The Honorable Heir Page 5

  “I expect she already knows.” He seized on the diversion like a man stuck in quicksand grasping a rope to haul himself out. “I had to ask the Selkirks’ butler for directions.”

  “They wouldn’t lend you their carriage?”

  “I wanted to walk.”

  This time, the widening of her eyes appeared to be natural surprise. “You wanted to walk in this cold?”

  She glanced at the windows. Beyond the glass, snow swirled like confetti defying gravity, never touching the ground. What flakes did land melted on impact, leaving the winter-brown grass and walkways to the gazebo and lake wet.

  “After two years in South Africa,” Tristram said, “I appreciate precipitation regardless of the temperature.”

  “You were in South Africa?” She gave him a look of sincere interest.

  He returned it with a rueful shrug. “Not a shining hour of mine. The Boer War.”

  “I remember hearing something about you being in the military. You—” She pressed her fingers to her lips as though trying to shove back the rest of her thought.

  He bowed his head. “Captain Lord Tristram Wolfe at your service, my lady.”

  Except he didn’t have a true right to use the military rank. He hoped she didn’t recall that bit of gossip that must have made its way to Bisterne. He had, after all, been allowed to resign his commission.

  “But since I resigned,” he hastened to emphasize this fact, “I never use the rank.”

  “You were wounded.” Her glance flicked to his head. “Are you certain you’re quite well?”

  His hand flew to flatten his cowlick, and he narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you suggesting that my conviction that you are responsible for the missing Bisterne jewels is a result of my being bashed on the head?”

  “I would never be so vulgar.”

  “You’re wearing colors. The vulgarity of that was all Mrs. Selkirk talked of at breakfast this morning.”

  Catherine laughed.

  At the sound of her laughter, an invisible hand wound the already taut watch springs of Tristram’s middle, causing friction, too much warmth. He drank his now cold coffee in an attempt to ease the tension inside him.

  “Shall I order fresh coffee so we may start this conversation over, Lord Tristram?” Catherine rose without waiting for his response, and crossed the room to the bell. “My sister tells me she is trying to convince our father that an internal telephone system will save the servants a great deal of work running up and down steps, as we could call them with our request.”

  Tristram raised his brows at this sudden chatter. It, like the way she stabbed the bell push three times instead of one, spoke as loudly as her voice of her nervousness.

  “But then,” Catherine continued, “Estelle likes gadgets. She is forever recording her own music on her phonograph cylinders. I prefer to listen to live music myself, and perhaps one day—”

  The arrival of the footman stopped the uninterrupted string of words—a string suggesting nervousness on her part, or an effort to keep him from saying anything to her. She gave the order for fresh coffee, remaining silent until the footman removed the tray of used cups, his stare fixed on the discarded rings.

  The instant the man’s footfalls no longer sounded on the stair treads, Tristram rather expected her ladyship to take up her flow of chatter where she had left off. Instead, she glided across the room to a set of windows, her soft wool skirt flowing around her like dark green water.

  “Enough fencing, my Lord Tristram.” She spoke with her back to him, though the day had grown so dark with cloud cover her reflection shone in the glass. “Tell me what transformed you from soldier to Scotland Yard detective? Tell me why you and my cousin by marriage have accused me of stealing jewels from the Bisterne estate. Other than the wedding and engagement ring, of course. I never thought about how they belonged to the estate until this morning, before your call. Surely you didn’t chase me across Europe because of a couple of paltry rings.”

  Paltry? The new Earl of Bisterne could feed every tenant on his estate for a year with the price of those rings alone.

  Tristram said nothing for a full minute, then he rose and joined her at the window. “I’m scarcely a Scotland Yard detective, my lady. We have a family connection to the current Lord Bisterne, and his father was a friend of my father’s from the time they were in short pants until Baston-Ward’s death a half dozen years ago. Baston-Ward had made some foolish investments that ruined his fortune, and his son tried to recoup those losses through gaming instead of hard work.”

  “A trait of the family,” Catherine murmured.

  Tristram inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Which is why the estate fell into such disrepair.”

  “It isn’t in disrepair now, thanks to my dowry.” A hint of bitterness edged her tone.

  Tristram barely managed to stop himself from reaching out and touching her hand, her elbow, her face in a gesture of comfort. She had made her bed. If Edwin had not been such a profligate in gaming, drink and food consumption, she would still be lying in that bed of neglect after buying her way into the English nobility. Surely she had known the risks, but then, perhaps she had not. She couldn’t have been above eighteen or nineteen years of age when she succumbed to the lure of a title and Bisterne’s charm.

  “You gave a number of people much-needed work.” He offered truth for comfort instead of his touch.

  “But that won’t last. The dowry reverted back to my trust fund principle upon my husband’s death.”

  “Which is where the jewels come in. Bisterne needs to sell them to gain capital enough to continue the estate into a paying prospect.”

  The footman returned with the chime of silver and the rattle of china. Out the window, the snow had turned to freezing rain that pattered against the glass. When the footman departed, the soaring notes of a violin rose in his wake.

  “That’s not Ambrose playing, is it?”

  “That is Estelle. We don’t know where she gets her talent. Mama and even my father and brother can play adequately at the piano, but Estelle’s talent is special.”

  “I hear that.”

  Estelle was playing Vivaldi with a warmth that probably would have pleased the composer. It pleased Tristram, cutting straight to his heart as good music should. With those glorious notes swooping up the staircase, discussing Lady Catherine’s larceny seemed as much a crime as taking someone else’s jewelry.

  “My lady.” His throat felt tight. “I didn’t believe my father when he told me the Bisterne jewels were missing and you were the only person who could have taken them. But I set out to follow you anyway, and found too much evidence to deny the charge.”

  “You are referring to more than the wedding and engagement rings.” Her voice was expressionless, but he could not see her face.

  “Considerably more.” He was growing numb standing so close to the expanse of glass. “Shall we sit?” He could see her better if they faced one another across a coffee service rather than staring into the autumnal gloom side by side.

  Wordlessly, she returned to the sofa, touched her fingertips to the side of the coffeepot and poured them fresh cups. Neither of them drank. They sat in identical poses, their backs too straight to touch the cushions behind them, their gazes fixed somewhere beyond the other’s shoulders.

  Then Catherine blinked twice and met his eyes in a challenge. “So what is this evidence?”

  “You spent the past thirteen months in Italy and France.” He drew up a mental list. “Venice, Rome and Florence. Avignon, Lyon and Paris. In each of those cities, at a jeweler, I found at least one piece of jewelry that I know for a fact had previously been in your possession.”

  * * *

  A lifetime of training kept Catherine’s face expressionless, her teeth clenched together. If she opened her mouth for s
o much as a sip of coffee, she would probably shriek with hysterical laughter or say something unforgivably rude to Tristram.

  He shifted on his chair, set down his cup and drew a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket of his coat. “Receipts.” He held them out to her. “For the pieces I managed to recover.”

  She snatched the receipts from him and scanned prices in lira and francs. Each bill of purchase was attached to a detailed description and drawing.

  “Who made these?” She tapped on the pictures.

  “They were in the vault where the jewels should have been.”

  “I never saw them there.”

  “So you did go into the vault?”

  She slapped the papers onto the sofa beside her. “Of course I did. I was mistress of the house. We kept coin there for paying workmen and wages on quarter days. Bisterne was rarely at home, so that duty fell to me. I never even saw most of the jewelry. Other than a parure of emeralds, I never wore any of it. It wasn’t to my taste.”

  “And the combs?”

  “Those were a wedding gift.” To her horror, tears filled her eyes. She blinked, but to no avail. “And you know they are artificial. Perhaps they all are.”

  Tristram shifted on his chair. Finally, he produced a white linen handkerchief and pressed it into her hand. “None of them, according to the jewelers, are artificial. And in thirteen months, you had plenty of time to have copies made.”

  “I wouldn’t wear paste gemstones.” She dashed the handkerchief across her eyes, then crushed it between her fingers. “I think you need to leave, my lord. You have been here long enough, and my intentions are to make amends with Georgette Selkirk, not make matters worse between our families.” She rose to force him to do so.

  He was too well-bred not to, but he gave her an uncompromising stare. “No one else had access to the jewels except for you and Edwin. But Edwin was already gone, so that leaves you. I will find a way to prove you have, or know where to find, the rest.”

  “You may try, my lord, but you are forgetting one important detail.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Why would I do such a thing? My quarterly allowance from my trust fund holds more money than all the Bisterne jewels put together.”

  For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered with uncertainty. Then he smiled and bowed. “Touché, my lady. I will find my motivation.”

  “You are welcome to try, Mr. Holmes.”

  He laughed at her reference to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous detective. “I will find a reason, my lady. I likely have more of a stake in winning this game than do you.” He executed the most fluid and graceful bow she had witnessed since her husband’s death, then clasped her hand in his and raised her fingers to his lips.

  A jolt of electricity shot through her, and she snatched her hand away. “How dare you?” The whispered words lacked the hauteur she wished for.

  “With very little trouble.” He smiled, turned so smartly on his heels she expected him to salute the portrait of her grandfather hanging at the top of the steps, then strode from the room.

  Once he descended the steps, Catherine sank onto the sofa. She started to cover her face with her hands until she regained her composure—and spotted the rings still lying on the table.

  So he was not as confident as he pretended. He wouldn’t have forgotten the rings if he were.

  “He can do without them.”

  Yet it was legitimately within his milieu to take them from her on behalf of the new Lord Bisterne. They never should have left England on her finger. She could have purchased a plain gold band to let the world know she was not in the market for a second spouse.

  She would catch him up and give him the rings. He would not find in her more reasons to accuse her of being a jewel thief.

  She snatched up the band and betrothal diamond and raced down the steps to the entryway. It stood stark and empty, cold stone lighted by long windows on either side of the front door.

  She flung open that door and gazed down the path leading through the trees to the road. Swirling snow stuck to the grass and flagstones, descending now in sheets instead of dancing through the air. If Lord Tristram were out there, she could not see him. If she tried to follow, she would likely slip and fall in her light leather shoes, not to mention freeze in her thin wool jacket and lace-trimmed shirtwaist.

  Already shivering, she shut the door, headed for the nearest fire and heard the music recommence. It was a cello this time, an instrument Estelle hadn’t mastered as well as she liked.

  The cellist playing, however, had mastered it.

  “Florian.” Catherine sprinted for the music room door as though the corridor were a tennis court and she needed to get to the ball.

  She yanked open the door. The music stuttered to a halt. Estelle spun around on the piano stool to glare at Catherine. And three gentlemen stood, two with instruments and bows in hand. The third held nothing but a top hat.

  No wonder Lord Tristram had managed to disappear so quickly. He hadn’t left the house at all.

  She closed the door and leaned against it to support her suddenly wobbly legs.

  “Don’t tell us to stop.” Estelle widened her eyes in entreaty. “This piece was just coming together.”

  “Your sister is a wonderful composer, Lady Bisterne.” Florian gave Estelle a look of pure devotion.

  “Estelle, a composer?” Catherine shook her head. She raised her hand to rub the taut muscles in her neck and remembered the rings she still clutched. “I’d like to hear it.”

  “We were just about to play it for Lord Tristram.” Estelle faced the piano and rested her hands on the keyboard. “I call this ‘Praise.’”

  Praise, indeed. For the next ten minutes, the music rised to the heavens, a beautiful reminder that Catherine had spent too little time in praise over the past five years. Or perhaps in her life. Though far from perfect, with the men having just learned the piece, the instruments delivered the tune into her heart.

  When the last note vanished from the room, the five of them remained silent, everyone seeming to hold his or her breath.

  The chime of the doorbell broke the stillness. The three musicians exchanged smiles of congratulations. On the far side of the room, Lord Tristram bowed to Estelle. “A reminder of what so rarely falls from our lips.”

  “If we had a poet who could write lyrics...” Florian began.

  “And a voice capable of singing them...” Ambrose added.

  “We could make a fortune singing this for—”

  “Do not,” Catherine growled, “encourage her. One scandal in the family is more than enough.”

  And there it was—a reminder of her elopement with Edwin and the missing jewels. Exactly what Lord Tristram did not need.

  To distract them all, Catherine rested her hand on Estelle’s shoulder. “I’ll make a bargain with you, baby sister. If you promise to attend all the social events Mama wishes you to attend, I will see to it you may practice as much as you like.”

  “With Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Baston-Ward?” Estelle looked up with shining eyes. “Truly?”

  “Yes, truly. But do, please, for propriety’s sake, ask Sapphire or one of the other maids to join you in the future.” Catherine squeezed the delicate bones beneath her hand. “A deal?”

  “A deal.” Estelle shot to her feet and enveloped Catherine in an embrace. “I don’t care what anyone says about you. You always were the best sister a girl could have.”

  “Wait until the holiday season of parties is over before you make those kinds of declarations.” Her tone was stern, but her heart swelled.

  Then Lord Tristram strode up to them, and the rings seemed to catch fire inside her fist. Slowly, painfully, she forced her fingers open and held out her hand, the rings gleaming in the snowy light. “You forgot these.”


  “Thank you.” He removed the rings from her palm without touching her.”

  Catherine lifted her chin. “To be frank, I’m happy you’re taking away my last reminder of a man—I do apologize, Florian, but the truth here is necessary—for whom I was a good and faithful wife, though he broke nearly every one of our vows. I no longer want a reminder of my greatest mistake.”

  “Thank you for saying so, my lady.” Tristram tucked the rings into his pocket and pinned her with a stare so intense she nearly had to look away. “And for giving me a missing piece in this puzzle.”

  Chapter 5

  When Mrs. Gilding returns he says, “Mr. Blank telephoned he would not be able to come for dinner as he was called to Washington. Mr. Bachelor will be happy to come in his place.”

  Emily Price Post

  Motivation. She had given him a motivation for stealing the Bisterne jewels—revenge. Catherine read it in the satisfaction on his face.

  A dozen protests of her innocence rose to her lips, but she suppressed them all. When she was an adolescent roaming a little too freely around the newly developed Tuxedo Park, and denied getting up to mischief with her friends, Papa reminded her that one could not prove a negative unless she possessed a good alibi.

  In this event, she possessed no alibi. Nor could she prove the negative, that she had not taken the jewels. She had to find a way to prove her innocence.

  Or the guilt of someone else.

  “Believe what you like, my lord. I will prove you wrong.” She returned his direct, challenging glare.

  Sparks crackled between them and she felt a jolt of power as though she were an incandescent light.

  He stepped back as though he felt it, too. “I should be going. The Selkirks are expecting me for luncheon.” A huskiness roughened the clarity of his oh-so-English voice.

  “Do stay, my lord, all of you.” Estelle rose from the piano stool. “I will tell the cook to expect three more.”