Waltz With a Stranger (35 page)

“That’s fine, Aunt Judith,” James assured her. “Most of our guests rose rather late this morning. I don’t think an hour will make much of a difference.” He glanced at Aurelia, who smiled and shook her head.

“Not at all, Lady Talbot.” She rose from the piano bench. “I’ll tell my family of the change in schedule.”

Lady Talbot smiled at the girl as she went out. “Thank you, my dear.”

“I should go as well.” James picked up his letters. “And see to my latest correspondence.”

“James.” The unexpected urgency in her voice stopped him halfway to the door.

He turned around, glanced at her inquiringly. “Aunt Judith?”

“We haven’t had much chance to speak privately of late, but I couldn’t help wondering…” Lady Talbot paused, then asked, with great gentleness, “My dear, are you
happy
? I don’t mean about having Helena here,” she added, “or about having to deal with those awful letters—who
could
be happy about that?—but about your future. Your marriage, in particular.”

James raised his brows, trying to hide his unease at the turn the conversation had taken. “Why wouldn’t I be happy? You have no objection to my future bride, I trust?”

“None at all. The Newbolds are delightful people, especially the daughters. It’s just…” Again she hesitated, her gaze intent on his face. “Perhaps it’s my instincts as a former matchmaking mama speaking, but I have wondered, for some time now, if you were completely certain of your choice. And I think—you know why.”

James swallowed, doing his best to meet her eyes. That was the trouble with close relations: They saw right through you, no matter what you said or did. All at once, the drawing room felt too small, as close and stifling as Gerald’s chamber had been. “I gave my word,” he said at last, turning back toward the door.

“And keeping your word is an honorable thing. But when the heart is involved…” Lady Talbot sighed. “Dear James, you are too much your father’s son to marry for the sake of convenience, or without the sort of love your parents had. I just want you to be sure, really sure, of your choice. Or you may be condemning three people to a lifetime of unhappiness.”

***

From Claudine-Gabrielle Beaumont to Aurelia Leigh Newbold, 9 June 1891

…I do not believe,
ma
petite
, that you are the sort of woman who can be happy without love, or the promise of it at the very least. You say that the first man is lost to you, because he is now your sister’s fiancé. But if the second stirs even a trace of affection in you, you might wish to consider seeing him again, if only to determine whether what you feel is love or merely sentiment. If you do not settle the question to your satisfaction, I fear you will always wonder…

And holy though he was, and virtuous,

To sinners he was not impiteous,

Nor haughty in his speech, nor too divine,

But in all teaching prudent and benign.

—Geoffrey Chaucer,
The
Canterbury
Tales: Prologue

“This is the vicarage?” Harry inquired, gazing at the dwelling before them. “A handsome place. Your cousin Frank appears to be doing quite well for himself.”

“He does, indeed.”
Well
enough
not
to
envy
a
distant, recently ennobled cousin?
James wondered. There was only one way to find out.

They alighted from the carriage and headed up the walk. A pleasant-faced woman opened the door and, on learning their identities, bade them enter. The vicar was currently engaged in writing a sermon, she informed them, but he was always willing to see his relations.

She led them into a cozy parlor, where a man of perhaps thirty sat scribbling at a desk, announced them, and withdrew. Mr. Trelawney rose at once, smiling, and held out his hand. “Cousin James, is it? Welcome. I am glad to meet you again. And you, Sir Harry,” he added, with a friendly nod toward his other visitor.

James took the extended hand, studying his host appraisingly. A nondescript man, his cousin Frank—of average height, with brown hair, brown eyes, and pleasant but unremarkable features. His voice was mellifluous, however, and his smile surprisingly sweet. Half against his will, James found himself warming to the man. “I am glad to meet you as well, Cousin Frank. And in somewhat pleasanter circumstances.”

“Indeed. My condolences on the deaths of your uncle and cousin; losing them so close together must have come as a shock.” Frank gestured toward the sofa in the middle of the room. “Pray sit down. I’ll have Mrs. Hughes bring us some tea.”

James exchanged a glance with Harry as they seated themselves, knowing their thoughts were running along the same lines. No sign of guilt, discomfort, or even self-consciousness from their host at receiving them; that seemed telling in itself. But this line of investigation could not be ruled out entirely, James thought. Not yet.

Tea and scones arrived in short order, and Frank poured for them all. “So, what brings you to Veryan, cousin? Any particular business?”

“Well, for a start, I wished to explore the connection between our families more fully,” James said, with perfect truth. “You are aware that, at present, your father is my heir?”

“I’d heard something of the sort,” Frank admitted. “But it seems quite incredible to me. We are third cousins, are we not? Far removed from the succession—or so I thought.”

“There were two Trelawneys before your father, but they died without male issue.”

“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 there 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?”