Pamela Sherwood (33 page)

Constance stared at him, then turned away, the soft planes of her face hardening into something flinty and unyielding.

“Nathalie was already bleeding me dry. I can’t think what I saw in her,” he said again.

A
way
to
get
revenge
on
Robin
, Sophie thought. Too bad for Nankivell that the petty satisfaction had been outweighed by the demands of a cold, calculating mistress.

“And the child?” Robin asked in a level voice. He had himself under control again, but Sophie sensed that the veneer was very thin.

Sir Lucas rubbed his throat and looked away. “There truly
was
a child?”

“She was three months along,” Robin confirmed, after a moment.

“It wouldn’t have been mine,” Sir Lucas said, perhaps too quickly. “Our—arrangement began only in May. And we always took preventive measures. Besides,” he added, with what might have been relief, “I noticed she was putting on weight the last time we were together. She was undoubtedly
enceinte
by then.”

Constance closed her eyes as though gripped by a spasm of pain. Sophie wished she could say something comforting to her, but feared to make bad worse. And for all her seeming softness, Lady Nankivell appeared to have her share of pride.

Robin’s brows drew together. “So you were not her only lover.”

Sir Lucas’s lips thinned. “No. And as to whom else Nathalie was entertaining in her bed,” he added with a lingering spurt of malice, “why don’t you start by looking for the blond man I saw her trysting with at Easter?”

“A blond
Englishman
?” Sophie asked at once, seeing the temper spark in Robin’s eyes.

“I assume so,” Sir Lucas said, shrugging. “They appeared to be speaking English when I saw them. Not that I heard much. I was too far away.”

Robin had got hold of himself again. “Where did you see them?”

“The churchyard. I was there seeing to my father’s headstone. I assume Nathalie was there because of the boy.” To Sophie’s relief, there was no sneer or disparagement in Sir Lucas’s voice when he mentioned Cyril; she doubted anyone could have restrained Robin in that case. “Deuced odd place to meet a lover, I thought,” he went on. “But I saw them leave the churchyard together, arm in arm. Just like old chums.”

It is a wise father that knows his own child.

—William Shakespeare,
The
Merchant
of
Venice

“Well, Rob, shall we call the constable?” Harry inquired, eyeing Sir Lucas with distaste. “You could have him up before the magistrates for petty theft, at least.”

The baronet went a sickly shade of grey. And Robin, to Sophie’s watchful eye, looked very little better—more shaken by this latest revelation than he cared to admit.

“Gentlemen.”

To everyone’s surprise, it was Constance who spoke, rising shakily from her chair. She was still pale, but her eyes were dry and her spine poker-straight as she gathered the remains of her dignity around her. Recognizing the pose all too well, Sophie ached with pity for her. “I don’t deny that my husband has behaved disgracefully”—Sir Lucas shifted uncomfortably in his seat at those words—“but please, I ask you—I
beg
you—not to contact the police! Please don’t make his shame public as well!”

Harry and James exchanged an uneasy glance, but it was to Robin that Constance directed her appeal and her gaze. “Mr. Pendarvis, Sir Lucas claims not to have killed your wife or… got her with child. I understand why you would doubt his word, but there appears to be no evidence contradicting that claim. As for the misdeed of which he
is
guilty—if your wife’s jewels were returned to you, would that end the matter?”

Robin looked at her for a long moment, his face unreadable, but Sophie thought she saw a slight softening in his eyes. “It would, Lady Nankivell,” he said at last.

Constance stooped to pick up the fallen necklace from the carpet. “Here.” She dropped it into Robin’s hand. “I will see that the rest of your wife’s belongings are returned to you tomorrow. And if any are missing, I will ensure that you are fairly recompensed for their value.”

The necklace glittered passively in Robin’s palm. “Thank you, Lady Nankivell.”

Sir Lucas cleared his throat. “My lady—”

Constance rounded on him, a look of scathing contempt on her mild face. “Not one word more,
husband
!” The word dripped with scorn. “You have already shown yourself to be a liar, a coward, and a thief! Pray don’t make things worse by being an ass as well!”

The baronet’s mouth dropped open, but no sound emerged. Sophie suspected no one had spoken like that to him in years, if ever, least of all a woman.

Constance turned back to the others. “Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse us, it has been… rather a trying evening, and I should like to go home now.”

“I’ll have the carriage brought round at once,” Harry replied, and after a quick exchange of glances with Robin, who merely nodded, he escorted the Nankivells from the library.

Sophie watched them depart, Constance in the lead, her head held high, and Sir Lucas following with an almost hangdog air. Would he be a good and faithful husband now? She doubted it, but perhaps he might be more discreet. Whatever the Nankivells’ marriage had been like before, Constance’s expression seemed to presage some changes in the wind, and Sophie suspected few of them would be to the baronet’s liking. She permitted herself a private little smile. Sometimes fate had a way of serving up one’s just deserts, after all.

James and Arthur were the next to leave, the former clapping Robin briefly on the shoulder as he passed. A corner of Robin’s mouth lifted in acknowledgment, but he continued to stare down at the diamond pendant winking in his hand.

Sophie crossed to the sideboard where the decanters stood, poured out a measure of whiskey, and brought it to him. “Here, dear heart. You look like you could use this.”

Robin took the glass with a murmur of thanks, tossed off the contents, and drew a long, not entirely steady breath. “What a night.”

Sophie put her hand on his arm. “Don’t let that vile man upset you.”

He looked up, his eyes bleak. “I have to wonder if it’s ever going to end. Or if Nankivell will go on looking for new ways to stab me in the back.”

“I think his stabbing days may be over—you frightened him tonight. You frightened
me
a little too,” she confessed.

“Oh, God.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. That’s the last thing I ever wanted to do. I saw the necklace, and then he
lied
, and I just—”

“Shhh.” She put her arms around him. “No one here blames you for losing control, under the circumstances.
I
certainly don’t.”

He opened his eyes, regarded her somberly. “Do you think he was telling the truth? About not being the father?”

“Perhaps. Granted, he could have been lying to save his skin,” she added, “but he did seem genuinely surprised about the pregnancy.”

Robin gave a slow nod. “Nathalie didn’t tell him. Either because she hadn’t the chance to—or because it didn’t concern him.”

“That makes it more likely that he wasn’t the intended recipient of that letter.”

So
who
was?
The question hovered unspoken between them.

“A blond man,” Sophie said, thinking aloud. “Most likely an Englishman.”

“Who was here at Easter, and trysted with her in the churchyard,” Robin supplied.

“A gentleman, sufficiently well-educated to read a letter written in French.”

“A man of means, almost certainly. Nathalie wouldn’t have pursued someone who wasn’t successful.” His mouth crooked wryly. “No more struggling architects or obscure artists.”

“A man of means,” Sophie agreed. “With something to lose, if their affair came to light.”

Their eyes met, and the same thought flashed through both their minds.

“A married man,” they said, almost in unison.

***

The clock chimed ten, and Sophie woke with a start, her head jerking up from where it had been resting on her folded arms. Yawning, she rubbed her eyes and gazed blearily around her chamber, wincing a little at the sun now gilding the walls.

She stifled a groan, reached for the cup at her elbow, and took a swallow of now-tepid tea. Her brain felt as if it were wrapped in cotton wool this morning. But of the five books on heraldry she’d borrowed from Pentreath, there were still three more to get through—more crests and coats of arms to study, even if by now she was no longer sure just what she was looking for.

All the same, she had to keep searching. She couldn’t bear to admit defeat and let Robin down, not after last night. He’d departed soon after that confrontation in the library, slipping through the throng of guests all blissfully unaware of the drama. As calm as he’d appeared on the surface, Sophie had known he was in turmoil, reeling from the latest of Nathalie’s secrets. The sooner all those unwelcome revelations were rooted out and brought to light, the sooner he could begin to heal and truly put the past behind him.

She bent determinedly over the book again. While they’d found the answers to some of the questions surrounding Nathalie’s unfinished letter, the ring remained an unsolved part of the riddle. Sophie picked it up now, studying it critically: the silver tarnished, the crest scratched and worn… such an unprepossessing piece, nothing like that gaudy diamond pendant or the other glittering baubles Nathalie had hoarded against a rainy day. But she’d kept it, carefully hidden away in one of her desk’s secret compartments. That had to mean something: a token from a past lover, or—which seemed more likely—from her present one, that blond Englishman with whom she’d supposedly trysted at Easter. The monied,
married
blond Englishman, who’d got Nathalie with child and perhaps found her a liability he could no longer afford…

Sophie shivered at the thought and forced herself to focus on the page before her. Bull’s heads—she must have encountered several dozen families whose crest included that emblem, but even when comparing them with the seal she’d made, she hadn’t yet found an exact match. Nonetheless, she had drawn up a list of the most likely candidates.

She rubbed her eyes again and turned another page. This book was twice as thick as the last volume she’d read, but it included detailed sections on families throughout England, and even areas of Scotland.

“Turnbull,” she murmured, scribbling the name down.

She turned a few more pages—and froze.

The name had caught her attention first. Swallowing dryly, she read over the information again, to make sure of what she’d seen. Then, almost tentatively, she picked up the wax seal and laid it alongside the one in the illustration.

She stared at the results a moment longer, then marked the page with a stray scrap of paper before snatching up book, ring, and seal, and rushing from the room.

***

The jewels made a glittering heap on Robin’s desk: sapphire earrings, an amethyst brooch, strands of amber and pearl, a filigree comb… he could hardly bear to look at them.

Lady Nankivell’s note informed him that this was all she’d found in her husband’s possession, but if he knew of any other missing valuables, please write and let her know.

Robin exhaled, bracing his forehead against his interlaced hands. Again he saw Nathalie, supine against the pillows, her pale ringlets forming an aureole about her head, naked except for the necklace—brilliant, garish, and insolent—blazing about her throat. And Nankivell starting up beside her, his face turning a dull mottled red as Robin’s gaze raked over him…

“No.” His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet office. “No more.” Bitter as that memory was, he was through with it. Through letting it haunt him further. Let it die and be buried with Nathalie.

Resolved, he looked again at the jewels on his desk. He neither knew nor cared to know how Nathalie had acquired them. But what to do with them now? Frowning, he glanced away, his gaze alighting upon the photograph of his children. Sara—perhaps he should keep the jewels for her. She should have at least some of her mother’s things.

Except the diamond pendant… There were too many evil memories attached to that, and he could buy Sara something much more suitable when she was of an age for diamonds. Maybe he’d sell the pendant for a good price and donate the proceeds to a worthy cause. Something to benefit Cornwall—a fund for miners’ widows and orphans, perhaps. That would annoy the hell out of Nankivell, if he heard, but Constance might actually approve.

Slightly cheered by the thought, Robin replaced the jewels in the casket they’d come in and placed it, along with Lady Nankivell’s note, in a desk drawer for the time being. He was just turning the key in the lock when he heard running footsteps in the passage. A moment later, Sophie erupted into the room, brandishing a heavy book.

“Robin!” She was flushed and breathless, her green eyes ablaze. “Thank heaven you’re here—you
must
see this!”

Robin started from his chair. “Good Lord, Sophie, what—”

“You must see this!” she repeated, thrusting the book before him.

She all but vibrated with urgency. Taking the book, he opened it to the marked page, ran his eyes over the illustration and its accompanying description.

Family crest: a bull’s head, ducally gorged, proper. Coat of arms: a bend, argent, on a field, sable, between two gold cotises, engrailed.

Daventry.

Recognition struck him like a blow in the stomach.

Guy
Daventry
—tall, blond, and smiling. Daventry, who had been a guest at the hotel in April and had the housemaids sighing over how handsome he was. Daventry, the charismatic MP with an aristocratic wife and a brilliant political future before him.

“He was here.” Robin barely recognized his own voice. “At Easter.”

“I remember.” Sophie’s voice, along with the touch of her hand, was impossibly gentle.

He swallowed, willing himself not to be sick, and looked into compassionate green eyes. “It fits—all of it.” With stunning, merciless clarity.

“I know.”

A knock at the office door startled them. “Come,” Robin responded automatically.

The door opened to reveal Bert Vigus, the sturdy Cornish handyman who kept all the instruments at the Hall in tune. “Mr. Pendarvis, sir—just wanted to let you know the piano in the music room’s all right and tight now.”

“Ah.” Robin collected his straying thoughts. “Thank you, Bert. And the harpsichord too?” Sara had particularly wanted that fixed, he remembered.

Bert’s square, good-natured face went puzzled. “Aye, but as to that, sir—there was naught amiss with it in the first place.”

Robin rubbed his forehead. “I don’t understand. I’d heard it was out of tune?”

“Not out of tune, sir,” Bert explained. “But it couldn’t have been played, not with this great lot inside of it!” He held out a thick packet of—something, wrapped tightly in a yellowed linen kerchief and bound with twine. “Don’t know what this is, but I found it hidden in the instrument. Thought you’d best know what to do with it, if anyone did.”

***

“What a strange hiding place,” Sophie remarked in bemusement as Robin sliced through the bindings of the packet with his penknife. “I wonder why she chose it.”

“We’ll never know, but I would guess she moved this from wherever she was keeping it before. Possibly to keep it separate from everything else she was hiding.” The bindings cut, he folded back the creased linen to expose the packet’s contents.

Letters, written on good-quality stationery and addressed in a strong, slanting hand. Robin picked up the topmost one and scanned the direction. “His to her. There look to be about a dozen or so here,” he added as he rifled through the stack.

A dozen letters—the implication seemed clear enough: this hadn’t been a fleeting dalliance, but a liaison of some duration. Sophie remembered Sir Lucas’s description of how Nathalie and her lover had appeared in the churchyard, walking arm in arm “like old chums.” She stole a glance at Robin, but his face gave nothing away. She bent over the packet again.

“Not just letters,” she observed. “There’s something else… newspaper clippings?” Carefully, she extracted a yellowed column for a closer inspection.

And caught her breath when she saw Guy Daventry smiling up at her from the page.