Waltz With a Stranger (31 page)

He sat up long into the night, pondering that question, and did not return to bed until he was too weary to dream.

What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve:

The sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.

—Robert Herrick, “A Kiss”

“Dublin?” James echoed, incredulous.

Mrs. Permewan, the Trelawneys’ middle-aged housekeeper, nodded vigorously. “Three weeks and more, my lord, and they’re not returning for some time yet. Miss Susan and her husband are expecting their first next month. Mistress wanted to be there for her lying-in.”

James could sense Harry’s barely concealed disappointment. To come so close to answers, only to find them out of reach across the Irish Sea. “Did the rest of the family go too?”

“Why, no. Mr. Frank—that’s their oldest—secured a living in Veryan three months ago,” Mrs. Permewan said proudly. “Mr. Oliver’s chosen to stay with him while the master and mistress are away. Well, no doubt it’s dull for him with everyone gone. Likes company, he does.”

James felt his hopes revive. “Ah, perhaps I might call upon Cousin Frank, then,” he suggested with his most affable smile. “Given our change in circumstances, I should like to improve the connection between our families.”

Mrs. Permewan was only too glad to furnish him with Frank Trelawney’s direction. James thanked her and subsequently took his leave.

“What do you think then, James?” Harry inquired, once they were mounted and riding back toward Pentreath. “A wasted journey?”

“Not necessarily.” James urged Camborne into a trot, Harry doing the same with his own horse. “If Horatio’s been in Ireland for that long, he probably didn’t write those letters. Unless he wrote them ahead of time and gave them to someone else to post, but that seems unlikely.”

“It does,” Harry agreed with some reluctance. “Although it might be advisable to call upon his sons and take
their
measure.”

“I intend to, but not today. It’s too long a journey on horseback. We’ll go by carriage.”

“Good idea. I’m as eager to get to the bottom of this as you are, James.” He paused, frowning slightly. “They don’t appear to be destitute, or living in straitened circumstances.”

James thought back to the house they’d just left: mellow, Georgian, comfortable rather than luxurious, but there had been no noticeable lack of comfort. “No,” he agreed. “Their home was well-kept, and they can clearly afford servants.”

“And to travel to Ireland for a good two months or so,” Harry observed. “As for your cousin Frank, I know that parish he’s been assigned to. Not the richest in the county, but not the poorest by any means. I’d say he was doing fairly well for himself.”

“So would I.” James rode in silence for a while, thinking. On the surface of it, Horatio Trelawney and his family sounded perfectly amiable, not to mention content with their lives. Not the sort of people who’d write poisonous anonymous letters or, more luridly, conspire to murder one earl and slander another. But then, how could one profess to know another person’s true character before meeting him face to face?

Harry said abruptly, “I wired Robin Pendarvis this morning. Just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you,” James said after a moment. “I appreciate your telling me.”

“I kept out the specific details, as you requested. But I told him an urgent matter required his attention here.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to speaking with him,” James replied as diplomatically as he could. “Perhaps we can clear some things up to our satisfaction.”

“Any chance we can keep Gerald’s sister from getting wind of this? She’s already figured out I’m one of the men named in that damned letter. If she finds out about Robin—”

“She won’t. I’ll make sure of that.” James permitted himself a grim smile. “By the way, you’ll be relieved to hear that Helena’s kept to her chamber all day. Suffering from the effects of last night’s indulgences, according to my aunt. I doubt she’ll emerge before evening, if then.”

Harry gave a short laugh. “Thank God for small mercies!”

“Just so.” All the same, James wondered uneasily how much longer he and his aunt could contain Helena’s malice. And more disturbingly, when the next letter would turn up—and where.

***

“Here, have a pasty.” Reaching into the hamper, Sophie pulled out a crusty golden pie shaped like a half-moon and held it out to Aurelia. “Our cook made them fresh this morning.”

Aurelia took the pie, still warm to the touch, and bit into it, tasting flaky crust and savory filling: beef, potato, a hint of onion. “Delicious,” she managed, when she could speak again.

Sophie smiled, handing another pasty to Amy. “Our cook makes the best pasties in the county, or so my family likes to claim.”

“Well, they’re perfect for a picnic on the beach,” Amy declared.

“Here’s something else that’s perfect too.” Sophie held up a large jug. “Our homemade cider, pressed and bottled last autumn.” She took out cups and poured a moderate amount for each of them. “Not too much at once. It can make you quite tiddly if you’re not careful.”

Heeding the warning, Aurelia sipped cautiously at her cider—crisp, redolent of apples, and tangy with fermentation. She limited herself to one cup, sufficient to wash down the pasty, and feasted her eyes on the tumbling sea before them.

A perfect day for a picnic. The morning had dawned fair and clear, and by the time they had descended the stairs to the beach, the sun was almost at its peak, the sea a brilliant blue-green. A delighted Sophie had declared the prospect the equal to what she saw near St. Perran, while Amy had conceded that this beach might well be superior to Newport’s. They’d chosen a spot for their picnic just above the water’s edge, settling down on a blanket and talking of many pleasant things, including Sophie’s upcoming birthday celebration, as they unpacked the hamper.

Slightly to their surprise, they discovered they were not alone on the beach. Mr. Sheridan had come down before them, settling with his sketchbook on a large rock some distance away. Hearing their voices, he’d looked up and waved, before immersing himself in his work again.

Amy polished off her lunch, glanced in Sheridan’s direction. “Have we any more pasties? I was thinking we could offer one to the mad artist. Even genius requires sustenance.”

Aurelia shot her sister a warning look, but despite the mocking words, Amy’s tone had sounded almost affectionate.

“Oh, we have plenty—and an extra cup for the cider,” Sophie replied, rummaging through the hamper again. She unstopped the jug again, poured cider into the cup, and wrapped a pasty in a napkin. “He can have this with our compliments.”

“I’ll take it over to him,” Amy volunteered, getting to her feet. “I have something I need to discuss with Mr. Sheridan in any case.”

“Mr. Sheridan is very attractive,” Sophie observed to Aurelia, as they watched Amy make her way toward the artist.

“He is. And talented too.”

“Do you—admire him, by any chance?”

“Yes, very much,” Aurelia said absently, then, as the significance of Sophie’s question sank in, she amended, “that is, I admire his work. And he’s one of Trevenan’s closest friends.”

“I couldn’t help wondering. He hardly took his eyes off you or your sister last night.”

“That’s probably because he wants us to sit for him. Do
you
admire him, Sophie?” That could be problematic, Aurelia reflected. While she liked Mr. Sheridan and found Sophie a delight, the girl was far younger and more innocent than the sophisticated artist.

“Oh, no—at least, not in that way!” Sophie assured her. “The truth is,” she colored slightly, “there’s someone else I have a fancy for.”

“You have a beau?”

Sophie’s color deepened. “Perhaps not a beau, exactly. Nothing has been officially decided, but I care for—this gentleman, and I believe he cares for me as well.”

“Does your family know about this?” Aurelia asked.

The girl fretted her lower lip, nodded. “Mother is not opposed, though she thinks we should not rush into anything. Harry, though—Harry is less pleased about it. He thinks we are too far apart in age and experience, and that I should consider the attentions of younger suitors.”

Aurelia’s thoughts went at once to Sir Lucas Nankivell, inquiring after Sophie with that telltale warmth in his eyes and voice. “So this gentleman is quite a bit older than you?”

“Not that much older!” Sophie asserted. “Besides, that’s one of the things that attracts me to him—he’s a
man
, not a boy.” Her chin lifted stubbornly. “In fact, he makes so many of my younger suitors look callow and, well,
boring
.”

Aurelia thought back to her first meeting with James. Had not that been one of the things that she had found appealing about him? That he’d seemed older and more mature than the London beaux swarming about Amy. Even then, he’d had a direction and a focus—adult responsibilities that had come to him from his mother’s family and, to some extent, even his father’s. And, she remembered with an aching sweetness, the chivalry to reach out to a scarred, crippled girl and make her feel, for a few precious minutes, that she was beautiful.

“He’s seen and done things I’ve never dreamed of,” Sophie went on. “And he belongs to a wider world I can’t wait to be part of!”

Her conviction startled Aurelia. Was Sir Lucas Nankivell really such a paragon? She thought back to the man she’d seen in the lane, with his perfect clothes and almost overly refined speech. And that measuring gaze that had seemed to calculate every penny of her toilette…

Well, perhaps she was not being wholly fair because he hadn’t made a favorable first impression on her. No doubt Sophie saw another side to him. “You speak of a wider world,” she began tentatively. “Are you sure that your feelings might not change, once you’ve experienced a bit more of life yourself?”

“That’s possible. But I doubt it.” Sophie smiled ruefully. “There’s a saying in my family: ‘Swans and Tresilians mate for life.’ We tend to choose early, and not change our minds.”

Aurelia studied her thoughtfully. Sophie seemed far older at seventeen than she and Amy ever had—older, and more sure of herself. “Does that always work out for the best?”

Sophie dimpled, suddenly looking her age again. “I would like to say yes, of course, but naturally I can make no such claim. There have been unsuccessful marriages in my family—some quite spectacularly bad—and yet…I do think the good ones have outweighed the bad.”

“Does the gentleman share your sentiments, to the same extent?”

“He wants me to comply with my family’s plans and have a London Season,” Sophie confessed. “To see more of the world, attend parties and dances, and meet other men. And if my feelings do not alter, he says he will be here, waiting.” Her lips formed a slightly tremulous smile. “He says I am worth waiting for.”

“That’s—very generous.” More generous than Aurelia would have thought Sir Lucas could be. And his reluctance to take advantage of such a lovely young girl showed him in a far better light. Aurelia privately resolved to be more charitable should she encounter him again.

“Yes, but I already know how it will be.” Sophie’s young face showed a wealth of determination. “I’ll have my Season and enjoy it, for I’ve never spent much time in London before. But when it’s over, I’ll return to Cornwall—and to him. To our life together. I mean to stand firm about this, and I know he will too.”

Aurelia smiled, pleased for her and just a little envious. How comforting to know exactly what you wanted, and that only time stood between you and the achievement of it! “Then, my dear, I wish you both the very best.”

Sophie returned her smile. “Thank you. But what of you, Aurelia? Have you any special admirer yourself?”

Aurelia thought uncomfortably of Charlie’s unanswered letter, tucked between the pages of one of her travel books. “There is someone,” she admitted at last. “Someone I once knew, who wishes to renew our—acquaintance. But I haven’t yet decided if
I
wish that as well.”

Sophie nodded her understanding and wisely inquired no further. Unbidden, Trevenan’s face rose in Aurelia’s memory, as she’d seen it last night in the library: strained, weary, the dark eyes slightly overbright—from brandy or emotion, she could not tell. But for just a moment, he’d stood as close to her as when they waltzed and looked at her with something like hunger…

Which was absurd, she told herself. If Trevenan hungered for anyone, it must be Amy. Whatever she’d seen or thought she’d seen in his eyes was no more than the reflection of what he felt for her sister, his intended bride. The sooner he opened his heart to Amy, the sooner they could begin to face these troubles together, as a couple should.

Trying
not
to think of Trevenan and her sister, Aurelia got to her feet. “The sun’s so much warmer now. And we’ve finished our lunch. Let’s go wading in the sea.”

***

On closer inspection, Sheridan was wielding neither pencils nor pastels but a fine watercolor brush. Mindful of his efforts, Amy did not call attention to herself until he lifted the brush away from the page and paused to study his efforts.

“Mr. Sheridan?” she ventured at last. “We’ve brought you some lunch.”

He looked up, his gaze distracted and seemingly miles away. Then, as he recognized her, his eyes came back into focus and he smiled. “Thank you, Miss Newbold. I appreciate your offering. I’d quite lost track of the time.” Laying his sketchbook aside on the rock, he accepted the pasty and cider she held out to him.

Amy angled her head to study the sketch. Sheridan was as skilled with watercolor as he was with oils, capturing the sea’s shifting hues in alternating strokes of blue and green. For a moment, she experienced the old pang—half-wistful, half-envious—over her own lack of talent.

He followed the direction of her gaze. “I thought I’d make a watercolor sketch or two of my subject before committing it to canvas. That’s how I start out, usually.”

“It’s very impressive so far.” Amy peered more closely at the sketch. “Is that—yellow ochre, under the blue and green?”

“It is. I applied a thin wash of it to the paper before adding Prussian blue and viridian. I find cool shades need an underlying warmth to support them.” Sheridan glanced at her. “Not everyone notices that. You have a good eye, Miss Newbold.”