Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  And her transformation was indeed remarkable to behold. The new clothes helped. She’d been well-dressed last year too, but the gown she wore tonight fit her better, or perhaps it was merely that she had put on some weight and no longer seemed painfully thin.

  She wore her hair differently too; the waving fringe across her brow and the wispy curls at her temples partly concealed her scar, though he could still detect its tracery upon her cheek, softened by the electrical light. But the skin of her throat and shoulders gleamed with the same pearly translucence as Amy’s, promised the same warmth and satiny smoothness…

  Good God! Startled by the turn his thoughts had taken, James forced them back to the woman sitting beside him: Amy, his lovely fiancée. He wondered uneasily if other men courting twin sisters experienced this sort of momentary confusion.

  The overture ended, and Amy leaned forward, her lips parting slightly in anticipation. Catching the drift of her scent, James let it anchor him to her side and the present moment, as the gold curtains opened on a scene in Venice.

  ***

  Rather to her surprise, Aurelia discovered it was possible to close off a part of her mind and focus on the spectacle before her: the colorful bands of gondoliers and contadine, the lavishly painted sets and backdrops, and the soaring voices of the principal singers.

  As the curtain descended at the interval, Amy turned to her with sparkling eyes. “Isn’t this wonderful, Relia? I think I like it as much as The Mikado, and far more than The Yeomen of the Guard!”

  Aurelia nodded agreement. “The Yeomen of the Guard was too sad for me. I hated how Jack Point ended up heartbroken and alone—” She broke off, flushing, at the vehemence that had crept into her tone.

  Fortunately, no one else seemed to have noticed. Shaking out her skirts, Amy rose from her chair. “Goodness, I’m stiff! Trevenan, might we take a turn about the foyer?”

  “Of course, my dear. Ladies,” he addressed the other inhabitants of the box, “may I escort you there, or would you prefer to remain here during the interval?”

  “You’ll come, won’t you, Relia?” Amy entreated.

  The last thing Aurelia wanted was to play gooseberry between her twin and Lord Trevenan, but how could she possibly explain that to Amy?

  “Why don’t we all go?” Aunt Caroline suggested, and that settled that.

  Gentlemen in evening dress and ladies in silks and jewels crowded the foyer, talking animatedly amongst themselves. Staying close to her mother’s side, Aurelia caught snatches of conversation as they passed, some pertaining to tonight’s performance, others to subjects completely unrelated; the London Season was in full swing, after all. Various people nodded in passing or stopped to exchange brief pleasantries. To Aurelia’s surprise, several welcomed her back to London with every indication of sincerity, as well as complimenting her on her improved appearance. She smiled and thanked them, bemused that anyone remembered her when she’d done her best to avoid Society whenever possible last year.

  “Amy, dear.” Aunt Caroline’s voice, low-pitched but holding a note of urgency, broke into Aurelia’s musings. Startled, she glanced at her twin and saw her stiffen visibly.

  Two more people were strolling toward them in a manner too deliberate to be accidental: Viscount Glyndon and a young lady, gowned in the height of fashion. Could this be Lady Louisa Savernake? She certainly carried herself like a person of consequence. Indeed, there was an air of the triumphal procession about them both, though the lady looked noticeably more pleased than her companion. “Smug” might be a better word, Aurelia thought.

  Pausing before them, Lady Louisa gushed a greeting. “Why, Lady Renbourne, Miss Newbold. I’m simply delighted to see you here tonight. This must be the rest of your family?”

  “Good evening, Lady Louisa, Lord Glyndon.” Amy’s voice and smile were equally bright. “Indeed, it is.” She undertook the introductions without further ado. Lady Louisa’s pale blue gaze passed over Mrs. Newbold and Aurelia with only cursory interest, though Lord Glyndon clasped Trevenan’s hand and punctiliously bowed over each lady’s.

  He seemed to linger a moment longer over Amy’s, and Aurelia wondered if he was ruing his bargain. Lady Louisa was fair-haired and fine-boned in the typical English fashion, but to Aurelia’s admittedly biased eye, she hadn’t so much as a spark of Amy’s charm or vitality.

  “I simply adore the works of Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan,” Lady Louisa declared. She gave Lord Glyndon’s arm an unmistakably proprietary squeeze. “And seeing this one has convinced me: we simply must go to Venice on our wedding trip!”

  “A delightful notion,” Amy replied with just the right amount of polite interest. “Allow me to congratulate you on your engagement. Have you set a date yet?”

  Lady Louisa simpered; there was no other word for it, Aurelia decided. “June is the best month, of course, but we’re considering July and August too. And at St. George’s, Hanover Square, naturally.” She tightened her grip on Lord Glyndon’s arm; Aurelia thought she saw a flicker of annoyance in the viscount’s eyes. “But what of you, Miss Newbold? Have you made any plans for your big day?”

  “Oh, Lord Trevenan and I are still discussing the details,” Amy said airily.

  “Of which there are many,” the earl interposed with equal smoothness. “But my intended can rely upon my indulgence in whatever she decides, from the church to our wedding trip.”

  Well said, Aurelia thought as Amy smiled up at Lord Trevenan; her mother and Aunt Caroline regarded him with approval as well.

  Lady Louisa seemed slightly flummoxed by their solidarity, perhaps because it provided such a contrast to Lord Glyndon’s sullen silence. “How charming,” she began, then broke off to exclaim, “Oh, look—there are the Elliots! I simply must go and give them my regards.”

  “Yes, you simply must,” Amy agreed dulcetly. Aurelia hid a smile behind her fan.

  Impervious to irony, Lady Louisa excused herself and departed, towing her fiancé in her wake like a tugboat pulling a recalcitrant barge. Aurelia darted a glance at her twin, who was still sporting a bright, fixed smile. Not for the first time, she wondered just what had passed between Amy and Lord Glyndon. If the viscount had led her sister on, when he’d no honorable intentions…A gust of protective love swept through her as she remembered the coolness that had greeted them on their debuts in New York society. Insulated by her love for Charlie, Aurelia had not cared as much, but Amy had felt the slights and snubs almost as keenly as their mother. How intolerable for her to encounter the same treatment in England!

  “My dear, are you well?” Lord Trevenan asked. Aurelia’s throat tightened at the warmth and solicitude in his voice; how he must adore her sister.

  Amy turned to him in evident relief. “Perfectly well, my lord. Shall we return to our seats? The interval must be nearly over by now.”

  “Of course.” He proffered his arm and she took it, smiling more brilliantly than ever.

  They made such a striking pair, Aurelia thought wistfully as she followed them back into the theater: Lord Trevenan so darkly handsome, her twin so radiantly fair. And she herself had cause to know that he was as kind as he was handsome, easily worth a dozen of Lord Glyndon. And wasn’t that what she wanted for Amy: a good man, an estimable man, who would value and cherish her? And his title, albeit the least of his attractions as far as Aurelia was concerned, would certainly provide all the social cachet her sister could desire.

  Mastering the ache in her heart, she steeled herself with a new resolve.

  She would not ruin this for Amy, no matter what it cost her.

  Six

  …She never told her love

  But let concealment like a worm i’ th’ bud

  Feed on her damask cheek…

  —William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

  “A gentleman to see you, Lord Trevenan,” the butler announced. “A Captain Mercer.”

  James looked up from his correspondence. “Did he state his business, Roberts?”

&
nbsp; “Not entirely, but he says it’s a matter of some urgency, pertaining to his late lordship.”

  Gerald? Frowning, James put aside the letter he’d been reading. All was well at Pentreath, according to his estate manager. Mercer…the name was unfamiliar. Still, what harm could it do to hear his business? “Thank you, Roberts. Show him in here, if you would.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The butler withdrew.

  Of all the things to which James had yet to become accustomed since inheriting the title, being addressed as “my lord” counted chief among them. So did acting as master of this huge Belgravia townhouse he had entered no more than three times in his life. Perhaps one day he’d adapt to both conditions; his household had already adjusted with surprising ease. “Captain Philip Mercer, my lord,” Roberts announced from the library doorway.

  The newcomer—a tall, brown-haired man perhaps in his thirties—advanced into the library. “Good morning, Lord Trevenan. I hope I am not disturbing you?”

  “Not at all,” James said with more politeness than truth. He gestured to an armchair opposite his desk. “Pray, be seated.”

  “Thank you.” Mercer came forward and sat down.

  Navy? James wondered as he studied his visitor more closely. Or perhaps the merchant service? Mercer had the sun-browned complexion and slightly rolling gait of someone who spent a lot of time at sea, but his accent sounded refined enough to James’s ears. For a sailor, he was quite the polished article, not at all like the hearty, sporting types with whom Gerald had usually kept company. “You wished to speak to me? On a matter of some importance?”

  “Indeed, my lord.” Mercer leaned forward, his eyes—a striking pale grey—intent on James’s face. “At the risk of distressing you, I must inform you that this matter concerns your late cousin. He and I had become business associates in the months before his death.”

  James raised his brows. “Gerald—in business?” To his knowledge, Gerald had displayed neither interest nor acumen in any business enterprise, much to the disgust of his father. Still, his cousin had always needed money to support his way of life in town.

  “Last spring, Lord Alston—as he then was—acquired a number of shares in my company, Mercer Shipping,” the captain continued. “By autumn, he had taken a more active interest in certain…practical aspects of the business.”

  “I see.” James could imagine Gerald, at his most arrogantly bullish, thrusting himself into the middle of things and trying to take over without any real understanding. Most people would find that galling, as Mercer clearly had, to judge from his tone and expression.

  “Quite.” Mercer paused, brows drawing together. He appeared to be weighing his words carefully. “Alston…well, to make a long story short, part of a shipment from last December—just before Christmas—has gone missing, and I have been unable to determine its whereabouts. I have searched several warehouses, but to no avail. As your cousin oversaw the unloading of this shipment, I wondered if he might have redirected it to some other location, and if, as his cousin, you might have been privy to this information.”

  James shook his head. “I am afraid I know nothing of this, Captain Mercer. Gerald and I were not close. Indeed, I was unaware until now that he had invested in your company.”

  “Ah.” Mercer shifted in his chair. “That is another matter I hoped to discuss with you. As your cousin’s successor, you inherited the bulk of his estate, did you not?”

  “I did,” James replied guardedly. “Except where noted in his will.” Although, if truth be told, Gerald’s will was a sketchy document at best. Like countless young men, he’d never considered the possibility that he might die prematurely and without heirs of his own body.

  “Including his shares in Mercer Shipping?”

  “I would assume so.” James kept his tone neutral. “Only our family solicitors know the whole of Gerald’s assets.”

  “I see.” Mercer cleared his throat. “Well, I would very much like to buy back your cousin’s shares, and I’m prepared to negotiate a fair price for them. Starting at—” He paused and then named an amount that made James blink.

  Control must be the crux of the matter, he realized, after the first shock had worn off. Having endured Gerald’s interference in his business, Mercer clearly did not wish to tolerate anyone else’s; James could scarcely blame the man for that. But he was in no position to grant Mercer’s request. “I fear I cannot make a decision of this nature without first consulting my solicitors. Given the extent of Gerald’s debts, they may advise against such a course at present.”

  Something inimical flickered in Mercer’s eyes; for a moment, James thought he was about to protest, then, abruptly, he capitulated. “Very well. I understand your concerns, my lord. But if you should decide to part with those shares, would you be so good as to contact me?” He took out a silver card case and handed James one of the cards. “This is my direction in London.”

  “Thank you. I will bear your offer in mind,” James assured him, setting the card down on his desk. Somewhat to his relief, he heard the mantel clock chime the hour. Eleven o’clock—he was expected at the Newbolds’ this morning. He rose to his feet, a signal for his visitor to do likewise. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I have an appointment I must keep. Good day to you.”

  Perceptive enough not to overstay his welcome, Mercer tendered his own farewells and departed. James waited five minutes, then asked for the carriage to be brought around.

  ***

  As the carriage headed toward Grosvenor Square, James mulled over his conversation with Mercer. Missing shipments, goods vanishing without a trace…the whole thing disturbed him more than he cared to admit. For all their mutual animosity, he did not like to think Gerald might have been a thief as well as a bully and a lout.

  And yet…he could not dismiss the possibility that his cousin might have done something underhanded, especially if he’d needed the money badly enough. Mercer had not been exactly forthcoming about the nature of the goods his ships transported, but if they were sufficiently rare and costly, might Gerald have sold them secretly and pocketed the profits for himself? Or planned to do so, before he met his death on the cliffs?

  Unease prickled at the back of his neck, but he could not have said whether he was more troubled by Gerald’s possible theft or the all-too-real glimmer of hostility he had sensed beneath Mercer’s polished veneer. The man was determined to regain those shares, and left to his own devices, James might have obliged him. But something seemed…off, somehow.

  He’d talk to his solicitors at the earliest opportunity, he decided. And if they thought he should sell the shares back to Mercer—well, he would do so. Mr. Newbold had already advanced him a considerable portion of Amy’s dowry to make repairs to the estate where she would one day be mistress, but James was reluctant to spend any of it on settling Gerald’s personal debts.

  Arriving at 17 Grosvenor Square, he was shown into the sitting room, furnished in Heppelwhite and decorated in soft blue. The family would be informed of his arrival, he was told. Idly studying the rather uninspired landscape painting over the mantel, he heard rippling notes of piano music coming from the room just down the passage. He listened as the notes ran up and down the scale, then shaped themselves into a somewhat familiar air.

  Chopin, he thought, after listening for a few more moments—a composition he’d heard a few times before when his cousin Jessica was practicing. But this player, while no virtuoso, was far more proficient than poor Jess. Intrigued, he left the sitting room to investigate the sound.

  What he found in the music room made him smile. He hadn’t known Amy even played the piano, much less this well. From the doorway, he glimpsed her straight back and the proud set of her head and shoulders, though wisps of spun-gold hair had escaped from her chignon to tease the tender nape of her neck. Seemingly unaware of this distraction, she played on, her fingers skimming over the keys with exhilarating speed and unerring accuracy.

  Well, perhaps not entirely
unerring, he amended, as she struck a wrong note.

  “Drat,” she muttered, just audibly enough for him to hear. And then, more vehemently, “Merde,” just before she resumed playing with the same fierce concentration.

  James stared at her, astonished. His own French was little more than passable, but some words one did not forget. Then his mouth quirked; truly, his fiancée had unknown depths. And far from shocking him, her lapse made her seem more endearingly human, less a golden goddess than a flesh-and-blood woman with the same imperfections and insecurities as other mortals.

  But the occasional error notwithstanding, her dedication to her music amazed him. He would never have guessed she could play with such intensity, such single-minded passion. Never before had she revealed this side of herself to him. Never before—

  He froze, struck by a sudden realization. And took a closer look at the pianist.

  Not Amy. Aurelia.

  Why hadn’t he remembered she was musical? The image of her swaying in time to the waltz flashed into his mind with blinding clarity. Such unconscious grace, despite her professed infirmity, and now, such unexpected skill, displayed just as artlessly.

  Loath to interrupt, he remained in the doorway, watching and listening. She’d come a long way from the girl she’d been a year ago, and yet she drew him as strongly now as she had then. Not from pity this time, but admiration—and something more he did not care to name.

  ***

  Someone was watching her. Aurelia could feel the weight of that unseen gaze upon her, but she continued to play, working her way through the alternating slow and fast movements of the piece to the last chords, which ended as softly as a sigh.

  Lord Trevenan’s voice spoke from behind her. “Well done, Miss Aurelia.”