Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  “That’s some months away as yet,” Amy objected, seating herself on the sofa across from Aurelia’s chair. “I should think we could at least make a push to find someone suitable for you before then.” Her face brightened. “How wonderful if you were married or at least engaged within the year! You could stay with Trevenan and me until your own wedding.”

  Aurelia dropped her gaze to the floor. She had not discussed her plan to remain in New York after Amy’s wedding. How could she, knowing how it would distress her twin? Nor had she mentioned that moonlit encounter with Charlie at their birthday ball, or Charlie’s attempts to call on her these last two days; fortunately, she had been out of the house at both times. So many secrets she was keeping now—and from the one person to whom she had once told everything.

  And Amy had had her share of distressing experiences that evening. All the Newbolds had been shocked to hear that Lord Glyndon had made such improper advances toward her, and grateful that Trevenan and Mr. Sheridan had been on hand to save her. Amy had been so shaken by the encounter that Aurelia hadn’t had the heart to be angry with her for telling Andrew about Charlie, especially after her twin had apologized profusely for her breach of confidence.

  She looked up at a sound from the doorway and saw a footman entering the sitting room bearing the morning post on a silver tray. Letters for both of them today, along with the latest issues of the Society magazines Amy read so avidly. Receiving her own mail, Aurelia broke into a smile when she saw the direction and French postage stamp on the topmost letter. Whatever the delights of Nice or Paris, Claudine had not forgotten her young American friend.

  She glanced up to share the news with Amy, only to find that she’d fallen silent. Too silent—and The London Lady and Town Talk both lay forgotten on the sofa beside her. “Dearest, what is it?”

  For answer, Amy held out the letter she had been reading. “It’s from Lord Glyndon.”

  “Lord Glyndon?” Aurelia echoed, dumbfounded. “What on earth—?”

  “It’s—I think it’s his idea of an apology.”

  Astonished, Aurelia took the letter and ran her gaze over it. Only a few lines, but the meaning—however stiffly worded—seemed clear enough, as did the phrases “deeply regret” and “sincere apologies for the offense.” The page also bore Glyndon’s full signature, and the envelope Amy had passed her along with the letter carried the Harford seal. “Well,” she said at last, “it appears genuine enough. At least he is attempting to make proper amends.”

  Amy’s lips curved in a faint, wintry smile. “Oh, I very much doubt Lord Glyndon came up with the idea of writing this himself.”

  “Then who?”

  “I suspect Mr. Sheridan had a hand in this.”

  “You think he wrote the letter and signed his cousin’s name?”

  “No.” Amy’s expression thawed fractionally. “But I suspect he pressured Glyndon into doing so. He did say—that night—that he would see to the matter.”

  Aurelia handed back the letter. “Well, if he is responsible for Glyndon owning up to his behavior, I can only applaud him.”

  “Yes.” Amy surprised her by agreeing. “I should call on him, I suppose—and thank him again for his intervention.” She stood up. “I have to speak to him anyway, about my portrait.”

  “Do you need me to accompany you?” Aurelia asked, reluctantly laying her letters aside.

  Amy shook her head. “No, thank you, dearest. If I require a chaperon, I can always take Mariette.” She glanced at her morning dress. “I’ll just go up and change.”

  Looking somewhat distracted, she left the sitting room. Aurelia gazed after her in bemusement. Matters did seem to have improved between her sister and Mr. Sheridan, she mused, which must be a relief to Trevenan.

  Her glance fell on Lord Glyndon’s discarded missive, and the thought occurred to her that the viscount’s letter had served at least one more useful purpose: Amy had become far too preoccupied to continue the subject of finding her a husband. She picked up her letters again, sifted through them—and froze when she saw the handwriting on the last one. Handwriting she had not set eyes on in more than three years.

  Charlie—making one more attempt to reach her.

  ***

  As before, Mr. Sheridan was out but expected to return shortly, so, at Amy’s request, his housekeeper again showed her into the studio to wait for him.

  She was not, however, destined to wait alone, for the studio was already occupied. A fashionably dressed young woman with brown hair stood before the nearest wall, admiring Sheridan’s handiwork.

  “Lady Warrender!” Amy exclaimed in startled recognition.

  “Miss Newbold.” The baroness sounded surprised but not at all perturbed by Amy’s presence here. “Have you come to offer Thomas a commission?”

  Thomas. Belatedly, Amy recalled what Trevenan had told her of the friendship that had existed between Sheridan’s family and Lady Warrender’s. “Indeed. Mr. Sheridan has agreed to paint my portrait as a wedding gift for my fiancé.”

  “An excellent notion. You could not have chosen a more gifted artist, or one whose work is more likely to please Lord Trevenan. Have you decided upon a gown and a setting?”

  “Not just yet. Those are among the details I hope to discuss with him today.”

  “Well, Thomas will certainly do you justice. He has the most extraordinary way of capturing the very heart and soul of his subjects.” Lady Warrender’s gaze went to Elizabeth Martin’s portrait, and her smile turned soft, even wistful. “The very heart and soul.”

  Amy glanced at the portrait as well, remembering how she had admired it on her first visit. She could now see the resemblance between the girl in the painting and the woman gazing at it so fondly, though the girl’s expression was merrier. “And this was your sister?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

  “Yes, my sister Elizabeth. She died when she was only seventeen. We were just two years apart, and very close.”

  “I am so sorry,” Amy said with complete sincerity. How could she not sympathize with one who had lost a beloved sister? Those first days after Relia’s accident, when they had all feared for her life, were permanently etched on her memory. Even thinking about them chilled her to the very marrow.

  Lady Warrender regarded her for a moment. “Yes, you, of all people, would understand,” she said more warmly, then sighed. “She was the elder, in life. Now I am almost a decade her senior. It has been … difficult to accept, at times.” She looked back at the portrait. “Thomas finished this six months after her death. The original is at my parents’ estate, in Devonshire.”

  “The original?” Amy echoed. “You mean, this is a copy?”

  “As close a one as he could manage. I hope it comforted him as much as ours did us.”

  “He held your sister in high regard, then?”

  “They were to be married, my dear.” Lady Warrender paused. “And it was a love match.”

  “Really?” Amy glanced at the portrait again. This laughing, fresh-faced girl and the sophisticated, blasé artist, who’d had a number of discreet liaisons with equally sophisticated, blasé Society women, if rumor were to be believed? And yet he could not have always been so.

  “Our families have been neighbors for years, in Devonshire,” Lady Warrender explained. “My brothers, my sisters, and I were playmates of the Sheridans.” She paused, lips curving at the memory. “We were this great pack of children running wild over the Devon moors, squabbling over our tea, and planning endless excursions here and there.

  “But even then there was something special between Thomas and Elizabeth. He was her staunchest defender when she was a little girl, while she was his most loyal ally when he chose to study art. They had a deep trust in each other that was—quite beautiful to see.” Lady Warrender’s brown eyes misted slightly. “And so, in due course, they became engaged and planned to wed after Thomas was finished at university. But during his first year at Oxford, she took a severe chill and die
d within a few days. It was…a very great shock to us all. She had always been so lively and robust.” She paused again, fished a handkerchief from her reticule, and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, dear. Please forgive me…”

  “No need, Lady Warrender,” Amy broke in hurriedly, half-wishing she’d never asked the question that led to this painfully sensitive subject. “I understand completely.”

  The baroness gave her a sweetly tremulous smile before tucking the handkerchief away. “So,” she resumed, “Thomas has always been dear to our family, for his own sake and for hers. I rejoice in his success, as Elizabeth would have done, and I like to think that she watches over him, even now. Although,” she added, “I cannot think she would approve of everything he has done in the last ten years. Or of the company he has sometimes kept.” The faint censure in her tone made her meaning unmistakable, and Amy’s own thoughts went irresistibly to Lady Crowley. “On reflection, I really do think it would be best if Thomas were to marry.”

  Amy found the thought of Mr. Sheridan married even more disconcerting than the thought of him engaged. But Lady Warrender knew him far better than she. “A suitable wife would surely be a benefit to his career,” she ventured.

  “Oh, indeed. But that is not why I propose it.” Lady Warrender studied the portrait once more. “Thomas’s own gifts and his dedication will ensure his success as an artist. But for Thomas the man…I should like to see him in love, truly in love, again. And loved in return.”

  “You would not mind that, even though he was betrothed to your sister?”

  “Oh, I admit, I once would have found it difficult to see Thomas with someone in what should have been Elizabeth’s place,” Lady Warrender confessed. “But to expect him to remain a bachelor forever, when he might find happiness elsewhere, would be selfish and unreasonable. Elizabeth loved him dearly; they were the best of friends, as well as true sweethearts, but she had the most generous of hearts. I think she would want him to be happy again, after—”

  She broke off at the sound of footsteps in the passage. The door opened a moment later, and the man they’d been discussing stepped into the room. To Amy’s surprise, Sheridan’s face lit with a genuine smile of welcome at the sight of Lady Warrender.

  “Eleanor, this is a surprise! And Miss Newbold,” he added, nodding in Amy’s direction. “To what do I owe the honor of being visited by two lovely women this afternoon?”

  “Silver-tongued as ever,” Lady Warrender declared, with a fond shake of her head. She came forward, hands outstretched to clasp Sheridan’s own, and they exchanged a light, brief kiss.

  “You know how I love to visit and see all your latest works,” the baroness continued. “But today I have a particular purpose in mind. My son will be a year old in September, and Warrender wishes to have a portrait painted of the three of us. I know how much in demand you’ve become these days, so I wanted to give you plenty of notice.”

  “Much obliged, my dear,” Sheridan said, with mock-gravity. “Is it to be Wyldean Hall?”

  “Where else? I shall be at some pains to convince Warrender to relax and appear more natural. He does take his role as head of the family so seriously.”

  “Between us, we might be able to persuade him to unbend a trifle. To say nothing of young Piers.”

  They continued in this vein, bantering lightly back and forth as Sheridan arranged the time and place of the Warrenders’ first sitting. Amy remained silent, studying her former nemesis with new eyes. The cool, detached artist who had roused her distrust and—at times—her dislike was gone; in his place stood a far more engaging stranger. But then, he could not always have been as jaded or cynical as she’d first thought him. He and James were close friends, and just now she had seen the unguarded affection on his face when he greeted Lady Warrender. She could imagine that man as Elizabeth Martin’s lover—warm, ardent, alight with youthful hopes and dreams. Had her loss frozen that warmth into insensibility? She found herself hoping it was not so, then wondered with some irritation why it should matter to her.

  “But I must be going now,” Lady Warrender said at last. “And Miss Newbold, who has been waiting so patiently there, no doubt has business to discuss with you as well.” She gave Sheridan a brief parting kiss. “Take care, dear Thomas.”

  He lowered his head to return the salute. “And you, my dear Eleanor.”

  After Lady Warrender had taken her leave, he glanced quizzically at Amy. “You are here about the wedding portrait, I surmise?”

  “Among other things.” She hesitated, then pressed on firmly, “First of all, I owe you my thanks for the other night. For coming to my aid against your own cousin.”

  Sheridan actually smiled at her. “You need not reproach yourself on that account, Miss Newbold. Glyndon and I are not especially close.”

  “Perhaps not, but I should not like to cause trouble between you and the Harfords.”

  “On the contrary, I believe I stand in fairly good odor with them at present.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “My encounter with Glyndon has apparently given him more enthusiasm for his marriage to Lady Louisa.”

  “I wish her joy of him then,” Amy said feelingly. It still rankled, that she’d been so taken in by Glyndon’s polish—and his title, she admitted—that she hadn’t seen far sooner what a lout he was. A lout and a milksop, too spineless to stand up to his parents but not above fondling another man’s fiancée in private. Her skin crawled at the memory; James would never grope her so. He had been so gentle, so understanding with her in the conservatory. As had Mr. Sheridan.

  “I rather doubt Lady Louisa expects joy from Glyndon, but it’s a laudable sentiment all the same,” Sheridan said dryly.

  Amy suppressed a reluctant smile, and continued, “In addition, I have received a letter of apology from Lord Glyndon this very morning. I assume I have you to thank for that as well?”

  “Ah.” Sheridan paused. “Only in part. Let’s just say that my Uncle Harford and I convinced Glyndon that an apology should be forthcoming. I am relieved to hear that, graceless as his behavior has been, my cousin has performed his duty in that regard.”

  “And I assume my duty is to accept that apology?” Amy sighed. “Well, I can do that much, I suppose. I only hope he does not feel obliged to call on me as well.”

  “You may rest easy on that score, Miss Newbold. There will be no meeting between you and Glyndon, for he has left London as of this very morning.”

  Amy felt an almost palpable sense of relief at the news. “He’s been sent to Coventry?” she inquired, recalling that unusual English phrase that meant severe punishment.

  “Northernmost Scotland, actually, but the result is essentially the same. My uncle has sent him to tend to an estate matter there.”

  She frowned. “Is that truly an appropriate punishment?”

  “To one who enjoys Society as much as Glyndon, it is severe indeed,” Sheridan replied. “But at least his face should have time to recover.”

  “His face?” she echoed, startled.

  “He’s—acquired a few bruises since last you saw him.”

  Sheridan’s tone was neutral, but Amy’s gaze went at once to his right hand, now resting casually upon the mantelpiece. Did his knuckles look—just a trifle swollen? Before she could muster the nerve to ask, he changed his position—and the subject.

  “But enough of Glyndon. What was it you wished to discuss, regarding the portrait?”

  Amy did her best to rally. “Well, I had wondered if we might manage one sitting this week,” she began, “but I’m to leave for Cornwall tomorrow.”

  “Would you prefer to wait until your return to London?”

  “Would that give you enough time? We are to be at Pentreath for at least a month, and then I expect I will be returning to New York soon after that to prepare for the wedding.” Amy paused, fretting her lower lip. “I am not sure how best to manage this…”

  “There might be a way around the problem,” Sheridan interposed. “If you are amenable
to it, that is.” He paused, his expression unreadable. “James has invited me to Cornwall as well. He points out that I have long wanted to paint the sea there. I have not yet given him a response.”

  “But you are his friend. Why would you not go? And why would you think me not amenable to it? Indeed,” she added, struck by a sudden inspiration, “your coming to Cornwall might be the perfect solution. You know James barely tolerates London. Cornwall is his true home. What could be better than having my portrait painted there, in one of his favorite places?”

  “The garden at Pentreath, perhaps.” Sheridan’s green eyes took on a dreamy cast. “Or even upon a cliff-top, gazing out to sea, like Iseult the Fair. Toward Ireland—no, toward Brittany and Tristram…”

  “Whichever you prefer.” Personally, Amy had never been much interested in Arthurian legends. Relia found them far more intriguing; the other day, she’d pointed out that mythical Lyonesse was often identified with Cornwall and hoped that they might see Tintagel Castle. Amy was more eager to see Pentreath, the estate of which she would soon be mistress. Carpenters, roofers, and stonemasons were already at work on the parts of the house most in need of repair; it was only good sense to see how the Newbold money was being spent. “So, will you come? You could kill two birds with one stone—paint the sea and fulfill your commission.”

  “Most efficient,” he agreed, a faint smile hovering about his lips. “Very well, Miss Newbold. You may consider me persuaded. I’ll send my acceptance to James at once.”

  “Excellent,” Amy said briskly. “Shall you be traveling down with us as well?”

  “No, I’ve some business to attend to in London first. But I’ll be along a few days later.”

  For just a moment, Amy wondered if that business included Lady Crowley or someone like her. Then she put that thought firmly aside; it was none of her affair, after all. “Very well—we shall expect you then.” She picked up her reticule from the sofa. “Thank you, Mr. Sheridan. I wish you a pleasant afternoon.”