Sara took one, hesitated, then took another, murmuring a polite thank you. But both sandwiches were eaten, along with the laden scone and a Bakewell tart.
“May I give Lovelace a sandwich, Lady Trevenan?” she asked. The spaniel, seated at her feet, was gazing up at her with hopeful, melting eyes.
“Just one,” Aurelia cautioned. “He’s indulged enough as it is. And perhaps one of the egg sandwiches—the spices in the deviled ham might not agree with him.”
Sarah set an egg-and-cress sandwich down before the dog, who devoured it with surprising daintiness.
“Are James and Jared anywhere about?” Sophie inquired, selecting a cake decorated with a crystallized violet. “I’d have expected them to descend on this bounty as well.”
“Later, no doubt, but they’re at the stables just now. James is teaching Jared to ride—or, rather, he’s leading him around the paddock on a very old and placid pony,” Aurelia qualified. “He might be ready for a pony of his own next year.”
“So he’s not afraid of horses?”
“Not in the least—no fear, no sense,” Aurelia said with mingled pride and exasperation. “Typical Trelawney, according to James. Typical male, I say.”
They all laughed, even Sara, though Sophie wasn’t entirely sure how much the child understood. But there was something cozy and familiar about this whole scenario: women sharing a jest about the exasperating nature of men.
“So, Sara, Aurelia tells me you’re fond of music?” she inquired, offering the girl the plate of sandwiches again.
Sara nodded, her eyes brightening, and took another ham sandwich. “It’s my favorite subject. Along with French.”
“Are you learning to play an instrument?”
“Miss Polgreen started me on piano before she left to get married last month,” Sara replied. “She said I was making progress, but I was only playing scales then.”
“Well, we all have to start there,” Aurelia said consolingly.
Sara turned to Sophie. “Do you play an instrument, Miss Tresilian?”
“Yes, the violin. I started when I was just about your age. My brothers used to claim I made the most dreadful noises at first, just like a cat yowling.” Sophie made a sound similar to Tatiana at her most vocal, and Sara giggled. “But I did improve with time—and practice.”
“Sophie’s a very good violin player, but an even better singer,” Aurelia told Sara. “My dear, would you give us a song or two?” she appealed. “I still regret being unable to see you at the Albert Hall.”
“Well, if Sara would like it,” Sophie began.
The girl nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, please!”
“And you’re willing to provide the accompaniment—”
“Of course,” Aurelia agreed, smiling.
“Then I’d be happy to,” Sophie finished, setting her plate aside and rising to her feet.
***
The voice, silver-clear and limpid as spring water, stopped Robin in his tracks.
Transfixed, he stood and listened as it wove a familiar spell around him, soothing away the ravages of a trying day like the stroke of a gentle hand.
No need to inquire the source. Handing his hat and coat to Pelham, he followed the sound down the passage to the drawing room. He found himself smiling as he recognized the words: “The Mermaid’s Song,” as sung by a Nereid.
Sophie had embarked on the second verse by the time Robin reached the drawing room. Loath to disturb the performance, he hovered in the doorway, watching her, slim and straight beside the piano. Aurelia was providing a deft accompaniment, the instrument trilling merrily beneath her fingers. And Sara sat listening raptly, her eyes dreamy, her lips curved in a smile of pure pleasure.
Robin’s heart ached at the sight. It seemed a lifetime since he’d seen his daughter smile like that, with such unguarded happiness—since before Cyril’s death, surely. He already loved Sophie to distraction, but he loved her just a bit more for giving Sara such a treat. He hoped that boded well for their eventual future as a family.
The song ended, and Robin joined his daughter in applauding the performers. Hearing the sound of two more hands clapping, Sara glanced toward the door and broke into a smile.
“Papa!” She sprang up from her chair and rushed to meet him.
“Hullo, sweeting.” He stooped to embrace and kiss her, then turned to the ladies, smiling beside the piano. “Aurelia, Miss Sophie—that was charming. Pray, don’t let me interrupt.”
“That’s quite all right; we were just finishing up.” Sophie’s dimpled smile flashed briefly. “The performer’s motto: always leave the audience wanting more!”
“I can’t persuade you to give an encore?” he asked.
She hesitated, then smiled more brilliantly. “Only if Sara’s willing to join us.” She turned to Robin’s daughter. “Has your governess taught you to sing as well?”
Sara gave a shy nod. “Mostly folk songs.”
“Have you a favorite?”
“I like ‘English Country Garden.’”
“So do I.” Sophie held out a hand to her. “Why don’t we all sing it, just for your papa?”
Sara blushed but joined her willingly at the piano, as Aurelia played the introduction. While hesitant at first, Sara soon joined her sweet-toned treble to Sophie and Aurelia’s sopranos, the three voices weaving a delightful harmony. Robin applauded more vigorously at the close.
“Brava!” he declared. “Excellently done!”
Smiling, Aurelia rose from the piano. “Such appreciation surely deserves a reward. I’ll have more tea brought at once.”
Sara perched on the arm of Robin’s chair as he had his tea, talking more animatedly than she had since learning of Nathalie’s death. Much to his relief, she seemed to have taken a genuine liking to Sophie, who—even better—appeared to reciprocate. “Can Miss Tresilian come to the Hall and see our music room, Papa? We have a piano and a harpsichord,” she added proudly to Sophie, who was sitting opposite them on the sofa.
“Oh, can you play the harpsichord too?” Sophie asked with unfeigned interest.
“A little. It’s not too different from a piano, except the sound’s all… silvery—like a music box. Only,” a shadow crossed her face, “Maman wouldn’t let me play it last time. She said it was out of tune, and made me leave the music room.”
“Is it? Then I’ll have someone in to fix it, sweetheart,” Robin promised.
Sara bit her lip. “I was mad at her,” she confessed in a low voice. “And now…”
Robin put his arm around her. “I am sure Maman knows you aren’t mad at her anymore,” he said gently. “And that she has long since forgiven you.”
Or she would have if she’d ever devoted as much attention to your feelings as to her appetites. But that was a bitter thought, and unworthy to share with his daughter. Sara looked slightly consoled by his words, which was all that mattered.
They were spared further awkwardness by the entrance of James and Jared, the latter boisterous from the excitement of his first riding lesson. Aurelia’s spaniel, resting at her feet, leapt up and frisked over to the new arrivals. A noisy, cheerful family interlude ensued, in which everyone seemed to be talking at once. Not even attempting to compete, Robin leaned back in his chair, let the day’s frustrations and annoyances fall away, and enjoyed it all.
Perhaps someday he too would experience this sort of happy chaos, when he, Sophie, and Sara had formed their own family. Cyril’s place would always be vacant, but perhaps, God willing, other children would come along to make places of their own. He caught Sophie’s eye and suspected from the softness of her smile that her thoughts were running along similar lines.
Eventually, Nanny Odgers appeared to reclaim her charges, ushering them upstairs for baths before supper. Sophie asked Aurelia if she might look through those books on heraldry she’d mentioned earlier, and Robin quickly offered his assistance in fetching and carrying. They withdrew to the library, leaving their hosts to enjoy some muc
h-desired privacy.
“I was surprised to see you here today,” Robin told Sophie as they stepped over the threshold. “Delighted, but surprised.”
“Aurelia invited me to take tea with her this afternoon, and mentioned Sara would be present. So I couldn’t pass it up. Your daughter’s lovely,” she added, smiling. “I look forward to getting to know her better.”
Robin spared a moment to be grateful for Aurelia’s handling of the situation. He’d wanted Sara and Sophie to meet as well, but he suspected he wouldn’t have arranged their first encounter nearly as deftly. “She appears to have taken to you also. I was glad to see all of you having such a pleasant time together.”
“From the look of it, I’d say we had a better afternoon than you,” Sophie observed, eyeing him closely. “What’s wrong, dear heart? Did things not go well with Inspector Taunton?”
“Things did not go at all with Taunton—he’s been sent back to Newquay.”
“What? When did this happen?”
“Early this morning, according to the constables,” Robin replied. “He and Sergeant Jenkins have both left St. Perran, though no one could give me the particulars of their removal. So I rode over to Newquay in search of a fuller explanation.”
“Did you speak to Taunton?”
“He wasn’t available to be spoken to, but his superior was.” Robin took a breath, trying to quell the anger that rose to the surface when he remembered their exchange. “I’ll spare you all the infuriating details, but the police have decided not to proceed further with their investigation at this time.”
Sophie stared at him. “But… how can they? Nathalie’s killer—”
“Was most likely some chance intruder whose main interest was in Nathalie’s jewels. They believe that he has long since left the area with his ill-gotten gains and will be difficult, if not impossible, to trace,” Robin finished stonily.
“That wasn’t the song they were singing yesterday when Taunton all but accused you of arranging to have Nathalie killed.”
“No. And moments later, I put Taunton onto Nankivell’s scent. My guess is that he proceeded to interrogate Nankivell or went straight to his superior with the information. Whichever it was, the timing is—interesting, to say the least.”
Sophie nodded her understanding. “Because, barely a day later, he’s removed from the case and sent back to Newquay. Do you think Sir Lucas complained to his superior?”
“Nankivell or someone with even more influence in the county. My money’s on George Boscawen, personally.”
Her eyes widened. “Sir Lucas’s stepfather?”
Robin gave a grim nod; the baronet’s widowed mother had remarried not long after Nankivell succeeded to his title. “Major Henshawe retired as magistrate last year. Captain Boscawen took his place and is now cutting quite a figure in St. Perran. And I have no doubt that Mrs. Boscawen—the former Lady Nankivell—would exert whatever influence she has on her husband to prevent the police from looking into her son’s part in all this. I could almost sympathize—if it weren’t for the possibility that her son murdered the mother of my daughter.”
“Do you truly believe Sir Lucas killed Nathalie?”
Robin barked a laugh. “He’s slandered me. Cuckolded me. Served me any ill turn he can. Why should he balk at widowing me too?” Then, before Sophie’s steady gaze, he admitted grudgingly, “I don’t know, to be honest. Initially, I wouldn’t have thought so. Not because he’s incapable of murder, but because I can’t envision him committing this one.” He vividly recalled the livid weal about Nathalie’s throat, a silent testament of the killer’s rage. “There was… passion in the deed—and Nankivell is too cold, too calculating for that. I doubt he’d go to such an extreme unless he felt himself to be severely threatened. Even when he was slandering me, James, and Harry five years ago, he endeavored to keep his own hands clean.”
“You don’t think he could have hired someone to kill her?” Sophie asked.
“That’s slightly more plausible, but still…” Robin shook his head. “I just don’t know.”
“What do you mean to do, now that the police have backed off?”
He met her gaze squarely. “Keep searching on my own. What else can I do?”
Sophie nodded, not questioning, not protesting, and his heart seemed to swell at how perfectly she understood him. He wouldn’t have blamed her, or any woman, for asking him to accept that the investigation was closed and to let the matter drop. Instead, she turned briskly to the bookcases looming before them. “We should get started, then. That ring’s the only other evidence we’ve got so far, and I’m nowhere near to identifying the coat of arms yet.”
Relief poured through him in a sweet, sustaining flood. His partner, his true mate—at long last, he’d got it right. “Did you bring the ring with you?”
She shook her head apologetically. “I was worried about misplacing it, so I left it behind at Roswarne, among my things. But I made a wax impression of the crest,” she added. “And it’s definitely a bull’s head, wearing some sort of collar. I couldn’t find anything like it in our heraldry books, but we only have two in our library, so that wasn’t surprising. Aurelia says they’ve got a much wider selection here—at least two shelves devoted to the subject!”
Robin felt his spirits lift, in spite of everything. “Then let’s get started, my love. Against the left-hand wall, wasn’t it?”
As one, they turned to the task before them.
Twenty-one
And graven in diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about…
—Sir Thomas Wyatt, “Whoso List to Hunt”
Entering the ballroom at Roswarne, Sophie caught her breath. Mama had done a beautiful job with the flowers: arrangements of white calla lilies and golden roses—Grace’s favorites—stood in green jasperware vases, placed throughout the room. The sunny hues brightened the room even more than chandeliers.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Cecily remarked, coming up behind her. “I always wish I had Mama’s eye for flowers.”
Sophie murmured her assent. “Grace will be delighted, and John is pleased by whatever pleases her, so they should both be very happy.”
They exchanged a smile. “Someday we’ll be celebrating your engagement here,” Cecily predicted. “Yours and Robin’s.”
Sophie felt herself flush but made no demur. “Perhaps.”
“Almost certainly.” Cecily slipped her arm around Sophie’s waist. “It’s high time you were happy, Lark. I know how hard these last four years have been—for both of you. Just know that we’re all behind you on this.”
Grateful beyond measure, Sophie returned her sister’s embrace. “Even Harry?”
“Even Harry,” Cecily confirmed. “I know he wasn’t happy about the way Robin handled things before, but he’s come round. And he’s finally accepted that, as far as you’re concerned, the choice was made long ago. As he should,” she added a touch critically. “He’s seen this often enough in our family. And I’ll wager he’ll be just the same when he meets his future wife.”
Sophie couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t suppose he’s any closer to finding her, is he?”
Cecily shook her head, smiling too. “No, but there are several ladies who aspire to the position. Mama is trying to make sure he cultivates their acquaintance, but so far he’s eluded the net. I think it’s time he settled down, rather than continue with his—present association.”
She meant the widow with whom Harry had kept discreet company for the past two years. From what Sophie had heard, Mrs. Bettesworth enjoyed her freedom far too well ever to remarry, her late husband having been something of a martinet.
“Maybe he just hasn’t met the next Lady Tresilian yet,” she observed, then tactfully changed the subject. “Have you a moment to go over the programme, Cecy? Grace got her list of songs to me this morning. Nothing too complicated, but have we ever performed this one?”
Cecily glanced over the list S
ophie handed her. “I’m not sure, but let’s see if one of our songbooks has the words.”
Arm in arm, they started for the music room.
“You look splendid, by the way,” Cecily added, regarding Sophie with an approving eye.
“Not too splendid, I hope. This is Grace’s evening, after all.” Sophie glanced down at herself a trifle anxiously. Given the circumstances of her return, she’d left her grandest evening gowns in London, packing only a few of the more subdued ones. But she’d found a way to brighten this one—silk faille in a dusky shade between wine and rose—with a band of paler rose ribbon, so it didn’t look too somber.
“No, not at all,” Cecily assured her. “Just stylish and sophisticated. I can scarce recognize my little sister. Even that necklace looks right—and normally I don’t care for jet at all.”
Sophie touched the sparkling collar of Whitby jet at her throat; matching earrings dangled from her lobes. “It doesn’t look like mourning jewelry?” She’d thought of donning Robin’s pearls for the occasion, but the timing just hadn’t felt—appropriate.
Cecily shook her head. “It’s fine. The color of the dress helps. I could never wear anything so vivid myself.”
“Well, I don’t think I’d look as well as you in powder blue,” Sophie told her. “And that lace is gorgeous—Valenciennes?”
Her sister nodded. “This gown is one of Arthur’s favorites,” she began, then stopped short on the threshold of the music room. “Oh, Essie—no!”
Three-year-old Esther Penhallow stood on the piano bench, dangling her doll over the inside of the instrument. Shaking her head, Cecily hurried to retrieve her youngest daughter.
“Not in the piano, my love,” she said firmly, scooping the child up in her arms. “Mummy won’t be able to play tonight if you put Dolly in there.”
Sophie frowned, something tugging at the back of her mind. But before she could get a hold on whatever it was, the Penhallows’ nursemaid arrived, pink-cheeked and panting. “I’m that sorry, missus!” she apologized. “I turned my back on Miss Essie for just one minute—”
Pamela Sherwood Page 31
