The Honorable Heir (2 page)

“Ah, the old ‘head not up to more twirling about’?” Pierce laughed. “Mine doesn’t like it much, either, and I don’t even have your excuse. But no need to worry. After this dance, there’ll be an entertainment. Some of the younger set will perform.”

“Sounds like a good reason to escape.”

“Miss VanDorn, however, is a true talent.” Pierce’s gaze flicked to the dance floor where the auburn-haired young lady who resembled Catherine was whirling about with Florian.

“She’s an extraordinary talent, actually,” Pierce added.

“And pretty. Do I detect some interest there?” Tristram smiled.

“About as much as you have in my sister Georgette.”

Tristram’s smile died as the music ended. Dancers and chaperones cleared from the dance floor and politely jockeyed for seats on the blue velvet benches along the walls. Georgette, Ambrose and Florian joined Tristram and Pierce near the doorway.

“Miss VanDorn is one of the performers.” Florian’s eyes gleamed. “She plays the banjo. I’ve never heard one.”

“They’re all the rage with the ladies here.” Pierce grimaced. “Most should burn theirs.”

Both Florian and Ambrose protested such a notion, being musicians themselves.

“Pierce is referring to my attempts.” Georgette’s sweet voice held a laugh. “But Estelle is quite different. You’ll enjoy her part. Now, do excuse me. I see Grandmother beckoning to me.”

The old lady was waving her cane in their direction, much to the peril of those around her.

“She’s going to brain someone with that one day.” Pierce laughed.

Lights in the ballroom darkened as a hush fell over the ball, and several young ladies in fluttery white dresses filed onto the stage escorted by young men with dark coats and stiff collars. From behind them, an unseen musician gave them a pitch, and the chorus began to sing in voices angelic enough to grace any church.

A theatrical sketch followed the ballads. When she forgot her lines, the leading lady dissolved into nervous titters. As though this were part of the drama, the audience laughed with—or perhaps at—her. Someone prompted her from the rear of the stage, and she proceeded without another hitch.

“How long does this go on?” Ambrose whispered a little too loudly.

Tristram elbowed him in the ribs. “You’ll never catch an American wife if you are rude.”

“I’ll never catch an American wife without a title,” Ambrose countered. “Even your poor excuse of a courtesy title is worth something here.”

Several people nearby hushed him.

The attention of the guests shifted from polite to interested as Estelle VanDorn glided onto the stage and settled a peculiar-looking stringed instrument onto her lap.

She played like a professional musician. The notes hummed and trilled and tumbled over one another like gemstones caught in a waterfall. At the conclusion of each piece, the audience applauded with the enthusiasm the performance deserved. After three selections, Estelle rose, bowed, then swept off stage.

Lights from the chandeliers overhead blazed through the room as voices rose to fill the circular chamber. On the stage, the orchestra returned, while on the dance floor, the guests began to mill about and again pair off into couples.

Ambrose punched Tristram’s arm. “Time to start solving your mystery, Sherlock Holmes.”

Tristram shook his head. “There is no mystery here. I need to gather my proof or we can take no action against even an American dowager countess.”

He scanned the room for the countess. Surely she had returned to hear her sister’s performance. With his height advantage, he should have been able to see her. But no jeweled combs flashed in dark reddish-brown hair. Tristram began to leave the ballroom in search of Lady Bisterne.

“Oh, no, you don’t, Lord Tristram.” Georgette swooped up beside him, her sky-blue eyes sparkling. “We need all the men to continue partnering the debutantes. Let me introduce you.”

Whether cool matron or giggling girl, one factor the women shared in common was their reaction to learning Tristram could, by way of his father’s status, place
Lord
in front of his first name. Their smiles widened, their fans fluttered faster and they leaned a little closer.

Weary of Georgette Selkirk shepherding him forward like a lost lamb, Tristram chose a plain but lively young lady to be his partner in the first set. Miss Hudock executed the figures of the dance with light steps and not a great deal of chatter.

“You’ve likely already seen what Tuxedo Park has to offer, my lord, so do tell me about where you live. Is it a castle?”

Tristram laughed. “It’s rather a larger and older version of many of the houses I see here in the Park.”

“How old?”

“Three hundred and twenty years.” He talked as they rounded the circular ballroom.

“It belongs to my father, though, not to me.” As he spoke, he scanned the room for Lady Bisterne or her sister, curiously still not seeing them. “The windows are rather gray because the glass is so old.”

“Will it be yours one day?”

“Not if God and I see eye to eye on the issue.”

The young lady’s gray eyes widened. “You don’t want to own a manor house?”

Only for the good he could do with the income, he thought.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “A great deal of responsibility and privilege comes with it.”

“My papa says privilege is a form of responsibility.”

“You have a wise papa.” Tristram bowed as the music ended, and when he straightened, he caught a glimpse of mauve satin through a door near the stage.

With more haste than the charming lady deserved, he returned her to her mother, then skirted the room as quickly as he could manage without knocking anyone over.

When he reached the doorway, he didn’t see a sign of her ladyship’s luxurious gown. He did, however, catch a glimpse of something sparkling against the floorboards.

In two strides, he reached the gemstones and scooped them up. Diamonds sparkled, and gold and pearls gleamed against his white glove. Above the teeth of the comb, the setting arched on a twist at the edges, an unusual design brought into the Bisterne family over a hundred years earlier. The combs belonged to the estate, to the new Earl of Bisterne, his father’s oldest friend. Yet the twenty-four-year-old Dowager Countess of Bisterne calmly walked off with them, as well as a host of other jewels that did not belong to her.

Tristram curled his fingers around the comb until the filigree setting and stones marred his gloves. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the corridor for her larcenous ladyship.

“I’ll find you before you can rid yourself of the other comb.” He headed down the great hall, which was nearly empty. Despite Georgette’s claims, most of the men hadn’t yet abandoned the ladies in pursuit of more manly diversions.

But her ladyship appeared to be quitting the festivities. Tristram spotted her on the other side of the massive fireplace, on her way toward the clubhouse’s front door.

He started after her. A few couples strolled about, impeding his progress and line of sight. He paused, his way blocked by a cluster of young people. “I beg your pardon, but may I please get through?”

“We’re terribly sorry.” They started back.

Tristram lengthened his stride as he passed by. “Lady Bisterne,” he called, keeping his voice low.

She either didn’t hear him...or chose to ignore him.

“My lady?”

She grasped the faceted crystal doorknob.

Tristram closed his free hand over hers, feeling the chill of her fingers through their thin gloves. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

She gasped and reared back. Her other comb lost its anchor on her hair and dropped to the floor with a clatter.

“What are you doing?” She yanked her hand free and clapped her hands to her hair, still anchored by pearl-headed pins.

“I need to talk to you about this.” He held out the first comb, then stooped to collect the other.

She set her foot upon it. “These were a wedding present from my late husband. That is all you need to know.”

“That’s not what the new earl claims.”

“The new earl may—” An odd crunch sounded loudly enough to be heard over the orchestra and dancers. Her ladyship drew her brows together above a nose falling just short of perfect, took a step back and stared at the floor.

Where an elaborate hair ornament of diamonds and pearls had lain but moments earlier was now a twisted gold setting and pile of shards so small they came close to qualifying as dust.

Chapter 2

The groom buys the handsomest ornament he can afford—a string of pearls if he has great wealth, or a diamond pendant, brooch or bracelet, or perhaps only the simplest bangle or charm—but whether it is of great or little worth, it must be something for her personal adornment.

Emily Price Post

C
atherine felt as if she were floating somewhere over her body, as she stared at the crushed, obviously artificial gems on the floor, part of her listening to music, voices and laughter, part of her aware of the sandalwood warmth of the man before her. Beneath her, the heels of her shoes seemed to have come loose, and she swayed.

Warm, strong hands closed over her shoulders. “Are you going to faint, my lady?”

“I’ve never fainted in my life.” She raised her hands to press her palms on either side of her head. “I am not going to faint over a little bit of deception on my husband’s behalf. It won’t be the first time I caught him in a lie.” A bubble of laughter rose in her throat. She gulped it down, and tears filled her eyes. “Excuse me. I need some air.” She pulled free of his hands on her shoulders, flung open the door too quickly for him to stop her and propelled herself onto the porch.

The mist had turned to rain. It fell in cold and steady ribbons beyond the sheltering roof. She shivered, took a deep breath of the bracing air—

And remembered her sister.

“Estelle. Oh, no, I need to find Estelle. She didn’t return to the ballroom after her performance.”

Lord Tristram joined her on the porch. “It’s too cold and wet out here for anyone to linger.” He touched Catherine’s elbow. “Come back inside. I’ll help you find your sister. Could she have rejoined the dancers while you were in the hall?”

“I don’t know. She promised me she’d stay. If she’s run off into this rain—” She made herself take a deep breath. “One of Estelle’s friends said she saw her heading for the door.”

Catherine wouldn’t doubt for a minute that her younger sister was perfectly capable of convincing the coachman to take her home. She might even take advantage of the family being occupied at the ball to carry out a threat she’d made upon Catherine’s arrival home.

I want to run away and be on my own like you did.

She didn’t seem to understand that, for Catherine, “running away” meant being a wealthy and titled female traveling across Europe with her lady’s maid, an acceptable activity for a new widow. But a young lady did not run off on her own to join a group of musicians.

“I expect once she saw the weather,” Lord Tristram said, “she would have gone back inside.”

“That’s what a sensible person would do, but Estelle is not sensible.” Catherine turned back toward the door, sensible enough herself to get in out of the rain.

Lord Tristram opened it for her. She swept over the threshold and caught the glitter of paste gemstone fragments scattered across the floor by long skirts and shoes. Those fragments were all that remained of the gift that held so much promise for an eighteen-year-old girl with little sense and lots of vanity. They were another lie, another disappointment, another shattering of a dream.

And Florian Baston-Ward, her late husband’s cousin, had accused her of taking the jewels. She must put a stop to such a rumor or her family would suffer. But if Estelle ran away, her family would also suffer.

If some ancient warrior suddenly appeared in the corridor with a battle-ax and sliced her in two, Catherine doubted she could feel more divided. Stop Florian from spreading his accusations, or find Estelle?

“Find Estelle,” she said aloud.

“I’ll help you, my lady.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“The reasons are numerous. Because you are a stranger. Because you’re an English aristocrat. Because you and your friends rather accused me of stealing Bisterne jewels.”

“All that aside, a missing young lady is still a missing young lady.”

Catherine gazed into eyes rimmed in gold-tipped lashes that lent them a sunny, warmth. Soft, gentle eyes that did not flinch away from her direct stare even after what she had just said.

“All English noblemen and their sons are not created equally, Lady Bisterne.” His voice, with its clear, precise speech borne of generations of careful breeding and training, still managed to sound as gentle as his eyes appeared.

She felt a little warm. Her mind settled its frantic rushing from one crisis to another, and her spine felt straightened by more than her corset.

“Thank you.” She glanced through the ballroom doorway. The dancers spun by in a graceful kaleidoscope of color, with the orchestra soaring in the background. “She likes to talk to members of the orchestras and bands at these galas.”

“She’s a talented young lady.”

“She is. But she wasn’t with them. And I don’t see her in the ballroom. She’s tall enough she usually stands out.”

“And I’m tall enough I can usually see what I’m looking for.”

He stood a full head taller than she even in her heeled evening slippers.

“Where else might she have gone?” Lord Tristram glanced at the staircase. “Upstairs?”

“It’s a good place to start.” As she headed for the steps her toe kicked something on the floor. Gold flashed as the filigree setting of the comb sailed across the hall. She grasped the newel post with one hand and swallowed against a burning in her throat. She could not accept that the gift she cherished through all those lonely years of her marriage turned out to be a fake.

Lord Tristram stooped and retrieved the bit of mangled gold. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“I have no idea why I should talk to you about my husband’s perfidy.” To form her response, she employed all the hauteur she had learned in her four years as the wife of a peer.

“I think you will,” he responded calmly.

For a moment, their eyes met, and held. His remained calm and warm. She hoped hers conveyed that he should kindly remove himself from her presence. Since he remained right where he was, she concluded she must have failed.

She couldn’t waste more time on him. As if he weren’t following her, she turned and headed up the wide, polished treads once used for indoor tobogganing, until some young lady had shown too much petticoat lace and a young man commented on it. Ah, the silliness of youth.

The silliness of youth—Estelle’s—kept Catherine climbing to the second floor, where there were private rooms for gentlemen withdrawing to smoke their cigars, and young ladies needing a place for their maids to repair a torn flounce or pin up a tumbled lock of hair. Catherine opened a door wide enough to peek around the edge. Two maids stood in anticipation of someone entering for assistance.

“Has Miss VanDorn been in here?” Catherine asked.

“No, ma’am.” The maid bobbed a curtsy. “I haven’t seen her tonight.”

Catherine thanked her and closed the door. Lord Tristram had vanished from sight. Good. Estelle was none of his concern. Catherine’s artificial jewels were none of his concern, either. She could not imagine why he’d acted as though they were.

She glanced up and down the passage. It remained empty—empty, but not quiet. Music from the ballroom soared from below along with the constant rise and fall of conversation and laughter. The rumble of male voices and the stench of smoke seeped from beneath a door farther down the hall. Estelle would never set foot inside there, even if the men allowed her to.

Catherine proceeded to the rooms she truly feared Estelle might occupy—ones not officially employed for the evening. If she had sneaked into one to hide and practice her music, not much harm would have been done. But Estelle wasn’t above collecting musicians to accompany her, regardless of who the person was and with little regard to propriety. Few Tuxedo Park residents played music seriously enough for Estelle, so she took advantage of whom she could.

In a lull in the music and conversation below, from a chamber down the hall, bows drew across a cello and violin. Just then, Lord Tristram stepped into the corridor and beckoned to Catherine.

She closed the distance between them. “Is she in there?”

He raised a hand and flattened his cowlick. It sprang back the instant he removed his hand. “She...is.” His unflappable demeanor seemed to have deserted him.

As butterflies fluttered in her middle, Catherine said, “And she’s not alone.”

“No.” His tone held an odd note of annoyance.

Catherine reached for the door.

Lord Tristram opened it for her. “Lady Bisterne.” He announced her as though he were a butler and she arriving at afternoon tea with a duchess.

The cello ceased. Its owner stood, and Catherine flung out one hand to grip the doorframe. “Florian?”

He bowed. “The same, my lady.”

And just beyond Florian, Ambrose stood bowed as well, a violin tucked under one arm. Between them, Estelle remained seated, her banjo perched on her lap, her lips curved in a smile of satisfaction. For several moments, they stood like posed mannequins, then Catherine broke the tableau.

“What are you doing in here alone with two gentlemen you scarcely know?”

Estelle sighed. “If someone wishes to play music, what does formality matter?”

“Propriety.” Catherine resisted the urge to snatch the banjo from her sister and take it someplace where she couldn’t retrieve it. “And your word. You promised me you would stay for one set of dances after the performance.”

“I did.” A dimple appeared in Estelle’s right cheek. “I didn’t promise I’d dance.”

Someone snickered.

“We will discuss this when we are not in front of strangers.” Catherine shifted her gaze from her sister to one gentleman and then the other.

Ambrose and Florian refused to meet her eyes. Beside her, Lord Tristram stood with his mouth set in a grim line. “I do believe,” he said, “my fellow guests have forgotten their manners.”

“Considering how Florian greeted me,” Catherine said, “I believe he didn’t come with his this evening.” She took a step toward her cousin by marriage. “Tell me, why did you accuse me of stealing those jeweled combs?”

“I recalled them from the family jewels that belong to the estate.” His gaze went to her hair. “They, like the rest of the jewels, went missing with Edwin’s death...and they seem to be missing now. What did you do with them?”

“Lord Tristram has one.” Catherine steeled herself against the pain of betrayal reawakened. “And I broke the other.”

“So long as it can be repaired—” Florian began.

Catherine shook her head. “It can’t be repaired. I stepped on it, and the jewels smashed.”

Florian paled. “They were artificial?”

“As useless as library paste,” Lord Tristram interjected.

And with that, Ambrose Wolfe’s bow went sailing across the room to crack against the wall.

* * *

If it weren’t for the din of the party, the withdrawing room at the top of the Tuxedo Park clubhouse would have been quiet enough to hear a mouse scuttling through the cellars. Silent and still.

Tristram observed his companions regarding one another, while avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes. If not for those shifting gazes, they would have resembled a staged tableau or a set of scolded schoolboys.

As the eldest at twenty-eight, Tristram should break the stalemate. On the other hand, Lady Bisterne, as the social superior in the room, held the right to do so. She might not realize that fact, even after four years in England and another on the continent of Europe.

If she did know and chose not to end the impasse of wills and Tristram took matters into his hands, he would be insufferably rude.

How long the five of them would have sat or stood like salt sculptures Tristram didn’t know, for in the corridor, someone laughed. Lady Bisterne startled, and her hand hit the door, slamming it all the way shut. Everyone jumped.

Ambrose laughed and retrieved the broken bow. “So how do I go about replacing this?”

“In the city.” Estelle began to pluck soft notes from the strings of her banjo. “Tuxedo Park is sadly lacking in music.”

“Not with you here, Miss—”

“Florian.” Tristram snapped out the younger man’s name to stop the flattery. “Lady Bisterne and Miss VanDorn do not need you interfering here. You, either, Ambrose. We should repair to the ballroom.”

“And dance with young ladies who won’t look twice at me because I don’t have a title?” Ambrose’s lips turned down at the corners.

“They would if they heard you play the violin.” Miss VanDorn gave him a positively worshipful look.

Lady Bisterne touched her gloved fingertips to a loose strand of hair fluttering charmingly over one ear, shook out the skirt of her gown as though it were coated in dust, then stepped forward, her head high, her chin thrust out and her shoulders drawn back. “Put your instruments away and bid good-night to these gentlemen.” Her clear, deep blue gaze flicked from Florian to Ambrose. “I use the term as a courtesy, as you’re considered gentlemen in England. Here, however, you have not behaved like gentlemen in coming to this room alone with a young lady. Do not do anything of the like again.”

“Catherine.” Miss VanDorn’s face flamed. “You have no business in scolding them.”

“Actually,” Tristram said, “she does, as the social superior in this room.”

“This is America. We don’t hold with such ceremony.” Miss VanDorn began a complicated finger-picking pattern on her five-stringed instrument. “We believe in equality.”

“Which is why half the debutantes in the country want to marry European titles,” Ambrose teased.

Tristram glared at Ambrose. “Enough, cousin.” He bowed to her ladyship. “I’ll take care of this riffraff if you wish to see to your sister.”

“Thank you.” Lady Bisterne smoothed out a wrinkle in her glove, then tapped her fingers against the fragile wrist beneath. “Estelle, put up your banjo and return to the ballroom.”

Miss VanDorn continued to play. “You know I detest dancing. Of all the men who’ve asked me to dance tonight, these are the only two with any sense of timing.”

“We’ll sign your card for the rest of the night.” Ambrose and Florian spoke in unison.

They sounded so absurd, so young and eager, that Tristram laughed. “I think that would prove unacceptable.”