Pamela Sherwood Read Online Free Page B

no trace of a Cornish burr. And he knew, without a doubt, of whom they were speaking.
    “Well, this isn’t London, Nankivell.” Sir Harry sounded just a bit testy. “Although since you have raised the subject, my sister has not yet made her debut in town society.”
    “You mean to bring her to London?” A hint of triumph in the baronet’s voice had Robin’s hand tightening about his glass.
    “Perhaps.” Sir Harry sounded guarded.
    “I would say she’s assured of a successful Season,” Nankivell declared, with the air of one who considers himself an authority on such things. “Looks, charm, breeding—and I know you mean to dower her handsomely. But take care that she doesn’t attract the wrong kind of suitor; fortune hunters are thick on the ground in London.”
    Sir Harry’s response was cool. “Fortune hunters may be found anywhere, Nankivell. Including right here in Cornwall.”
    Robin tensed at the implication, but Nankivell did not appear to take umbrage. “Just so,” he replied in a tone as smooth as Cornish cream.
    “In any case, I believe I can be trusted to protect my sister and whatever fortune the family chooses to bestow on her,” Sir Harry continued. “As for suitors, much will depend on what Sophie herself thinks.”
    “Your sister does not strike me as someone who would refuse an offer that would be so much to her advantage,” Nankivell persisted.
    “I would hope my sister would take the time to be sure of what she wanted before making her choice.” Sir Harry’s voice had taken on a decided edge. “And we are situated well enough that she need not decide in haste, or to accept the first offer she receives—unless she herself is convinced it’s the right one. I trust I have made myself clear?”
    “Entirely.” And this time, that cultured voice held a note of pique, even displeasure.
    “Then we need discuss this no further.” Sir Harry’s voice turned brisk. “It lacks just a quarter hour to midnight, and I have the most excellent tawny port on hand that I’ve been saving for just this occasion. Would you care to partake of a glass with me?”
    After a moment’s pause, Nankivell replied in the affirmative, and they moved off together in seeming amity. And on his side of the Christmas tree, Robin exhaled slowly, the taste of cider bitter in his mouth.
    So, Sophie was an heiress. He should have guessed as much, but he’d been too beguiled by everything else she was to consider how she was fixed financially. He’d wager that detail was never far from Nankivell’s mind, however.
    Sophie, all youth, beauty, and bright promise. And Nankivell with those too-knowing eyes that seemed to calculate everyone’s monetary worth, doubtless hoping to secure her and her fortune for himself. Robin felt an almost visceral surge of revulsion at the thought.
    And what right had he to feel anything of the kind? His own past mocked him for his hypocrisy. Because if Sir Lucas Nankivell had no business thinking of Sophie Tresilian’s many charms, Robin himself had far less.
    He edged away from the Christmas tree, trying to forget what he’d heard, along with his own reaction to it. Best to go now, before he did someone—namely Nankivell—a violence.
    He located Lady Tresilian in a far corner of the ballroom, talking to several other women, including her elder daughter. “Ah, Mr. Pendarvis, must you leave us now?” she inquired, once he’d offered his farewells. “Can we not persuade you to stay and see the old year out with us?”
    “Thank you, Lady Tresilian, but I really must be going,” he replied. “Great-Uncle Simon will be expecting to see me tomorrow morning.”
    She gave him her hand. “Very well then, I wish you a happy New Year, and I hope that you will call upon us in future.”
    Robin bowed over her hand. “Thank you, Lady Tresilian. I may at that.”
    He headed for the entrance hall, deliberately not looking back toward the dance floor, where he’d last seen Sophie