Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  “I tried to put them someplace above the waterline. The tide would have had to rise far higher to reach my hiding place.” He paused. “Some of my old playthings may even still be there, unless someone’s found and made off with them.”

  “Would it bother you if they had?”

  After a moment’s thought, James shook his head. “Not after all this time. Besides, I went back before I left for university and retrieved anything I thought I might grieve to lose. Hiding my things in the cave was mainly my way of keeping them—out of certain hands.”

  “Your other cousin—Gerald?”

  James glanced at her, momentarily startled; given their looks, it was easy to forget how perceptive she and Amy both were. “Very astute of you,” he said at last. “Yes, it was Gerald I had in mind. Not that he ever spent much time round the caves or on the beach, for that matter. He used to claim that just looking at the sea gave him mal de mer, much to my uncle’s disgust. But that didn’t stop him from trying to find out our special places, by one means or another. I suspect he resented anyone having secrets that didn’t include him.” Spoiling something for his “commoner” cousin would have appealed to Gerald as well, James reflected.

  “He must have been a difficult person to deal with,” Aurelia said after a moment.

  James smiled without humor. “He was. But then the same could be said of just about everyone on my father’s side of the family—Aunt Judith excepted, of course.”

  Aurelia fretted her lower lip. “Trevenan, this situation with Lady Durward—”

  “It’s nothing with which you or your family need to concern yourselves,” James said quickly. “I assure you, Helena’s accusations are groundless, and I am fully prepared to address any further unpleasantness on that score.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but I should think this matter does concern Amy—at least to some extent,” Aurelia contended. “My sister is to be your bride and live here with you. Imagine how hard it will be for her if this cloud over your head is not dispersed well before your wedding.”

  “A valid point,” James admitted.

  “Amy’s already told me that your cousin died in a fall, and you were shown to be miles away at the time,” she went on. “So why has Lady Durward accused you of something you obviously didn’t do? Does she dislike you that much?”

  “It’s—a bit more complicated than that.” James paused, then continued reluctantly, “The truth is, the exact circumstances of Gerald’s death are somewhat unclear. And I suppose the nature of our relationship might have led to speculation in certain quarters.”

  Her gaze was sympathetic. “I gather you were not on the best of terms.”

  “No.” James exhaled, then turned to stare at the churning surf again. “Gerald and I were never close. Like my uncle, he despised me on account of my mother’s family, whom he considered his social inferiors. For my part, I thought him a bully and a braggart. Age did not improve him, and I daresay his opinion of me was likewise unflattering. Fortunately, we moved in different circles, so it wasn’t too difficult to avoid each other, most of the time.

  “We last met in July, after my uncle died. I came to the funeral, but beyond that…” He shrugged. “Gerald had become Trevenan, and I had other concerns to occupy myself, like running the mine and setting up my own establishment. My father had built up a small property for us on Tresilian land. I inherited it when I came of age.”

  “So did your cousin come back here to take up his new responsibilities?”

  “And miss all those hunting and shooting parties? Not likely. Our solicitor told me Gerald waited until the last possible minute to return to Pentreath.” James paused, frowning. “And that is what I find most troubling. Gerald had no love for Cornwall, and yet it was here that he met his death. His body was found at the foot of a cliff, on New Year’s Day.”

  “Which you had nothing to do with, of course,” she said with certainty.

  He smiled faintly. “Thank you for the ‘of course.’ No, I was in Cornwall at the time, but attending a party at the Tresilians’. A houseful of people saw me there, and I spent the night. I did not learn of Gerald’s death until the following afternoon. It is thought that he lost his footing in the dark while intoxicated. I found that easy enough to believe—Gerald often overindulged in drink, and he did not know Cornwall that well by day, let alone night. The inquest returned a verdict of death by misadventure, which appeared to be accepted by everyone present.”

  “By everyone?” she echoed. “So, then, why has Lady Durward accused you now?”

  He sighed. “Because, a few days ago, Helena received an anonymous letter claiming that, while I did not ‘soil my hands’ with Gerald’s blood, I might have had something to do with how he met his Maker all the same.”

  Aurelia’s eyes widened as she absorbed the significance of his words. “You mean,” she began, after a moment, “you’re being accused of hiring someone to do away with your cousin?”

  James nodded grimly. “Which is a damn sight harder to disprove than my direct involvement. And to make matters worse, two other men—one of them my cousin Harry—have been implicated as well.”

  “How utterly hateful!” she exclaimed. “Do you know who could have written this letter? Or what he can possibly hope to gain by it?”

  He shook his head. “None at all, so far. I went riding in hopes of clearing my head, but as of this moment, I am void of inspiration.”

  “Some friend of your cousin’s, perhaps, trying to make trouble for you?” she suggested.

  “I was not aware that Gerald had friends—at least, not in Cornwall. To the best of my knowledge, his intimates lived in London or in hunting country, like Rutland or Leicestershire. Most were the sporting type—hard-drinking, hard-riding…” James paused. “As it happens, I spoke to a few of them before I left London. They don’t appear overly grieved by Gerald’s death, or inclined to regard it as suspicious, in any way. Nor was I, until recently.”

  Aurelia bit her lip again. “This seems such an impertinent thing to ask,” she said slowly, “but have you an enemy, Trevenan?”

  “Everyone has enemies. But I had not thought to find one here.” Another black mark against his nameless accuser, for trying to destroy his contentment in the one place where he’d always felt secure. “Not unless I count Gerald himself, and we are beyond enmity now.” Death had a way of putting paid to old grudges, he reflected somberly.

  “Lady Durward seems all too willing to take up where he left off,” Aurelia observed.

  “I can handle Helena,” James said firmly. “And the rest of this business as well.”

  “What do you mean to do?”

  “Try to trace the rumor back to its source, for a start. Harry might be able to help. I’ll call on him this afternoon.” He paused, studying her face: the contemplative look in her blue eyes, the faint frown between her brows. No fool, Aurelia Newbold; her governess had thought her clever enough to attend college, after all.

  “Miss Aurelia,” he began, “I know how close you and Amy are, but I would prefer that you not mention this to her—at least, for the moment. Bad enough that I’ve burdened you with the knowledge.” And just how, he wondered, had she managed to get all this out of him when he hadn’t intended to tell her a thing? He’d never discussed his past in so much detail with her sister; nor had Amy ever insisted that he do so, or probed beyond what he was comfortable with.

  But that was unfair. Aurelia hadn’t exactly probed, and yet he’d found himself revealing things he’d only ever spoken of to his intimates—to Harry or, occasionally, to Thomas. A subtle difference in the twins, perhaps, that one should elicit confidences more readily than her sister.

  “We are to be family, Lord Trevenan,” Aurelia said now, and James had the oddest sense that she knew what he’d just been thinking. “Perhaps you needed to tell someone what was weighing on your mind. But you needn’t worry about it going any further than this beach.” A faint smile hovered around her mouth. “I’
ve kept a great many confidences over the years.”

  “Your sister’s?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  “And my brother’s. And my own, of course.” Something half-wry, half-wistful flickered across her face and was gone, transient as a butterfly in flight.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your discretion.” He stood up, stretching his legs. “I should get back to the house. It’s a poor host who abandons his guests on their first day in Cornwall.”

  “I should be getting back as well,” Aurelia said, sighing as she reached for her shoes. “Preferably before my mother sees me and goes into conniptions over my little adventure.”

  James raised his brows. “Your mother frowns on your adventures?”

  “Not at all.” Her lips quirked. “She simply prefers me to undertake them fully shod, impeccably dressed, sheltered by a parasol, and accompanied by at least one maid.”

  He laughed. “And here you’ve managed to circumvent all those conditions! My congratulations.”

  “I’m fully shod again now. And, well, dressed anyhow,” she amended, looking down at her skirts—still slightly damp—with a faint frown.

  James whistled to Camborne, still investigating the seaweed a short distance away; the gelding whickered and trotted up to him, eager to be off again.

  “He’s a very handsome horse,” Aurelia observed, getting to her feet.

  “Thank you.” James stroked the gelding’s nose. “This is Camborne. He’s strong enough to carry us both back to Pentreath, if you’re willing.”

  An abrupt silence greeted his proposal. Surprised, he looked around and saw that Aurelia had paled visibly.

  “I’m not—exactly dressed for riding,” she said at last.

  James could have kicked himself for his own obliviousness. She was remembering the accident, of course. “Forgive me,” he said at once. “I’d thought only to spare you the climb.”

  “That’s all right.” She attempted a smile. “I think I’m flattered—that you actually forgot about what happened to me, for a moment.”

  “You’ve proved so intrepid in other ways. It’s easy to forget that you might harbor some apprehensions about getting back on a horse. Have you ridden at all since the accident?”

  She colored, which became her far more than the anxious pallor she’d been sporting. “Yes, actually. A donkey, on an excursion at Bad Ems. He was slow but surefooted—and surprisingly obedient, given how obstinate donkeys are said to be.”

  “And all was well? You managed to stay in the saddle?”

  Aurelia nodded. “It helped to know that I was quite close to the ground and hadn’t far to fall if the worst occurred. But a donkey is not the same as a horse, Trevenan.”

  “True, but the basic principle remains unchanged.” James patted Camborne’s glossy black neck, his gaze still on Aurelia. “Do you miss riding?” he asked gently.

  “I miss it—and I’m deathly afraid of it at the same time,” she confessed. “Oh, not of horses, nor even of getting in the saddle. But I am afraid of falling—of injuring both myself and the horse.” She paused, took a breath before resuming. “Bramble—the horse I was riding when I fell—broke his leg too and had to be shot.” Her lips crimped in something that was not quite a smile. “I believe I cried more over that than my own injuries, at the time.”

  “I am sorry. That’s a painful burden to carry.”

  She shrugged. “A just one. I was foolish, reckless, and we both paid for it.” Almost unconsciously, she fingered the scar on her cheek. “But I was the only one who deserved it.”

  “I wouldn’t say either of you deserved it,” he countered. “Accidents happen even to the most cautious riders. You needn’t do anything here that you do not wish to do,” he added, “but if you were to ride back with me, I should ensure that we arrive safely.”

  Again she hesitated. “I don’t know if I could—”

  “We will not fall.” James infused the words with all the certainty he could muster. “Camborne’s worked out the fidgets in his legs, so I can promise that he’ll behave himself.”

  She glanced at the horse, her expression turning wistful. “I admit, I’ve wondered what it might be like to ride again. I don’t wish to brag, but Amy and I were both accounted good horsewomen among our set.”

  James smiled. “I don’t doubt that. Back at Pentreath, I’ve got several horses in my stable that might prove suitable, should you wish to attempt riding again. One mare, in particular, would be ideal for you. She’s very calm and gentle.”

  He thought he could discern the workings of her mind: one more hurdle, one more step on the path back to herself. Then she looked straight at him, and he saw the new resolve in her eyes, around the firm set of her mouth. “Thank you, my lord. I will indeed consider it.”

  “Excellent.” James kept his tone brisk. “Have you proper riding clothes?”

  “I could probably find something suitable in my wardrobe. Or I could borrow a riding habit from Amy, since we’re the same size. But for now…” She took a step toward Camborne, looked at James again. “It’s about time that I tried, isn’t it?”

  He felt his smile broadening. “Let me give you a leg up. It will be easier for you to ride in front of me, dressed as you are.”

  Aurelia nodded and stepped closer to Camborne, now standing as still as a horse sculpted in marble. Just before James moved to help her mount, he thought he heard her say something under her breath; it sounded like “Death to the little mouse.”

  James nearly asked her to explain, but her face—taut with concentration—stopped him. Instead, he held out his interlaced hands and, as she set her foot in them, lifted her to the saddle. She scrambled aboard awkwardly, but settled in more quickly than he’d expected, adjusting her seat and draping her skirts over the pommel. Her back was as straight as a lance, her profile serene beneath her hat, though he suspected her heart was beating at twice its normal rate.

  Resisting the urge to cheer, he climbed into the saddle behind her and took up the reins. “Home, Camborne,” he ordered, and urged the gelding into a trot.

  Nineteen

  Blood may be thicker than water, but it is also a great deal nastier.

  —E.Œ. Somerville and Martin Ross,

  Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.

  The horse moved smoothly beneath her, its gait almost silken on the sand. Aurelia balanced on the front of the saddle and willed herself not to fidget, or worse, panic.

  “We will not fall,” Trevenan had said, and she had chosen to believe him. They wouldn’t be jumping any fences, after all, and they weren’t going faster than a slow trot at the moment.

  You got yourself into this, my girl—and in more ways than one.

  She could feel Trevenan’s warmth at her back, and his arms surrounded her as he guided the horse along the path; his hands were light and sure upon the reins. And she could not have said which she found more unnerving—being back on a horse, or being so close to Trevenan physically, something she had taken pains to avoid since their waltz at Amy’s betrothal ball.

  Amy. Betrothal. She repeated the words to herself with a grim determination, then seized upon the first handy topic of conversation. “So, you call your horse Camborne?” she asked brightly. “After the town of Camborne?”

  “His full name is Camborne Hill, actually,” Trevenan replied. “From a song about the first steam engine, which made a run up and down Camborne Hill nearly a century ago. But that’s a bit of a mouthful for a horse.”

  Aurelia laughed. “It’s more memorable than calling him Soot or Blackie. You’ve been to Camborne Hill, I trust?”

  “Several times,” he assured her. “It’s just to the south of us. I’ve traveled widely through Cornwall—and much of the West Country as well.”

  “That would also include Devon and Dorset, wouldn’t it?” she asked.

  “Yes, along with Somerset, Bristol, and parts of Gloucestershire and Wiltshire too.”

  “We’ve only seen London,
and some of the Home Counties,” Aurelia said wistfully.

  “Well, you’ll find some beautiful and varied country there—hills, moorlands, and valleys, as well as the seashore,” Trevenan said, as he turned Camborne onto a rough path flanked by low but surprisingly rich grass and shrubs and bushes she couldn’t begin to identify. “And some remarkable buildings—Salisbury Cathedral, Bath Abbey, and Stonehenge, of course.”

  Aurelia shifted in the saddle, trying to adjust to the more rugged surface beneath them and its effect on Camborne’s stride. “Pray, tell me more.” With so much to be done before Amy’s wedding, this might be as close as she’d ever get to seeing these places, she reflected.

  He obliged, telling her of castle ruins and picturesque country cottages as they rode along. The grass grew taller and thicker as they headed away from the beach, the bushes yielding to trees, and soon enough, the main gateway of Pentreath came into view.

  Trevenan rode through the gates, then took the path leading around the back toward the stables. A good-sized structure, Aurelia observed, which must house a large number of horses, and there was probably a paddock or two beyond. Spying them, a groom came forward at once to take Camborne’s reins. Trevenan dismounted with fluid ease, then turned to help Aurelia.

  Feeling self-conscious again, she straightened her skirts before letting herself descend into his waiting hands. His grip around her waist was light but firm; she could feel the warmth of his body through her thin muslin dress as he lifted her down, then set her on her feet.

  “Thank you,” she said a little breathlessly. “I did enjoy that ride, more than I expected.”

  He smiled. “I hoped you might. Enough to ride again, I trust. Perhaps on that mare I told you about?”

  “That’s a definite possibility,” she conceded, managing to smile back. “But I must go in now. I need to change my clothes, and then I want to look in on Amy.”

  “Of course.” Trevenan stepped aside to let her pass. “That way will take you back to the house the fastest.” He nodded toward one of the paths leading away from the stables. “By the by, I mean to have some flowers sent up to Amy, to cheer her recovery.”