The Honorable Heir Read online

  She tensed as though intending to pull away again, but did not. “Do you not mean her feelings for you?”

  “I say what I mean. You should know that by now.”

  “Touché.” She let out a laugh. “You keep your word while I do not. But surely you don’t hold that against me.”

  “Dishonest in one thing, likely dishonest in others.”

  She tried to pull her arm away but he would not let her.

  The trees broke at a meadow, and he turned to face her. “I want to believe you, Catherine, but you are not helping me as you said you would.”

  “I cannot.” Frustration tinged her voice. “I can’t risk Georgette thinking I am trying to take you away from her.”

  “You cannot take from her what she does not have.”

  “She doesn’t know that she does not have you. She believes you—” She shook her head. “I can’t betray a confidence more than I already have.”

  “It’s no confidence.” He tilted his head back and sighed, forming a cloud between himself and the heavens. “She thinks I’m hers for the asking. She looks at me like I will turn up wrapped in shiny paper and tucked under the Christmas tree. And if I disillusion her, I will no longer be welcome at Tuxedo Park, where the trail of the missing jewels led me.”

  “And you’re convinced it’s not a false trail?”

  “The jewels are real enough.”

  “I expect the ones sold to jewelers are real enough. Perhaps only the ones given to me were artificial.” She sighed. “I should have noticed. I never suspected Edwin to be so...so stingy.”

  “If he even knew.”

  She gave him a quick, sharp glance. “What do you mean?”

  “How much did he interact with the jewels?”

  Her shoulders moved, pressing her arm into his side in a way that thrilled through him. “I never saw him take them out of the safe. He only went into the safe on one of the quarter days to safeguard the rents until the next time he went to the bank.”

  “Which was when?”

  “Michaelmas last year.”

  “And the jewels were there then?”

  “I saw them. He opened all the cases and looked at them as usual. He asked me—” A noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob caught at her voice. “He asked me if I had any parties to which I wanted to wear any of them. Then he laughed and closed up the safe. Later that day, he took the train up to London, and the next day, Ambrose took it down to Bisterne to tell me Edwin was...gone.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tristram freed her arm from where he’d tucked it against his side, and took her hand. He curled his fingers around hers as securely as he could with both of them wearing gloves. “I knew Edwin was neglectful of you. I didn’t know he was cruel.”

  “God is working on my heart to forgive him. And myself.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, but the woods lay in such stillness Tristram heard her.

  “Forgiving isn’t always easy.”

  “No, but Georgette forgave me for how I hurt her. That has helped me see my way clear to not hanging on to my bitterness against my husband.” Her fingers moved restlessly in his hand, though she made no attempt to draw away. “I owe her for that on top of everything else.”

  “You owe her nothing, Catherine. Forgiveness is her responsibility. And as for the fiancé, Bisterne is the one who broke a promise, not you.”

  “Then why doesn’t society see it that way?” Suddenly, she stooped, and came up with both hands full of snow. She formed the snow into a ball and threw it against the nearest tree as hard as she could. The snow missile exploded in a puff of white, and she quickly followed it with another and another to emphasize her words. “My family has been shunned by several hostesses. I have to endure old Mrs. Selkirk telling me with whom I can and cannot associate. And I dare not disobey for all I’m twenty-four.” She was throwing the balls of snow so rapidly now that Tristram began to laugh, in awe of her. “And a widow. And my trust fund can buy and sell the Selkirks twice over. And if you don’t stop laughing, I will—”

  The final snowball struck him squarely on the chin. Snow filled his mouth, shot up his nose and managed to slip between his muffler and neck. Shock of the impact knocked him back a step. He slipped in the white stuff and ended up sitting in the snow, still laughing.

  “Are you all right?” Catherine dropped to her knees beside him. “I didn’t mean to— I never should have—” She raised her hand to his face and brushed away the snow.

  He caught hold of her fingers and held them to his cheek, as warm inside as the snow was cold outside. “It’s quite all right, my dear. But if it’s a snowball fight you want, give me the opportunity to arm myself and make it fair.”

  She backed away. “I don’t think that would be proper for a dowager countess.”

  “Nor is walking through the woods alone at night, but you were doing it.” He gathered snow as he scrambled to his feet. “Nor do they throw snowballs at the sons of peers, yet you did.” On the last word, he lobbed the packed snow at her, aiming for her shoulder.

  It struck just high enough to knock back her hood and send snow sliding beneath her collar. She shrieked, grabbed snow from the top of a drift and shot it back.

  And the battle was on. To Tristram’s chagrin, Catherine was a better shot than he was. What he lacked in accuracy, he made up for in speed. He kept her darting from tree to tree.

  Finally she collapsed against one, her hands on her knees, where snow encrusted her gown, her breaths rushing in and out of her lungs. “Uncle. Uncle.”

  He’d never heard the expression, but got the message. Out of breath himself, he closed the distance between them and took her hands to lift her upright. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “Only my pride that I had to surrender.” She tilted her head back. Her face glowed in the starlight, and her eyes danced with laughter.

  He wanted to kiss her. Oh, how he wanted to enjoy a second embrace there in that quiet clearing. No one would interrupt them there.

  Which was precisely why he had to let her go. He had no right to touch her, to disrespect her, because they were alone and had already enjoyed a quarter hour of play.

  “Let me take you home.” His voice was a mere rasp.

  She nodded and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow all on her own this time. They headed out in silence save for the rhythmic crunching of their footfalls, yet the lack of conversation felt comfortable, companionable. Shared laughter was a powerful bond—so powerful a bond, he feared he could too easily love her.

  Perhaps he already did.

  That thought made him feel colder than the night air. He dared not love her. Caring for her even a little had already clouded his perspective where her guilt was concerned. Loving her would destroy his will to learn the truth at all.

  He marshaled the words he must speak to her before bidding her good-night, and was ready with them when they reached her front door. “You will be at home the next time I call.” He delivered the sentence without the hint of a query in his pitch. It was a statement, almost a command.

  She drew her hand from his arm. “I cannot. Even tonight was disloyal to Georgette.”

  Her loyalty to her friend pushed him a little closer to the edge of falling in love. “I have made no promises to Georgette. I made a promise to you in exchange for you making yourself available when I call. Monday, she and her mother are going to some debutante’s tea party.” They reached her front steps. “You’re safely home. And you will be here at two o’clock on Monday.”

  She sighed. “All right.”

  “Thank you.” He indulged himself with the merest brush of his lips on her cheek, then waited for the butler to let her into the house before he strode off down the drive, whistling with happiness, certain all would work out somehow.

  He retired f
or the night with the same sort of optimism and woke with it warming him against the coldest morning he ever remembered, with high winds blasting sheets of ice against the windows.

  It was the kind of morning that drove everyone to the dining room to be warmed by a blazing fire and drink hot coffee. None wanted to leave the cozy room to so much as retrieve a book from the library. They indulged in idle chitchat about what they would do for Christmas, and who would brave the chill in the hall to fetch them a game or something to read, as no one wanted to force the servants away from the warmth of the kitchen.

  “I will go.” Tristram rose and stepped into the foyer. Frigid drafts swirled around him. On his way across the marble tiles to the library, he passed a refectory table. A pile of mail rested on a silver tray, waiting for one of the Selkirks to collect and sort. Tristram picked it up, thinking he would carry it to Pierce, and noted his name on a small parcel that had come by courier.

  Reading the handwriting on the paper, he thought the draft had found its way to his heart, chilling it. With clumsy fingers, he tore off the plain wrapping and opened the box within.

  One of the New York jewelers he had contacted had borne him fruit by collecting and sending one of the Baston-Ward pieces. A scrawled note at the bottom of the bill said:

  Sold to me by a lady of average height and excellent form wearing black and a thick veil. Tried to follow, but she disappeared into a waiting cab.

  Tristram crushed the note in his fist, then he dropped the jewel to the floor and stomped on it, hoping it would shatter as had the hair comb the night he met Catherine.

  The setting bent, but the jewels remained intact—unlike Tristram’s heart.

  Chapter 12

  Therefore, it is of the utmost importance always to leave directions at the door such as, “Mrs. Jones is not at home,” “Miss Jones will be home at five o’clock,” “Mrs. Jones will be home at 5:30,” or Mrs. Jones “is at home” in the library to intimate friends, but “not at home” in the drawing room to acquaintances. It is a nuisance to be obliged to remember either to turn an “in” and “out” card in the hall, or to ring a bell and say, “I am going out,” and again, “I have come in.” But whatever plan or arrangement you choose, no one at your front door should be left in doubt and then repulsed. It is not only bad manners, it is bad housekeeping.

  Emily Price Post

  Tristram trudged up the drive of Lake House and reached the door feeling as though the pearl-and-diamond earrings in his pocket weighed what they were worth in British pounds. He could scarcely raise his hand to press the doorbell.

  The supercilious butler opened the portal. To the strains of a cello in the distance, he swept his faded blue gaze up and down, and shook his head. “I am sorry you came out in this weather, my lord. Lady Bisterne is not at home.”

  “I believe you must be mistaken. She told me last week she would be.”

  And not being at home was as good as a confession, was it not? He had agonized for three days waiting for this afternoon. Seeing her in church, he nearly shook Georgette off his arm in order to plow through the crowd to Catherine.

  “She did not inform me as such.”

  The butler began to shut the door in his face, and Tristram put his foot on the threshold and leaned his shoulder against the massive oak panel to stop him. “Do, please, take her my card.” He extracted one from his pocket and pressed it into the butler’s gloved hand. “I can wait inside here.” He stepped over the threshold.

  The butler could either stand there with the door open, or close it and seek out Catherine.

  He chose the latter, stalking off like a thwarted three-year-old. A moment later, the cello ceased, replaced by his low rumble of a voice.

  “Of course she’s at home.” Miss Estelle’s voice rose loud and clear. “This subterfuge is completely poor management and such bad form.” She arrived in the foyer still carrying her bow. “Lord Tristram, I’m sorry you’ve been kept standing here in the cold of the corridor. Do come into the library, where you can get some warmth. Catherine’s edict to not be disturbed doesn’t apply to you.” She swept around in an arc and strode off down the hall, her skirt flounces bobbing.

  Tristram glanced the butler’s way and smiled before following Estelle to the library door.

  Estelle didn’t deign to knock. She twisted the handle and flung the portal wide. “You are at home to Lord Tristram, are you not?” She gestured for him to precede her into the chamber without giving her sister a chance to answer.

  The mere sight of her warmed him inside.

  Until she looked up from a sheaf of mail before her and her face went dark. “I said not to be disturbed under any circumstances. The vocalist for Mrs. Henry’s charity soiree has come down with some ailment and cannot perform. Now I have three days to find a replacement.”

  “You need look no further,” Estelle said, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Catherine sighed and fixed her gaze on Tristram. “Mama takes a day to rest and the household staff forgets its direction. In other words, why were you let in?”

  “Your butler had no choice.” He closed the distance between them and stood gazing down at her, his heart aching. “Catherine, you cannot avoid me.”

  She rose. “I must. I will not hurt Georgette again.”

  “If Georgette cannot work out for herself that I have no interest in her, she is deluding herself. But my call today has to do with this, not us.” He drew the box from his pocket, flipped off the lid and set it on the desk between them.

  She glanced down at the earrings, and her face paled. “Where did they come from?”

  “A jeweler in New York, two days after you were in the city.”

  Something like a groan escaped her lips, and she closed her eyes. “And you think I am so foolish I would sell them this close to home knowing you are looking for them?”

  “No, I don’t. It’s too much of a coincidence, but you’re the only person who can help me learn the truth.”

  Her eyes widened. “You believe I’m innocent at last?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated, then held out his hand. “You will help me.”

  “I told you everything I know. Except—” She drew one of the earrings from the box and rubbed one of the pearls against a tooth, then held the bauble in front of her, brows knit. “The pearls are real enough.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If you scrape one against your teeth, a real pearl will feel gritty. But the diamonds... The light is too poor today to see inclusions or those little light refractions that distinguish real diamonds. I never would have questioned it except for those...combs.” Her voice faltered on the word, the reminder of her husband’s false wedding gift.

  Tristram rounded the desk to stand beside her—he could not stand to see the pain in her eyes when she spoke of her husband. He needed to be near her, inhaling her spring flower scent, and he wanted to lend her comfort with his nearness. “Surely a jeweler would inspect the jewels before buying the piece.”

  “Still, they might have inspected the pearls and not gone further when they learned they were real. Pearls, after all, are difficult to falsify. And not all jewelers and pawnbrokers are good at their craft.”

  “Or they count on the buyer to be ignorant enough to accept the false for true.”

  “And charge the buyer as though they were real?” She shook her head. “I’d rather not think people are that untrustworthy, but if I could be an untrustworthy friend, I don’t see why someone couldn’t be an untrustworthy businessman.”

  “Catherine.” He brushed his thumb along her cheek to turn her face toward him. “Georgette holds nothing against you. What is done is done. You won’t do it again.”

  “Does Georgette believe I won’t hurt her again?”

  “She should.”

&n
bsp; But Catherine would give him up for Georgette’s sake. He wanted to pound his fist against something until his frustration burned itself out.

  Chest tight, he turned his attention to the task at hand. “I suppose there’s one way to find out if this is a real diamond. Do you have a penknife?”

  She handed him the earring and drew out the center drawer of the desk. A moment later, she located the sort of small knife, its hilt shiny from the patina of age and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It looked old enough to have been in the family for a hundred years, but the blade was honed to razor sharpness. Tristram applied the point to the edge of the setting and popped one of the diamonds into his palm. Then he glanced up. “Do you have a bit of glass you don’t care if you ruin?”

  She went to the mantel and took down a framed photograph of two ladies too-wrapped in mufflers to identify.

  “This should do.” She gave him the picture. “An impromptu race with skating chairs when I was seventeen. Georgette and I won.”

  “A skating chair?”

  “Once the lake freezes solid, we’ll have skating parties and I’ll show you what a skating chair is.”

  “When does that happen?”

  “Near Christmas.”

  It hurt him to think that he might not be here to see Catherine demonstrate a skating chair, or do anything else, for that matter.

  He turned his attention to the diamond. “I could damage it. The picture, that is, not the diamond—if it is a diamond.”

  She shrugged. “This is more important than a picture of youthful silliness. You can’t even see our faces.”

  “But your parents know it’s you.”

  “They’ll understand—if they ever have to know.” She took the photograph from him and laid it on the desk. “Go ahead.”

  Cringing at the idea of marring a picture of Catherine, he picked up the diamond and ran one of the faceted edges along the glass plate. Nothing happened beyond the merest hint of a scratch. He pressed harder. Still nothing.