The Honorable Heir Read online

  Estelle bursting into the conservatory with her banjo tucked under one arm kept Catherine from doing anything more stupid than she already had when she’d let him kiss her.

  “I’m sorry I kept you all waiting, but Florian sent around a message asking...” Estelle trailed off and glanced from Tristram to Catherine then back again, before grinning. “Did I interrupt something?”

  “Nothing that cannot be renewed later.” Tristram bowed. “How do you do, Miss VanDorn?”

  “Quite well, thank you, but you look rather wobbly. Perhaps you should sit down.”

  “If you ladies will join me.” He stepped back so Catherine could precede him.

  Cheeks too warm to escape Estelle’s notice, Catherine stumbled back to the sofa and collapsed onto the cushions. She picked up the teapot to pour, felt it tremble in her hand and set it down again. “Will you do the honors, Estelle? You need practice.”

  “So do you.” Estelle was practically choking on suppressed laughter. It danced in her eyes and emerged as little coughs and sharp caught breaths. “Milk? You don’t need sugar.”

  “Are you going to entertain us?” Catherine demanded more than asked.

  “I will.” Estelle set a cup in front of Tristram. “So what brought you out in a snowstorm?”

  Tristram settled beside Catherine, keeping a proper six inches away. “The end of the storm. I needed fresh air after nearly a week in the city.”

  “But Florian says you work in the city—in London, that is.” Estelle settled on the seat adjacent to Tristram.

  “You work?” Catherine posed the question before she realized how foolish she sounded.

  She had let him kiss her—she had kissed him back—and she knew so little about him. It wasn’t the sort of behavior Mama had instilled in her. It was the sort of behavior that had given her a reputation for being fast and landed her in an English prison called a manor house.

  “I don’t know if I would call it work.” Tristram shrugged off the subject. “A few other former officers and I work with men who were wounded in the Boer War and the Boxer Rebellion, and help them find work, get their pensions, learn new trades if they can’t do the old ones. Most of them end up in the London stews, so that’s where we go.”

  “How kind of you.” Catherine gazed at him in awe. “I wish I’d known you when I was in England. I could have helped you raise money. I’m getting quite adept at organizing charity events.”

  “This operation is rather new, and my father has been generous.” He ducked his head, but failed to hide the flush of color along his cheekbones. “I expect to make up for my failure as an officer.”

  “That’s not what I heard it was.” Estelle exchanged her teacup for the banjo she had tucked behind her chair, and began to pluck idly at the strings. “Ambrose told me—”

  “A great deal of balderdash, I expect.” Tristram raised a hand to the cowlick on his head, right above where he had been struck the night before.

  “Estelle,” Catherine said in haste, “why don’t you entertain us from farther away. You tend to get a little loud.”

  “Especially once Florian gets here.” She rose, still playing, and strolled to another grouping of chairs on the other side of the room.

  Catherine touched Tristram’s arm. “Do you need to return to your room?”

  “Not yet.” He clasped her hand and, still holding her fingers, lowered it to the cushion between them. “We need to talk.”

  “We do.” Her fingers trembled beneath his. “Your father will take away the funds to your charity if you don’t find the jewel thief.”

  “Yes, and more. Even if I inherit, if my brother’s widow bears another girl, Father will give her all the money and property not entailed to the title. I will have an enormous estate to run without the money to run it.”

  “How irresponsible of him.”

  “Indeed.” He tried to flatten his cowlick again but it sprang back into a tiny corkscrew curl Catherine fought not to reach up and smooth herself. “I can guess how many people that is.”

  “Nearly a hundred people potentially punished because my father is so ashamed of me he can see nothing but how to hurt me.”

  “Why such antagonism toward you? I mean, surely you couldn’t have done anything too terrible in South Africa.”

  “In my role as a military officer I did. And my behavior as an officer is all that matters to my father. He’s willing to damage his family lands and my charity work in order to show the world he doesn’t tolerate me, either.”

  “That’s horrible.” She ached for him, but she ached for herself as well and extracted her hand from his hold. “Thus you need an heiress.”

  “It’s not like that, Catherine. If you think that’s why I kissed you, you’re wrong.”

  “You thought you could lure me into revealing my secrets?”

  “I thought I could do something I’ve wanted to do since you walked into that ballroom and ruffled feathers with that dress. You were so reckless, so defiant, so scared, I wanted to know your secrets.”

  “If only I had some to tell.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t. Everyone knows my husband neglected me. Everyone knows that old Mrs. Selkirk has convinced society that I, and thus my family, am too immoral for the good people of the Tuxedo Club to receive.”

  “She hasn’t been particularly successful.”

  “This is a small enough community that that little is enough to hurt Mama and bar Estelle from certain gatherings where she should be seen.”

  “I do not think she cares.”

  Estelle perched on a chair with her head tilted back, her eyes closed and her fingers moving over the strings in a blur. She looked anything but distressed that she wasn’t the belle of the season her elder sister had been.

  “She saw how little good it has done me.” Catherine fumbled in the pocket of her skirt for a handkerchief. It was black-bordered, as were all her handkerchiefs. Sapphire had sewn the edges upon Bisterne’s death and Catherine hadn’t purchased more.

  Before she touched it to her eyes, Tristram took it from her and exchanged it for a larger linen square, plain white save for his initials in the same green as his eyes—TBW.

  “Black doesn’t suit you.” He tucked her handkerchief into his coat pocket.

  Catherine dabbed at her eyes. “What is the B for?”

  “Baston-Ward.”

  Catherine spun around to face him again. “You’re Florian’s cousin?”

  “And yours, by marriage. Very distantly.”

  “So there’s more to this jewel-hunting than your father’s old friend needing aid.”

  “It’s my mother’s family. Whatever else one might say about my father, he loved my mother. He’s been different since she died, less patient, less forgiving of human frailty, which I, according to him, have in an overabundance.”

  “Because you chose to leave the army?”

  “No, my dear. I didn’t decide to leave. I disliked the service, but it was my duty as the second son, so I took it. I ended up in South Africa and...I was allowed to leave rather than be court-martialed.”

  * * *

  Her face paled, and Tristram suppressed a twisted smile. He was used to that action of withdrawal, polite remoteness. A man wounded and leaving the military because of it was one thing. One allowed to resign his commission out of respect for his father’s title and the number of Wolfes and Baston-Wards who had served before him, was quite something else. A court-martial would have meant he had let his country down.

  She would regret kissing him now, if she didn’t already. Her remark about him needing an heiress made that clear, though only moments earlier, she had looked utterly besotted—the way he felt. It had distracted them both from the thoughtless way he’d accused her of bashing him over the head in the snow. He should
n’t have spoken that suspicion aloud. The evidence was only circumstantial.

  All the evidence against her was circumstantial. Besides, she cared about him. She had learned how to control her outward expression of emotions well, but not perfectly. Even as she lashed back at his accusations, she looked hurt, not angry. It was longing he saw in her eyes, not contempt.

  Until now. The blow on his head must have weakened him enough to tell her the truth. Or perhaps it was giving in to the desire to kiss her that had loosened his tongue. It was a gamble, and her face told him it was not a gamble that would pay off.

  “Insubordination, not cowardice.” He may as well get it all out. “It was a horrible, unnecessary and unjust war and I despised my superior officers for how they were treating the people of the country. They herded them into camps like animals. Sheep ready for the slaughter were treated better. So I refused to destroy the village I was ordered to subdue and let the people escape to safety. One of them thanked me with a blow to the head, which truly was a gift. It gave the army a reason to let me resign.”

  The liquid notes of Estelle’s banjo filled in the silence like water seeking a channel between two rocks. Catherine stared at him with those wide eyes that made him want to drown in their velvety depths. His mouth dry, he reached for his tea, now cold with a skim of milk clouding the surface.

  “Don’t drink that. I’ll ring for more.” She jumped up so quickly electricity crackled from her wool skirt against the velvet cushion.

  He reached out with some notion of stopping her, but let his hand fall. If she wanted to use tea as an excuse to get away from him, the disgraced officer, than he would not stop her.

  She rang the bell. As she gave her orders to the footman who appeared, the doorbell chimed.

  Estelle stopped playing mid arpeggio and sprang to her feet. “Florian is here.”

  Tristram glanced at her face, glowing as though electric lights burned behind it, and felt a groan rise in his chest. She had fallen for Florian, who possessed no prospects and less money without the jewels. That Estelle was an heiress made the situation worse. Her parents would never approve after Catherine’s experience.

  He needed to find the jewels and get Florian back to England and out of harm’s way—or rather, keep Estelle out of harm’s way. Yet how could he continue to call on Catherine if she now rejected him?

  He turned just as Florian came into view with Ambrose right behind him.

  “Look what the cat dragged in.” Florian gestured behind him. “A veritable throng to comfort you, Tris.”

  He wasn’t gesturing solely at Ambrose. Two more people reached the point where the steps opened into the conservatory.

  Pierce and Georgette Selkirk.

  Chapter 10

  The custom of raising the hat when meeting an acquaintance derives from the old rule that friendly knights in accosting each other should raise the visor for mutual recognition in amity. In the knightly years, it must be remembered, it was important to know whether one was meeting friend or foe. Meeting a foe meant fighting on the spot. Thus, it is evident that the conventions of courtesy not only tend to make the wheels of life run more smoothly, but also act as safeguards in human relationship.

  Emily Price Post

  The sight of Georgette—as bright as the sunshine melting snow from the roof—sent a shock wave of guilt racing through Catherine. Here she was ready to beg forgiveness for the past, a goal she had striven for nearly since she left America, and yet she had kissed one more of Georgette’s beaux not a half hour ago. Given warning of Georgette’s arrival, she might have run away to hide her shame.

  Instead, she stepped forward to extend her hands in welcome. “You chose a cold day for making calls.” Not an auspicious greeting. “I mean... That is—”

  Georgette interrupted with her sparkling laughter. “We just got back from the city, and I needed a guarantee that neither Mama nor Grandmama would want to stir from the drawing room fire.”

  The two of them stood a dozen feet apart, eyeing one another, while the others watched the tableau unfold. Georgette looked as young and golden as she had five years earlier. Her complexion and hair glowed in the lamplight. Her well-cut gown emphasized the lithe lines of her form. Best of all, her smile was as wide and warm as it had been all their years of friendship.

  Wishing she were wearing something finer than a dark gray walking suit with only the narrowest bands of lace to adorn her collar, Catherine took the first step forward. Georgette mirrored her actions. They met in the center of the Persian carpet to hug, neither speaking, neither moving. Tears pooled in Catherine’s eyes. Georgette had come to her when she was the wronged party. She tried to say something appropriate to the moment, but her voice would not come, blocked by too many words she had considered saying over the past five years.

  In the doorway, a footman gave a discreet cough.

  Catherine stepped back, indicating the need for fresh coffee services on the low table between the sofas. The servant’s presence gave Catherine time to compose herself and dab at her eyes with her handkerchief—no, Tristram’s handkerchief. When she pulled the linen away, Georgette was seated facing the lake, where Tristram had been. He had joined the others on the other side of the room. Estelle reigned there, dispensing coffee and tea and making everyone laugh.

  Georgette perched on the edge of the cushion, her cheeks damp but her smile firmly in place. “I always loved this room.”

  “It’s my favorite.” Catherine took up the coffeepot. “Though I suppose I should have asked if you prefer tea now.”

  “Coffee. But no sugar. I get plump if I’m not careful.”

  Catherine smiled. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “It’s true. If I didn’t walk miles a day on these hills or play tennis, I would look like a snowball in a white dress.” Georgette accepted the coffee cup with its generous dollop of cream. “I rather overindulged myself with sweets after...” She trailed off. Her gaze flicked to Catherine, then down to her coffee.

  “After I eloped with your fiancé?” Catherine opened the door as wide as it could go. Her hands shook, and she left her cup on its saucer.

  Across the room, Florian was trying to play Estelle’s banjo, while the others groaned and laughed.

  Catherine took a deep breath and plunged in. “Georgette, this is still likely not enough to make up for the humiliation and pain I caused you and your family, and I have to tell you that he wasn’t worth a moment of your grief. He wanted nothing more than the money. He wasn’t the least interested in me once that ring was on my finger and my dowry in his bank account.”

  “So I heard.” Georgette turned her blue eyes fully on Catherine. “People from here visited London and sometimes saw him. Apparently he acted as though he barely remembered your name.” She set her cup on the table and leaned forward. “At first, I thought it was the least you deserved. I couldn’t bear to go out in public for weeks because I hated the sympathetic looks. And a few young men...” Her cheeks flushed. “They thought they could take advantage of my jilted state, if you understand what I’m saying.”

  “I do. I encountered those same sort after I was widowed.”

  They exchanged sympathetic glances, a fragile camaraderie starting to take hold.

  “He took me to that moldering old house of his,” Catherine continued, “then left for London, where he stayed most of the time.” She plucked at the smooth wool of her skirt. “But all that doesn’t make up for what I did to you in luring him away. And I, well, I beg your forgiveness for putting such a shallow desire for a title before our friendship.”

  Speech delivered, Catherine sagged back against the sofa cushions and waited for a sense of relief, of the peace that had eluded her for over five years. Instead, she felt worse than she had before.

  Lord Tristram’s voice, clear and smooth, t
hough no louder than the others, rang through her head, winding her insides like a seven-day clock. Her apology to her friend meant almost nothing, because of what she’d allowed to happen with him.

  Georgette remained silent. So silent, the conversation of the others began to falter. Then, when Florian’s inexpert plucking of the banjo strings was the only sound in the conservatory, she grasped the silver tongs, dropped a lump of sugar into her coffee and began to stir. “Carry on.” She spoke without looking at the others.

  They burst into a cacophony of conversation.

  Georgette fixed her attention on Catherine. “At first, I hated you. I rather hoped your ship would sink in the middle of the Atlantic.”

  Catherine flinched, but wasn’t truly surprised. She expected she would have felt the same in reverse.

  “Then when I heard all wasn’t like a fairy tale for you,” Georgette continued, “I thought it was what you deserved and thought if he’d married me, he wouldn’t have treated me that way. Rather arrogant of me, isn’t it?” She laughed, sipped some of her coffee and grimaced. “Why did I put sugar in this?”

  “Old habit?”

  “Bad habit.” Georgette nudged her cup toward the center of the table. “I forgive you, Catherine. I forgave you a long time ago. At first it was just what I knew was the right thing to do, and then it was genuine, what I knew the Lord wanted from me.”

  “Thank you. But why—Georgette, I have to ask—why have you never married? Surely you haven’t been pining for Edwin.”

  “Not Edwin. A man who will take me away from all this.” She swept her arm in an arc. “I am so weary of seeing the same people at the same parties year after year. When I go into the city, I want to attend the less savory theaters, those productions the immigrants put on. I want to go to Coney Island in the summer and take a boat from the city to Lake Erie. Lord Bisterne represented all that to me. He would take me away to another world.” For a moment, her eyes shimmered like a summer sky, then the light died. “But I’m stranded here in Tuxedo Park most of the time with a mother and grandmother who are more bitter over my broken engagement than I ever was.”