Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  “Good God, Tresilian!” he exclaimed. “I assumed you meant a private word.”

  “Did you?’ Harry inquired, his tone deceptively pleasant. “Pardon the oversight. James, would you close the door?”

  James obeyed, then looked at Oliver. “This is the man, cousin?”

  “It is,” Oliver confirmed, pointing at Nankivell. “This is the man who approached me last month and paid me to write letters defaming you, Sir Harry, and Mr. Pendarvis.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Nankivell demanded furiously. “I’ve never seen this puppy in my life! And I certainly know nothing about any anonymous letters!”

  A charged silence fell, then Major Henshawe, a stocky, greying fellow whose mild expression concealed a sharp mind, inquired, “Who said they were anonymous, Sir Lucas?”

  Nankivell opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap, realizing that he’d betrayed himself. And at that moment, the door opened and a breathless Sophie burst into the room.

  “Harry!” she exclaimed. “I must speak to you at once!”

  “Not now, Sophie,” he began, but Aurelia, entering on Sophie’s heels, interrupted him.

  “Please, Sir Harry—it’s very important,” she insisted.

  Harry glanced at his sister. “Very well, then. What is it?”

  “I received an anonymous letter today,” she said, producing it from her reticule. “Saying the most awful things about you and James! I didn’t know what to do, but Aurelia told me to bring it to you right away!”

  James stared at Aurelia, as did everyone else. She colored but stood her ground with the queenly certainty he so loved in her. “I thought you’d know what to do with it, Sir Harry.”

  “Thank you, Miss Aurelia. I do indeed.” He handed the letter to Oliver. “Familiar?”

  Oliver glanced it over, nodded. “This is the last one I copied.”

  Nankivell snatched the letter from him, scanned it as well, and gave a scornful laugh. “Wrong again, gentlemen. This isn’t my handwriting!”

  “We never said it was,” James replied equably. “But this is, I believe.” He took the fourth and final letter from his breast pocket. “Oliver received it just this afternoon. As you see, it’s in the original hand. Quite different from his.” He passed it over to Henshawe for inspection.

  Nankivell paled slightly, but his mouth was tight. “You can’t prove it’s mine.”

  “On the contrary, I think we can,” Harry retorted, walking over to the writing desk in the window alcove. “My mother keeps her most recent correspondence here, including all the responses to our invitation for tonight’s party. Yours is certainly among them—and I don’t doubt it contains enough of your handwriting to show a match with that letter.”

  Emotions stormed across Nankivell’s face in rapid succession: shock at having his guilt exposed, fury at those who’d unmasked him, and even now, a stubborn unwillingness to admit defeat or wrongdoing. He clamped his mouth shut, but his very silence spoke volumes.

  “In God’s name, Nankivell, why?” Harry said at last.

  Robin spoke for the first time. “I suspect I can answer that. It comes down to money, for the most part. He’s hungry for my railway shares—and certain other things beyond his reach.”

  “Like my sister,” Harry added grimly. “I suppose this is also his revenge against me, for rejecting his suit.”

  Nankivell reddened and looked away.

  Sophie stared at her former suitor. “I would never have believed it of you, Sir Lucas! Slandering my brother, my cousin, and—Mr. Pendarvis?” A telltale flush crept into her cheeks at the last name, though she avoided looking at Robin. “Insinuating that they murdered Lord Trevenan? How could you write me something so vile?”

  “I meant to protect you, Miss Sophie!” Nankivell protested, breaking his silence.

  “Protect me?” she echoed, incredulous.

  “From him.” Nankivell gestured toward Robin, and James saw the enmity flash sharp and cold between both men. “This upstart, this Johnny-come-lately…” A sneer edged into the baronet’s voice. “Just what do you know about this fellow, Miss Sophie? I could tell you things.”

  Sophie ranged herself beside Robin, her head held high. “I know that he’s a gentleman, Sir Lucas. That’s all I need to know.”

  That silenced him, much to everyone’s surprise. Flushing again, Nankivell glanced away from his rival and the girl he’d tried to win, who would never be his now.

  “Are you now admitting to authorship of these letters, Sir Lucas?” Henshawe inquired.

  “Damn you.” Nankivell’s voice was barely audible. “Damn all of you. Yes.”

  Unruffled by the baronet’s imprecations, Henshawe resumed, “Then we must discuss whether any of you three gentlemen wish to bring a defamation suit against Sir Lucas. Or whether you would prefer him to make restitution by other means.”

  “Pardon me, Major Henshawe, but I would rather not take part in this discussion,” Robin said, his face and voice expressionless; James noticed that he did not look at Sophie. “I will go along with whatever Trevenan and Sir Harry decide.”

  Henshawe inclined his head. “Very well, Mr. Pendarvis, if you’re sure—”

  “I am.” Robin turned to his host. “I’ll be on my way home now. Good night, Harry.”

  Harry accepted his hand, his expression grave. “That might be best. Good night, Rob.”

  “Mr. Pendarvis!” Sophie protested, stretching out a hand as if to touch his sleeve. But he stepped back out of reach, with a slight shake of his head.

  “Good night, Miss Sophie.” His voice held a mixture of tenderness, regret…and finality. “And to all of you,” he added, then strode from the library without a backward glance.

  “Let him go, Sophie,” Harry urged his sister, who was gazing after Robin with such naked longing that James could not help but ache for her.

  “I can’t!” she choked out, her eyes brimming, and hurried from the room.

  After a moment, Aurelia followed, the sympathy plain on her own face. Nankivell stared at the floor, his expression bleak, even haggard now. Self-serving and calculating though he was, he may have genuinely cared for Sophie, James thought. Even the Trelawneys looked shaken.

  Henshawe alone was unaffected. “Shall we continue, gentlemen?”

  ***

  Emerging from the library some time later, James headed back toward the ballroom. The sprightly strains of music he could hear in the distance seemed to come from another world entirely, one in which bruised hearts and vicious slanders played no part.

  He caught sight of her lingering in the passage, the gaslight casting a soft glow on her golden hair and periwinkle-blue skirts. She turned her head at his approach, and their eyes met in a silent understanding James knew he would share with no one else.

  She spoke first, her blue eyes anxious. “Is everything all right now?”

  “Well enough,” he assured her. “None of us want the bother of a defamation suit, but Nankivell will be making restitution. He’s to inform Helena and Curnow in writing that the accusations against us were malicious and unfounded. Harry proposed a financial settlement as well. Nankivell’s none too pleased, but he’ll pay, rather than let his misconduct become public.”

  “There’s something I don’t understand, James. If Sir Lucas’s true targets were Sir Harry and Mr. Pendarvis, why did he drag you into this?”

  “Because an ugly rumor attached to an earl is far more sensational than one attached to a baronet or a mere mister.” He gave her a wry smile. “I was a convenient scapegoat, my dear.”

  Aurelia grimaced in disgust. “So all that trouble and distress he caused you, personally, was just so he could discredit Mr. Pendarvis and punish Sir Harry?”

  “In a nutshell, yes. But don’t forget Robin’s railway shares. If those rumors prevented him from obtaining a loan, he’d probably have had to sell them to finance his hotel scheme. And Nankivell would have been right there to snap them up.”

  S
he shook her head. “All that damage for such a petty aim! Well, at least Sir Lucas is getting his just deserts, financially. What happened with Captain Mercer?”

  James sighed. “He’s packed up his cargo and departed without incident. Whatever else he’s done, he wasn’t responsible for those letters, or for what happened tonight. How is Sophie?”

  “She’s with her mother now. Mr. Pendarvis is gone.” By the twist of her lips, he surmised that things had not gone well there. “He told her to forget him, and find someone worthier. Someone without any shadows in his past—whatever that means. Men!” she added scathingly.

  James knew better than to try to defend his sex at that moment. “Poor Sophie. I’m afraid she’s had anything but a happy birthday tonight.”

  “It’s miserable, being crossed in love.”

  The vehemence in her voice struck him like a blow to the heart. “Aurelia—”

  “Sophie’s asked me to stay the night,” she went on, avoiding his gaze. “I think I will. She’s so unhappy now—she might be glad to have a friend near. I’ll let Mother know.” She glanced at him then, and smiled with the wistful sweetness that was uniquely hers. “And you should find Amy and dance with her. It would be a shame to let that music go to waste.”

  James listened for a moment. “It’s a waltz.” He doubted he would ever hear one without thinking of her.

  Her smile trembled, then firmed again. “All the better. Good night, James.” She turned away and glided past him, disappearing into the ballroom like a wisp of blue smoke.

  Let her go, James told himself. And despite his resolve, heard deep within his heart an echo of Sophie’s cry.

  I can’t.

  Twenty-Nine

  One face looks out from all his canvases,

  One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans…

  —Christina Rossetti, “In an Artist’s Studio”

  “Mr. Sheridan?” Amy called softly at the schoolroom door the following morning.

  Receiving no response, she opened the door and peered into the room: empty. So she was here before him, for once. Well, they had returned somewhat late from the dance at Roswarne last night—and without Relia, who’d stayed behind to comfort a distraught Sophie. Amy didn’t know the whole story there, but James had mentioned that the matter of the anonymous letters had been resolved, if not altogether happily. Something to be thankful for, she mused.

  Picking up her trailing skirts, she entered the schoolroom. All was in place for her next sitting: a carved wooden chair, very like a throne, had been positioned with its back to the mullioned window, whose myriad panes glowed faintly in the pale morning sun. Sheridan’s easel and stool stood ready as well, just waiting for the artist to appear—as she was.

  They’d decided on a pose two days ago, and Sheridan had brought in some props to make the portrait more dramatic. A small but colorful tapestry would hang on the wall beyond her right shoulder, and to the left of her chair, he’d set a low table, on which a crystal bowl of newly opened roses—pink and white—would stand. And in her right hand, Amy would hold a fan of peacock feathers, just so, their iridescent hues complementing the rich blue of her draperies.

  Amy drifted over to Sheridan’s worktable, where he’d set his palette and paints. His sketchbooks were there too. He was almost always drawing something, even when he wasn’t in the studio. Idly, she drew one of the sketchbooks toward her, opened it at random, and caught her breath in shocked recognition at what she saw. Scarcely able to believe her own eyes, she continued to leaf through the sketchbook, her astonishment mounting with each successive page.

  Images of the same young woman—walking, riding, dancing, or simply sitting and gazing out to sea. Dozens of drawings, taking up more than half the pages in the sketchbook…

  “Miss Newbold!” Sheridan’s voice thundered behind her, making her jump. “What the devil are you doing?”

  Amy turned around at once. The artist loomed over her, his face as furious as his voice, his green eyes burning. “M-Mr. Sheridan,” she began, flushing like a guilty schoolgirl. “Forgive me, I was just—”

  He cut off her apology with icy precision. “I would prefer that you not invade my privacy, Miss Newbold.”

  “You left this out, for anyone to see!” she defended herself.

  “I did not expect—” He checked himself, held out his hand for the sketchbook.

  Amy held on to it stubbornly. “These drawings…they’re all of me.”

  He flushed but did not deny it. His silver tongue seemed to have deserted him, for once.

  “Thomas.” She spoke his given name for the first time, tasting the syllables, the curious rightness of them on her tongue. “How long have you been drawing these? Drawing me?”

  Sheridan cleared his throat, looked away, apparently striving for his customary nonchalance. “For a while. I’m always looking for compelling new faces to paint. I believe I told your sister as much.”

  “So you did. I was there when you tried to get her to sit for you. Except that it’s not Relia you’ve been sketching all this time—and I’d like to know why.”

  He shrugged a shoulder, still not looking at her. “One must stay in practice, after all.”

  Amy swallowed, forced words past the constriction in her throat. “P-poppycock!”

  His gaze swung back to her. “I beg your pardon?’

  “I said, poppycock!” Voice stronger now, she challenged him, “Look me in the eye, Thomas Sheridan, and tell me the real reason you’ve been drawing me.”

  “Miss Newbold—”

  “Tell me!” she insisted, locking her eyes with his.

  He went still, so still she could see the pulse beating in his throat. Suave, sophisticated Thomas Sheridan, never at a loss for words, stood there like a block, staring back at her with eyes gone the dark, dense green of malachite or forest shadows. Silence hung between them, heavy and strangely electric. And something stirred in Amy—striving to break free, reaching out blindly for what it had never known before.

  She launched herself at him, the sketchbook falling to the floor. His arms came up, though whether to receive her or ward her off, she could not say. But her arms were twining about his neck, drawing his head down. He gave a stifled groan, and then his mouth, hot as a fever, took hers.

  He kissed her hungrily, even fiercely. Not in the chaste, careful way that James kissed her, on the rare occasions he acted upon their betrothed status. Nor yet in the greedy, almost punishing way Glyndon had kissed her during that awful meeting in the conservatory. Underneath all that hunger was a tenderness and care she had never thought to find.

  And she was kissing him back just as eagerly, drowning in sensations. Not just the taste of that beautiful, ironic mouth, but the lean warmth of his body against hers, the scent of sandalwood clinging to his skin. Even his hair…she thrust her hands through its glossy, autumn-brown length, marveled at how fine and soft it felt. Such a contrast on a man who reminded her time and again of a rapier: sharp, elegant, and potentially lethal.

  But that sharpness hid a heart as tender as a new leaf, a heart that had been shattered into pieces once before…

  He grasped her shoulders and put her from him with a firmness belied by his shaking hands. Amy heard herself utter a low moan of protest that would have mortified her a day ago.

  Sheridan took a step back, shook his head as though trying to clear it. “This cannot happen.” His usually clear voice sounded husky, as if he hadn’t used it for years. “It was my fault that it even went this far. I should’ve destroyed those sketches, hidden them away…”

  It took several tries to make her own voice work. “Why didn’t you?” she whispered.

  Sheridan swallowed but did not reply. She could see the warring emotions in his eyes, the faint sheen of perspiration on his brow. How could she ever have thought him cold and detached? “I will not do this. I will not dishonor us both. I will not betray James.”

  “Thomas…”

  He shook his
head again, backed further away. “Good-bye, Miss Newbold.”

  Wrenching his gaze from her, he strode to the door and was gone before she could say another word, his footsteps dying away down the passage.

  Amy’s legs trembled beneath her, and she sank down upon the floor, her lips swollen and tender from his kisses, and the world as she’d known it knocked clean off its axis.

  ***

  “The accusations were baseless?” Helena stared at Nankivell’s letter of confession as if it had been written in Greek.

  “Entirely.” Terribly sorry to disappoint you, James thought, but he resisted the urge to say it aloud; sarcasm would accomplish nothing. “The originator of those anonymous letters had his own motives for slandering us, none of which included avenging Gerald’s death.”

  Helena frowned over the pages, but the wind seemed to have gone out of her sails, for the time being. “It appears I was—mistaken, about you and the others.” The words came out slightly strangled, but James suspected that was as much of an apology as he could expect from her.

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment, and Lady Talbot said briskly, “I am glad that ugly matter has been resolved. And now we can all concentrate on other, more pleasant things.”

  “Indeed, ma’am.” The unobtrusive Lord Durward surprised them all by speaking up from his corner of the library. “I think it is time for Lady Durward and myself to take our leave. We have imposed upon your hospitality long enough.”

  “Durward,” Helena began imperatively, but her husband stared her down.

  “Our son awaits us in Wiltshire, my lady. We must return to him.”

  The unaccustomed firmness in his tone stifled whatever protest she’d been about to make. In as quiet a voice as he’d ever heard from her, she asked, “Trevenan?”

  James did his best to conceal his surprise. “Cousin?”

  “Have you made any progress in your investigation of my brother’s death?”

  “I can tell you nothing new, I’m afraid. My most recent theory was partly disproved by what happened last night.”

  To his surprise, the admission did not provoke an angry outburst or accusations of incompetence. “Shall you continue to pursue it?” she asked, still in that subdued tone.