Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  And from the admiring look on Mr. Sheridan’s face, she was succeeding. Even as Amy watched, Lady Crowley tossed her head back to laugh, then tapped him on the shoulder with her fan, a gesture at once playful and intimate, as if she were accustomed to taking such liberties.

  Amy caught her breath as the artist gave Lady Crowley a lazy smile, then took her hand and raised it to his lips. She smiled back with almost feline satisfaction and leaned in a little closer, until their bodies were mere inches apart. Sheridan then tucked Lady Crowley’s hand into the crook of his arm, and they strolled away together—not toward the dance floor, but toward the French windows that opened onto the terrace. Moments later, they disappeared from sight.

  Face suddenly aflame, Amy looked away. So Mr. Sheridan and Lady Crowley knew each other. But she would eat her best hat if their association was as innocent as the childhood friendship he supposedly shared with Lady Warrender. She racked her brain furiously, trying to recall if gossip had ever linked these two, in the past or the present, and for how long. How had they met? Had Mr. Sheridan painted Lady Crowley’s portrait, perhaps, or had she sought him out for some other purpose? He had so many aristocratic connections, after all.

  Not that it mattered, Amy told herself. She was aware of the rumors surrounding Mr. Sheridan; for all she knew, he could have had affairs with half the women in attendance tonight. What possible difference could it make to her? But the knowledge brought a sharp, unpleasant stab of…disappointment? Really, after all his remarks about preferring the unusual to the obvious in regards to beauty, she’d have expected him to have better taste! And to think she’d been feeling almost kindly toward him, after hearing about Elizabeth Martin’s untimely death. That had to have affected him, given the closeness of their families.

  Amy shook her head, trying to recapture that more charitable mood. She’d resolved to get on with Sheridan better for James’s sake, and for the sake of the portrait. And, after all, it was his own business with whom he chose to flirt. Turning her attention back to the dancers, she saw her sister and Trevenan approaching, moving a little more quickly than was usual in a ballroom.

  Something was definitely off, Amy sensed at once. Concerned, she went to meet them, skirting the perimeter of the dance floor. “Relia, is everything all right?” she asked in a low voice when they were face to face.

  “Fine.” Aurelia hesitated and exchanged a quick glance with Trevenan. “But we thought you should know—Sally Vandermere is here tonight, with Charlie. There’s no need to worry, dearest,” she added hastily at Amy’s involuntary hiss of fury. “I’ve already seen and spoken to them—and I can assure you, the sky did not fall.”

  “Your sister kept her composure admirably,” Trevenan said with obvious approval. “I venture to say, it was Mr. Vandermere who appeared uncomfortable.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose.” Amy tightened her hold on her fan and her fraying temper, and mustered a tight smile that felt more like a grimace. “The Vandermeres—here, tonight. Why, this evening just gets better by the minute!”

  “It hasn’t been all bad,” Aurelia reminded her. “In fact, I’d say most of it has been very pleasant. Besides, it will be over soon.”

  Their eyes met in perfect understanding. A lady did not make a scene or lose her temper in public, their mother had instructed them years ago. In private, however, she might vent or rage as much as she needed. Not even Laura Newbold expected complete restraint under the most trying circumstances—and tonight had provided plenty of those!

  Amy expelled a pent-up breath. “Yes, it will be over soon,” she conceded, and turned to accept Trevenan’s arm for the next dance.

  Twelve

  And when we meet at any time again,

  Be it not seen in either of our brows

  That we one jot of former love retain.

  —Michael Drayton, “Sonnet LXI”

  Cora Fitzgerald, Major Frederick Rawlings—two more names that Alfred Dunning had been reluctant to divulge. But divulge them he had, ultimately, once James had made it clear that he wasn’t leaving the solicitor’s office until he knew from whom Gerald had obtained his remaining shares in Mercer Shipping.

  There was little mystery about either the major or the widowed Mrs. Fitzgerald, as it turned out: both had needed ready money and had parted willingly with their shares once informed of Gerald’s generous offer. Too generous, James had thought on hearing the amount his cousin had paid. Gerald must have wanted those shares very badly to offer such a sum, especially given his spendthrift life in London and his aspirations to the Prince’s set. But why?

  He was still pondering the question when he returned to Belgravia to find the post had arrived and his correspondence awaited him in the library. Sorting through the usual selection of bills—most of those for the repairs on Pentreath—James paused when he recognized the return address of the inquiry agent he’d hired to look into the business history of Mercer Shipping.

  Breaking the seal on the envelope, he extracted the contents, which included a detailed list of the various holdings of Mercer Shipping. For a relatively young company, it nonetheless had cast a wide net, leasing warehouses in numerous ports of significance, including London, Bristol, Liverpool…and Falmouth.

  James told himself he should not have been surprised. As a Cornishman, he knew exactly how important Falmouth was as a shipping center, and the railways, built within the last thirty years, had only increased the town’s importance. Goods newly unloaded from ships could be dispatched from ports to inland towns with astonishing speed…unless those goods mysteriously disappeared without a trace.

  James dropped the letter onto his desk. Feeling strangely cold, he paced to the window, stared out at the square without seeing it. He had not asked Mercer from which warehouse that missing shipment had vanished; he suspected he already knew now, and the knowledge only increased the unease he felt about Gerald’s venture into the shipping business. And raised even more questions that could not readily be answered.

  Perhaps those answers lay in Cornwall, where his cousin had died. And where he himself was soon to travel with his future bride and her family. He only hoped he would be able to keep those two matters separated. Not for the world would he endanger her or those she held dear—who had become dear to him as well.

  Putting those troubling thoughts aside for the moment, he turned resolutely from the window. This evening he was expected at 17 Grosvenor Square, to dine with his in-laws-to-be. Mr. Newbold and his son Andrew had arrived from New York just three days before.

  ***

  Dinner, served on the hour, was typically excellent—the Newbolds had engaged a French chef for the Season—and the service irreproachable. The atmosphere, however, was less formal than at most English dinner tables and the conversation ranged freely over a wide variety of topics, most of them related to New York. While James had little to contribute to the discussion personally, he enjoyed watching the way his future in-laws interacted. They were clearly an affectionate family who took sincere pleasure in each other’s company. James got on well with Adam Newbold, his prospective father-in-law, and Andrew Newbold seemed an estimable enough young man with a frank, open face and the same fair coloring as his sisters.

  Amy had told James that her parents were distant cousins and a fond rather than a passionate pair. But—she added hastily—they had formed a successful partnership in which her father managed the family business while her mother presided over the family home. James did not doubt it: Mr. and Mrs. Newbold shared an easy, comfortable rapport. If they did not complete each other’s thoughts and sentences as some long-married couples were wont to do, they seemed to hold similar views on most subjects, and their pride in their children was unmistakable.

  James wondered to what extent her parents’ union had shaped Amy’s practical views on marriage. He glanced at Aurelia, who looked exceptionally well tonight, her face bright with animation and her fair complexion warmed by a shell-pink gown. Did she hold
the same views as her twin, or had she come to adopt them after her painful disillusionment? By her own admission, she had loved that ass Vandermere dearly…

  “Do you ride, Trevenan?” Mr. Newbold’s voice roused him from his musings.

  “I do, sir,” James replied. “Though seldom in London. I come to town so infrequently that it makes little sense to board my horses here. But I keep a good stable at Pentreath. You and your family are welcome to make use of any horses during your stay.”

  “Excellent,” Mr. Newbold said, smiling. “I used to ride every morning when I was a boy in the country. Nowadays, I fit it in when I can, which isn’t often.”

  Andrew looked up from his plate. “Talking of horses, Father, I met Charlie Vandermere riding in Hyde Park today. I mentioned that we were celebrating the twins’ birthdays in style.”

  “Oh, Andrew, you didn’t!” Amy exclaimed reproachfully.

  James glanced involuntarily at Aurelia and saw that she was gazing fixedly at her plate. He could not decipher her expression, but even by gaslight, she looked pale and tense.

  “Why not?” Andrew cast a perplexed glance around the table. “It’s not a secret, is it?”

  After a pause, Mrs. Newbold said, “The Vandermeres aren’t on the guest list, Andrew.”

  “They’re not?” Andrew stared at her. “But Charlie’s one of my closest friends, and the Vandermeres have been our summer neighbors for years. Why wouldn’t they be invited?”

  Again the silence threatened. Beside him, James sensed Amy mustering up the nerve to speak, but her father’s next words stopped her short.

  “My dear, you might do well to reconsider and send them an invitation as soon as possible,” Mr. Newbold addressed his wife. “I still have to do business with Vandermere in New York. It could get very awkward if he thinks we’re slighting his wife and daughter in any way.”

  Mrs. Newbold flushed, perhaps remembering the times Mrs. Vandermere had slighted her family. “Very well. I will think further on the matter,” she said with obvious reluctance.

  If Mr. Newbold noticed the stiffness in her tone, he chose to ignore it. “Thank you, my dear.” He turned to James again. “Do you sail as well, Trevenan? From what I’ve heard, Cornwall sounds like a capital place for yachting.”

  ***

  Leaving the gentlemen to their port, the Newbold women made their way to their drawing room. Once the doors closed behind them, Amy erupted into furious speech.

  “Oh, Mama, how can Papa and Andrew ask such a thing of us?”

  “Hush, Amy,” Mrs. Newbold remonstrated, though her own expression was no happier. “I am sure your father has his reasons.” She glanced at Aurelia. “All the same, if having to invite the Vandermeres should cause you distress, dearest, I can explain to him and Andrew—”

  “No, Mama!” Aurelia broke in. “Please, I should prefer not to make more of this than there is. Nor do I wish to cause trouble for Papa or even for Andrew. He and Charlie have been friends for many years, for much longer than Charlie and I were sweethearts.”

  “Hah,” Amy said darkly. “I wonder just how long that friendship would survive if Andrew knew how Charlie had treated you.”

  Aurelia fixed her twin with a stern stare. “Pray do not even consider putting that to the test! It wouldn’t be fair, especially since my association with Charlie is at an end.” She took a deep breath, willing herself to calm. “Of course, I don’t desire a second meeting with him. But if we send an invitation, we at least control the circumstances of that meeting.”

  Her mother gave her a searching look. “Are you sure about this, my dear?”

  “I think so.” Aurelia did her best to smile reassuringly. “Send the invitation, Mother. Perhaps they will be already engaged for that evening, or simply decline to attend.”

  “Either one would suit me,” Amy grumbled. “But our ball is shaping up to become one of the Season’s grandest events, especially since Aunt Caroline’s letting us hold it at Renbourne House. Sally will almost certainly want to attend, and she’ll probably talk the rest of them into obliging her. Drat them all! Are we never to be free of them?”

  “That’s enough, Amelia!” Mrs. Newbold scolded. “Your sister’s arguments make excellent sense. Besides, we will have quite enough on our hands that evening, since we’ll be announcing your engagement as well. I daresay we needn’t concern ourselves with the Vandermeres any more than with our other guests.” She paused, listening for a moment. “The gentlemen are about to join us, so let us find more agreeable topics to discuss.”

  ***

  Entering the drawing room on Mr. Newbold’s heels, James found his gaze going at once to the twins, who were sitting side by side on the sofa. Only a faint shadow seemed to hover about them now. Amy, he observed, looked slightly less mutinous than she had on leaving the dining room. Not that he blamed her; it was damnable that her own father wanted to invite to their ball the family who’d caused her sister such distress.

  He glanced at Aurelia, who seemed to have regained her color and her composure, smiling warmly at her father and brother as they approached. Not for the first time, he admired her mettle. She might be considered the quieter and less daring of the twins, but she lacked neither courage nor spirit. She’d faced down her former sweetheart once before; James did not doubt she could do it again, should circumstances require it.

  Mr. Newbold sat down beside his wife, but it was to his daughter that he spoke next. “Aurelia, my dear girl, would you favor us with some music?”

  “Certainly, Papa. Is there anything in particular you wish me to play?”

  He smiled fondly at her. “I find myself homesick for some of my old favorites, if you happen to have the music handy.”

  Aurelia laughed, and the hovering shadows retreated to the far corners of the room. “After all this time, Papa, I think I can manage those without the sheet music.” She rose to her feet. “Which would you like to hear first?”

  “Why not the one you were named for?” he suggested.

  She pulled a slight face, half-comical, half-serious. “Are you sure you don’t want something a bit livelier to start?”

  Mr. Newbold shook his head. “Call me a sentimental old fool, my dear, but I found myself thinking of this one often while you and your mother were away. Humor me.”

  Capitulating with good grace, she went over to the piano.

  “Your sister was named for a song?” James murmured to Amy.

  “In a way. I was named Amelia for my maternal grandmother, and Mama wanted another name starting with ‘A’ for my sister. So Father suggested his favorite song. You’ll understand when you hear it.”

  “Will you join me, dearest?” Aurelia called from the piano bench.

  At James’s nod, Amy went to stand beside the instrument. Aurelia played a rippling chord, and their voices—clear, sweet sopranos—rose together in effortless song:

  “As the blackbird in the spring,

  ’Neath the willow tree,

  Sat and piped, I heard him sing,

  Singing Aura Lea.

  Aura Lea, Aura Lea,

  Maid of golden hair;

  Sunshine came along with thee,

  And swallows in the air.”

  Not too difficult to see how her parents had derived “Aurelia” from that, James mused. But the name—“golden”—suited her, and so did the words of this song, sentimental though they were. Not that James minded. His own mother had loved and often sung the sentimental folk songs she had grown up hearing in Cornwall.

  The twins sang on, bringing the brightness of spring into the room with every note. Mr. and Mrs. Newbold, their earlier friction forgotten, listened with obvious pleasure to their daughters’ performance while Andrew looked on tolerantly. And James, watching the two slender, shining figures at the piano, thought he had never seen or heard anything lovelier.

  ***

  “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.” So Miss Witherspoon had told the twins in the schoolroom, an
d while Aurelia would not describe her breast as “savage,” she had to admit it felt distinctly unquiet. But after playing and singing her way through several of her family’s favorite songs, she felt calmer—mistress of herself again. Not wanting Lord Trevenan to feel excluded, Aurelia went on to some Gilbert and Sullivan tunes, including a few from The Pirates of Penzance. Fortunately, most of her family knew those as well and sang along heartily, gathering at the piano as they’d sometimes done in the evenings at home in New York.

  The room was still ringing with the last strains of “With Catlike Tread Upon Our Prey We Steal” when the servants brought in the coffee and tea service. Amy laughingly declared herself parched and in need of refreshment after her musical efforts. The group around the piano began to disperse, though Lord Trevenan lingered as Aurelia began to put her music away.

  “Well played, Miss Aurelia,” he said, his voice pitched for her ears alone.

  “Thank you.” She managed a smile. “I’m happy to have regained some of my old skill.”

  “I was not referring to your performance at the piano, delightful though it was.” He studied her with those penetrating dark eyes. “The Vandermeres are to be invited, are they not?”

  “They are,” she admitted. “And with my consent. But even if they attend, they will be but a few among many guests. I refuse to let their presence spoil the evening for me or Amy.”