“Trevenan! Good afternoon. I hadn’t heard you were back.”
The earl halted the gig in turn. “Nankivell,” he said, after a brief pause that made Aurelia wonder how well he knew this man. “Good afternoon to you. Yes, I just got in yesterday.”
“From London, I understand? Splendid city. I wonder you could bring yourself to leave it. I always regret doing so, myself.”
“On the contrary, I am always glad to return home.” Trevenan’s tone was pleasant but slightly distant.
“And what a charming companion you’ve brought with you,” the other man went on, edging his horse forward. “Might I beg the pleasure of an introduction?”
“Miss Newbold, this is Sir Lucas Nankivell, Baronet, of St. Perran,” Trevenan said in that same neutral tone. “Sir Lucas, Miss Aurelia Newbold—one of my guests, from London.”
Sir Lucas sketched a graceful bow from his saddle. “Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Miss Newbold.”
Aurelia inclined her head and murmured a bland pleasantry in response. Despite Sir Lucas’s courtesy and polished manners, she felt acutely self-conscious as his gaze swept over her. As if every stitch of her clothing—indeed, every hair on her head—was being calculated and assessed. Item—two lips, indifferent red, one visiting costume by Worth, one scarred cheek…She was suddenly glad that, sitting in the gig, her limp was not visible to this stranger’s eye.
It was tempting to take refuge in shyness, to play the little mouse again. But a cat could look at a king, after all, she reminded herself, and gazed back just as frankly. Sir Lucas was perhaps a few years older than Trevenan, and while she did not think him as handsome, he was a fine figure of a man, blessed with an athletic form and attractive, regular features. Slate-blue eyes under straight brows, slightly curling brown hair, fashionably cut. His clothes were fashionable too. He wore just the sort of riding apparel a London gentleman might favor for a morning in Hyde Park: dapper, but subtly out of place here in Cornwall. Indeed, there was something just a bit—citified about Sir Lucas, right down to his speech, which bore no trace of a Cornish accent. Indeed, if she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought him a Londoner.
“You are on your way to call on Sir Harry, at Roswarne?” Sir Lucas inquired.
“We are,” Trevenan confirmed with a brief nod.
“Well, then, don’t let me keep you. Pray, give my regards to Sir Harry—and to Miss Tresilian as well.” Sir Lucas’s eyes and voice changed subtly at those last words, becoming warmer, almost intimate.
A telling sign, Aurelia thought, as was the sudden speculative narrowing of Trevenan’s eyes. “I’ll tell them” was all he said, as he took up the reins again. “Good day, Nankivell.”
“Good day.” Sir Lucas touched his hat brim again, then kneed his horse forward.
“A friend?” Aurelia asked in a low voice as they started down the road again.
He shook his head. “More of an acquaintance. Nankivell’s one of Harry’s neighbors. I don’t know the man that well myself.”
“I don’t mean to criticize, but he strikes me as a bit of a dandy.”
“Not too surprising. I gather he has a fondness for London life.” Trevenan shrugged. “Well, not every landowner is content to spend all his time here. Cornwall’s still regarded as thoroughly provincial; some prefer to swim in a bigger pond.”
“Who’d choose a pond when they could have the sea instead?” Aurelia wondered.
That drew a smile from him. “Just so. But I’ve accepted that as a matter of individual taste, however misguided.”
“He mentioned a Miss Tresilian? One of Sir Harry’s sisters?”
“Sophie, the youngest daughter,” he confirmed. “And good Lord, I do believe she’s ready to come out next spring! It seems only yesterday she was playing with her dolls.”
“Oh, young girls tend to grow up very quickly,” Aurelia informed him. “How many sisters are there in the family? You mentioned five children in all.”
“Two sisters. There’s Harry, then Cecily—who’s now married—then John—he’s Andrew’s age—then Sophie, and finally Peter, who’s away at school. Harry became guardian to them all after my uncle died, but only Sophie and Peter are still minors.”
“Do they all still live in Cornwall?”
“For the most part, although Cecily’s husband lives on the south coast. John finished university last summer. He’s thinking about reading law, eventually, but for now, he’s home helping with the mine. And speaking of which,” he added, “here, just before us, is Roswarne.”
Cued as much by the lift in his voice as his words, Aurelia glanced ahead and saw the Tresilian home. Roswarne had none of Pentreath’s splendor, but it was a handsome residence: part brick, part timber, with the clean, simple lines of Georgian architecture.
“This was a farmhouse, originally,” Trevenan told her as they headed up the drive. “Built toward the middle of the last century. Of course, it’s been augmented over the years.”
“It looks comfortable. Not as grand as Pentreath, but it has a style of its own.”
He smiled. “It does indeed. My mother grew up here, and in some ways, this felt more like a second home to me than Pentreath.”
As they neared the front door, a dark-haired man in shirtsleeves came around the side of the house and stopped in his tracks when he saw them. “Good Lord. James?”
“Harry!” Trevenan exclaimed, breaking into a brilliant smile. “Glad to find you at home!” He brought the gig to a stop and vaulted out as the man strode forward to greet him.
“Delighted to see you back where you belong.” Sir Harry clasped Trevenan’s hand at once. “I’d heard you got in yesterday. I was just thinking of calling on you.”
Trevenan laughed, an unexpectedly carefree sound. “I’ve saved you the trouble, then.” He turned to hand Aurelia down from the gig, then proceeded with the introductions. “Miss Aurelia, my cousin Sir Harry Tresilian. Harry, Miss Aurelia Newbold—my intended’s sister.”
Aurelia studied the man before her. Sir Harry was not especially tall, but he was well-built, broad-shouldered, and compact. His dark hair showed glints of mahogany, and his eyes were the clear grey-green of seawater on a fine day. She could see the resemblance between him and Trevenan, the strong planes of the face as well as the dark coloring. And something more intangible—a flash of spirit and a sense of strength, enduring as the Cornish cliffs.
Now he smiled, revealing a flash of white teeth in an attractively sun-browned face, as he bowed over Aurelia’s hand. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Newbold. Welcome to Roswarne.”
Aurelia returned his smile. “Thank you, Sir Harry. I am pleased to meet you as well. Trevenan has told me much of you and your family. All of it good,” she added quickly.
“Relieved to hear it. James has nothing but good to say of your family as well.” He gestured to a groom who ran up to take charge of the gig. “Come in, and take tea with us.”
He led the way inside. The entrance hall of Roswarne was pleasantly bright, with whitewashed walls rather than the dark wood paneling that Aurelia often found oppressive. Music, rippling liquid chords, wafted out to them from a room down the passage. Music so beautiful that Aurelia stopped at once to listen further.
“Sophie!” Sir Harry called. “Put down the fiddle and come out and greet our guests.”
The music stopped at once, and seconds later, a girl in a primrose yellow dress appeared in the doorway of the sitting room.
“James!” she exclaimed in obvious delight, before hurrying to embrace him.
“Hullo, infant.” Trevenan returned her embrace and kissed her cheek with visible affection.
“Not such an infant now. I’m eighteen at Midsummer!” the girl retorted. “And we’re having a party that night, to which you’re invited, of course, and—oh!” She broke off as she caught sight of Aurelia. “You’ve brought a guest!”
“He has,” Sir Harry confirmed. “Miss Newbold, my sister, Sophie Tresilian. Sophie, this
is Miss Aurelia Newbold. She and her family are guests of James, at Pentreath.”
Sophie Tresilian smiled, showing white, even teeth and a flashing set of dimples on either side of a generous mouth. Like her brother, she had rich dark hair, touched with mahogany, but her eyes were a true, vivid green. She mightn’t be a classic beauty by London standards, but she radiated such charm and vitality that Aurelia thought she would take very well if she ever had a Season. “I am delighted to meet you at last, Miss Newbold. When are you and James to wed?”
“James is engaged to my sister, Amelia,” Aurelia explained hastily. “She finds herself indisposed today, but she’s asked me to send her regards, and hopes to meet you quite soon.”
Sophie colored prettily. “Forgive the misunderstanding. But you are welcome, all the same, Miss Newbold. Will you stay to take tea with us?”
“I’ve already invited them,” Sir Harry told his sister. “Is anyone else about?”
She shook her head. “Mama has gone to take some scones and cakes to Cousin Eliza. She won’t be back for some hours yet. I stayed behind to practice my violin.”
“You play beautifully,” Aurelia told her. “I noticed when we first came in.”
Sophie smiled. “Thank you. Music has always been important to my family—to most Cornish, I do believe. Do you or your sister play any instruments yourselves?”
“I play the piano, and we both sing.”
The girl brightened. “Excellent! Perhaps we might play together sometime, or even have a concert? What do you think, James?” she appealed to Trevenan.
“First things first, Sophie,” Sir Harry interrupted. “Is John out as well?”
She flashed him a dimpled smile. “He’s off visiting Grace Tregarth, as usual.”
“I see.” They exchanged a significant look. “In that case, we won’t see him until dinner.”
“And perhaps not even then, if the Tregarths invite him to dine,” Sophie replied.
A budding romance, Aurelia thought, charmed. How normal all this seemed, and how different from the formality of yesterday! She glanced at Trevenan, noticing how much more relaxed he appeared in the presence of his Tresilian kin. This was his true homecoming, she realized, among the people who knew and loved him best.
He was shaking his head now, smiling ruefully. “I can scarce believe what I’m hearing. I’m away for less than a month, and John finds himself a girl?”
“All the more reason for you to stay and have tea with us, then,” Sophie declared. “You can catch up on all the local news.” She turned to Aurelia. “And today was baking day, so we have scones, splits, and ginger biscuits freshly made. And clotted cream as well.”
“Clotted cream?” Aurelia echoed.
“Have you never had it, Miss Newbold? True Cornish clotted cream is fit for the gods.”
“My sister exaggerates, but only a little,” Sir Harry said, grinning. He clapped Trevenan on the shoulder. “Come, let us all go into the parlor, and I’ll have tea brought.”
Twenty
For slander lives upon succession
Forever housed where it gets possession.
—William Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors
Sitting in the parlor, watching Sophie show Aurelia how to eat scones the Cornish way by layering butter, strawberry jam, and finally clotted cream on top, James found it easy to forget a less pleasant purpose had brought him here today. He forced himself not to touch the letter, which he’d tucked into the inside breast pocket of his coat before setting out. Time enough for that, when he and Harry found a moment alone. But for now, he let himself bask in it all: Harry’s stalwart presence, Sophie’s ebullient gaiety, and the comfort of familiar walls around him. This was what he’d missed the whole time he’d been in London; he drank it in like a tonic now, reluctant to mar this warm family interlude.
Soon enough, everyone declared they’d eaten and drunk their fill, Aurelia agreeing that clotted cream was indeed fit for the gods. Once the dishes were cleared away, Sophie invited her to take a walk in the Tresilians’ garden. “I’m not impartial, of course, but I think it’s the loveliest in St. Perran.”
“I’d be delighted to see it,” Aurelia assured her.
“James?” Sophie turned next to him, but he shook his head.
“Thank you, cousin, but I have a few things to discuss with Harry.”
Harry glanced at him quizzically but made no demur. “I suppose we do at that,” was all he said. “Enjoy your walk, ladies.”
They went out, the fair and dark heads together, Sophie talking animatedly to her guest. They liked each other, James realized: the American heiress and the Cornish miss, fresh out of the schoolroom. Sophie and Amy would surely become fast friends too, once they met. It boded well for the future that the Newbolds and Tresilians should take so quickly to each other.
“Sophie’s grown even prettier than she was at New Year’s,” he observed. “You’ll have to beat the swains off with a cudgel, Harry.”
“So I’ve discovered.” Harry pulled a face. “As it happens, Sophie’s had a few offers since then, already.”
“Good Lord, she’s not even eighteen yet!”
“So I told the fellows in question,” Harry replied. “And at least one of them has stated his intention of waiting me out.”
James strongly suspected he knew who that might be. “Nankivell?
Harry looked startled. “How did you know?”
“An educated guess. I met him on the way. He sends his regards to you and Sophie.”
His cousin frowned, irritated. “Damn his impudence!”
James raised his brows. “I thought he was a friend of yours?”
“He is, in a manner of speaking. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to hand over my youngest sister to him, just like that. He’s more than ten years older than she, for pity’s sake!” Harry’s frown deepened. “And there are other reasons I don’t favor the match, but I shan’t go into them at present. Of course, Mother thinks it’s quite a feather in Sophie’s cap to have attached a baronet, and one of such ancient lineage, to boot.”
“How does Sophie feel about it herself?” James asked.
“Oh, she was flattered,” Harry admitted. “What young girl wouldn’t be, come to that? But she’s not yet eighteen. Time enough for her to settle on a husband when she’s had a bit more experience of the world. We’re planning to send her to London next spring, for the Season. Perhaps your wife might help her get her sea legs there, introduce her to the right people.”
Your wife. The words had an odd formality, coming from his cousin’s lips. But Harry was right. By next spring, he would be a married man. “I’m sure Amy would be delighted to lend a hand,” he said at last. “She has had quite a triumphant few Seasons herself.”
“If she’s as delightful as her sister, I can understand why. Sophie certainly seems to have taken to Miss Aurelia; she’s got a way with her.”
“They both do,” James said quickly. “Amy took London by storm when she came over from New York. I thought I hadn’t a chance with her, to tell the truth. You’ll come and dine with us this week, I hope?”
“I’d be delighted to. I know Mother’s very interested in meeting your future bride. However,” Harry’s gaze sharpened, “I do not think you drove over here today simply to invite us to dinner or to discuss Miss Newbold’s charms.”
He forgot sometimes how well Harry knew him. “No, more’s the pity. There is something I must discuss with you—and I fear it is not of a pleasant nature.” He drew the letter from his pocket and handed it to his cousin. “My cousin Helena received this a few days ago, at her country estate. She has since descended on Pentreath, demanding retribution.”
Harry read over the letter in frowning silence. “What a poisonous screed,” he remarked at last, lifting his gaze from the page. “And damned difficult to defend oneself against. It stops just short of open accusation, but one cannot mistake the meaning.”
“Well, Helena has swallowed it,
hook and line. She came roaring down from Wiltshire, Durward in tow, to strike me across the face and accuse me of complicity in Gerald’s death.”
Harry grimaced. “Sounds typical of her. She seems to begrudge you the very air you breathe. I don’t suppose you were able to send her off with a flea in her ear?”
James sighed. “Unfortunately, no. But I reminded her that I’d been seen elsewhere when Gerald apparently fell from the cliff. And I agreed that the circumstances of his death were suspicious enough to warrant further investigation. She’s staying at Pentreath for now.”
“I don’t imagine your fiancée likes that above half.”
“No, but she understands the necessity of it. Better to have Helena under our roof where we can contain her than spreading mischief abroad.” James paused. “You’ve been here all this time, Harry. Has this rumor been circulating through the county, as this letter claims?”
Harry did not reply at once, and James felt his apprehension growing.
“There’s always talk, isn’t there, at the beginning?” Harry said at last, with obvious reluctance. “I won’t deny I heard some murmurs when Gerald first turned up dead, but, to my knowledge, the inquest put paid to those. James, if I’d been aware of their resurgence, don’t you think I would have told you? And implicating me in the whole business is certainly unexpected.”
“I know. And you can’t have met Gerald as an adult more than two or three times.”
“Enough to dislike him as much as I did when we were boys,” Harry admitted. “But how our mysterious letter writer builds a case against me from nothing stronger than that amazes me.” He frowned at the letter again. “And bringing Robin into it is even more confusing.”
“Robin?” James echoed, confused. “Is he the R. P. mentioned in the letter?”
“I can’t think of who else it could be. Robin Pendarvis—you met him here, on New Year’s. He’s old Pendarvis’s grandnephew, his only surviving heir.”
Waltz With a Stranger Page 23
