Pamela Sherwood (37 page)

Sophie saw a muscle jerk in Robin’s jaw and knew he was picturing Nathalie’s last moments. She slipped her hand into his cold one, felt him grasp it like a lifeline.

Lady Charlotte’s lips curved in a travesty of a smile. “I thought it fitting that she died fondling what she cherished most in life.”

At that last piece of viciousness, Daventry broke.

“Murderess!” He lunged at his wife, hands reaching for her throat, but Thomas and Taunton each seized him by an arm and held him off, still struggling in their grasp.

Seymore began, “Lady Charlotte Daventry, you are under arrest for—”

Marianne, already ghost-pale, moaned and slumped to the floor.

For just a moment, everyone’s attention was on her… and Lady Charlotte made her move, launching herself toward the open doorway and freedom.

Seymore reached for her a second too late, before stumbling over the chair she overturned directly in his path. The drawing room doors slammed shut, even as he struggled to his feet, and he and Taunton seized upon the doorknobs, rattling them furiously and to no avail.

“She’s wedged the door!” Seymore reported over his shoulder, as Taunton cursed and wrestled still more vigorously with the knob.

“Grimsby!” Daventry roared, coming to pound on the doors as well. “Let us out!”

Sophie looked up from the sofa, on which she had deposited the unconscious Marianne. “Pull the bell rope,” she advised tartly.

Thomas, mouth twitching slightly, proceeded to do just that.

Robin, meanwhile, had picked up the fireplace poker and gone to the inspectors’ aid. “We might be able to jar the doors loose with this.”

A series of thrusts, combined with the forceful application of muscle, breached the doors and sent the Louis Quatorze chair Lady Charlotte had used as a barricade skittering across the floor. Breathless, the men stumbled out into the passage just as an astonished footman arrived on the scene.

“Where’s Lady Charlotte?” Daventry rapped out. “Did she pass you coming down?”

“No, sir,” the footman began—and was cut short by a chilling scream from above.

Daventry ran for the stairs at top speed, both inspectors at his heels. Robin, Sophie, and Thomas followed only a little more slowly.

They’d reached the second-floor landing when she came stumbling toward them—a black-clad housemaid, her face as white as her apron, shaking from head to toe.

“Jane!” Daventry caught her about the shoulders. “What’s happened?”

She gulped and shuddered, tears spilling down her pale cheeks. “Oh, sir, it’s—it’s her ladyship! She ran right past me. She… she… straight out the window—” The housemaid gestured shakily back the way she had come.

Toward the stairs leading up to the third floor.

As one, they gazed at the stairs in horrified understanding. Then Daventry uttered an explosive oath, thrust the weeping housemaid at the nearest man—Taunton—and ran for the stairs again, closely followed by Seymore.

Except that there was no need to run now. Just as there could be no doubt of what they would ultimately find. Three stories down to the unforgiving pavement below.

Sophie turned away, swallowing strenuously as she tried to wipe the image from her mind. So Lady Charlotte had taken the matter into her own hands, sparing everyone the cost of a trial in which the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Better than the hangman, or even life in prison or an asylum, but all the same…

Then Robin’s arm encircled her, and she leaned into his embrace, grateful for his support and the giving and receiving of comfort.

“Did you know what she meant to do?” she heard him ask Thomas in a low voice.

No question of which “she” he was referring to. Thomas shook his head. “No—but it doesn’t surprise me. I knew Charlotte. She wasn’t the sort, ever, to let herself be taken…”

My beloved is mine, and I am his…

—Song of Solomon 2:16

It was some time before they returned, somber and silent, to Sheridan House. Amy came flying to meet them the moment they stepped through the front door. Her anxious gaze traveled over each of them in turn, settling on her husband’s shadowed face. Without a word, Thomas held out his hand, and she took it at once.

Thomas turned to his guests. “Sophie, Pendarvis, will you excuse us? Someone—needs to inform my parents of what’s happened.”

“Of course,” Sophie replied and watched somberly as the Sheridans headed for the library, where they kept the telephone.

So much to come to terms with—all of them. Thomas had lost a relation, not a close one, but still part of his family. And Robin… He now knew the truth of Nathalie’s death, but would it bring him the peace he so desperately needed?

She glanced at him, pale and silent beside her. “Come up to my parlor, dear heart,” she urged. “It will be quiet and peaceful there.”

“That sounds—very welcome, just now,” he said on a sigh.

Upstairs, she let them both into the pretty parlor adjoining her chamber, then motioned Robin toward one of the comfortably padded armchairs in front of the fireplace. He sank down upon it without a murmur. Sophie went over to the sideboard, where a crystal decanter of sherry stood, along with a jar of sweet biscuits. She poured out two glasses of sherry, took out a biscuit apiece, and returned to Robin’s side.

Much to her amusement, she saw that Tatiana had emerged from whatever hiding place she’d found, and was now draped, purring seductively, across Robin’s lap. Some of the grey, haunted look left his face as he stroked her. “And who is this little charmer?” he inquired as he accepted the glass and biscuit Sophie handed him.

Sophie introduced them as she perched on the arm of Robin’s chair. “A gift from an admirer—a female admirer,” she added hastily. “An older woman who attended a concert I gave during the Little Season.”

Robin scratched Tatiana under her chin, and the cat’s purr redoubled, making him smile. For that alone, Sophie loved her capricious pet even more.

They sat in companionable silence for a time, sipping sherry and eating their biscuits. Very good ones, flavored with ratafia, Sophie noted idly.

“Better?” she inquired at last, leaning in so that their shoulders touched.

“A little, perhaps.” Robin’s gaze was a little distant. “God, what a day.”

“Difficult for everyone,” Sophie agreed.

He sighed. “I don’t know how I imagined things would go. Not as they did, that’s certain. Watching the Daventrys… I felt like a spear carrier in someone else’s tragedy.”

“I’d say there was plenty of tragedy to go around. Even if Lady Charlotte hadn’t taken that way out. They’d have hanged her, wouldn’t they?”

“Possibly. Or consigned her to prison for the rest of her life, if her lawyer was persuasive enough.” Robin sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “But I doubt she’d have lasted long in prison. She was too proud to bend, so she’d have broken instead.”

Sophie thought of that strong-boned, imperious face, the bred-in-the-bone aristocratic hauteur, and was forced to agree with him. “I know what Lady Charlotte did was terrible—monstrous, even. But I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for her. If her husband hadn’t betrayed her, twice, with Nathalie—”

“There’s no shortage of blame, is there?” Robin remarked. “Lady Charlotte, Daventry, even Nathalie herself. Not that she deserved her fate, but blackmail is a dangerous game.”

“I suppose she was desperate,” Sophie said. “Perhaps she knew the night you found her with Sir Lucas that it was over, that you were no longer willing to continue in the marriage. And it would be only a matter of time before her pregnancy became apparent. She couldn’t be sure you’d claim paternity as you had with Cyril, so she wrote to Daventry instead.”

“If truth be told,
I
don’t know that I would have done so either,” he admitted candidly. “Not this time. But any settlement I gave her would have provided for her and the child.”

It just wouldn’t have been enough—not for vain, grasping Nathalie. Sophie understood that without a word being said. Some people were just like that, always reaching for more, not caring who might be injured in the process. Moreover, she strongly suspected that it had been power as much as money that Nathalie craved. Power over all the men in her life—perhaps she had clung so tightly to her marriage to Robin because that was the only power she could assert over him. He’d long since outgrown his boyish passion for her, whereas Guy Daventry… Robin was right: there
was
no shortage of blame.

She wondered, fleetingly, what would become of that family, especially young Marianne. Just after Lady Charlotte’s remains had been removed from the scene, the girl had emerged from the drawing room to stand silently beside her shattered uncle. Not for the first time, Sophie thought how convenient the timing of that swoon had been. Had Marianne guessed her aunt’s likely intent and, in her own way, tried to aid and abet her? One could resent, even hate, one’s oppressive guardian without wanting to see her hanged or imprisoned. Impossible to know for certain, and Sophie had no intention of ever asking. Best to leave it all be, and concentrate on what truly mattered: Robin and Sara.

She studied her lover as he passed a weary hand over his face. “I hardly know what to tell Sara. That someone hated her mama enough to commit murder.”

Sophie shivered, her heart aching for that little girl. “Sara’s old for her years, but I agree—this will take careful handling. But we’ll think of something.”

“We.” He exhaled. “I’m still getting accustomed to the sound of that.”

She smiled, set a hand upon his shoulder. “You’ll have a lifetime to do so, I promise.”

“A lifetime,” Robin echoed. “That reminds me…” He set Tatiana on the floor and stood up. “Wait here, love. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Of course,” Sophie replied, puzzled but agreeable. Tatiana strolled away, sat down before the fireplace, and ostentatiously began to wash.

Robin returned within a few minutes, striding purposefully to Sophie’s side. She caught her breath when he opened his right hand to reveal a small velvet box.

“This was—this was my mother’s engagement ring,” he told her, his eyes dark with emotion. “I’ve kept it, along with your pearls, in my bank vault for years. I have never offered it to anyone else—or wanted to.” He opened the box, turned it to reveal the contents.

The single cabochon ruby shone with a steady radiance in its delicate setting of yellow gold. Sophie gazed at it until her vision blurred with tears. “Robin…”

“The stone isn’t very large, I know,” he began. “And if you’d prefer something else—”

Sophie shook her head, smiling tremulously. “It’s beautiful. Perfect. I would be proud to wear it.” The ring of a woman who had loved a man enough to leave her comfortable existence and follow him to the ends of the earth. Who had known great sorrow and loss, but also great joy. What better legacy could there possibly be?

Robin’s eyes glowed like twin sapphires. “My dear, these last few weeks have put us through the fire. We’re not unscathed, God knows, but we’re intact. I shall be sorry to the end of my days that Nathalie died as she did, but I can’t regret that you and I are free to be together now. The two of us—and Sara.”

She caressed his face. “I can’t regret that either. I never could. And I want the same thing you want, with all my heart—you and I and Sara. Being a family.”

His smile was almost boyish in its exuberance. “Well, then—let me do this properly. It’s high time we followed the rules on
something
!” He knelt before her, holding up the ring box like a votive offering. “Sophia Catherine Tresilian, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Joy welled within her, so intense and overwhelming she could barely breathe, much less speak. It seemed that she’d waited all her life to hear him ask that question. She wasted no time in giving her answer. “Yes. Robin Lovell Pendarvis, I will happily become your wife.”

The ring slid onto her finger as though sized just for her. And when Robin rose and drew her into his arms, she flung her own about his neck, burying her tears and her laughter alike in his shoulder.

***

They made love by lamplight, savoring each moment leisurely. The ruby shone crimson on Sophie’s finger, but no more brilliant than her eyes, storm-tossed green with arousal.

Robin kissed and stroked his way down her beautiful body, reveling in the soft swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the long tapering lines of waist and legs. “
Behold, thou art fair, my love
,” he quoted, resting his hand on the gentle rise of her mound. “
Behold, thou art fair
…” He sought her mouth hungrily, the kiss an affirmation of a bond forged in fire and all the stronger for it. She tasted of sherry and sweet almonds—
thy
love
is
better
than
wine
…

“
Thou
art
all
fair, my love; there is no spot in thee
,” he whispered, positioning himself above her. Sophie shifted as well, her hips tilting to accommodate his entrance, then gasped as he slid into her like a key into a lock.

Robin captured her lips again, and she moaned into his mouth as he began to move within her, slowly at first, then with increasing speed and vigor. Sophie tossed her head from side to side, her breath coming in rough pants, as sensations built and built between their joined bodies. Robin’s vision swam, his whole frame shaking with the effort to restrain himself just a few moments more.

“
Let
me
hear
thy
voice
,” he urged, feeling the release coming upon them both. “
For
thy
voice
is
sweet, and thy countenance is comely…
”

She climaxed then, trembling all over, head thrown back, and he heard her voice, soaring in a triumphant descant. He let go then, his own cry of fulfillment tearing itself loose, and followed her into bliss.

Some time later, when speech and rational thought were possible again, he asked her softly, “So—better than Oxfordshire?”

Sophie gave a husky laugh. “Yes, amazingly enough.” She snuggled closer to him. “I never suspected you knew so much of
The
Song
of
Solomon
.”

“How better to woo a singer than with the Song of Songs?” He dropped a kiss on her hair, the loosened waves of it faintly redolent of violets. The scent, and all its attendant memories, lightened his heart. In that moment, he felt—almost like a boy again, at the beginning of everything: love and life, alike.

Sophie made a contented sound low in her throat. “This is the true start of things, isn’t it?” she remarked, as though reading his mind. “Oxfordshire was wonderful, but even then we were preparing to part—”

“And now we don’t have to,” Robin finished for her. “The future, and what we make of it, is before us now.” He paused, trailing his fingers through her fragrant hair. “Sophie, you’re—you’re not planning to give up your career, are you? Because you don’t have to, you know. We can find a way to work around it, accommodate your schedule somehow—”

“Hush!” Sophie caressed his face. “I’m not giving up music, or even performing, dear heart. I just plan to be a bit more… selective about which engagements I accept, in future. Besides, even if I did choose to retire as a touring
artiste
, I daresay I’d find scope for my talents in Cornwall. Truro isn’t a cultural wasteland, you know. And there are always those summer concerts at the hotel—if you’ll have me.”

“
If
I’ll have you?” Robin shook his head and kissed her again. “What a question. You can sing for our guests as often as you want, anytime you want. I’m sure they’ll flock to hear you. I just… I don’t want you to have to give up anything for me.”

Her eyes shone, luminous as a sunlit sea. “I won’t be giving up a thing. I’ll be gaining you and Sara—a whole new world.” She stroked a hand lingeringly down the expanse of his bare chest. “Make love to me again, Robin?”

He considered the matter with the utmost gravity. “Yes, I do believe I will,” he remarked judiciously, and was rewarded by her laughter as he rolled over and pinned her to the mattress.

Sophie smiled up at him, wrapping her arms about his neck. “
I
found
him
whom
my
soul
loveth
,” she quoted in her turn. “
I
held
him, and would not let him go…
”