Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  “Strange how things turn out. According to my father, a past Earl of Trevenan cut off our branch of the family when my great-grandfather—his younger son—made an imprudent match.”

  “Were they ever reconciled?” James asked, intrigued.

  “Not that I’d ever heard. But my great-grandparents managed well enough, as did their descendants, though there was never much contact between them and the Trevenans.”

  “Perhaps we might change that now. It seems foolish to be ruled by the past.”

  Frank smiled. “A good thought, cousin, and a wise one. By the by, I hear that you are engaged. My congratulations. I wish you and the future Lady Trevenan every happiness.”

  “Thank you.” James studied his cousin once more but saw no sign of insincerity. So the man was either as innocent as he seemed, or else a consummate actor. James was almost convinced of the former, but if only there was some way to be certain. Glancing toward Frank’s desk, he had a sudden inspiration. “That watercolor, on the wall—is that a Constable?”

  Frank followed his gaze. “Why, yes, it is. A gift from my father, on my leaving university. You have a good eye, cousin.”

  “If I may?” At his cousin’s nod, James got up to inspect the painting, positioning himself casually beside the desk. “A fine piece of work. I’ve always admired Constable’s studies of the sky…” Angling his head, he let his gaze fall onto the page Frank had left on his desk—and felt some tension about his chest ease when he glimpsed the spidery scrawl, not at all like the slanting hand that had composed those letters.

  “He’s a master at capturing light and shadow, isn’t he?” Frank remarked.

  “Indeed.” Turning from the wall, James came to a decision. “Cousin Frank, there is something else I wished to discuss with you, of a less pleasant nature.”

  The vicar’s brows rose. “Oh, dear. I hope it is nothing too serious?”

  “I’m afraid it has the potential to become quite serious,” James replied. “Recently, Harry and I have become the target of scurrilous rumors surrounding my cousin Gerald’s death.”

  “But there was an inquest! You were cleared of all involvement, as I recall.”

  “Indeed I was. But within the last few weeks, anonymous letters claiming otherwise have been delivered to several influential people, including our banker.” With a glance at Harry, who nodded, James removed the letters from his breast pocket. “I hope you will not be offended, cousin, but I wondered if you might, by any chance, be able to shed some light on this matter.”

  To his relief, Frank looked thoughtful rather than offended. “I suppose it’s only natural to wonder,” he murmured, accepting the letters. Opening one, he scanned the page—and James saw his eyes widen and the color drain from his face.

  “Cousin Frank,” he began, but the vicar shook his head fiercely and strode to the door.

  “Mrs. Hughes!” he called into the passage. “Tell Mr. Oliver to come down at once!”

  ***

  Ten minutes later, Oliver Trelawney—a young man of perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three—shambled into the parlor, yawning and rubbing his eyes. The two brothers could scarce have looked more different: Oliver had the Trelawneys’ dark coloring and angular features. But while he was handsomer than Frank, his face held none of his brother’s strength or character.

  “Good God, Frank,” he grumbled around a yawn, “have you any idea what time it is?”

  “Long past time for you to be up, brother.” The vicar’s face was taut, his mouth a hard line. “May I introduce your cousin James, Earl of Trevenan, and Sir Harry Tresilian?”

  For a moment, Oliver stared blankly at his brother, then as the names penetrated his brain, paled to the color of whey and swung back toward the door.

  Frank caught his brother’s arm, thrust the letters under his nose. “Do not even trouble to deny you wrote these! I can tell your hand at a glance!”

  “It wasn’t me, I swear!” Oliver protested, then as three disbelieving stares riveted themselves on him, “That is, I wrote them, but it wasn’t my idea!”

  The three older men stared at each other, then, “Whose idea was it?” James asked evenly.

  Oliver glanced at him for the first time, then dropped his gaze, flushing dully. “He never told me his name,” he muttered. “Never set eyes on him before last month, when he approached me one night at the Barleycorn Inn. He offered me one hundred pounds to write some letters over in my own hand. He said it was to right an old injustice in my family and his, and the letters would be sent where they’d do the most good. He never told me who they were meant for.”

  “What did he look like?” Harry asked, in the same level tone as James.

  Oliver avoided looking at him as well. “Tallish chap, brown hair and light eyes, maybe about thirty or so.”

  James froze, remembering Mercer’s pale grey eyes staring at him from across his desk. But before he could ask any more, Frank broke in, his voice at once angry and pained.

  “Dear God, Oliver, how could you lend yourself to such a vile scheme? You’ve got gaming debts again, haven’t you? And after everything you told Father—”

  “Don’t you start, Vicar!” Oliver all but spat the word at his brother. “Why shouldn’t I make a bit of money off the Trevenans? They’ve got plenty, and it’s not like they’ve ever done anything for us, not since great-grandfather was cut off—”

  “Your part in furthering these slanders shames your honor, and that of our family,” Frank said, coldly furious. “Whatever happened between great-grandfather and his father has nothing to do with us or our cousin James. Or Sir Harry Tresilian, whose reputation was also besmirched by these letters you so thoughtlessly penned. Slander and libel—against men who’ve done you no harm. If they sue you for defamation, it will be no more than you deserve!”

  Oliver blanched again, his bravado crumbling. Frank continued, more in sorrow now than anger. “And can you imagine how this will grieve our parents—especially our mother?”

  Oliver swallowed, his expression changing from defiant to miserable in the space of a heartbeat. “I didn’t think—that is, I never meant…” His voice trailed off wretchedly into silence.

  Frank turned back to James and Harry, his face stiff with mortification. “I ask your pardon, gentlemen, for the trouble my brother has caused you. Reparation will be made, I assure you. Shall you wish me and Oliver to call upon the recipients of those letters and make it clear that they are falsehoods?”

  “Wait,” James said slowly. “I think there might be an even better way to handle this. Oliver,” he addressed his younger cousin directly, “the worst might yet be avoided, if you were to tell us everything you know about this man and these letters.”

  The young man looked up at that. “What do you want to know—Lord Trevenan?”

  “The terms of his arrangement with you, for a start. How did you communicate?”

  Oliver exhaled gustily, avoiding Frank’s gaze. “Well, I said he never gave his name. And we only met the once. He said we shouldn’t meet in person again, but he’d send me the letters to copy in my own hand, and then I was to send them to a post office box for Mr. Smith in Truro. And once he had them, he’d send me the money.”

  James had no doubt Mr. Smith was an alias. “How many letters were there, in all?”

  “Three. I posted the last one just a few days ago.”

  “Did you keep any of his original letters? The ones you copied from?”

  Oliver shook his head. “He told me to burn them,” he muttered, shamefaced.

  James stifled an oath. A promising lead gone, and a third letter, somewhere out there, just waiting to set off another explosion.

  Harry asked, “Was he a gentleman? The man who enlisted you?”

  “He spoke like one. And he dressed like one. But,” Oliver paused, frowning slightly, “he didn’t sound like he came from around here. He didn’t sound—Cornish.”

  Mercer. The description, while general, did fit, and the
re was certainly a motive, James knew. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  Oliver hesitated. “I might.”

  James looked around at all his cousins. “Then this is what I think we should do.”

  ***

  “You believe it to be this Captain Mercer, then?” Harry asked, once they were back in the carriage for the return journey.

  “He fits the description—such as it is. More to the point, I have something he wants, and wants badly.”

  “Those shares in his company.”

  “He’s tried twice to buy them back from me. And he wasn’t pleased when I refused. He may believe that if he causes enough trouble for me personally and financially, I’ll be more likely to part with them.” James exhaled, leaning back against the squabs. “I just don’t know why he’d drag you or Robin Pendarvis into it. Unless he knows that I’d never stand for my family being slandered. Or about Robin’s hotel scheme, and your involvement in it.”

  “That may be. Robin’s made no secret of his plans for Pendarvis Hall. Talking of which, I’ve had a reply from him. He’s coming back tomorrow and hopes to call on you soon.”

  “Good. I look forward to his thoughts on this unpleasant business.”

  “What more proof do you have against Mercer?” Harry asked.

  “That’s the sum of it, so far. But if we can arrange to have Oliver see and identify him as the man who paid him to write those letters, that should resolve matters tidily.”

  “So you’ve proposed. Any ideas on how to set that up?”

  “A social gathering, perhaps, that won’t arouse Mercer’s suspicions. I’ll give the matter some further thought.” James closed his eyes, suddenly weary to the bone.

  “Lucky thing you thought of visiting your heir,” Harry observed. “Or we’d still be stumbling about in the dark.”

  “I can’t take all the credit. Aurelia’s the one who first asked about the succession.”

  “Did she now?” Harry sounded impressed. “She’s quite a woman.”

  James opened his eyes. “Yes, she is. You admire her, Harry?” To his disquiet, he heard a faint edge in his voice. Worse, the very thought of Harry admiring Aurelia sent an unpleasant shock through him, a white-hot jolt that felt alarmingly like jealousy.

  His cousin did not appear to notice. “Who would not? She’s bright, brave, and a lady from top to toe. A pity about the scar, of course—”

  “She’s lovelier with that scar than scores of women without it!” James broke in heatedly, then stopped, appalled at what he’d just given away.

  The silence that descended in the carriage was louder than most explosions. Furious with himself, James stared out the window. He could feel Harry’s penetrating gaze on him. Another person who knew him far too well.

  “If that’s how you feel,” his cousin began slowly, “then why—”

  James shook his head. A twist of fate, or simple bad timing…he hardly knew what to call it. He fell back at last on the reason he’d given his aunt. “I gave my word.” The statement felt as stark as it sounded. “My pledge. What sort of gentleman would I be to break it?”

  Harry did not reply at once, then, “She cares for you,” he said abruptly. “And not just as a sister.”

  James did not need to ask whom he meant. Something inside of him leapt like a flame at his cousin’s words, but he throttled it down, not daring to admit the possibility. “Perhaps.”

  “She does,” Harry insisted. “I saw it on her face that day on the beach. Now, would you rather break your word, or her heart?”

  “It’s—it’s not so simple as that.” James passed a hand over his face. “Do you think she’d thank me for jilting her sister? For hurting the person she loves most in the world? And,” he met Harry’s gaze squarely, “I care for Amy too. The last thing I want to do is cause her pain.”

  Harry sighed. “I think, no matter what you decide, someone will be hurt. Call me selfish or clannish, but I’d rather it wasn’t you.” He paused, then said slowly, “If, by some chance, your fiancée was to have a change of heart—”

  “What?” James interrupted. “Have you seen any proof that she has?”

  “Not exactly,” Harry admitted. “But, watching her, I’ve wondered if Miss Amy was truly—comfortable here, in Cornwall. Not that she’s ever complained,” he added hastily. “But it strikes me that a life in London might be more to her liking.”

  “I’ve promised Amy we’ll go up to town periodically—at least for the Season,” James informed him. “And I have a house in London now.”

  “So you do. But your heart is here, just as your roots are here, in Cornwall,” Harry pointed out. “I’d hope your bride—whoever she might be—would understand that.”

  His bride. The woman who held his honor, or the woman who held his heart? He’d dreamed of her again last night, sitting at the piano, the silvery chords rippling from beneath her fingers. In his dreams, he’d pressed his lips to the tender nape of her neck, then stroked and kissed her until their mingled sighs and murmurs of delight formed a song of their own.

  James swallowed, longing and reason swirling inside of him like a maelstrom. “I can’t—I need time to think…”

  “No doubt you do,” Harry agreed somberly. “And I don’t envy you having to make a choice like this one. Just—try not to leave it too late.”

  He turned his head to gaze out the carriage window, leaving James to grapple with his thoughts for the remainder of the journey back to Pentreath.

  Still in a brown study, he descended from the carriage and entered the house, stopping short when he heard an unfamiliar female voice issuing from the drawing room.

  “Visitors, my lord,” Pelham informed him. “Acquaintances of Miss Newbold, I believe.”

  “Thank you, Pelham.” James exchanged a glance with Harry as they headed for the salon.

  Most of the ladies were assembled there: Lady Talbot, Mrs. Newbold, Amy, and Aurelia, their expressions ranging from polite to apprehensive. And holding court in the middle of the room, chattering artlessly away, was Sally Vandermere. Her brother Charlie stood behind her chair, his gaze fixed on Aurelia, who was looking everywhere but at him.

  Watching them both, James felt his heart sink like a stone as Harry’s warning echoed almost mockingly in his head.

  Don’t leave it too late…

  ***

  “Poor Mama came down with the most awful cold after your ball,” Sally Vandermere explained to the room at large. “The doctor recommended a change of air, so Charlie suggested Newquay. We heard it was all the rage these days. Wasn’t that clever of him?”

  “How is your mother now, Sally?” Mrs. Newbold inquired, with an air of conscious duty.

  “Oh, much better, but I imagine we’ll be here until the end of the month, at least,” Sally replied blithely. “We’re staying at this marvelous hotel—built on the bluff, overlooking the sea. And when I learned we were just a few miles from Pentreath, well, I told Charlie we simply must call on you. I hope you don’t mind showing us around your future home, Amy.”

  Aurelia glanced at her twin, whose already fixed smile stiffened around the edges at these words. Fortunately, Lady Talbot intervened.

  “I’m afraid much of Pentreath is still undergoing renovations, Miss Vandermere. But perhaps you would enjoy a tour of the gardens?” She glanced at Trevenan, who gave a brief nod of consent. “Our roses and lupines are especially fine right now.”

  Sally accepted with delight, and they set out for the gardens, except Sir Harry, who made his excuses and slipped away. Aurelia found herself almost wishing she could do the same.

  The Vandermeres’ appearance had left her thoroughly bemused. Just this morning she’d tried to answer Charlie’s letter, only to consign her efforts to the wastebasket. And now here he was, without her having to pen as much as a single sentence. And looking at her in a way that was unmistakable, that brought back a flood of memories, both bitter and sweet.

  What had Claud
ine said, about making sure of her own feelings? There was still…something there, with Charlie. She was no longer going to deny that, even though she had no idea what that something was. And there might be only one way to find out.

  ***

  Aunt Judith took the lead on the tour, flanked by Mrs. Newbold and the chatterbox Miss Vandermere. To no one’s surprise, Charlie Vandermere ranged himself beside Aurelia, though James noticed he did not have the effrontery to offer his arm.

  “Relia,” Amy began in instinctive protest, but her twin shook her head.

  “It’s all right, Amy. You and Trevenan go on ahead,” she insisted.

  “But,” Amy tried again, as James asked, “My dear, are you sure?”

  Aurelia colored slightly, but nodded with every appearance of composure. “Quite sure.”

  So there was something going on, though James had no idea what it could be. He offered his arm to Amy, who accepted it reluctantly, with a last glance at her sister, who sent her a faint smile and made a small shooing motion with her hand.

  Taking the hint, James escorted his fiancée down the garden path after the others.

  Amy fretted her lip, obviously trying to resist the urge to look back as they walked among the flowers, a riot of brilliant color and heady perfume. “Whatever can Stupid Charlie be doing here?” she asked in a fierce whisper. “Imagine him coming all the way down to Cornwall like this! I wish Relia would send him about his business.”

  What if his business was Aurelia? The thought sent a surge of almost primal fury through James; he throttled it down, reminding himself forcibly that he had no rights in this. “I think your sister knows what she’s about,” he said at last. “So let us trust her to handle this as she sees fit.”

  Amy opened her mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Very well. I daresay she’s capable of dealing with Stupid Charlie on her own. I just wish she didn’t have to.”

  “On that point, we are agreed.” James patted her hand and felt suddenly awkward as he remembered Harry’s words in the coach. “Amy, are you—happy here, in Cornwall? You need not fear to be honest with me,” he added as her eyes widened. “Indeed, I would far rather you told me the truth than tried to spare my feelings on this.”