Waltz With a Stranger (39 page)

Disloyal thoughts—she should be ashamed of having them, especially when she knew, better than anyone else, how much love Amy had to give. And love could grow in a marriage, Aurelia reminded herself, even if it wasn’t present at the very beginning. Her parents were proof of that. Stifling curiosity and jealousy alike, she asked gently, “And you, dearest? Are
you
happy—about marrying James, I mean? The wedding’s just a few months away.”

“Of course I’m happy,” Amy said quickly. A shade too quickly? “It’ll be lovely to have everything settled at last,” she went on, “and James is such a good man, isn’t he? So straightforward and honorable. You always know just where you stand with him.”

Standing
on
the
beach, locked in his arms, his mouth pressed so hungrily to hers…

“Yes, he’s—he’s nothing if not honorable.” Relief and disappointment were waging a fierce tug-of-war inside of her; she could not have said which one was stronger.

Amy’s gaze sharpened at the strain in her voice. “Relia, are you all right?” She took a step closer, frowning. “Stupid Charlie called, didn’t he? If he’s done anything to upset you—”

“He hasn’t,” Aurelia broke in. “I think I’ve had a little too much sun, that’s all.” She summoned a suitably wan smile, no hardship under the circumstances. “I’ll feel much better after I lie down and rest for a while.”

Amy’s expression softened at once. “You poor dear! Do you need anything else, a cool drink, perhaps? Let me come with you. I can ring for Suzanne.”

Aurelia shook her head. “No, thank you, love. I’d prefer to be on my own just now. I’ll see you at dinner,” she added, and hurried away before Amy could offer to accompany her again.

Reaching the safety of her chamber, she closed the door and leaned against it—bracing herself for the difficult days, months,
years
ahead. The knowledge that she’d tried to do the right thing seemed cold comfort, but she clung to it with the desperation of a shipwreck survivor clinging to a spar.

It’s just as I said. Amy cares for James.

Because
if
she
didn’t, I’d fight her for him. So help me God, I would.

In the mouth of two or three witnesses shall every word be established.

—
2 Corinthians 13:1

St. John’s Eve, and the lighted windows of Roswarne gleamed golden in the dusk, bright as the midsummer bonfires James remembered blazing on the cliff tops when he was a boy. Once his party, consisting of his aunt, the Newbolds, and Thomas, had alighted from the carriages, he led them toward the house, where the Tresilians waited to receive them. He spared a moment to be thankful for Helena’s absence. Not that she’d have deigned to attend this ball in any case, but her recent altercation with Harry had made her doubly unwelcome here.

James kissed Sophie, looking quite the young lady in a pale green gown that complemented her eyes. “Many happy returns, cousin. Save me a dance for later?”

“Of course.” Sophie smiled back, but he thought she looked just a touch distracted. Before he could ask what was troubling her, she turned to greet the nearest Newbold, “So glad you came, dear Aurelia. How lovely you look in that color—periwinkle blue?”

James did not turn his head, though he’d noticed how well the shade flattered Aurelia’s fair skin and bright hair. They studiously avoided each other’s company whenever possible now, the memories—and the regrets—too keen for them both. At unguarded moments, James still recalled the sensation of her body, warm and pliant against his, and the searing intensity of that kiss, so different from the tentative salutes he and Amy had exchanged. How could two women be so similar on the surface and so different underneath?

He glanced guiltily toward his betrothed, radiant in blush pink as she greeted his cousins. For Amy, he’d felt affection and even attraction, but nothing like the hunger her sister roused in him. And yet it was to Amy that he’d pledged his word and his honor. She’d entered into their contract in good faith. He could no more justify betraying her than Aurelia could.

“James.” Harry spoke low in his ear. “If I may have a private word?”

Alerted by his cousin’s tone, James followed him into the library at the back of the house. To his surprise, Frank and Oliver Trelawney were already there. While their presence here tonight was part of Harry’s plan, James could tell at a glance that something had changed.

“What’s happened?” he asked at once.

Oliver swallowed. “I received another letter to copy today, for an extra twenty pounds.”

“You did?” James stared at him. “Have you brought it with you?”

“We have,” Frank replied, taking the letter from his breast pocket and handing it over.

James opened and scanned the letter: the accusations were the same, but the hand was different—and still unfamiliar.

“Is it Mercer’s writing?” Harry asked.

“I couldn’t say. The inventory I received was written by one of Mercer’s clerks. But this is valuable evidence nonetheless. Well done, both of you,” James added to the Trelawneys.

“We’re happy to make amends, Cousin James.” Frank eyed his brother pointedly. “Isn’t that right, Oliver?”

The younger man flushed but nodded. James tucked the letter into his own breast pocket. “I’ll take charge of this, for now. You understand the rest of the plan?”

“We wait in the ballroom with the other guests until you and Sir Harry bring in Captain Mercer so Oliver can identify him,” Frank replied. “Simple but effective. And Sir Harry says he’s asked the local magistrate to be present, just in case Mercer proves resistant.”

“I thought it best not to leave anything to chance,” Harry explained.

“When do you expect Mercer?” James asked.

“At half-past seven or thereabouts.” Harry consulted the clock on the mantel. “A quarter-hour from now. Robin will be here soon as well.”

“Then, gentlemen, let’s get in place,” James proposed. “The sooner this is resolved, the better for us all.”

“Amen,” Frank said fervently, and shepherded Oliver from the library.

***

At exactly half-past seven, Mercer strode into the library. “Good evening, gentlemen.” His gaze went at once to James. “I understand you’ve found the shipment?”

“We have,” James replied. “Gerald hid it in an old lodge house on the Pendarvis estate.”

Mercer’s brows rose in genuine surprise. “Good God, how did it come to be there?”

“My Great-Uncle Simon was the late earl’s godfather,” Robin replied, then gave a brief account of how they’d discovered the missing cargo in the lodge.

“Given the condition of the lodge, we thought it best to move the goods elsewhere for safekeeping,” James explained. “Harry suggested Roswarne, since it was closest.”

Mercer came to a point like a hunting dog. “The shipment’s here, then?”

“In the morning room, just down the hall. You can inspect it yourself, of course, but according to the inventory, everything is here. Except for the tea.”

Mercer’s tone sharpened. “The tea is missing?”

“I’m afraid so.” Looking more closely, James saw a flash of rage in the captain’s eyes, so intense that he had to force himself not to recoil. “Gerald probably found a buyer right away.”

The fury burned for a moment longer, then Mercer’s eyes went flat and opaque again. “No doubt,” he agreed colorlessly. “Well—I appreciate your efforts in recovering my cargo.”

James inclined his head. “I regret we could not recover it all. Do you wish to see it now?”

“Yes, thank you.” Mercer turned to Harry. “You said the morning room, Sir Harry?”

“Indeed. Follow me.” Harry led the way down the passage to the salon where they’d transported the crates from the shipment a day earlier.

Mercer moved about the room, lifting the crates’ lids and asking the occasional question, but James thought there was something almost cursory about his inspection. Uneasily, he remembered the rage in the captain’s eyes on hearing that the tea was gone: the justifiable anger of a merchant cheated of the price of his goods—or something far more sinister?

Mercer straightened up from the last crate. “You’re right, Trevenan. Everything else appears to be here. Sir Harry, might I arrange to have all this transported to my warehouse?”

“Of course. I’ll loan you our baggage wagon, and my servants can start loading it right away. In the meantime, why don’t you come and take some refreshment while you wait?” Harry suggested, with easy hospitality. “We’re celebrating Midsummer’s Eve and my sister’s birthday tonight. Half the county must be here, so there’s plenty of food and drink.”

“Very well,” Mercer conceded after a moment. “A glass of wine might not come amiss.”

“I can promise that and more.” Harry avoided his cousin’s gaze, but James knew their minds were running along the same track. Not long now…

***

The ballroom at Roswarne wasn’t especially large or grand, Amy reflected as she gazed about it, but the arrangements of massed roses and lilies gave it a festive air, and so did the floral garlands draped over the window bays. On the whole, this party was less formal and more openly celebratory than most balls she had attended in London. A buffet table laden with hot and cold delicacies had been set up against one wall, and some guests had eagerly descended upon the food. Laughter and conversations hummed from every corner of the room, while several couples—including Relia with John Tresilian—pranced across the dance floor to a lively polka.

Amy found her toe tapping in time to the music and wished she could join the dancers. But the women outnumbered the men here, so she would simply have to wait her turn. James wasn’t in the room, at present, but she understood that he and Sir Harry were trying to resolve the matter of those nasty anonymous letters tonight. She hoped fervently that they succeeded, and tried not to look too wistful as the polka ended and the musicians struck up a waltz.

“Miss Newbold.” She glanced up to find Sheridan, striking in his black and white evening kit, standing beside her. “May I have this dance?”

Amy stared at him for a moment, then rallied. “You may, Mr. Sheridan, and thank you.”

She took his arm and let him lead her onto the floor. Had they ever danced together before? On reflection, she did not think they had. After all, he’d seemed to disapprove of her, and she’d convinced herself that she disliked
him
—neither of which had turned out to be true. At least, Amy knew she did not dislike Mr. Sheridan; for all his sophistication, he was capable of kindness and, as she now knew, deep feeling. Much to her relief, their recent conversation about Elizabeth had not caused a rift between them. He’d been as courteous as ever in their subsequent sittings, if perhaps a little more guarded. But then, it couldn’t be easy for him to talk about the first love he’d lost so tragically. Mindful of that, she hadn’t raised the subject again.

They stepped into the dance, entering the flow of waltzing couples as smoothly as one stream joins another. Dancing with Mr. Sheridan was subtly different from dancing with James. The artist was a fraction taller and lankier, his movements sharper, even angular somehow, though no less polished. His scent was different too, sandalwood rather than citrus and clove. But James’s scent made her feel safe and secure, while Mr. Sheridan’s…

She looked up suddenly—and lost herself in his eyes. Not warm, dark eyes like her fiancé’s, but vivid, piercing green eyes. Artist’s eyes that found beauty and meaning in the world around them, which his artist’s hands strove to capture. One of those hands was resting at the small of her back now. She felt its warmth even through layers of silk and kid, and an answering warmth seemed to spread through her entire body as she registered his touch. Through her body and all the way up to her face, which must be redder than a beetroot right now!

Flustered, she summoned a smile and said brightly, “You waltz so well, Mr. Sheridan.”

He lifted his brows. “That surprises you?”

“Maybe a little,” she confessed. “I’m so used to thinking of you as the eternal observer.”

He gave her the unguarded smile that had so astonished her the first time she saw it, and swept her into a graceful turn. “Even an observer may wish to join the dance of life, sometimes.”

Life
, Amy thought bemusedly, as she followed his lead. That was what she felt dancing with Mr. Sheridan. Not safe or secure, exactly, but
alive
. More alive and exhilarated than she’d ever felt while dancing with a man. Even James, she realized, with a pang of guilt.

She should be thinking of
him
right now: her kind, honorable betrothed, so unfairly beset by those awful slanders. Not of Thomas Sheridan, cynic and sophisticate, who probably had this unsettling effect on every woman who came into his orbit.

Amy glanced up at the artist from under her lashes. Not as handsome as James, but far too attractive for his own good—and hers, she acknowledged with an inner grimace. Hadn’t she once resolved not to fall victim to his charms? He certainly seemed indifferent to her own, except as a subject for painting. Best to keep to her resolve then—and regard him as nothing more than a talented artist and close friend of her future husband.

But as the music slowed, fading into soft minor chords, Amy found herself wishing perversely that their dance could have lasted longer…

***

“Amy and Mr. Sheridan seem to be enjoying their waltz,” Sophie remarked, nodding toward the couples revolving on the dance floor.

Still fanning herself vigorously after the polka, Aurelia followed her gaze. “So they do.” Her sister and the artist seemed to have formed a genuine rapport of late. She wondered if James had noticed, or if he’d been too preoccupied with the missing shipment—so unexpectedly recovered—and the anonymous letters. Amy had mentioned that he and Sir Harry were trying to resolve that business tonight, which must account for their absence from the festivities.

At the moment, their absence was easy to overlook; the ballroom was packed with the Tresilians’ friends, relations, and neighbors, with more guests arriving each minute.

Aurelia glanced at Sophie, who was plying her fan halfheartedly, her pretty face shadowed with anxiety. Indeed, she’d seemed distracted since the party began. “Are you all right, my dear? You don’t seem to be enjoying your birthday celebration very much.”

“Oh, no, I’m quite well,” the girl assured her hurriedly. “And it’s a lovely party. It’s just—” She broke off, biting her lip, clearly undecided about whether to continue.

“Just what?” Aurelia prompted in her gentlest voice. “You
can
tell me, you know.”

Sophie hesitated, then, after a quick glance around, confided in a low voice, “I haven’t mentioned this to anyone else, but—I received something upsetting in the post today.”

“The post?” Aurelia echoed, a nasty suspicion starting to form in her mind.

Sophie’s next words confirmed it. “An anonymous letter, containing the most beastly accusations against Harry, James, and,” she paused, flushing, “Mr. Pendarvis.”

Aurelia’s hand tightened around her fan. “What sort of accusations?”

“The letter—implied that they had something to do with the late Lord Trevenan’s death. It’s not true, of course,” she added hastily. “I didn’t believe it for a second. But the fact that such a rumor exists at all…” She shook her head, looking unhappier than ever.

Aurelia breathed out, a slow exhale. “Do you still have the letter?”

“Yes, though I thought about burning it right away.”

“Under the circumstances, it’s just as well that you didn’t,” Aurelia told her. “Sophie, dear, you need to show this letter to Sir Harry at once. Trust me on this.”

Sophie’s eyes widened, and she rose immediately. “It’s in my room. Will you come with me?”

“Of course,” Aurelia replied, standing up as well.

Together, they slipped discreetly from the ballroom.

***

James strode down the passage toward the ballroom. Harry lingered some distance behind, chatting easily with Mercer and Robin, playing the genial squire to the hilt. Buying him time, James knew, to locate Oliver and arrange for him to identify the captain.

He’d scarcely set foot in the ballroom when an agitated Oliver materialized beside him.