Pamela Sherwood (25 page)

“So they were close.”

“Very much so—just as a brother and sister should be. And they enjoyed many of the same things, like the sea.” Robin’s eyes had gone dreamy, even distant. “Sometimes I would wrap Cyril in blankets, put him and Sara in the carriage, and drive down to the beach. Sara would look for shells, and Cyril would just sit and watch the water, the waves coming in and out. And the boats—he always dreamed of going to sea. Last summer I managed to take him and Sara aboard James’s new yacht a time or two, just for a gentle sail round the harbor.”

“They must have loved that.”

“They did. And no
mal
de
mer
, either,” Robin said, with a hint of pride in his voice. “Cyril turned out to be a natural sailor. Sara was a little queasy at first, but she was fine once she got her sea legs.”

Where had Nathalie been in this? Sophie wondered. Had she accompanied Robin and the children on their outings? For that matter, how involved had she been in her children’s lives from day to day? The questions crowded on her tongue, but she swallowed them back, not wanting to upset Robin; Nathalie was already a sore subject for him.

He was still speaking, his thoughts, like his gaze, a million miles away. “By autumn, he’d grown too frail for such outings, so I bought some watercolors of the ocean and hung them in the nursery, where he could see them from his bed. Sara brought him shells—scallops and whelks. And James and Aurelia gave him a conch for his fourth birthday, so he could hear the sea.

“On his last night… he fell asleep listening to it.”

Robin’s voice caught. Sophie turned and wrapped her arms around him, drawing his head down to her shoulder. He shuddered once, then stilled, but she could tell from the rhythm of his breathing that he was fighting back tears.

Four years ago, she’d resented Nathalie bitterly, and she’d resented the idea of those children, links between Robin and his estranged wife that could not be severed. And yet, at the last, she had managed not to resent those children themselves. Hearing now of Robin’s love for them, she could only be glad that they’d had the father they deserved.

He raised his head at last, thrust a hand across his eyes. “Forgive me, I still—”

“Don’t apologize,” Sophie broke in vehemently. “Don’t ever apologize for loving that little boy! I think you made all the difference in his life, and I’m glad, truly glad, that you had each other.”

Robin leaned his forehead against hers. “I am glad it was peaceful for him at the end. That he didn’t suffer. And when I think of him now, I like to imagine him as the man he might have become, if fate were kinder. Strong, hearty, sailing the seven seas…” He exhaled slowly. “Sara was devastated, even though we tried to warn her about Cyril’s condition. How can you truly explain death to a seven-year-old?”

“
A
simple
child, / That lightly draws its breath, / And feels its life in every limb, / What should it know of death?
” Sophie quoted, stroking his cheek. “She must miss him terribly.”

“She does. I think she’s the one who mothered him, more than Nathalie ever did. She hasn’t been sleeping well since he was lost. She’s a grave little thing, my Sara, and she’s had to grow up far too fast. I did not want her exposed to the friction between Nathalie and myself, not after everything else she has endured.” Robin looked up, more composed now. “I’m hoping that her stay at Pentreath will help her heal. James and Aurelia have an excellent nursemaid who was willing to look after Sara along with the other two. And Sara enjoys playing with Jared, and Aurelia lets her help with baby Alexandra sometimes.”

“I am so glad you’ve become such good friends with James and Aurelia.”

“So am I. Harry and I still consider ourselves friends, but things were strained between us for a while after you left Cornwall.”

“I know.” Sophie’s mother had written of the ongoing tension between Harry and Robin. Judging from more recent letters, Sophie had inferred that they were on better terms nowadays, but perhaps more guarded with each other than they’d formerly been. “Well, I hope you can patch them up now. Especially since you’re going to be making an honest woman of me at last.”

Robin huffed a small laugh. “Harry would probably say it was the other way round—you’d be making an honest man of me. Emphasis on the word ‘honest.’”

“Hush, that’s in the past now,” Sophie reproved. “And no one can deny that you’ve conducted yourself openly
and
honestly since Nathalie returned.”

“Thank you. It hasn’t been easy, but I have tried to balance honesty with discretion—there’s no benefit to airing our dirty linen before the county.” His face grew somber. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve asked James and Aurelia not to tell Sara about the divorce. Such news is best coming from a father. And I don’t wholly abandon hope that Nathalie and I can come to some sort of—arrangement.”

Given what she’d heard, Sophie had her doubts, but she kept them to herself.

Robin sighed. “I don’t hate her, Sophie. Not even now. Although there were times in the last four years… but she’s Sara’s mother, and she grieved for Cyril, in her way. It was a sorrow we shared, at least for a little while. I even thought we could…” He broke off, shaking his head.

“Go on,” Sophie prompted.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I wondered if we could—not reconcile, exactly, that was never in the cards—but find a way to be
kinder
to each other. I’d thought perhaps we might travel up to Yorkshire as a family, have Sara meet my mother’s kin. They’d love her—and they’d have been courteous to Nathalie, if only for my sake. However… other things came to light before I could even make the suggestion.”

The affair with Nankivell, Sophie translated without difficulty.

Robin’s mouth twisted in a wry half smile. “So, that was that—the end of the last illusion. Or simply the end, if you prefer.” He sighed again. “I’ve heard it said that the opposite of love isn’t hate but indifference. And that is mostly what I’ve felt for Nathalie these last four years. Hardly an incentive to remain in a marriage, even one such as ours. We both deserve better.”

Sophie wondered if Nathalie would have preferred Robin’s hate to his indifference, but that was perhaps too dark an insight to share. “Well, if you do not hate her, then I can manage not to hate her too,” she replied instead. “Life is too short for that.”

Robin’s arms tightened around her. “No looking back?”

“No looking back,” Sophie agreed, nestling her head on his shoulder.

***

Four… three… two… one. The days flew past like birds on the wing. Robin wished he could catch them all in their flight, to live them over again.

And now it was their last night in this refuge. Tomorrow loomed large for them both: the return to London lay ahead… and so did their inevitable parting. Even knowing the latter was temporary did not ease the ache in their hearts.

But
at
my
back
I
always
hear, / Time’s wingéd chariot hurrying near…

Slim and pliant as a willow, she rose over him in the bed. “Let
me
make love to
you
, dear heart.” Her smile was as enchanting as Circe’s and as old as Eve’s. “You’ll enjoy it, I promise.”

Intrigued, Robin acquiesced, then watched, marveling, as she straddled him, one knee on either side of his hips. In the lamplight, she seemed lit from within, her ivory skin luminous as the pearls he’d given her, her dark hair showing glints of chestnut and copper as it rippled over her bare shoulders. No erotic fantasy in which he’d ever indulged could match the reality of
her
.

Now she curled her hand about his rearing shaft, stroking up and down its length. Even through the condom, he felt the heat of her palm, and his loins ached with need. It took all his restraint not to seize her by the waist and tumble her onto the mattress beneath him. Instead, he reached up to stroke the undersides of her breasts, brush the rose-brown nipples until they hardened into stiff little peaks.

Sophie closed her eyes, gave a pleased little hum low in her throat. “Patience, my love,” she murmured, then angling her hips, she lowered herself onto him by exquisitely slow degrees. Inch by inch, until all his length was tightly sheathed in moist feminine heat.

Robin sucked in air as arousal pulsed through him. “My God, Sophie…”

But she was nowhere near finished with him. Instead, she began to move, raising and lowering herself repeatedly, building up a delicious friction that spread outward from their joined bodies like ripples in a pond. Stifling a groan of impatience, Robin grasped her hips and urged her onward, faster and faster, until they reached the peak, the world flashing white around them.

She climaxed first, head flung back, gasping, triggering his release seconds later. They cried out together—and then she was falling, toppling like a felled tree, but he was there to catch her and enfold her close.

Shuddering, he wrapped his arms around her, burying his damp face in her hair. Her body still rippled and shook in the grip of her orgasm. Fascinated, he pulled back to watch her face, glowing and transfigured in its ecstasy. Full of surprises, his Sophie. Much as he’d adored the girl, he found himself continually challenged and delighted by the woman. A lifetime might not be enough to uncover all her mysteries, but he meant to have the time of his life exploring them.

Afterward, they lay entwined and talked of this and that, as lovers will. Inevitably, the subject of tomorrow’s journey arose. They’d already been down to the village to hire a carriage that would take them to the railway station. If all went as it should, they would arrive in London by late morning. Robin could collect the papers from his solicitor and catch an afternoon train to Cornwall—a far longer journey, but he would reach home by nightfall.

“You could stay here at the cottage, you know, instead of going to London,” Robin suggested. “You do have it until the end of the week, at least.”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t want us to part a moment before we must. And it will be too lonely without you.” She smiled tremulously. “All the memories we’ve made here! The cottage will surely be haunted by them.”

“Ah, if these walls could talk.” Robin played with a curling lock of her hair. “So, where shall you go instead?”

“Well, I shan’t stay long in London, not after telling everyone who wished to engage me that I was going on holiday. Perhaps,” she ventured, “I might go and visit Cecily in Veryan? That way I would still be in Cornwall, but far enough away not to cause problems while you and Nathalie are discussing the divorce.”

His heart leapt at the thought of her being in the same county, even if propriety dictated that they keep apart for now. “I would be very glad to have you even that close. But only if you are willing to make the move.”

“I’m resolved to do my part in keeping the situation as civilized as possible.”

“I appreciate that, but keeping things civilized will be largely my responsibility, and I cannot guarantee success,” he warned. “Nathalie may well pitch the tea service at my head.”

“Have you thought of asking your solicitor to come down to Cornwall?” Sophie asked. “I’ve heard there’s nothing like the presence of lawyers for ensuring a professional atmosphere.”

“You have a point, love. I’ll take it under advisement. Now,” he added, running a caressing hand down her side, “as this is our last night here, I refuse to spend another moment thinking about lawyers, divorces, or anything except you, me, and our time together.”

She dimpled at him, once more the carefree girl he remembered. “
Carpe
diem
?”

“
Carpe
noctem
,” he corrected, and kissed her.

Later, as she slept beside him, he thought of one other thing he’d meant to give her.

Something that, like the pearls, he had kept in his vault in London and meant only for her. But the time was not quite right for that, he sensed. And he did not want to foredoom the moment by acting too precipitately. Better to wait until he was truly free to offer that last gift. When he could call her affianced wife not just in the eyes of God, but in the eyes of the world.

***

They left at first light, just as they had planned. From Witney to Oxford, Oxford to London—the train connections were made quickly and easily.

Sophie dozed with her head on Robin’s shoulder, lulled by the rhythmic clacking of the train’s wheels, bearing them closer to their final destination. He shook her gently awake as the engine pulled into Paddington.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve fallen asleep on you,” she observed, sitting up and stifling a yawn. “After this past week, you must be getting weary of it.”

Robin smiled. “Perhaps after forty years I will. But for now, I find it infinitely comforting, because it means you’re
here
, with me.”

They collected their valises and stepped out onto the fog-shrouded platform, hoping to locate a hackney.

“Sophie. Pendarvis.”

Sophie almost jumped out of her skin at the disembodied voice emerging from the fog. Peering through the mist, she saw a tall figure striding toward them. With a shock, she recognized Thomas Sheridan, but his face was drawn and grimmer than she’d ever seen it.

Dread gripped Sophie’s heart. If anything had happened to Amy or little Bella…

“Sheridan?” Robin sounded puzzled. “What are you doing here? Is something amiss?”

“I’m afraid so,” Sheridan replied. “A telegram’s come, not two hours ago, from Cornwall.” He hesitated a moment, then grasped Robin’s arm. “There’s no easy way to tell you, Pendarvis. Your wife has been murdered.”

Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle. She died young.

—John Webster,
The
Duchess
of
Malfi

Once again Sophie embarked upon a railway journey she could remember nothing about afterward. Well, nearly nothing… she remembered Robin, pale as a ghost beside her, his mouth set like stone, and his eyes as far away as his thoughts clearly were.

The news of his wife’s death had stunned them both. No question of an accident, illness, or even a suicide, in this case. According to the telegram and the subsequent telephone conversation Thomas had had with James, someone had choked the life out of Nathalie Pendarvis the previous night. Her hysterical lady’s maid had discovered the body in the morning, lying crumpled beside her dressing table. Most of Nathalie’s jewels were missing, suggesting that she had surprised a thief at his work.

Robin’s face had grown greyer with every detail he’d absorbed, but speech had seemed beyond him just then. Sheridan had instantly borne him and Sophie off to Sheridan House, where Amy had plied them with food and strong black coffee, insisting they break their fast before undertaking the necessary arrangements. Two hours later, their trunks packed and the Pendarvis Hotel informed of Robin’s imminent return, he and Sophie were aboard the Sheridans’ private railway coach, bound for Cornwall.

Sophie longed to say something comforting, but all that came to mind were soulless platitudes. Her rival, Robin’s wife, the mother of his child, was suddenly and horribly dead. What could she possibly say that wouldn’t sound banal, insincere, or worst of all, ghoulish?

In the end she settled for saying nothing, but remained close beside him throughout the four-hour journey. At least he had accepted her presence. Once his initial shock had worn off, he had tried to persuade her to remain in London, shielded from the ugliness that awaited him in Cornwall, but she’d flatly refused to let him make this terrible passage alone. This wasn’t the way they’d expected or wanted it to happen, but they were a couple now, for better or for worse.

It was late afternoon when they arrived in Newquay, and a carriage was already waiting for them at the station. They got on in silence, and were soon driving through the gates of the Pendarvis Hotel. Glancing out the window, Sophie saw a man standing on the front steps and recognized him, with a shock, as her eldest brother.

The moment the carriage door opened, Harry was there, his face strained and anxious.

“Thank God you’re here, Rob.” The words tumbled out of him. “I’m so sorry—”

Robin held up a hand and climbed down from the carriage. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs—in her chamber.” Harry swallowed, as distraught as Sophie had ever seen him. “I wasn’t sure what to do. Whether to have her remains taken to the mortuary—or leave her where she was until you came. Because you are still her husband, in spite of—” He broke off, his whole face changing as he caught sight of his sister alighting in Robin’s wake. “Good God, Sophie, what are
you
doing here?”

“I was present when Robin received the news,” Sophie replied evenly. “So I traveled down with him. I felt he should not make such a journey alone.”

She could almost see the questions forming on Harry’s tongue, but after a moment’s visible struggle, he capitulated. “No, of course not. I’m—glad you had one of us there to support you,” he added to Robin, stepping back so the coachman could unload the trunks.

Robin glanced at Sophie, his bleak gaze warming fractionally. “Miss Tresilian was a great comfort to me” was all he said, before turning back to his partner. “You did the right thing, Harry—I wouldn’t have wanted Nathalie moved, not until I had the chance to see her. I assume the police are here?”

“Two constables, a sergeant, and an Inspector Taunton, sent over from Newquay,” Harry confirmed. “They’re waiting inside. With the coroner.”

“Do our guests know of this?” Robin asked. His professional facade was firmly in place, Sophie saw: the hotelier whose first concern was the safety and comfort of his guests.

Harry nodded. “No way of avoiding it, I’m afraid. A few wanted to depart the moment they heard, but cooler heads prevailed. Besides, Taunton’s confined all the guests to the premises until things are more—resolved.” He passed a weary hand over his face. “Praed and I have been trying to keep them calm and contained. Mrs. Dowling has been doing the same with the staff.
They’re
all at sixes and sevens, especially that wretched maid—” He broke off, jerked his head toward the steps, where a sandy-haired man in a plain overcoat was now standing, flanked by his subordinates.

“Mr. Pendarvis?” the sandy-haired man inquired.

Robin nodded. “I am he.”

“Inspector Taunton,” the other man identified himself. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Robin returned levelly, his expression giving nothing away.

“I regret the necessity of this,” Taunton continued, “but would you be so good as to accompany me—upstairs?”

Robin did not hesitate. “Of course,” he said, and followed the inspector into the hotel.

Sophie watched him go, her heart aching for him. However well he hid it, she knew this loss was a blow for him. And he would have to break this terrible news to his daughter too…

Beside her, Harry cleared his throat. “Sophie, what were you—”

“Not now, Harry. Robin’s situation is what matters. Everything else can wait,” she added, not ungently, as she turned to look at him—the beloved older brother who’d been almost a father to her after their own father’s untimely death. As a child, she’d eagerly sought his approval and good opinion. She would always love and respect him. But she was of age now, a grown woman who made her own choices and was not obliged to answer for them, even to her family.

Something of that realization flickered across Harry’s face as he studied her, taking in her subdued but fashionable traveling dress, her modish hat, and, perhaps most persuasive of all, the added inch or two of height she’d attained in the last four years. “Very well,” he conceded with a sigh that told her how much strain he was under at present. “But we
will
speak of this, later.”

“Of course.” Sophie paused, then held out her hands. “It’s good to see you, Harry. I’ve missed you and everyone else dreadfully.”

He gave her a lopsided smile and took her hands, squeezing them gently. “I’ve missed you too, Snip. Welcome home.”

***

No one who has been strangled is ever beautiful.

Robin stared down at the body, laid out carefully upon the bed. For a mercy, someone had closed Nathalie’s eyes and mouth so her tongue did not protrude, but her face was still congested and livid, and the reddened abrasion around the tender skin of her throat—where a garrote of some sort had been wound and then pulled fatally tight—betrayed just how determined her killer had been. When Robin’s mother had died so many years ago, she’d looked for a time as if she were merely sleeping. Nathalie looked dead.

The worst thing was that he could still recognize the woman he’d married in this pallid corpse. The silver-gilt ringlets, the triangular shape of her face, the dainty figure—all were horribly familiar. So were the pretty hands, now piously crossed upon her breast—he remembered how they’d used to flutter, like little white birds, when she was excited. Strange to see them so still now. She wore no rings, not even a wedding band, and the ink stains on her right middle and index fingers stood out dark as bruises against her porcelain fair skin. She’d kept a diary—
un
journal
—when she was a young girl. He wondered suddenly if she still did… had… What could it matter now? Whatever essence or spirit that had made Nathalie who and what she was had gone forever.

He was faintly surprised that he did not feel sick. Perhaps that would come later, when the reality of what he was seeing had finally sunk in. The younger of the two constables looked slightly green about the mouth, though his colleagues appeared to be made of sterner stuff.

“Sir?” the older constable prompted.

Robin suppressed a shiver, feeling cold and somehow insubstantial—almost as if he were dead himself, and it was his spirit standing there, identifying Nathalie’s remains. Forcing that gruesome thought away, he straightened up. “Yes, that is—was—my wife. Nathalie Pendarvis.”

His voice sounded very far away in his own ears. At a nod from Taunton, the coroner drew the sheet up over Nathalie’s face.

Robin exhaled slowly and turned away from the bed, trying to focus on something—anything—else. In their four years of uneasy coexistence, he had entered Nathalie’s chamber no more than a handful of times, usually on some matter pertaining to the children. Now his gaze swept restlessly over the room: the pale blue wallpaper, the even paler blue window curtains, the gilt chair lying overturned before the white-draped dressing table… a stark reminder of how and where she’d met her death. His mind shied away from that as from an open grave, and he registered with relief the sound of a throat being cleared, a reminder that he was
not
alone.

“Mr. Pendarvis.” Taunton exchanged a glance with his sergeant. “Will you come down to the police station and give us your statement? There are some questions we wish to ask you.”

Robin took a breath and said evenly, “I will answer whatever questions you have, but not today. I have been traveling for the last four hours. I have a hotel to run, guests to reassure and, most important of all,” he held Taunton’s gaze, “a daughter who doesn’t yet know that her mother is dead. My place is with
her
now.”

“Understood.” Taunton inclined his head. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. Meanwhile, have we your permission to remove…” He gestured toward the bed and its shrouded occupant.

Robin nodded. “You do.”

Steeling himself, he turned and watched without flinching as the woman who’d once borne his name and honor, only to shame them both, departed from Pendarvis Hall forever.

***

“Robin.” Sophie touched his hand, felt a flash of alarm at how cold it was. “Dear heart, you must eat something,” she cajoled.

They were sitting alone, in his private parlor, a plate of sandwiches and a pot of tea before them. Robin had just got back from consulting with Praed and Mr. Pascoe, the concierge, on how to handle this crisis at the hotel. Meanwhile, Harry was continuing to soothe and reassure the most anxious guests that this tragedy was an isolated incident, not a harbinger of future mayhem. Moreover, it had occurred not in the hotel itself but in the private residential part of the Hall, where the security was far lighter. And the police had been on the scene all day, searching for evidence to identify Mrs. Pendarvis’s killer.

Sobered by the reminder of the victim’s identity, the guests were quick to express their sympathy for their host and willing to cooperate with Taunton’s request—for now, at least. Sophie had remained discreetly in the background, letting her lover and her brother handle their business and clientele as they saw fit. From what she heard and saw, however, she gathered that the hotel staff respected “the master” and Sir Harry highly, and were doing their best to help them through this “dreadful business.” What any of them felt toward Nathalie she could not begin to guess, although she had not witnessed any great outpouring of grief thus far, more a sense of general disquiet and distress than any personal loss.

To Sophie’s surprise and gratification, some of the staff recognized and remembered her—perhaps even with affection. So when she asked for tea and sandwiches to be sent up to the master’s parlor for his return, her request had been speedily granted.

Robin had appeared soon after, composed but still ashen. Sophie did not think he’d had normal color in his face since he’d first got the news. Sustenance was called for—hours had passed since the breakfast Amy had pressed upon them, and he’d eaten little enough of that. So she poured out a cup of tea, added sugar liberally, and set it before him, then piled a plate with three sandwiches—not bite-sized cucumber and cress dainties, but hearty constructions of ham and roast beef on thick new bread—and handed that over as well.

Still dazed, he stared down at the plate. “I don’t know if I can—”

“You
must
eat,” Sophie broke in sternly. “You’ll need your strength if you’re to be of any use to your daughter.”

Robin roused at that and took the topmost sandwich, slanting her a guilty glance. “I’m a rank coward, my love,” he confessed. “I told Taunton that my place was with my daughter, and yet, here I am, no closer to Pentreath than I was half an hour ago.”

Sophie touched his arm. “No one can blame you for not rushing to tell her
this
. Or for taking the time to—find the right words. If they even exist,” she qualified with a wry smile. “But in my experience, bad news can usually wait. Take a little time now, for yourself.”

He nodded, took a listless bite of his sandwich, and then another as hunger suddenly revived. Devouring the rest of it, he reached for a second and was halfway through that when Harry walked in, looking almost as weary as Robin. Unlike Robin, he required no urging to take some refreshment, falling upon the sandwiches like a man who hadn’t seen food for a week.

“Things appear to have settled down, for now,” he reported around a mouthful of ham and cheese. “Of course it helps that the police appear to have left for now, and that none of the guests appear to be under suspicion.”

Robin took a sip of tea, blinked as though registering its sweetness for the first time, but swallowed anyway. “Praed tells me their movements are accounted for last night?”

“Surprisingly, yes. They were all abed when it happened, and the staff as well. Not that I
want
anyone here to have done this,” Harry added hastily. “But if not them, then…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head.

“Then who?” Robin finished for him, his mouth twisting in a parody of a smile.

Sophie suppressed a shiver and drank some tea herself.
Who, indeed?
If no one—guest or staff—on the premises had killed Nathalie, then it
must
be an intruder. Perhaps a thief, as had been previously suggested—and the missing jewels seemed to bear out that theory. But why only Nathalie’s? Surely there were women staying at the hotel who owned more costly jewels and valuables. Unless the thief had known Robin’s wing of the Hall was essentially unguarded…