Pamela Sherwood (14 page)

Nathalie sprang up from her chair, eyes wide with what appeared to be genuine dismay. “So, you mean to take them from me? My children?”

Robin cursed inwardly. For all her flightiness, Nathalie could be quick enough when she sensed her own interests might be at stake. Stupid of him to forget that, even temporarily. “I have said nothing of the kind.” He paused, choosing his next words with care, doing his best to sound reasonable. “You are their mother, and so I would not deny your claim to them. But they need more… stability in their lives. Surely you must see that yourself, or you would not have come here tonight.” And if concern for her children’s welfare had motivated Nathalie’s appearance here in any way, he could—almost—forgive her for the shambles she had made of this evening.

Sophie’s stricken face flashed into his mind with agonizing clarity. He suppressed the memory as best he could and continued, “I am in a better position to provide certain necessities for them: a home, a nursemaid, and schooling, in due course. Whatever happens between us, my primary concern is
their
security and well-being. I would hope that you feel the same, and that we could arrive at terms agreeable to us both.” He grimaced inwardly, hoping the words sounded less stiff to Nathalie than they did to him.

No such luck to judge by the mulish set of her pretty mouth. “And if I do not like your terms,
chèri
? If I was to leave with
my
children, rather than comply with your so-generous offer, what would you do?” She took a step toward him, all pretense of innocence gone now, her eyes sharp with mingled challenge and calculation. “Will you risk losing both children,
husband
, simply to get rid of
me
?”

The threat chilled him to the bone, but he stared unflinchingly into her eyes until she flushed and looked down. “As I recall, madam,” he bit off each word with icy precision, “English law favors fathers when it comes to matters of custody. You would do well to remember that before you try to disappear with Sara and Cyril.” He pushed away from the desk, strode over to tug the bell rope in the corner of the study. “A chamber has been prepared for you in the west wing. One of the maids will escort you there. We will speak again in the morning.”

***

The room was mostly dark, but for the light of a single lamp and a fire burning in the grate. Summer nights could be cool in Cornwall, with the wind coming off the sea.

A housemaid sat by the fire, poking the flames into greater life, but she rose when Robin entered and bobbed a quick curtsy. The children were in bed, she informed him in a low voice, and the boy had gone right to sleep. But the girl—Miss Sara—was still awake and inclined to be a little tearful. Missing her mum, the maid opined, then blushed at her own forwardness.

Unoffended, Robin thanked the girl—her name was Rachel, he remembered—and motioned her to resume her seat, then went over to sit in the chair beside the bed. Two small forms lay beneath the covers; the larger one stirred at his approach, and he found himself gazing into a pale face dominated by huge blue eyes, fringed in thick dark lashes. Those lashes were damp at the moment, and the child’s rosebud mouth quivered with bewilderment and genuine misery. She looked utterly lost in that bed: tiny, helpless, and fragile.

Robin’s heart constricted at the sight. He had to swallow several times before speech was even possible.

“Good evening, Sara,” he managed at last, keeping his voice low and gentle. “I am your papa. Can you not sleep?”

She shook her head and breathed out a tremulous little sigh, her gaze now fixed on him.

Robin glanced about a little wildly and saw a small china pot and cup—both painted with roses—sitting on the bedside table: the hot drink he’d recommended. Relieved, he picked up the pot and poured a stream of gently steaming liquid (it smelled like some sort of milk posset) into the cup. “This may help, sweeting,” he said, holding out the cup for her to drink from. “Will you try some? It is not too hot now, I think.”

She stared at it uncertainly, then took a cautious sip, followed by another. After three sips, she pulled back, no longer tearful but still clearly anxious. Robin replaced the cup on the night table for the moment. “There, my dear. Let me know if you want any more.”

Sara moistened her lips. “
Où est Maman
?” Her voice was barely a thread of sound.

Where
is
Mama
? French—he should have anticipated that; he switched to that language at once. “
Maman
is resting,
ma
petite
, in a chamber down the passage. You will see her in the morning, but for now, you must sleep, yes?”

She regarded him with those great eyes, then looked over at the cup on the table.

Robin smiled. “More milk first?”

At her nod, he picked up the cup again and held it as she drank more of the posset. Some splashed onto the coverlet, but Robin took out his handkerchief and quickly mopped up the spill. His fingers brushed against something hard when he slipped the damp, crumpled linen back into his breast pocket, and he froze in horrified recognition. Sophie’s pearls—the necklace he had meant to give her tonight, in token and pledge…

“Papa.” It was more of a sigh than a spoken word, but it recalled him to the present at once, to the little girl sitting up in bed, her eyes solemn and intent on his.

Robin mustered a reassuring smile. “Yes,
petite
, Papa is here. Are you ready to go to sleep now?”

After a moment, she nodded again, then yawned, surprising them both. Robin coaxed her to lie back against the pillows, then drew the blankets up to her chin and stroked her hair, soft as down beneath his fingers. A ghost of a smile curved her lips, and within minutes, her eyes drifted shut and her breathing slowed, becoming soft and even.

Robin sat quietly for a while, until he was sure she was deep in slumber, then rose and made his way to the other side of the bed, looking down upon the second child.

If Sara looked lost in that bed, Cyril all but disappeared in it. Indeed, he looked scarcely larger than a child’s doll. Difficult to pin down his age, but judging from his size, Robin would have guessed no older than five or six months. And Nathalie’s very image, with her fair complexion and thistledown hair. He wondered, suddenly, about Cyril’s father. Norris had believed Nathalie’s latest lover to be an Englishman. Had Nathalie left him, the way she had Robin, years before? Or had the man abandoned both mother and child, leaving her with no recourse but to come here and appeal to a husband who wanted only to be free of her?

He felt a reluctant stirring of pity for her, but far more for Cyril. The cuckoo in the nest—the child who could most definitely
not
be his. Like his sister, the only true innocent in this wretched situation—and the one most likely to suffer, unless things were handled exactly right.

Cyril sighed and stirred restlessly in his sleep. Robin reached down to touch one half-open fist—about the size of a walnut—and astonishingly felt the child’s fingers curl about one of his own. Robin swallowed painfully; there was a squeezing sensation in his chest now, as if those fingers had closed about his heart as well.

Sitting down on the bed, his finger still clasped in Cyril’s fist, he forced himself to think rationally, even coldly, about the divorce and what it would mean—for all of them.

He could not be sure how much Nathalie knew of English divorce laws, but in recent years,
he
had become something of an expert in them. A husband could divorce his wife on the grounds of infidelity—but not without providing conclusive evidence of her misconduct. Proof of an illicit assignation or ongoing liaison, the identity of her lover, who would be named as co-respondent… a child obviously born out of wedlock.

Raoul or Philippe—to this day, he did not know with which one she had fled back in Rouen. Nor if either was still in France or could be easily located. The same could be said of Nathalie’s other lovers. He could hire Norris to track down some of those men and try to uncover evidence of an affair, but there was no guarantee of success and little chance that any could be made to testify, if found—especially if their own lives and reputations were at stake.

The surest, swiftest path to what Robin wanted—the divorce, his freedom,
Sophie
—lay directly over two lives. Two young and innocent lives: the daughter of whose existence he had been unaware, and the boy he could not possibly have fathered. Children who clung to
Maman
—not knowing or caring that she was flighty and unreliable—because she was their one constant in an uncertain world.

Will
you
risk
losing
both
children,
husband
, simply to get rid of
me
?

Dear God, what was he going to do? What
could
he do?

***

“Oh, my dearest child.” Lady Tresilian folded her youngest daughter close.

Sophie leaned into her mother’s embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of lemon verbena that had comforted her since she was a little girl. Strangely, despite having the perfect opportunity to do so, she did not weep. Her eyes felt hot and burning, but whatever tears she might have shed after the evening’s debacle seemed to have congealed into a frozen weight inside of her.

Her family had been distressed enough
for
her. On their return to Roswarne, Harry had stormed about the parlor, his face like thunder, raging over what he called Robin’s duplicity and refusing to hear a word in his defense. It had been a relief to Sophie when Lady Tresilian had all but ordered her eldest son to leave the room until he had calmed down. John had prudently held his tongue and somehow influenced Peter to do the same, whisking the younger boy upstairs with him as soon as Harry’s tirade began. Arthur and Cecily had merely embraced Sophie with silent sympathy before retiring to their own chamber, leaving mother and daughter alone in Sophie’s bedroom.

“I cannot believe Mr. Pendarvis would deceive us like this,” Lady Tresilian murmured, distressed. “And you, most of all…”

“But he didn’t!” Sophie protested, pulling back from her mother’s encircling arms. “I
knew
, Mama. I’ve known for months that he had a wife. But he told me he was going to divorce her.”
So
he
could
marry
me… She bit back the words just in time, but even unspoken they hung heavily in the air.

Lady Tresilian’s face grew stern. “Did he importune you, dearest? Cajole you into a secret engagement?”

“He didn’t need to cajole me into anything!” Sophie insisted. “
I
was the one who said I’d wait for him.”

“Sophie—”

“And I meant it, Mama! I love him—I still do!”

“But a divorced man—”

“He married her when he was only a boy!” Sophie broke in. “And she left him for another man a few years later. Why
shouldn’t
he be free as well?” Her voice was climbing, taking on an alarming shrillness. She struggled for composure, determined not to sound like a hysterical female, then resumed in what she hoped was a more reasonable tone. “I know you and Harry would like to believe I was led astray, Mama, but nothing could be further from the truth! Robin tried to break with me before I left for London—and I wouldn’t let him.”

“Oh, my love.” Lady Tresilian stroked Sophie’s hair.

“I told him I would wait, as long as it took, for him to be free of her,” Sophie went on. Someone just had to understand. “He had inquiry agents looking for her, so he could initiate divorce proceedings. On the grounds of adultery,” she added, flushing at having to reveal so intimate a detail to her mother. “He did not know about the child. Children.”

“Clearly not, to judge from his reaction tonight. No man is that good an actor.”

Sophie just managed to suppress a smile. Right or wrong, she couldn’t help but feel slightly heartened by Lady Tresilian’s dry tone. “Robin never intended to deceive anyone, Mama. He just didn’t want that part of his past made public yet. Or to have people like that horrid Sir Lucas prying into his business. Surely you can understand
that
.”

Lady Tresilian sighed, but Sophie thought she saw her mother’s eyes and mouth softening with a reluctant sympathy. “Well, I can certainly understand wanting privacy in his particular situation. But I still think he should have been honest with us—with his
friends
—about his circumstances, especially once he started courting you.”

“He
was
going to tell you,” Sophie insisted. “He just wanted his wife found first, before he made any sort of offer to you or Harry. He meant honorably by me, Mama. He always has.”

“I am relieved to hear that. And to be frank, I have never doubted that Mr. Pendarvis’s intentions toward you were honorable, or I would never have permitted you to spend so much time in his company. But, my dear”—she regarded her daughter gravely—“have you considered how this latest development, with the children, may change things for both of you?”

“Of course it’s going to change things,” Sophie said, a little too quickly. “How could it not? But I know we can find a way to resolve this, in time.” She ignored the treacherous small voice in her head that was wondering just
how
this could be resolved, and forced another smile. “I love Robin, and I know that he loves me. I have complete faith in him, Mama.”

“Well, my love, I hope that faith will prove justified—for all our sakes.” Lady Tresilian sighed again, reached out to smooth Sophie’s disheveled hair. “I will talk to Harry and try to explain all this to him. And you should sleep now, dearest, if you can manage it.”

“I am rather tired,” Sophie admitted. Exhausted, really—but she could not afford to show fatigue, not while fighting for her future with Robin.

“That’s hardly surprising.” Lady Tresilian kissed her on the forehead and rose from the chaise they’d been sharing. “Let us hope the morning brings… rather better tidings.”