Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  “Now, what’s happened?” he asked his cousin.

  “This.” Harry took an envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it to James. “Another one of those damned letters—sent this time to our banker in Truro.”

  “What?” James yanked out the single page at once and scanned the contents. The hand was the same, as were the vile accusations, but the tone was sharper. Less insinuating, more accusatory, though it still stopped just short of libel. More damningly, it did not hesitate to name names this time: “Harry Tresilian” and “Robin Pendarvis” were spelled out in full.

  James looked up from the letter. “When did Curnow get this?”

  “About two days ago. I went to see him yesterday about raising a loan for the hotel venture. He produced the letter and asked me if there was any truth in it. I denied it, of course.”

  “Does he believe you?” James did not want to think about how bad things would get if their family banker thought them guilty of murder.

  Harry did not reply at once, and James’s apprehension deepened. “He says he does, at least as far as you and I are concerned. He is less certain of Robin, unfortunately—not surprising since Robin’s a stranger to him. And he finds the rumor itself deeply disturbing.”

  “He’s not alone in that,” James retorted. “So, did he agree to the loan?”

  “No—at least, not yet. He wishes to be satisfied as to Robin’s character before he’ll advance us so much as a penny.” Harry exhaled. “James, I know you wish to keep this ugly affair quiet, but as Robin’s friend and future business partner, I feel I must inform him of this assault upon his character.”

  Remembering his own doubts of Robin Pendarvis’s character, James hesitated—a fraction too long, as it happened.

  Harry stared at him as if he’d become a stranger. “My God, you agree with Curnow.” His gaze sharpened. “More than that, you think Robin had something to do with Gerald’s death!”

  “I didn’t say that,” James began, uncomfortably aware of how feeble that sounded.

  “You didn’t bloody have to! I can read your face as well as you can read mine!” Harry paused, his eyes darkening. “We’re cousins, James. Blood kin. And beyond that, we’ve lived in each other’s pockets since boyhood. After all this time, does my judgment count for so little?”

  James swallowed, feeling a chasm starting to open between them. “Harry, I value your judgment as I do that of no other man living. But no one is infallible, not even you. In normal circumstances, I would gladly give any friend of yours the benefit of the doubt—”

  “Magnanimous of you,” his cousin interposed with heavy irony.

  “But these aren’t normal circumstances,” James continued as though Harry had not spoken. “There’s too much at stake, for all of us.” He emphasized the last words, paused to let them sink in, and saw with relief that their significance was not lost on his cousin.

  “Let’s not fall out over this,” he added in a more moderate tone. “I have the feeling that whoever wrote these letters would like nothing better than to see us at each other’s throats.”

  Harry opened his mouth, closed it almost at once, then sighed. “You’re right, damn it all. If we let these rumors divide us, we’ve already lost.”

  “Exactly. Whereas if we combine our forces and hold up our heads, we stand a good chance of coming through this unscathed. And whoever wrote this filth,” James struck the letter with his free hand, “will rue the day he put pen to paper.”

  “Have you any idea who the culprit might be?” Harry asked.

  “No, but someone has put an idea in my head that may be worth pursuing.” James paused. “I intend to pay a visit to my heir tomorrow.”

  “Your heir?” Harry echoed, astonished.

  “My third cousin, as it happens. Horatio Trelawney, an antiquarian. Married, with three adult children, and living on the coast a few miles north of us.”

  Harry shook his head, bemused. “I never thought to wonder who came after you.”

  “Nor did I, which gives you some idea of how unprepared I was for all this.” James sighed, rubbed a suddenly stiff neck. “I’ve spent the last two days looking him up. Wired my solicitor in London about the succession, then went hunting through the family Bible. God, there must be entries in it that go back over a century! Spoke to Aunt Judith too; she’s invaluable about such things, but even she didn’t know that Horatio was so close to the earldom. There were two other Trelawneys before him,” he explained. “But they’re now deceased. One was killed in the South African war, the other died more recently and left only daughters. My solicitor wired me this morning with confirmation of their deaths and Horatio’s position as heir presumptive.”

  “Enough to make your head spin, trying to keep it all straight,” Harry muttered. “Have you ever met Horatio Trelawney?”

  “According to Aunt Judith, Horatio and his family—some of them, anyway—came to my uncle’s funeral, and to Gerald’s. I haven’t much recollection of meeting them. I was still too stunned to find myself an earl.” Both funerals had been amply attended, James remembered, though he suspected that had as much to do with curiosity as with the exalted rank of the deceased. Gerald’s funeral, barely six months after his father’s, had drawn a particularly large crowd, doubtless owing to his youth and vigor at the time of his death.

  “In any case,” James resumed, “it has come to my attention that Horatio and his family would benefit considerably if I were out of the way.”

  Harry eyed him narrowly. “You think your heir might be behind these letters?”

  “I think we have nothing to lose by investigating this possibility,” James qualified. “I’m setting out tomorrow morning. Would you care to accompany me?”

  “Gladly.” Harry’s mouth tightened. “If nothing else, you might need a witness to whatever you see or hear.”

  “Good thinking.” James just managed to conceal his relief. The potential rift between him and Harry had been bridged. “In truth, I’d be glad of reinforcements.”

  Harry gave a brief nod. “And Robin?” His tone still held a hint of challenge. “Have I your permission to write to him?”

  “You may tell him there’s an important matter requiring his attention here,” James said, after a moment. “But no more than that, if you please.”

  “Very well,” Harry conceded, with visible reluctance. “I shan’t go into further details.”

  “Thank you. Shall we rejoin the others now?”

  ***

  Something wasn’t right. Aurelia could tell the moment Trevenan and Sir Harry reentered the drawing room. Both looked decidedly grim and tight-lipped even as they made an effort to conceal whatever was troubling them.

  Aurelia glanced at Sophie and Amy, sitting beside her on the sofa, but the two were still deep in conversation and had not yet noticed the men’s return. Lady Tresilian and Aurelia’s mother were similarly engaged. Lady Durward, seated haughtily on an armchair a little distance apart, did notice, and her pale eyes narrowed in distaste. Uneasily, Aurelia wondered just how disagreeable the countess was going to be tonight, even with Lady Talbot to keep her in check.

  Once Trevenan and Sir Harry’s appearance was observed, the formal procession in to dinner began. Aurelia found herself seated between her escort, John Tresilian, and Sir Harry, seated as guest of honor on Lady Talbot’s right. Unfortunately, the Durwards were placed almost directly opposite—a necessary evil, Aurelia supposed, since Lady Talbot needed to keep a watchful eye on her niece. For her part, she wished she was not obliged to see the woman’s sour face at such close quarters, but at least she knew there was nothing Lady Durward could say that would cow her. Besides, she was only obliged to converse with the people on either side of her; John Tresilian, who was about Andrew’s age, seemed as pleasant a fellow as his older brother.

  Dinner, always good, was excellent tonight. Trevenan’s cook had made a special effort. Lobster bisque and smoked oysters wrapped in bacon gave way to delicately poac
hed salmon with asparagus, then a green goose and a saddle of lamb. Savoring her own meal, Aurelia could not help but notice that Lady Durward consumed each mouthful as though she expected it to poison her, though she drained her wine glass several times. But her husband ate heartily enough.

  “Do you find Cornwall to your liking, Miss Aurelia?” Sir Harry inquired.

  Relieved, she turned her attention to him. “Oh, yes. I find more to enjoy here each day.”

  He smiled. “I am pleased to hear you say that. For my part, no place on earth compares. Have you decided what you like best so far?”

  “The sea,” she replied without hesitation. “I especially love taking the stairs down to the beach. Have you ever done so?”

  He shook his head. “I fear not. This is the first time I have been inside Pentreath.”

  “A pity it’s not the last,” Lady Durward observed, just audibly enough for her closest neighbors to hear.

  Aurelia blinked, scarcely able to believe what she’d just heard. Sir Harry’s green eyes cooled, but to his credit, he ignored Lady Durward’s obvious provocation, turning again to Aurelia. “Roswarne is further from the sea than Pentreath, but we have a fine beach of our own, should you wish to visit us.”

  “Best to stay at home rather than intrude where you’re not wanted.” Lady Durward again, slightly louder this time.

  Sir Harry’s mouth tightened. “I could not agree with you more, madam,” he returned, his own voice edged beneath its surface courtesy. Aurelia could hardly blame him for such a response, even though it seemed as reckless as brandishing a red flag in front of a bull.

  The countess’s nostrils flared. “In my father’s time, you and your family wouldn’t have been allowed past the gates of Pentreath, Sir Harry,” she hissed venomously.

  “I daresay. But James is master of Pentreath now, and may invite whom he pleases.”

  “A jumped-up country squire! And a suspected murderer to boot? What have you to say to that—H.T.?” Lady Durward all but flung the last words at him, her voice rising over the other conversations in the room.

  A shocked hush descended over the table. Aurelia glanced wildly toward Trevenan at the other end, saw his face darken as he set down his glass. But it was Lady Talbot, breaking off her conversation with Aurelia’s father on her left, who spoke first.

  “Helena!” she snapped. “Apologize at once! I will not have a guest insulted at our table!”

  Both combatants ignored her, the countess’s last ugly accusation hovering on the charged air between them. Sir Harry laid down his fork and locked eyes with his adversary. “Let me be frank with you, Lady Durward,” he said evenly. “I have made no secret of my dislike for your brother in life. But considering him an arrogant bully who should have been taught a lesson long ago is not the same as wishing him dead at the bottom of a cliff. Or assisting him there.”

  It happened too quickly for anyone to stop her. Only Sir Harry perhaps saw what Lady Durward intended, for he moved just one fraction to the side, so that the contents of her wine glass soaked the shoulder of his dinner coat rather than catching him full in the face.

  “Helena!” Lady Talbot stood up at once, her dark eyes blazing with cold anger. “Clearly, you are unwell. I shall escort you to your chamber so that you may recover in peace.”

  “No need to take you away from your dinner, ma’am.” Lord Durward surprised everyone by speaking up. “I shall escort my wife.”

  Lady Durward glared daggers at her husband, but to Aurelia’s astonishment, the mild-mannered earl did not quail. Instead, he pushed back his chair and stood up, pointedly offering his arm to his wife. Finally, the countess rose with ill grace and accepted his proffered arm.

  Aurelia could have sworn the whole dining room held its breath until the Durwards had left. She pitied the earl; no doubt his wife would give him an earful once they were upstairs.

  Trevenan spoke at last. “Harry, my deepest apologies. My apologies to all of you,” he added, with a glance around the table.

  Face impassive, Sir Harry nodded at his cousin and mopped at his coat with a napkin. “You are not to blame, James.”

  “Certainly not,” Lady Talbot declared. “Only Helena is responsible for her lamentable lack of self-control. But let us not permit her to spoil the evening,” she added with a determined smile. “Mr. Newbold, I believe you were telling me about the horse races at Saratoga. Have you ever attended Ascot or the Derby at Epsom Downs?”

  Aurelia’s father quickly followed her lead, and the lapsed conversations resumed, not pausing even when Lord Durward returned to the dining room to finish his dinner.

  So, the ugliness was papered over for now, Aurelia thought. But to judge from the lingering strain she saw on Trevenan and Sir Harry’s faces, it was far from forgotten.

  ***

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur. There was music in the drawing room, Aurelia remembered—Sophie had brought her violin—and everyone did their best to pretend the ugly incident at dinner hadn’t happened. The Tresilians left not long after, Sir Harry claiming an early rise, but Aurelia didn’t miss the quick glance he exchanged with James on his way out. Something was afoot, and, while it was none of her affair, she couldn’t help but wonder.

  Upstairs, she dismissed Suzanne as soon as her hair was plaited for the night. Too restless and unsettled to retire yet, she decided to go in search of a book. Something peaceful and soothing, or else so gripping that she wouldn’t mind losing sleep over it. Pulling on her dressing gown, she did up all the fastenings, secured the sash about her waist, and ventured downstairs.

  Nearing the doorway of the library, she glimpsed the glow of a lighted lamp within. Someone else was also wakeful tonight, she thought as she peered into the room.

  Trevenan sat at his desk. He’d loosened his waistcoat and dispensed with his jacket altogether, and the linen of his shirt gleamed with a ghostly whiteness in the lamplight. Beneath a shock of disordered dark hair—had he been running his fingers through it?—his expression was abstracted, almost brooding; slightly to Aurelia’s alarm, he cradled a glass of brandy in one hand.

  Hesitantly, she called to him from the threshold. “Trevenan?”

  He looked up. “Miss Aurelia. Shouldn’t you be abed by now?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she explained, coming further into the room and trying not to feel self-conscious about being in her nightclothes. At least she was decently covered, and, in his current state of dishevelment, Trevenan was in no position to cast stones. “I wondered if a book might calm me. Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

  He glanced at his lone lamp, then toward the fireplace where the evening’s blaze had subsided to glowing embers. “I find it helps me to think.”

  “Does that help you to think as well?” Aurelia gestured toward the glass in his hand.

  “Sometimes.” His mouth formed a faint, sardonic smile. “Or better still, it helps me not to think at all.”

  “That I can believe,” she retorted, a note of censure creeping into her voice.

  He raised his brows, swirled about the contents of his glass with an almost provocative air; she’d never seen him in such a mood. “You have something against spirits, then?”

  Aurelia met his gaze squarely. “No, merely the misuse of them. Consider Lady Durward’s behavior tonight. Surely you noticed how much wine she drank at dinner?”

  He exhaled, setting down his glass. “Point taken. But one brandy, after a long, trying evening, is not going to turn me into a toper or a raging boor,” he added with some irritation.

  “No, of course not,” she said at once, trying to sound placatory. “And it has been a long, trying evening. But Lady Durward’s been dealt with; she can’t do any more damage tonight.”

  Something—some shadow—flickered in his eyes, and she frowned. “But there’s something else wrong, isn’t there? Not just your odious cousin making a scene.” She took a step toward the desk and caught sight of several papers lying off to o
ne side; enlightenment dawned horribly. “Another letter?”

  From the way his brows lanced together, she suspected that he was cursing himself for not putting the pages away before she came in. “It would appear so.” His voice was curt; after a moment, he added, more normally, “The second was delivered two days ago to our banker, Samuel Curnow, in Truro. It contains the same accusations as the first, and names Harry and Robin Pendarvis as possible suspects, instead of simply hinting at their involvement.”

  Aurelia fretted her lower lip as she absorbed the implications. “Was Sir Harry able to convince your banker that the letter was libelous?”

  Trevenan sighed. “Curnow is willing to give Harry the benefit of the doubt. Robin Pendarvis, however, remains an unknown quantity.”

  “And you?” she asked. “I trust Mr. Curnow sees no reason to doubt your innocence.”

  “No, fortunately. He has discounted the slanders against myself and Harry.” He glanced down at the letters again, pulled them toward him with obvious reluctance. “All’s well and good—until the next one arrives. And there will be a next one.”

  “Yes, very likely,” Aurelia conceded with a sigh of her own.

  He smiled wryly. “I see you don’t dismiss the possibility.”

  She shrugged. “What good would that do? Ignoring an unpleasant reality doesn’t make it go away. I could wish the writer of this poison would tire of his nasty scheme or meet with an unfortunate accident himself, but that won’t stop the letters from coming.”

  “No.” He looked down at the letters, his expression darkening. “I go over these again and again, trying to find some clue, some trick of phrasing that might help me discover who could possibly hate us this much.” He reached for his glass, took another lengthy swallow.

  “Why not put it away for now and come back to it with fresh eyes tomorrow?” Aurelia suggested. “You won’t accomplish anything but a headache sitting here brooding and drinking brandy in the dark.”

  He slanted an unreadable glance at her over his glass. “Sensible Aurelia.”