The Honorable Heir Page 2

  “You’re not going to go hide away with the old men, are you, Tris?” His host, Pierce Selkirk, clapped Tristram on the shoulder. “Never used to be the type to drink spirits and smoke cigars.”

  Tristram shuddered. “Not in the least.” His lack of enthusiasm for such things remained, though it hadn’t gone over well with his fellow army officers. “I simply wished to...”

  He trailed off, unwilling to admit he was going after a lady. Ambrose and Florian knew why he was in Tuxedo Park but as far as Pierce, his friend from university, was concerned, he was doing what titled men from all over Europe had been doing in the past decade or two—looking for an American heiress as a wife.

  Not that he would object to marrying an heiress if he loved her. But his priority was to find proof that Lady Bisterne had stolen the jewels from her late husband’s family in order to appease his father and prove he could succeed at something, having failed to bring military glory to the family.

  Pierce was watching him with one sandy brow raised in enquiry, and Tristram struggled for a truthful response. “I wish to avoid another dance so soon.” He touched the back of his head, where his hair now sprang up in an unruly cowlick from a ridge of scarring beneath.

  “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

  Catherine 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 learn
ed 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.