Pamela Sherwood (31 page)

Sara gave a shy nod. “Mostly folk songs.”

“Have you a favorite?”

“I like ‘English Country Garden.’”

“So do I.” Sophie held out a hand to her. “Why don’t we all sing it, just for your papa?”

Sara blushed but joined her willingly at the piano, as Aurelia played the introduction. While hesitant at first, Sara soon joined her sweet-toned treble to Sophie and Aurelia’s sopranos, the three voices weaving a delightful harmony. Robin applauded more vigorously at the close.

“Brava!” he declared. “Excellently done!”

Smiling, Aurelia rose from the piano. “Such appreciation surely deserves a reward. I’ll have more tea brought at once.”

Sara perched on the arm of Robin’s chair as he had his tea, talking more animatedly than she had since learning of Nathalie’s death. Much to his relief, she seemed to have taken a genuine liking to Sophie, who—even better—appeared to reciprocate. “Can Miss Tresilian come to the Hall and see our music room, Papa? We have a piano
and
a harpsichord,” she added proudly to Sophie, who was sitting opposite them on the sofa.

“Oh, can you play the harpsichord too?” Sophie asked with unfeigned interest.

“A little. It’s not too different from a piano, except the sound’s all… silvery—like a music box. Only,” a shadow crossed her face, “
Maman
wouldn’t let me play it last time. She said it was out of tune, and made me leave the music room.”

“Is it? Then I’ll have someone in to fix it, sweetheart,” Robin promised.

Sara bit her lip. “I was mad at her,” she confessed in a low voice. “And now…”

Robin put his arm around her. “I am sure
Maman
knows you aren’t mad at her anymore,” he said gently. “And that she has long since forgiven you.”

Or
she
would
have
if
she’d ever devoted as much attention to your feelings as to her appetites
. But that was a bitter thought, and unworthy to share with his daughter. Sara looked slightly consoled by his words, which was all that mattered.

They were spared further awkwardness by the entrance of James and Jared, the latter boisterous from the excitement of his first riding lesson. Aurelia’s spaniel, resting at her feet, leapt up and frisked over to the new arrivals. A noisy, cheerful family interlude ensued, in which everyone seemed to be talking at once. Not even attempting to compete, Robin leaned back in his chair, let the day’s frustrations and annoyances fall away, and enjoyed it all.

Perhaps someday he too would experience this sort of happy chaos, when he, Sophie, and Sara had formed their own family. Cyril’s place would always be vacant, but perhaps, God willing, other children would come along to make places of their own. He caught Sophie’s eye and suspected from the softness of her smile that her thoughts were running along similar lines.

Eventually, Nanny Odgers appeared to reclaim her charges, ushering them upstairs for baths before supper. Sophie asked Aurelia if she might look through those books on heraldry she’d mentioned earlier, and Robin quickly offered his assistance in fetching and carrying. They withdrew to the library, leaving their hosts to enjoy some much-desired privacy.

“I was surprised to see you here today,” Robin told Sophie as they stepped over the threshold. “Delighted, but surprised.”

“Aurelia invited me to take tea with her this afternoon, and mentioned Sara would be present. So I couldn’t pass it up. Your daughter’s lovely,” she added, smiling. “I look forward to getting to know her better.”

Robin spared a moment to be grateful for Aurelia’s handling of the situation. He’d wanted Sara and Sophie to meet as well, but he suspected he wouldn’t have arranged their first encounter nearly as deftly. “She appears to have taken to you also. I was glad to see all of you having such a pleasant time together.”

“From the look of it, I’d say we had a better afternoon than you,” Sophie observed, eyeing him closely. “What’s wrong, dear heart? Did things not go well with Inspector Taunton?”

“Things did not go
at
all
with Taunton—he’s been sent back to Newquay.”

“What? When did this happen?”

“Early this morning, according to the constables,” Robin replied. “He and Sergeant Jenkins have both left St. Perran, though no one could give me the particulars of their removal. So I rode over to Newquay in search of a fuller explanation.”

“Did you speak to Taunton?”

“He wasn’t available to be spoken to, but his superior was.” Robin took a breath, trying to quell the anger that rose to the surface when he remembered their exchange. “I’ll spare you all the infuriating details, but the police have decided not to proceed further with their investigation at this time.”

Sophie stared at him. “But… how
can
they? Nathalie’s killer—”

“Was most likely some chance intruder whose main interest was in Nathalie’s jewels. They believe that he has long since left the area with his ill-gotten gains and will be difficult, if not impossible, to trace,” Robin finished stonily.

“That wasn’t the song they were singing yesterday when Taunton all but accused you of arranging to have Nathalie killed.”

“No. And moments later, I put Taunton onto Nankivell’s scent. My guess is that he proceeded to interrogate Nankivell or went straight to his superior with the information. Whichever it was, the timing is—interesting, to say the least.”

Sophie nodded her understanding. “Because, barely a day later, he’s removed from the case and sent back to Newquay. Do you think Sir Lucas complained to his superior?”

“Nankivell or someone with even more influence in the county. My money’s on George Boscawen, personally.”

Her eyes widened. “Sir Lucas’s
stepfather
?”

Robin gave a grim nod; the baronet’s widowed mother had remarried not long after Nankivell succeeded to his title. “Major Henshawe retired as magistrate last year. Captain Boscawen took his place and is now cutting quite a figure in St. Perran. And I have no doubt that Mrs. Boscawen—the former Lady Nankivell—would exert whatever influence she has on her husband to prevent the police from looking into her son’s part in all this. I could almost sympathize—if it weren’t for the possibility that her son murdered the mother of my daughter.”

“Do you
truly
believe Sir Lucas killed Nathalie?”

Robin barked a laugh. “He’s slandered me. Cuckolded me. Served me any ill turn he can. Why should he balk at widowing me too?” Then, before Sophie’s steady gaze, he admitted grudgingly, “I don’t know, to be honest. Initially, I wouldn’t have thought so. Not because he’s incapable of murder, but because I can’t envision him committing
this
one.” He vividly recalled the livid weal about Nathalie’s throat, a silent testament of the killer’s rage. “There was… passion in the deed—and Nankivell is too cold, too calculating for that. I doubt he’d go to such an extreme unless he felt himself to be severely threatened. Even when he was slandering me, James, and Harry five years ago, he endeavored to keep his own hands clean.”

“You don’t think
he
could have hired someone to kill her?” Sophie asked.

“That’s slightly more plausible, but still…” Robin shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

“What do you mean to do, now that the police have backed off?”

He met her gaze squarely. “Keep searching on my own. What else
can
I do?”

Sophie nodded, not questioning, not protesting, and his heart seemed to swell at how perfectly she understood him. He wouldn’t have blamed her, or any woman, for asking him to accept that the investigation was closed and to let the matter drop. Instead, she turned briskly to the bookcases looming before them. “We should get started, then. That ring’s the only other evidence we’ve got so far, and I’m nowhere near to identifying the coat of arms yet.”

Relief poured through him in a sweet, sustaining flood. His partner, his true mate—at long last, he’d got it right. “Did you bring the ring with you?”

She shook her head apologetically. “I was worried about misplacing it, so I left it behind at Roswarne, among my things. But I made a wax impression of the crest,” she added. “And it’s definitely a bull’s head, wearing some sort of collar. I couldn’t find anything like it in our heraldry books, but we only have two in our library, so that wasn’t surprising. Aurelia says they’ve got a much wider selection here—at least two shelves devoted to the subject!”

Robin felt his spirits lift, in spite of everything. “Then let’s get started, my love. Against the left-hand wall, wasn’t it?”

As one, they turned to the task before them.

And graven in diamonds in letters plain

There is written, her fair neck round about…

—Sir Thomas Wyatt, “Whoso List to Hunt”

Entering the ballroom at Roswarne, Sophie caught her breath. Mama had done a beautiful job with the flowers: arrangements of white calla lilies and golden roses—Grace’s favorites—stood in green jasperware vases, placed throughout the room. The sunny hues brightened the room even more than chandeliers.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Cecily remarked, coming up behind her. “I always wish
I
had Mama’s eye for flowers.”

Sophie murmured her assent. “Grace will be delighted, and John is pleased by whatever pleases her, so they should both be very happy.”

They exchanged a smile. “Someday we’ll be celebrating
your
engagement here,” Cecily predicted. “Yours and Robin’s.”

Sophie felt herself flush but made no demur. “Perhaps.”

“Almost certainly.” Cecily slipped her arm around Sophie’s waist. “It’s high time you were happy, Lark. I know how hard these last four years have been—for both of you. Just know that we’re all behind you on this.”

Grateful beyond measure, Sophie returned her sister’s embrace. “Even Harry?”

“Even Harry,” Cecily confirmed. “I know he wasn’t happy about the way Robin handled things before, but he’s come round. And he’s finally accepted that, as far as you’re concerned, the choice was made long ago. As he should,” she added a touch critically. “He’s seen this often enough in our family. And I’ll wager he’ll be just the same when he meets
his
future wife.”

Sophie couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t suppose he’s any closer to finding her, is he?”

Cecily shook her head, smiling too. “No, but there are several ladies who aspire to the position. Mama is trying to make sure he cultivates their acquaintance, but so far he’s eluded the net.
I
think it’s time he settled down, rather than continue with his—present association.”

She meant the widow with whom Harry had kept discreet company for the past two years. From what Sophie had heard, Mrs. Bettesworth enjoyed her freedom far too well ever to remarry, her late husband having been something of a martinet.

“Maybe he just hasn’t met the next Lady Tresilian yet,” she observed, then tactfully changed the subject. “Have you a moment to go over the programme, Cecy? Grace got her list of songs to me this morning. Nothing too complicated, but have we ever performed
this
one?”

Cecily glanced over the list Sophie handed her. “I’m not sure, but let’s see if one of our songbooks has the words.”

Arm in arm, they started for the music room.

“You look splendid, by the way,” Cecily added, regarding Sophie with an approving eye.

“Not too splendid, I hope. This is Grace’s evening, after all.” Sophie glanced down at herself a trifle anxiously. Given the circumstances of her return, she’d left her grandest evening gowns in London, packing only a few of the more subdued ones. But she’d found a way to brighten this one—silk faille in a dusky shade between wine and rose—with a band of paler rose ribbon, so it didn’t look
too
somber.

“No, not at all,” Cecily assured her. “Just stylish and sophisticated. I can scarce recognize my little sister. Even that necklace looks right—and normally I don’t care for jet at all.”

Sophie touched the sparkling collar of Whitby jet at her throat; matching earrings dangled from her lobes. “It doesn’t look like mourning jewelry?” She’d thought of donning Robin’s pearls for the occasion, but the timing just hadn’t felt—appropriate.

Cecily shook her head. “It’s fine. The color of the dress helps. I could never wear anything so vivid myself.”

“Well, I don’t think
I’d
look as well as you in powder blue,” Sophie told her. “And that lace is gorgeous—Valenciennes?”

Her sister nodded. “This gown is one of Arthur’s favorites,” she began, then stopped short on the threshold of the music room. “Oh, Essie—no!”

Three-year-old Esther Penhallow stood on the piano bench, dangling her doll over the inside of the instrument. Shaking her head, Cecily hurried to retrieve her youngest daughter.

“
Not
in the piano, my love,” she said firmly, scooping the child up in her arms. “Mummy won’t be able to play tonight if you put Dolly in there.”

Sophie frowned, something tugging at the back of her mind. But before she could get a hold on whatever it was, the Penhallows’ nursemaid arrived, pink-cheeked and panting. “I’m that sorry, missus!” she apologized. “I turned my back on Miss Essie for just one minute—”

“That’s quite all right, Mary. I know just how active children are at this age.” Cecily handed Esther over to the nursemaid. “But it’s high time she was in bed.”

“Yes, missus.” Mary whisked her charge away.

Cecily turned back to Sophie. “Now, where were we?”

They found the song in a book of Scottish and Irish airs, and rehearsed it twice before setting the book on the music stand with the other sheet music and returning to the ballroom.

Guests began to arrive around seven o’clock, and the Tregarths were among the first wave. Sturdy, practical Mr. Tregarth, his slender, elegant wife, and Grace herself a charming blend of the two, with her mother’s looks and her father’s common sense. Tonight she wore a gown the same shade as the golden roses in the ballroom and her bright grey eyes shone like stars. John’s face lit up at the sight of his betrothed: it had been a long wait for them, while John had studied and finally established himself as a lawyer.

As long as for Robin and herself, Sophie thought with a slight pang. But John and Grace had had the privilege of a pledge and a promise, and they could acknowledge their love openly, without fear of censure. But self-pity was pointless and self-indulgent—all that mattered was that she and Robin could, at long last, have a life together. And someday, perhaps, they could enjoy a night like this, surrounded by family and friends wishing them well.

She had just exchanged pleasantries with the Prideaux family, when she caught sight of a familiar dark-haired figure, lingering by the doorway.

Robin. As always, her heart gave that little skip when she saw him.

Even fully and formally dressed, he drew her gaze like no other man in the room. Granted, that might have to do with her intimate knowledge of how he looked
undressed
. In her mind’s eye, she could see his lean, hard-muscled torso as vividly as she had during those stolen days and nights in Oxfordshire. She could imagine his touch, the sensation of his cheek against her brow, his warm breath stirring her hair…

Shameless
, Sophie told herself sternly. That even in the shadow of grief and mourning she could still desire him like this. Then his gaze, burning blue, locked with hers, and she knew from the rush of heat that swept through her body that he wanted her just as intensely.

It took a little time and some discretion, but eventually she managed to drift away from the guests in her immediate vicinity and toward the corner in which he was now standing.

He wore impeccable evening dress, along with a black armband. His face looked drawn and shadowed with fatigue, but he mustered a smile for her that held just a hint of the smolder she’d seen in his eyes before.

“Robin.” She extended her hand, aware that they might be watched. “I am so glad you chose to come tonight.” He’d been undecided as of yesterday, she knew, and hearing that the Nankivells were likely to attend hadn’t made the prospect any more appealing for him.

He took her hand with equal formality, but the contact was still electric for them both. “Well, I accepted this invitation long before Nathalie’s death, so I thought I’d put in a brief appearance, just to wish John and Grace well. I won’t dance, of course, but I’d be happy enough to drink their health.”

She squeezed his hand lightly before letting go. “They’ll be pleased that you’re here too.”

Robin lowered his voice. “Sophie, I don’t wish to cause any sort of difficulty for you by having come tonight.”

“You won’t,” she insisted. “You’re Harry’s friend and business partner. No one will question your being here tonight.” A man in mourning could rejoin society far sooner than a woman in the same situation. Unfair as that was, Sophie couldn’t summon the necessary indignation tonight, when it meant seeing Robin. “And as for me, no one present would dare to criticize me here, in my family’s home—it would be the height of rudeness. Besides, tonight is about John and Grace, so the attention will be on them and rightly so. Grace wishes me to sing a few songs. Nothing too elaborate, just some of her and John’s favorites.”

His eyes warmed, beacons in his tired face. “Another reason I am glad to have come. You’ve always managed to transport me when you sing. For a time I forget all else, everything difficult or wretched, when I listen to you.”

“What higher accolade can any singer hope for?” Sophie asked, smiling. “Now, please go and help yourself to some supper from the buffet. I can tell just by looking at you that you haven’t been eating properly today.”

“I suppose I haven’t found the time for a full meal,” he admitted. “We’re getting ready for a flood of new guests at the hotel. And there’s been Sara to think of.”

“You’re making certain that
she
eats, aren’t you?” she countered. “It’s only common sense that you do so too, and not just when your friends are watching you to make sure. Why are you smiling like that?”

“Something James told me. That you would start looking after
me
, rather than the other way around, and if I had any sense, I would let you.”

“And do you intend to?” Sophie inquired, raising a brow at him.

Robin smiled as he began to move off. “I shall bow to my friend’s superior wisdom, and do just as he suggests.”

Sophie lost track of time for a while, helping to greet other guests who arrived with warm wishes for the betrothed couple. But she next glanced over toward the corner where the buffet stood and observed with satisfaction that Robin had acquired a plate of food, which he was consuming steadily, if absentmindedly.

Soon after that, the entertainment began, the guests filing into the music room and taking their seats. Cecily sat down at the piano, while Sophie positioned herself beside it. They exchanged a smile, remembering all the times they’d done this over the years, then Sophie turned to face the audience.

“Good evening, everyone,” she said, pitching her voice effortlessly to fill the salon. “Thank you all for coming. My future sister-in-law,” she smiled at Grace, sitting in the first row of chairs, her hand linked with John’s, “has asked me to sing a few songs that are especially dear to her and my brother. I dedicate this performance to them, along with my warmest wishes for their happiness. To John and Grace!”

“To John and Grace,” the audience echoed, and Sophie nodded at Cecily to play the introduction to the first song.

The performance went smoothly—even the song she and Cecily had just rehearsed—and the audience was in a mellow mood, willing to be pleased by Grace’s selection of sweet, simple love songs. Sophie even persuaded them to sing along with her on the choruses, and soon the room echoed with their joined voices. Buoyed along by song and sentiment, Sophie let herself relax and enjoy the moment, as she seldom had leisure to do during her formal concerts.

Four songs in the programme—just the right number for an occasion like this. But Sophie’s heart had turned over just a little when she’d recognized the last one on Grace’s list: the song she had sung in Robin’s pavilion five years ago, the true beginning of it all. Her gaze sought and found him now, sitting a few rows back from John and Grace, watching her with that heart-stopping intensity. She sent him a smile and embarked on the final song, her sense of their history—the bitter and the sweet—lending the words a deeper poignancy:

“Once in the dear dead days beyond recall

When on the world the mists began to fall,

Out of the dreams that rose in happy throng

Low to our hearts Love sang an old sweet song.

And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam,

Softly it wove itself into our dream.

Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,

And the flickering shadows softly come and go,

Tho’ the heart be weary, sad the day and long,

Still to us at twilight comes Love’s old song,

Comes Love’s old sweet song.”

The audience joined Sophie on the chorus, but her voice rang out alone and triumphant in the last verse, affirming love’s power to transcend pain, hardship, even the end of life itself:

“Even today we hear Love’s song of yore,

Deep in our hearts it dwells forevermore.

Footsteps may falter, weary grow the way,

Still we can hear it at the close of day.

So till the end, when life’s dim shadows fall,

Love will be found the sweetest song of all.”

The applause was enthusiastic, but it was the glowing pleasure on Grace and John’s faces that made Sophie’s evening. Afterward, while graciously accepting her performer’s due of praise, she made sure to direct the attention back to the betrothed couple as quickly as possible, then looked about for Robin.

As before, he’d found a quiet corner, and she made her way unhurriedly to his side.

“I hope you enjoyed the performance, Mr. Pendarvis.” She kept her tone light and casual.

“Yes, very much.” His tone was equally light, but the warmth in his eyes was like a caress. “I’ve developed a certain fondness for that last song.”

“You do not find it hopelessly sentimental?”

“Sentimental, yes, but far from hopeless. I’ve come to understand, at long last, that love should never be without hope.”

“At long last, indeed,” Sophie observed, smiling to take the sting from the words.

“Not before time, you’ll agree. Do you know, I could almost envy John and Grace, just a bit, for being at the beginning of it all?”

“We’re at the beginning of it too,” Sophie reminded him. “An interrupted beginning, to be sure, but no less sweet for that.”