Waltz With a Stranger (25 page)

Aurelia returned his smile. “Thank you, Sir Harry. I am pleased to meet you as well. Trevenan has told me much of you and your family. All of it good,” she added quickly.

“Relieved to hear it. James has nothing but good to say of your family as well.” He gestured to a groom who ran up to take charge of the gig. “Come in, and take tea with us.”

He led the way inside. The entrance hall of Roswarne was pleasantly bright, with whitewashed walls rather than the dark wood paneling that Aurelia often found oppressive. Music, rippling liquid chords, wafted out to them from a room down the passage. Music so beautiful that Aurelia stopped at once to listen further.

“Sophie!” Sir Harry called. “Put down the fiddle and come out and greet our guests.”

The music stopped at once, and seconds later, a girl in a primrose yellow dress appeared in the doorway of the sitting room.

“James!” she exclaimed in obvious delight, before hurrying to embrace him.

“Hullo, infant.” Trevenan returned her embrace and kissed her cheek with visible affection.

“Not such an infant now. I’m eighteen at Midsummer!” the girl retorted. “And we’re having a party that night, to which you’re invited, of course, and—oh!” She broke off as she caught sight of Aurelia. “You’ve brought a guest!”

“He has,” Sir Harry confirmed. “Miss Newbold, my sister, Sophie Tresilian. Sophie, this is Miss Aurelia Newbold. She and her family are guests of James, at Pentreath.”

Sophie Tresilian smiled, showing white, even teeth and a flashing set of dimples on either side of a generous mouth. Like her brother, she had rich dark hair, touched with mahogany, but her eyes were a true, vivid green. She mightn’t be a classic beauty by London standards, but she radiated such charm and vitality that Aurelia thought she would take very well if she ever had a Season. “I am delighted to meet you at last, Miss Newbold. When are you and James to wed?”

“James is engaged to my sister, Amelia,” Aurelia explained hastily. “She finds herself indisposed today, but she’s asked me to send her regards, and hopes to meet you quite soon.”

Sophie colored prettily. “Forgive the misunderstanding. But you are welcome, all the same, Miss Newbold. Will you stay to take tea with us?”

“I’ve already invited them,” Sir Harry told his sister. “Is anyone else about?”

She shook her head. “Mama has gone to take some scones and cakes to Cousin Eliza. She won’t be back for some hours yet. I stayed behind to practice my violin.”

“You play beautifully,” Aurelia told her. “I noticed when we first came in.”

Sophie smiled. “Thank you. Music has always been important to my family—to most Cornish, I do believe. Do you or your sister play any instruments yourselves?”

“I play the piano, and we both sing.”

The girl brightened. “Excellent! Perhaps we might play together sometime, or even have a concert? What do you think, James?” she appealed to Trevenan.

“First things first, Sophie,” Sir Harry interrupted. “Is John out as well?”

She flashed him a dimpled smile. “He’s off visiting Grace Tregarth, as usual.”

“I see.” They exchanged a significant look. “In that case, we won’t see him until dinner.”

“And perhaps not even then, if the Tregarths invite him to dine,” Sophie replied.

A budding romance, Aurelia thought, charmed. How normal all this seemed, and how different from the formality of yesterday! She glanced at Trevenan, noticing how much more relaxed he appeared in the presence of his Tresilian kin. This was his true homecoming, she realized, among the people who knew and loved him best.

He was shaking his head now, smiling ruefully. “I can scarce believe what I’m hearing. I’m away for less than a month, and John finds himself a girl?”

“All the more reason for you to stay and have tea with us, then,” Sophie declared. “You can catch up on all the local news.” She turned to Aurelia. “And today was baking day, so we have scones, splits, and ginger biscuits freshly made. And clotted cream as well.”

“Clotted cream?” Aurelia echoed.

“Have you never had it, Miss Newbold? True Cornish clotted cream is fit for the gods.”

“My sister exaggerates, but only a little,” Sir Harry said, grinning. He clapped Trevenan on the shoulder. “Come, let us all go into the parlor, and I’ll have tea brought.”

For slander lives upon succession

Forever housed where it gets possession.

—William Shakespeare,
The
Comedy
of
Errors

Sitting in the parlor, watching Sophie show Aurelia how to eat scones the Cornish way by layering butter, strawberry jam, and finally clotted cream on top, James found it easy to forget a less pleasant purpose had brought him here today. He forced himself not to touch the letter, which he’d tucked into the inside breast pocket of his coat before setting out. Time enough for that, when he and Harry found a moment alone. But for now, he let himself bask in it all: Harry’s stalwart presence, Sophie’s ebullient gaiety, and the comfort of familiar walls around him. This was what he’d missed the whole time he’d been in London; he drank it in like a tonic now, reluctant to mar this warm family interlude.

Soon enough, everyone declared they’d eaten and drunk their fill, Aurelia agreeing that clotted cream was indeed fit for the gods. Once the dishes were cleared away, Sophie invited her to take a walk in the Tresilians’ garden. “I’m not impartial, of course, but I think it’s the loveliest in St. Perran.”

“I’d be delighted to see it,” Aurelia assured her.

“James?” Sophie turned next to him, but he shook his head.

“Thank you, cousin, but I have a few things to discuss with Harry.”

Harry glanced at him quizzically but made no demur. “I suppose we do at that,” was all he said. “Enjoy your walk, ladies.”

They went out, the fair and dark heads together, Sophie talking animatedly to her guest. They liked each other, James realized: the American heiress and the Cornish miss, fresh out of the schoolroom. Sophie and Amy would surely become fast friends too, once they met. It boded well for the future that the Newbolds and Tresilians should take so quickly to each other.

“Sophie’s grown even prettier than she was at New Year’s,” he observed. “You’ll have to beat the swains off with a cudgel, Harry.”

“So I’ve discovered.” Harry pulled a face. “As it happens, Sophie’s had a few offers since then, already.”

“Good Lord, she’s not even eighteen yet!”

“So I told the fellows in question,” Harry replied. “And at least one of them has stated his intention of waiting me out.”

James strongly suspected he knew who that might be. “Nankivell?

Harry looked startled. “How did you know?”

“An educated guess. I met him on the way. He sends his regards to you and Sophie.”

His cousin frowned, irritated. “Damn his impudence!”

James raised his brows. “I thought he was a friend of yours?”

“He is, in a manner of speaking. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to hand over my youngest sister to him, just like that. He’s more than ten years older than she, for pity’s sake!” Harry’s frown deepened. “And there are other reasons I don’t favor the match, but I shan’t go into them at present. Of course, Mother thinks it’s quite a feather in Sophie’s cap to have attached a baronet, and one of such ancient lineage, to boot.”

“How does Sophie feel about it herself?” James asked.

“Oh, she was flattered,” Harry admitted. “What young girl wouldn’t be, come to that? But she’s not yet eighteen. Time enough for her to settle on a husband when she’s had a bit more experience of the world. We’re planning to send her to London next spring, for the Season. Perhaps your wife might help her get her sea legs there, introduce her to the right people.”

Your
wife
. The words had an odd formality, coming from his cousin’s lips. But Harry was right. By next spring, he would be a married man. “I’m sure Amy would be delighted to lend a hand,” he said at last. “She has had quite a triumphant few Seasons herself.”

“If she’s as delightful as her sister, I can understand why. Sophie certainly seems to have taken to Miss Aurelia; she’s got a way with her.”

“They both do,” James said quickly. “Amy took London by storm when she came over from New York. I thought I hadn’t a chance with her, to tell the truth. You’ll come and dine with us this week, I hope?”

“I’d be delighted to. I know Mother’s very interested in meeting your future bride. However,” Harry’s gaze sharpened, “I do not think you drove over here today simply to invite us to dinner or to discuss Miss Newbold’s charms.”

He forgot sometimes how well Harry knew him. “No, more’s the pity. There
is
something I must discuss with you—and I fear it is not of a pleasant nature.” He drew the letter from his pocket and handed it to his cousin. “My cousin Helena received this a few days ago, at her country estate. She has since descended on Pentreath, demanding retribution.”

Harry read over the letter in frowning silence. “What a poisonous screed,” he remarked at last, lifting his gaze from the page. “And damned difficult to defend oneself against. It stops just short of open accusation, but one cannot mistake the meaning.”

“Well, Helena has swallowed it, hook and line. She came roaring down from Wiltshire, Durward in tow, to strike me across the face and accuse me of complicity in Gerald’s death.”

Harry grimaced. “Sounds typical of her. She seems to begrudge you the very air you breathe. I don’t suppose you were able to send her off with a flea in her ear?”

James sighed. “Unfortunately, no. But I reminded her that I’d been seen elsewhere when Gerald apparently fell from the cliff.
And
I agreed that the circumstances of his death were suspicious enough to warrant further investigation. She’s staying at Pentreath for now.”

“I don’t imagine your fiancée likes that above half.”

“No, but she understands the necessity of it. Better to have Helena under our roof where we can contain her than spreading mischief abroad.” James paused. “You’ve been here all this time, Harry. Has this rumor been circulating through the county, as this letter claims?”

Harry did not reply at once, and James felt his apprehension growing.

“There’s always talk, isn’t there, at the beginning?” Harry said at last, with obvious reluctance. “I won’t deny I heard some murmurs when Gerald first turned up dead, but, to my knowledge, the inquest put paid to those. James, if I’d been aware of their resurgence, don’t you think I would have told you? And implicating me in the whole business is certainly unexpected.”

“I know. And you can’t have met Gerald as an adult more than two or three times.”

“Enough to dislike him as much as I did when we were boys,” Harry admitted. “But how our mysterious letter writer builds a case against me from nothing stronger than that amazes me.” He frowned at the letter again. “And bringing Robin into it is even more confusing.”

“Robin?” James echoed, confused. “Is he the R. P. mentioned in the letter?”

“I can’t think of who else it could be. Robin Pendarvis—you met him here, on New Year’s. He’s old Pendarvis’s grandnephew, his only surviving heir.”

“You mean Simon Pendarvis? Gerald’s godfather?”

“The very same.”

James rubbed a hand over his face. “This tale becomes more tangled at every turn.”

He had not known Simon Pendarvis, personally. But the old man had been a crony of his Uncle Joshua. They’d been two of a kind: devoted to Cornwall and not overly tolerant of those who did not share that devotion. No doubt both men had hoped that Joshua’s son would feel that same allegiance to his home county, though that had never come to pass. James could not recall Gerald having had much to do with his godfather after he’d gone off to university.

“Old Pendarvis died in early April, just after you left for London,” Harry resumed. “Nothing mysterious about it. He’d been ailing for some time, and I suspect he missed your uncle, since they were always thick as thieves.”

“So that means Robin Pendarvis has come into his inheritance.”

Harry shrugged. “For what it’s worth.”

“It used to be worth a great deal.” Pendarvis Hall, James remembered, was one of the oldest and largest houses in the county. The family might not have had a title, but they’d had an ancient name—and until the last ten years or so, the money to do justice to such an exalted pedigree. “So young Robin is now master of Pendarvis Hall,” he mused. “That’s still a distinction to conjure with, and it might have made him an object of some envy.”

“Like you. But Pendarvis Hall without the fortune to support it isn’t that grand a legacy.”

James thought of Pentreath. “Did old Simon live beyond his means?”

“In this day and age, doesn’t almost every landed gentleman?” Harry sighed. “I hadn’t heard that he’d run up enormous debts, like Gerald, but it’s a plain fact that money goes less further than it did, unless you’ve made your fortune on the ’Change.”

Or
contracted
to
marry
an
heiress.
The words hung unspoken on the air. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, James asked, “Does Robin Pendarvis mean to set up his household here, or let the place?”

“Neither, actually. He plans to live in Cornwall, but he has no intention of running the same sort of establishment his great-uncle did.” Harry paused. “What he does mean to do with his inheritance will likely ruffle any number of feathers in the county.”

James raised his brows. “Is he thinking of breaking the entail and selling outright?”

“No, he means to convert Pendarvis Hall into something else entirely. Something that will help the estate pay its way—a hotel.”

“A hotel?” James echoed, startled. “Like the ones they’ve built in Newquay?”

“Well, perhaps not quite as large as those,” Harry amended. “But a respectable size nonetheless, and fine enough to appeal to a—certain class of people.”

Moneyed
people, James translated without difficulty. “A project of that scope will take a lot of capital,” he said slowly. “Unless he has unlimited funds to finance this scheme—”

“He’ll need investors,” Harry finished. “Well, he’s got at least one, James. I mean to put up some of the capital.”

“You?” James stared at his cousin.

Harry nodded. “Apparently Robin’s been thinking of this for a while. It’s not an idle fantasy on his part, James; he’s studied architecture abroad for some years, and he feels it can be done without bankrupting either of us. I heard him out when he approached me on this, and,” he shrugged, “I’d heard worse schemes, James, put forth by less practical men. He’s even offered to make me a partner in the hotel, once it’s up and running.”

Pendarvis Hall—one of the oldest estates in the county—a resort? Could
he
have taken such a step with Pentreath? James wondered. He doubted it; but then his history with the place ran so deep. Robin Pendarvis had not grown up in his great-uncle’s house; strong emotional ties to it might be lacking. Aloud, he asked, “Just how well-fixed is he, now that he’s inherited?”

“Well enough, though not perhaps as much as if he’d inherited ten years ago. His legacy will cover some of the costs of renovation and construction. And he owns some shares in a railway company that bring in a tidy bit of interest. But we hope to raise a loan as well.”

We
—James did not miss the significance there. “It sounds as if you’ve already decided.”

“Perhaps I have,” Harry conceded. “But it’s only good sense to look to the future—for ourselves
and
Cornwall. I wrote you that two more mines in the district had closed.”

James nodded acknowledgment. “But Wheal Felicity is still producing, is it not?”

“It’s doing well enough, for now. But times are changing here. It’s harder to make a living in the same ways. Some of our men have already emigrated to Australia. St. Perran could use the money that would come from such a place, and its people could use the work. And, forgive my frankness, James, I think Trevenan could too—if you’d consider coming in with us.”

“Become a partner in a resort hotel? I can’t think about that yet, I’m afraid.”

Harry held up a hand. “Understood. But I hope you will give the matter some thought, when you have time to reflect.”

James nodded again, absently. Some other thought was stirring. If young Pendarvis was old Simon’s heir, but Gerald had been his godson… “Has Robin Pendarvis ever met Gerald?”

“I don’t know. He might have.” Harry shrugged. “Since I never counted your obnoxious cousin among my chief concerns, I can’t say the subject has ever arisen between us.”

James let that go; he’d be the last to deny that Gerald
was
obnoxious, especially to those he considered his social inferiors. “I was wondering whether he could shed some light on this matter of the letter. Or perhaps even on Gerald’s last days.”

“I’m afraid Rob’s gone to London, on business. He left the day before you arrived.”

James stifled the oath that rose to his lips. “Do you know when he’s likely to return?”

“He hopes to be gone no longer than a week. I know where he’ll be staying, though. Do you want me to write him about this?”

James hesitated, chose his next words with care. “A subject this sensitive is best handled face to face. And I’d prefer that Helena’s accusations travel no further than Cornwall.”

“I see your point. And you’re right—no sense in letting this ugly rumor spread.”

“No.” James exhaled. “You could write and tell him that I am eager to speak with him on a matter of some importance when he returns. But no further details than that, if you please.”

Harry regarded him thoughtfully. “I see. Very well, I shall do so. And I promise as well to keep my eyes open, and my ears to the ground, for rumor-mongers here.”

“Thank you.” James paused as feminine voices and laughter reached his ears. “Sounds like the girls are back from their walk.”

“I won’t mention this to Mother or Sophie,” Harry said in a low voice. “But I should like to take John into my confidence, on the off chance that he might have heard something.”

James nodded his consent, relieved that he and Harry were in accord on this at least. For the first time in his life, he felt an element of constraint between himself and his cousin, born of the growing doubts and suspicions he had yet to voice. Praying that it was only temporary, he summoned a smile as Aurelia and Sophie reentered the parlor.