was meant to cheer her.

Finally, she chose one of her more subdued costumes: a dove-grey suit with black piping, over a silk shirtwaist in a muted rose. Her hat, plain black straw trimmed with a band of ribbon and a small spray of pink and white flowers, was equally simple. And she borrowed the carriage, as befitted the slightly more formal circumstances of her visit.

Aurelia, wearing a lavender afternoon dress, greeted her warmly on her arrival at Pentreath. “Lovely to see you again. My, you do look smart!”

“Not too stiff, I hope?” Sophie couldn’t quite keep the anxious note from her voice.

“Not at all.” Aurelia paused, then added with her surprising perception, “Just be yourself, my dear, and Sara won’t be able to help liking you, any more than
I
could when we first met.”

Sophie managed a smile. “Thank you. I do hope you’re right.”

“I’m sure I will be about this.” Aurelia gestured invitingly toward the sofa. “Sara’s upstairs getting ready, by the way, and tea will be brought shortly.”

They sat down together. The drawing room at Pentreath was always such a pleasant place, Sophie thought as she looked around: gracious and intimate at once. There’d been some changes since her last visit: family photographs on the mantel, an antique globe in one corner of the room, and a tan-and-white King Charles spaniel dozing in a basket by the unlit fireplace.

“How is Sara doing, truly?” Sophie asked. “She looked so fragile at the funeral the other day. I can’t imagine how horrible it is to lose your brother and your mother so close together.”

“The days aren’t so bad. We’ve managed to keep her occupied with other pursuits. But at night—” Aurelia shook her head. “We go in to her, of course. I don’t believe in letting children cry alone in the dark. And it helps that Robin is still spending his nights here, but I think it will be best when she can finally go home with him.”

“I know. Robin misses her dearly, but until the investigation into Nathalie’s death is complete, he believes Sara is safest and happiest with you, at Pentreath.”

“How
is
the investigation going?” Aurelia asked. “Neither James nor I have heard much.”

“It’s—coming along,” Sophie said cautiously, unsure how much to reveal even to her close friend and cousin-in-law. Robin was still seething over Sir Lucas’s latest attempt to cause trouble for him, and none too pleased with Inspector Taunton for accepting the baronet’s insinuations so readily. “Robin’s determined to be part of it, though.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. He’s not the sort to sit idly by while his life and reputation are at stake—no more than James is. And sometimes you just
have
to look into matters yourself, especially when you’re the one who best knows the people involved.”

Sophie gave a reluctant nod, remembering how diligently James and Aurelia had searched for the source of the slanders against him, Harry, and Robin five years ago. “All the same, I hope he doesn’t end up antagonizing the police. That won’t help
anyone
.”

She’d had the devil of a time persuading Robin to show what they’d found in Nathalie’s desk to Taunton, after their earlier clash. But while the inspector might have been too credulous about Sir Lucas Nankivell’s so-called evidence, he still struck Sophie as an honest man who genuinely wanted to find the murderer. Better to have him as an ally than an adversary. So Robin had agreed to take Nathalie’s notebook and the letter down to the police station today.

That letter… they’d speculated continually about it, wondering why it was written in French and why it hadn’t been sent. Robin had pointed out logically enough that the father of Nathalie’s unborn baby was not necessarily French himself—merely capable of reading the language, as many English gentlemen probably were, having been taught French in the schoolroom. Sir Lucas therefore could not be ruled out as the father.

Only had he—or whomever the intended recipient was—even received the news of Nathalie’s pregnancy? While that letter had gone unsent, another might have been mailed in its stead. Or perhaps Nathalie had found another means to convey her threats and demands.

And
possibly
sealed
her
own
fate
, Sophie thought with a shiver. And remembering Robin’s face after he’d read the letter, she knew the same idea had occurred to him.

“Sophie, are you all right? You looked a million miles away.”

Sophie roused and mustered a quick smile. “Sorry—I was just… wondering. Aurelia, might I borrow some books from your library—on heraldry?” She’d already exhausted the scant resources in Roswarne’s library in a fruitless search for the ring’s possible coat-of-arms.

“Of course you may, but—heraldry? I didn’t know you had an interest in it.”

“Not a great interest,” Sophie admitted. “It’s just that—well, Robin and I did find something yesterday. Mind you, it could turn out to be completely useless, but—”

She broke off as Aurelia held up a hand, then nodded significantly toward the doorway. “Sara, dear, are you ready to join us? Do come in.”

With a shy smile, the girl stepped into the room. She looked less overwhelmed than she had at the funeral, Sophie thought: her face less pinched and with a little color in her cheeks. She still wore black, which made her look older than her almost-eight years, though her brown hair had been simply plaited and tied with a mauve ribbon.

“Sara, this is my good friend and cousin, Sophie Tresilian,” Aurelia began. “You know her brother, Sir Harry Tresilian, is your father’s partner in the hotel. Sophie is a professional singer, who’s come back to Cornwall for a visit.”

Sara made a little bob, then held out her hand. “How do you do, Miss Tresilian?”

Her voice was soft but clear. Sophie took the offered hand and shook it gravely; the girl’s fingers were slight and delicate, and colder than they should be on a summer’s day. “Very well, thank you. I’m pleased to meet you, Sara. Aurelia has told me so much about you.”

Sara blinked, clearly surprised, but she did not look displeased. Just then, the spaniel, roused from his slumbers, uttered a happy bark and scampered toward them, his feathery tail waving like a banner.

Aurelia smiled. “Lovelace here has taken quite a shine to Sara.”

The girl’s cheeks pinked with pleasure, but she said conscientiously, “He belongs to Lady Trevenan, though, and maybe to Jared too.”

The spaniel was presently gazing from Aurelia to Sara and back as though unsure of which goddess to worship first. Then he noticed Sophie and trotted over to make her acquaintance instead.

Sophie fondled the dog’s silky ears. “What a pretty fellow you are—though quite a shameless flirt.”

Sara smothered a tiny giggle. “Do you have a dog, Miss Tresilian?”

“Alas, no. I’m fond of dogs, but they’re such social creatures, it wouldn’t be fair to have one when I must be away so often. I do have a cat, though,” Sophie added. “A beautiful Russian Blue.” She’d left Tatiana with Amy when she departed for Cornwall. While she knew her staff wouldn’t forget to feed the cat, Tatiana tended to become fractious when Sophie was gone for longer than a few days. Even the most independent pets needed some companionship.

“I like cats too,” Sara replied. “I should like to have a kitten of my own someday. And maybe a puppy too, if they can get along.”

“They can be trained to get along,” Aurelia said, smiling. “We had cats
and
dogs at our home in New York when I was growing up. And horses at our country home.”

Nothing like animals for breaking the ice, Sophie thought. They were still discussing the merits of various pets when the tea arrived.

Perhaps Aurelia had given particular instructions for the staff, because everything might have been designed to tempt a child’s appetite. The sandwiches were cut in fanciful shapes, and the cakes, while plentiful, were dainty things, bright with pastel icing. The scones, however, were generous, and the bowls were heaped with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

Sara took tea with a liberal dash of milk in it, then accepted a scone. Much to Sophie’s delight, she proceeded to apply butter, jam, and clotted cream in the true Cornish fashion.

Smiling, Sophie prepared a scone for herself in the exact same way.

Aurelia held out the plate of sandwiches to the child. “I asked Cook to make deviled ham sandwiches just for you, my dear. I know you’re partial to them.”

Sara took one, hesitated, then took another, murmuring a polite thank you. But both sandwiches were eaten, along with the laden scone and a Bakewell tart.

“May I give Lovelace a sandwich, Lady Trevenan?” she asked. The spaniel, seated at her feet, was gazing up at her with hopeful, melting eyes.

“Just one,” Aurelia cautioned. “He’s indulged enough as it is. And perhaps one of the egg sandwiches—the spices in the deviled ham might not agree with him.”

Sarah set an egg-and-cress sandwich down before the dog, who devoured it with surprising daintiness.

“Are James and Jared anywhere about?” Sophie inquired, selecting a cake decorated with a crystallized violet. “I’d have expected them to descend on this bounty as well.”

“Later, no doubt, but they’re at the stables just now. James is teaching Jared to ride—or, rather, he’s leading him around the paddock on a very old and placid pony,” Aurelia qualified. “He might be ready for a pony of his own next year.”

“So he’s not afraid of horses?”

“Not in the least—no fear, no sense,” Aurelia said with mingled pride and exasperation. “Typical Trelawney, according to James. Typical male,
I
say.”

They all laughed, even Sara, though Sophie wasn’t entirely sure how much the child understood. But there was something cozy and familiar about this whole scenario: women sharing a jest about the exasperating nature of men.

“So, Sara, Aurelia tells me you’re fond of music?” she inquired, offering the girl the plate of sandwiches again.

Sara nodded, her eyes brightening, and took another ham sandwich. “It’s my favorite subject. Along with French.”

“Are you learning to play an instrument?”

“Miss Polgreen started me on piano before she left to get married last month,” Sara replied. “She said I was making progress, but I was only playing scales then.”

“Well, we all have to start there,” Aurelia said consolingly.

Sara turned to Sophie. “Do you play an instrument, Miss Tresilian?”

“Yes, the violin. I started when I was just about your age. My brothers used to claim I made the most dreadful noises at first, just like a cat yowling.” Sophie made a sound similar to Tatiana at her most vocal, and Sara giggled. “But I did improve with time—and practice.”

“Sophie’s a very good violin player, but an even better singer,” Aurelia told Sara. “My dear, would you give us a song or two?” she appealed. “I still regret being unable to see you at the Albert Hall.”

“Well, if Sara would like it,” Sophie began.

The girl nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, please!”

“And you’re willing to provide the accompaniment—”

“Of course,” Aurelia agreed, smiling.

“Then I’d be happy to,” Sophie finished, setting her plate aside and rising to her feet.

***

The voice, silver-clear and limpid as spring water, stopped Robin in his tracks.

Transfixed, he stood and listened as it wove a familiar spell around him, soothing away the ravages of a trying day like the stroke of a gentle hand.

No need to inquire the source. Handing his hat and coat to Pelham, he followed the sound down the passage to the drawing room. He found himself smiling as he recognized the words: “The Mermaid’s Song,” as sung by a Nereid.

Sophie had embarked on the second verse by the time Robin reached the drawing room. Loath to disturb the performance, he hovered in the doorway, watching her, slim and straight beside the piano. Aurelia was providing a deft accompaniment, the instrument trilling merrily beneath her fingers. And Sara sat listening raptly, her eyes dreamy, her lips curved in a smile of pure pleasure.

Robin’s heart ached at the sight. It seemed a lifetime since he’d seen his daughter smile like that, with such unguarded happiness—since before Cyril’s death, surely. He already loved Sophie to distraction, but he loved her just a bit more for giving Sara such a treat. He hoped that boded well for their eventual future as a family.

The song ended, and Robin joined his daughter in applauding the performers. Hearing the sound of two more hands clapping, Sara glanced toward the door and broke into a smile.

“Papa!” She sprang up from her chair and rushed to meet him.

“Hullo, sweeting.” He stooped to embrace and kiss her, then turned to the ladies, smiling beside the piano. “Aurelia, Miss Sophie—that was charming. Pray, don’t let me interrupt.”

“That’s quite all right; we were just finishing up.” Sophie’s dimpled smile flashed briefly. “The performer’s motto: always leave the audience wanting more!”

“I can’t persuade you to give an encore?” he asked.

She hesitated, then smiled more brilliantly. “Only if Sara’s willing to join us.” She turned to Robin’s daughter. “Has your governess taught you to sing as well?”