Waltz With a Stranger (17 page)

Footsteps sounded somewhere behind her. Another person—surely a man, by the heaviness of his tread—had entered the conservatory. Amy turned at once, but could see nothing among the numerous plants and shrubs.

“Andrew?” she called tentatively. “Trevenan?”

A familiar figure stepped out from behind a potted palm. “No, sweeting, it is I.”

Amy recoiled. “Lord Glyndon!”

He smirked at her as if they’d both done something exceptionally clever. “I didn’t know how we’d manage it until I saw you slip away from the ballroom. You gave me quite a chase.”

Amy drew herself up to her full height. “I left to have my gown mended, and for no other reason. I certainly did not intend for anyone to follow me. You are not here at
my
invitation, Lord Glyndon. Shouldn’t you return to the ballroom? Your parents and betrothed must be missing you.”

To her dismay, he showed no sign of heeding her words. “Oh, come now, darling, there’s no need to pretend any longer!”

“Pretend?” Amy echoed, incredulous. Could he really be so conceited as to believe she had arranged this encounter? She watched uneasily as he continued to approach, walking with the exaggerated care of someone slightly the worse for drink. Enlightenment dawned: the viscount was intoxicated.

“You are not fit company in your present condition,” she said coldly. “If you will not withdraw, then
I
shall. Good evening.”

Drawing up her skirts, she started to move past him, when he reached out and caught her by the arm. The strength of his grip startled her, and for the first time, she felt a stirring of fear in her stomach. “Let me go!” she demanded, trying to pull herself free.

Lord Glyndon licked his lips, and for the first time, Amy noticed how full they were—not sensual, but oddly petulant, like a pouting baby’s. His eyes burned with a strange, hot gleam as he scanned her from head to toe. “God, I don’t know how I’ve stood it all these weeks—watching you with
him.
”

“Lord Trevenan is my betrothed.” It was at once a reminder and a subtle threat.

“Once we’re both safely married, we needn’t keep apart for long,” Glyndon went on, as though she had not spoken. “Lady Louisa will be a complaisant wife, I have no doubt, as long as I make her a future duchess.”

Amy stared at him, scarcely able to credit what she was hearing or what he was suggesting. She gave a brittle laugh. “Why, how delightful. You’d make her your duchess and me your—your paramour. Forgive me if I don’t fall prostrate with gratitude at your feet.”

He chuckled, and the sound made her nape prickle unpleasantly. “You American girls have such spirit! I’ve always admired that about you—among other things.”

Amy lifted her chin. “You shame us both by such a proposal. Lord Trevenan has offered me his name and his honor. I wouldn’t betray him for the world—and certainly not for the likes of
you
! Now let me go before I scream the house down!”

Some of her anger finally seemed to penetrate the viscount’s sodden brain. “You can’t intend to remain faithful to that provincial yokel—”

“You’re not fit to black Trevenan’s boots!” she flashed. “He’s worth a hundred of you!”

“The devil he is! Tell me you haven’t thought of this.” Glyndon’s voice was thick, congested. “Tell me you haven’t wanted this, every bit as much as I.” He pulled her to him, his mouth coming down hard and hot on hers, his arms closing around her in a stifling embrace.

Amy struggled frantically, but Lord Glyndon held her fast, her arms pinioned to her sides. The combined reek of whiskey and perspiration made her head reel, and her lips felt bruised and swollen beneath the insistent pressure of his. The world was going grey around her when a new voice, sharp and imperative, sliced through the haze like a whetted knife.

“Get away from her, you drunken bastard!”

A mighty wrench, and then she was stumbling backwards, dazed but free of that hateful embrace, able to breathe again. Through still-blurred vision, she saw two dark shapes struggling; the leaner one appeared to have the more thickset one in a headlock. There were sounds of a scuffle that seemed to be moving farther and farther away. Putting out an unseeing hand, she felt the slim trunk of a young tree and gratefully steadied herself against it.

“Miss Newbold—” Another figure was looming over her now, but the voice was gentle, even solicitous. Still dazed, Amy blinked hard to clear her vision—and looked up into a familiar pair of green eyes.

“Glyndon is gone.” Thomas Sheridan’s tone was one of grim satisfaction. “He will not trouble you again—my word on it.”

“M-Mr. Sheridan.” Amy swallowed a treacherous lump in her throat, stifled a wild urge to burst into tears.

His eyes widened with what appeared to be genuine concern. “Here—you may feel better if you sit down.” He took her gently by the elbow, led her unresisting to one of the stone benches. “Do you need me to fetch anyone?” he asked. “Your mother, perhaps—or your sister?”

Amy shook her head, beyond speech at the moment. Sheridan’s face darkened further. “I cannot apologize enough for my cousin. His behavior was disgraceful, and I shall ensure that he does not approach you again—tonight or at any other time.”

Amy found her voice again, shaky though it was. “I can’t—I can’t believe I
ever
esteemed him, future duke or not!”

To her eternal gratitude, Mr. Sheridan did not say, “I told you so.” Instead, he passed her his handkerchief without a word. The urge to weep had receded, but she vigorously wiped her mouth to rid herself of even the feeling of Glyndon’s unwanted kiss.

Sheridan continued to eye her solicitously. “Might I at least fetch you a glass of water?”

Amy shook her head. “I will be all right presently. I just need—a few moments to compose myself.” She pressed the handkerchief to her lips again, suppressing a shudder. “Thank you, Mr. Sheridan, for coming to my rescue. And for your kindness now.”

He inclined his head. “I am glad to have been of service, Miss Newbold, though tremendously sorry that it was necessary and that a member of my own family should have offered you such an insult.”

She cast him an apprehensive glance. “How much did you witness, exactly?”

“I heard you tell him to let you go, and then I saw him embrace you, clearly against your wishes.” Sheridan frowned. “You mean, he gave you further offense?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Amy forced herself to speak calmly despite her lingering sense of outrage and insult. “He told me that—once we were married to our respective spouses—we needn’t keep apart. By which I inferred that he wishes me to become his mistress.”

Sheridan stilled, his fine features hardening, his eyes turning to emerald ice. “Forget that,” he said curtly. “And forget him.”

“With pleasure,” she said fervently.

“Amy?” A new voice spoke from the doorway, and she turned her head to see her betrothed standing on the threshold.

“James,” Amy said weakly. For a moment, she felt dangerously close to tears again.

“My dear?” He came further into the conservatory, his dark eyes scanning her anxiously. “Are you all right?”

Amy rose from the bench and surprised them both by flinging herself into his arms. Trevenan rallied almost at once, however, his arms closing around her—and oh, how blessedly different his embrace felt from the one Lord Glyndon had forced upon her! Gentle, but reassuring—the touch of a trusted friend and protector. Not trusting herself to speak yet, she rested her head against his shoulder, warm and solid beneath his evening coat, and breathed in the comforting scents of citrus and cloves. Safe.

“Amy?” He looked down at her, then glanced at Sheridan. “Thomas, what happened?”

“Glyndon.” The single word dripped with censure. “He forgot himself and imposed his unwanted attentions upon Miss Newbold.”

Trevenan stiffened. “Go on,” he said to his friend in a voice every bit as hard and cold.

Sheridan complied, as tersely as possible; by the end of the recital, Trevenan looked as angry as Amy had ever seen him.

“By God, I will not stand for this!” His dark eyes held a dangerous light that might have alarmed Amy if it had been directed at her. “My dear,” he studied her with renewed concern, “shall I take you to your mother?”

Amy shook her head. “I’m all right, my lord.” With difficulty, she summoned a smile. “And I refuse to let this evening be spoiled by a drunken cad.”

“That drunken cad will answer for what he’s done,” he told her. “And when I find him—”

“No, James,” Sheridan interposed. “Glyndon is my cousin. Let
me
handle this!”

“It was my intended whom he assaulted!”

“And my family whom he embarrassed by his shameful conduct. My Uncle Harford will be informed of this, and I assure you, he will mete out as severe a punishment as you could wish. Short of flaying alive, perhaps,” Sheridan added with a wry quirk of his lips. “Glyndon is still his heir, after all.”

“
I
would be content simply never to set eyes on him again,” Amy declared. “Let Mr. Sheridan deal with this, James. I don’t wish you to soil your hands or even your horsewhip on Lord Glyndon. He is not worth the use of either.”

Trevenan sighed. “I beg to differ, with regard to the horsewhip, at least, but I will abide by your wishes.” He met Sheridan’s eyes. “Thank you, Thomas.”

Sheridan nodded. “I’ll see to it at once. If you’ll pardon me, Miss Newbold?” He sketched an abrupt bow and strode from the conservatory.

Trevenan turned to Amy. “My dear, are you recovered now, or do you need more time to collect yourself?”

She shook her head. “I think I’ve seen quite enough of this room for tonight. Let us rejoin our guests. Papa will be announcing our betrothal soon.” She smiled at him, feeling a rush of gratitude for all that he was—and was not. “And if you’ll forgive me for sounding like a brazen American hussy, I am looking forward to it very much.”

“As am I.” He offered her his arm. “And I give you fair warning, Amy—I intend to remain at your side for the rest of the evening.”

Touched, she laid her hand upon the crook of his elbow. “You are gallant, my lord.”

“Not at all.” A peculiar expression flickered across his handsome face; if Amy hadn’t known better, she might have described it as self-reproach. But what had Trevenan to reproach himself for? “I am merely resolved to take better care of you, in future.”

Puzzled but agreeable, Amy let him lead her back into the ballroom.

***

From Victoria, Duchess of Harford, to Charlotte, Countess Savernake. 3 June 1891.

…So, as of two nights ago, Miss Amelia Newbold was officially betrothed to the Earl of Trevenan! Harford is most relieved, as am I, by this turn of events. I will concede that Miss Newbold is quite the beauty, and I suspect she will do well enough as a countess to a provincial earl, however ill-suited she might be as the next Duchess. I have heard that the Newbolds are departing within the week for Lord Trevenan’s estate in Cornwall, where they will remain for at least a month. No Society there, of course, but the scenery is said to be breathtaking.

Of the matter that most concerns us, you will be glad to hear that Glyndon appears to have undergone a change of heart with regard to Miss Newbold. I suspect we may continue to plan Louisa’s wedding for this coming autumn. For the time being, however, Harford means to dispatch Glyndon to Scotland, to oversee some matter at our northernmost property. Doubtless he will be bored, as most persons of consequence are remaining in London until August, but I daresay the solitude will afford him abundant opportunities for reflection. And time to recover from the rather nasty black eye he apparently acquired from a collision with a door…

Many a heart is aching,

If you could read them all;

Many the hopes that have vanished

After the ball.

—Charles K. Harris, “After the Ball”

“Have you anything further to report, Mr. Norris?” James asked the inquiry agent seated across the desk from him.

John Norris, a nondescript man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my lord. Captain Mercer left London yesterday to attend to his interests in Bristol. Beyond that, I’ve learned nothing further regarding Mercer Shipping or your late cousin’s involvement in it.”

“Well, I appreciate your efforts on what you’ve learned so far, Norris,” James replied. “And if you should discover anything more, send the information on to me in Cornwall. I leave for my estate tomorrow morning.”

“I will continue to look into the matter here,” the agent promised, rising to take his leave. “By the by, I saw the notice of your engagement in the papers. May I wish you happy, my lord?”

James thanked him, thinking how odd it felt to
be
engaged, then saw his visitor to the door. Returning to the library, he drifted to the window and stood there awhile, lost in thought.

So Mercer had left town, at least for the present. Only time would tell if he made contact again, in pursuit of those shares he appeared to want so intensely. Norris’s investigation of Mercer Shipping likewise seemed to have reached a dead end.

Perhaps, James mused, the agent had found nothing more because—there was nothing more to be found? One could not overlook the possibility that the simplest explanation was the most accurate one—that Gerald had found a profitable venture and sought to maximize its advantages to himself by buying up as many shares as possible. And that Mercer had resented Gerald’s intrusion in his business, especially after his unwanted “partner” added theft to his list of offenses. An unsavory scenario, without a doubt—and one that cast an unflattering light on his cousin—but not particularly sinister.

And yet…while he might hope there
was
nothing more to it than that, he couldn’t help the uneasy feeling that they’d scratched only the surface of the problem. The rest of it lurked underfoot like a hidden mine shaft—and just as dangerous.

Cornwall. He needed to get back there, clear his head; he
thought
better in Cornwall. And he had responsibilities too long neglected there: the estate, the mine…though at least Harry could be counted on to have taken care of things at Wheal Felicity, as he had ever since James had inherited. He also needed to devote more attention to the Newbolds, and make sure that they enjoyed their stay at Pentreath. It was to be Amy’s new home, after all.

Well, whatever ugly business Gerald had got up to in his last months, it would not touch his fiancée or her family, James vowed to himself. He’d as good as promised them a carefree holiday in his beloved home county, and that was just what he meant to give them, Gerald and Captain Mercer be damned.

***

“More flowers!” Amy caroled, swooping down upon the latest floral offering ensconced on the mantel. “Roses this time—Gloire de Dijon!” She indulged in a rapturous sniff of the luxuriant blooms and glanced at the accompanying note. “And from Mr. Sutcliffe, no less. Relia, dearest, you have made a conquest!”

“Oh, I don’t know that I’d go that far,” Aurelia demurred. “Mr. Sutcliffe is probably just being chivalrous.”

Amy rolled her eyes. “Of course he is. And so are Lord Richard Vaughn, George Atherton, and Bertram Ashby, who sent you flowers as well. It’s almost a shame that we’re leaving London tomorrow. I am sure you could secure a proposal in no time if we were to stay.”

Aurelia shook her head, refusing even to think of that. Flattering as it was to receive flowers and compliments from such eligible gentlemen, she felt confused enough about her present feelings without bringing another suitor into the mix. Personally, she was relieved that they would be departing so soon for Cornwall and Lord Trevenan’s estate. “I’m in no hurry, dearest. Let us see you safely married first!”

“That’s some months away as yet,” Amy objected, seating herself on the sofa across from Aurelia’s chair. “I should think we could at least make a push to find someone suitable for you before then.” Her face brightened. “How wonderful if you were married or at least engaged within the year! You could stay with Trevenan and me until your own wedding.”

Aurelia dropped her gaze to the floor. She had not discussed her plan to remain in New York after Amy’s wedding. How could she, knowing how it would distress her twin? Nor had she mentioned that moonlit encounter with Charlie at their birthday ball, or Charlie’s attempts to call on her these last two days; fortunately, she had been out of the house at both times. So many secrets she was keeping now—and from the one person to whom she had once told everything.

And Amy had had her share of distressing experiences that evening. All the Newbolds had been shocked to hear that Lord Glyndon had made such improper advances toward her, and grateful that Trevenan and Mr. Sheridan had been on hand to save her. Amy had been so shaken by the encounter that Aurelia hadn’t had the heart to be angry with her for telling Andrew about Charlie, especially after her twin had apologized profusely for her breach of confidence.

She looked up at a sound from the doorway and saw a footman entering the sitting room bearing the morning post on a silver tray. Letters for both of them today, along with the latest issues of the Society magazines Amy read so avidly. Receiving her own mail, Aurelia broke into a smile when she saw the direction and French postage stamp on the topmost letter. Whatever the delights of Nice or Paris, Claudine had not forgotten her young American friend.

She glanced up to share the news with Amy, only to find that she’d fallen silent. Too silent—and
The
London
Lady
and
Town
Talk
both lay forgotten on the sofa beside her. “Dearest, what is it?”

For answer, Amy held out the letter she had been reading. “It’s from Lord Glyndon.”

“Lord Glyndon?” Aurelia echoed, dumbfounded. “What on earth—?”

“It’s—I think it’s his idea of an apology.”

Astonished, Aurelia took the letter and ran her gaze over it. Only a few lines, but the meaning—however stiffly worded—seemed clear enough, as did the phrases “deeply regret” and “sincere apologies for the offense.” The page also bore Glyndon’s full signature, and the envelope Amy had passed her along with the letter carried the Harford seal. “Well,” she said at last, “it appears genuine enough. At least he is
attempting
to make proper amends.”

Amy’s lips curved in a faint, wintry smile. “Oh, I very much doubt Lord Glyndon came up with the idea of writing this himself.”

“Then who?”

“I suspect Mr. Sheridan had a hand in this.”

“You think
he
wrote the letter and signed his cousin’s name?”

“No.” Amy’s expression thawed fractionally. “But I suspect he pressured Glyndon into doing so. He did say—that night—that he would see to the matter.”

Aurelia handed back the letter. “Well, if he is responsible for Glyndon owning up to his behavior, I can only applaud him.”

“Yes.” Amy surprised her by agreeing. “I should call on him, I suppose—and thank him again for his intervention.” She stood up. “I have to speak to him anyway, about my portrait.”

“Do you need me to accompany you?” Aurelia asked, reluctantly laying her letters aside.

Amy shook her head. “No, thank you, dearest. If I require a chaperon, I can always take Mariette.” She glanced at her morning dress. “I’ll just go up and change.”

Looking somewhat distracted, she left the sitting room. Aurelia gazed after her in bemusement. Matters did seem to have improved between her sister and Mr. Sheridan, she mused, which must be a relief to Trevenan.

Her glance fell on Lord Glyndon’s discarded missive, and the thought occurred to her that the viscount’s letter had served at least one more useful purpose: Amy had become far too preoccupied to continue the subject of finding her a husband. She picked up her letters again, sifted through them—and froze when she saw the handwriting on the last one. Handwriting she had not set eyes on in more than three years.

Charlie—making one more attempt to reach her.

***

As before, Mr. Sheridan was out but expected to return shortly, so, at Amy’s request, his housekeeper again showed her into the studio to wait for him.

She was not, however, destined to wait alone, for the studio was already occupied. A fashionably dressed young woman with brown hair stood before the nearest wall, admiring Sheridan’s handiwork.

“Lady Warrender!” Amy exclaimed in startled recognition.

“Miss Newbold.” The baroness sounded surprised but not at all perturbed by Amy’s presence here. “Have you come to offer Thomas a commission?”

Thomas. Belatedly, Amy recalled what Trevenan had told her of the friendship that had existed between Sheridan’s family and Lady Warrender’s. “Indeed. Mr. Sheridan has agreed to paint my portrait as a wedding gift for my fiancé.”

“An excellent notion. You could not have chosen a more gifted artist, or one whose work is more likely to please Lord Trevenan. Have you decided upon a gown and a setting?”

“Not just yet. Those are among the details I hope to discuss with him today.”

“Well, Thomas will certainly do you justice. He has the most extraordinary way of capturing the very heart and soul of his subjects.” Lady Warrender’s gaze went to Elizabeth Martin’s portrait, and her smile turned soft, even wistful. “The very heart and soul.”

Amy glanced at the portrait as well, remembering how she had admired it on her first visit. She could now see the resemblance between the girl in the painting and the woman gazing at it so fondly, though the girl’s expression was merrier. “And this was your sister?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Yes, my sister Elizabeth. She died when she was only seventeen. We were just two years apart, and very close.”

“I am so sorry,” Amy said with complete sincerity. How could she not sympathize with one who had lost a beloved sister? Those first days after Relia’s accident, when they had all feared for her life, were permanently etched on her memory. Even thinking about them chilled her to the very marrow.

Lady Warrender regarded her for a moment. “Yes, you, of all people, would understand,” she said more warmly, then sighed. “She was the elder, in life. Now I am almost a decade her senior. It has been … difficult to accept, at times.” She looked back at the portrait. “Thomas finished this six months after her death. The original is at my parents’ estate, in Devonshire.”

“The original?” Amy echoed. “You mean, this is a copy?”

“As close a one as he could manage. I hope it comforted him as much as ours did us.”

“He held your sister in high regard, then?”

“They were to be married, my dear.” Lady Warrender paused. “And it was a love match.”

“Really?” Amy glanced at the portrait again. This laughing, fresh-faced girl and the sophisticated, blasé artist, who’d had a number of discreet liaisons with equally sophisticated, blasé Society women, if rumor were to be believed? And yet he could not have always been so.

“Our families have been neighbors for years, in Devonshire,” Lady Warrender explained. “My brothers, my sisters, and I were playmates of the Sheridans.” She paused, lips curving at the memory. “We were this great pack of children running wild over the Devon moors, squabbling over our tea, and planning endless excursions here and there.

“But even then there was something special between Thomas and Elizabeth. He was her staunchest defender when she was a little girl, while she was his most loyal ally when he chose to study art. They had a deep trust in each other that was—quite beautiful to see.” Lady Warrender’s brown eyes misted slightly. “And so, in due course, they became engaged and planned to wed after Thomas was finished at university. But during his first year at Oxford, she took a severe chill and died within a few days. It was…a very great shock to us all. She had always been so lively and robust.” She paused again, fished a handkerchief from her reticule, and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, dear. Please forgive me…”

“No need, Lady Warrender,” Amy broke in hurriedly, half-wishing she’d never asked the question that led to this painfully sensitive subject. “I understand completely.”

The baroness gave her a sweetly tremulous smile before tucking the handkerchief away. “So,” she resumed, “Thomas has always been dear to our family, for his own sake and for hers. I rejoice in his success, as Elizabeth would have done, and I like to think that she watches over him, even now. Although,” she added, “I cannot think she would approve of
everything
he has done in the last ten years. Or of the company he has sometimes kept.” The faint censure in her tone made her meaning unmistakable, and Amy’s own thoughts went irresistibly to Lady Crowley. “On reflection, I really do think it would be best if Thomas were to marry.”

Amy found the thought of Mr. Sheridan married even more disconcerting than the thought of him engaged. But Lady Warrender knew him far better than she. “A suitable wife would surely be a benefit to his career,” she ventured.

“Oh, indeed. But that is not why I propose it.” Lady Warrender studied the portrait once more. “Thomas’s own gifts and his dedication will ensure his success as an artist. But for Thomas the man…I should like to see him in love, truly in love, again. And loved in return.”

“You would not mind that, even though he was betrothed to your sister?”

“Oh, I admit, I once would have found it difficult to see Thomas with someone in what should have been Elizabeth’s place,” Lady Warrender confessed. “But to expect him to remain a bachelor forever, when he might find happiness elsewhere, would be selfish and unreasonable. Elizabeth loved him dearly; they were the best of friends, as well as true sweethearts, but she had the most generous of hearts. I think she would want him to be happy again, after—”