The Honorable Heir Page 7

  The caller was Sims, the VanDorns’ butler, on behalf of Mrs. VanDorn and had come through a mere quarter hour before the Selkirk party returned from the city. She was terribly sorry to be calling so tardily, but would he be willing to even up her table at a dinner party the following evening? The husband of one of her guests had been called away at the last minute and she didn’t wish for his wife to have to cry off, as well.

  And there it was, the frisson of energy he experienced when near Lady Bisterne went whipping through him at the mere suggestion he might see her again.

  It was a good reason to refuse.

  But the pearl-and-ruby pendant tucked into his handkerchief drawer was a good reason to say yes.

  He settled himself at the desk, drew out stationery and pen, and wrote a note accepting the invitation.

  Chapter 6

  People always talk to their neighbors at table whether introduced or not. It would be a breach of etiquette not to!

  Emily Price Post

  “You did what, Mama?”

  Seated on a sofa in the drawing room, Catherine looked up from her needlework to stare at her mother with horror.

  Estelle glanced up from the music score she was studying. “You could at least have invited Mr. Baston-Ward or Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Or someone else altogether.” Catherine’s stomach performed a few somersaults, not enough, alas, for her to claim illness and absent herself from the party. If she did, Mama might be unwise enough to invite Georgette.

  Surely Mama wasn’t trying to match Catherine with another Englishman. The very idea sent her stomach into backflips.

  “And so I would have invited one of the other gentlemen, had Lord Tristram declined.” Mama stood at a refectory table at one end of the room, arranging flowers in a crystal bowl, chrysanthemums in shades of orange, gold and yellow sent up fresh from the city. The arrangement would grace the center of the table. Other smaller bowls already stood on tables throughout the public rooms.

  If only she could wear her gold gown from Paris. Catherine lamented being unable to show at her best if she had to help play hostess to Tristram. It would show well with the color theme Mama had chosen for the dinner party decor. Instead, she would behave herself and wear a velvet gown of such deep purple it looked black away from direct lighting. Perhaps a little gold jewelry would set it off nicely. Just a little and, with Tristram coming, only pieces she owned before or since her time in England.

  “I don’t know why you two are objecting to his lordship,” Mama said.

  “He’s not truly a lord, you know.” Catherine had spent months learning how the English peerage worked. “He’s still a commoner.”

  “Unless his sister-in-law produces a girl.” Estelle made the comment without looking up from her scribbling on the musical score.

  Catherine startled. “What do you mean? He has an older brother.”

  Estelle glanced up. “You didn’t know? His brother died seven months ago.”

  Long enough for him to be out of mourning for a sibling.

  “I didn’t know.” Catherine shook her head. “I left England a year ago August and had as little as possible to do with anyone from the English aristocracy.”

  “You need to rid your heart of this bitterness, Catherine.” Mama’s dark eyes clouded with sadness. “I’m certain they aren’t all like your husband.”

  Catherine grimaced. “Lord Tristram’s older brother was.”

  “He’d been drinking heavily and fell from his horse,” Estelle confirmed. “Mr. Wolfe told me so I’d know that he’s only third in line to the title if Lady, um—what’s her name?”

  “Her husband’s courtesy title was Harriford.”

  In one of the two times she’d been able to go to London, Catherine had seen the lady in a dressmaker’s shop. She was a pretty, petite blonde with a sweet-faced daughter in tow. She had been apologizing to a shopgirl for how badly the young woman’s employer had been treating her for some imagined slight to her ladyship, a genuine kindness from a lady who deserved better than the current heir to the Marquess of Cothbridge.

  “I hope for her sake,” Catherine mused aloud, “she has a girl. That will free her to marry someone more of her choosing. But if she has a boy, she’ll be stranded at Cothbridge and under the marquess’s thumb.”

  “If she has a girl,” Estelle pointed out, “Lord Tristram will inherit the title.”

  “Which is likely why he’s here in America.” Mama took a half dozen steps back from her flower arrangement. “He’s looking to find an American heiress.”

  “He doesn’t need an heiress if he inherits,” Catherine said. “The Wolfes are quite wealthy. Why would he need a separate income?”

  “Apparently,” Estelle explained, “his father is so angry with him for resigning his army commission he has cut him off unless he does something important.”

  Catherine’s finger slipped, and she jabbed her embroidery needle into her finger.

  “How romantic.” Mama returned to her flowers and began to tuck greenery around the edges of the bowl. “What sort of important thing must he do?”

  Estelle furrowed her brow, wrote something on her score, then glanced up long enough to say, “I don’t know. Mr. Wolfe wouldn’t tell me, if he even knows.”

  Oh, he knew, as did Catherine. He needed to prove she was a thief and procure the rest of the jewelry she did not have. Probably even recover the money made on selling the other pieces in Europe, which she, of course, didn’t have because she had never obtained it.

  And now Mama had invited him to dinner and he had accepted. Of course he had accepted.

  An absurd image flashed through her mind—Lord Tristram Wolfe slipping up the servants’ steps to her bedchamber, rifling through her jewel box.

  “Could you not invite Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Baston-Ward to the party, as well?” Estelle was asking.

  “I’d have had to find two more single ladies in that event.” Mama swept across the room to the bell. “Mr. Harold Padget already accepted my invitation, so when Mr. Rutlidge couldn’t come, I had to scramble for another bachelor to make the table even.”

  Estelle heaved a sigh strong enough to have fanned the flames on the hearth had she sat closer to the fire. “I suppose Mr. Loring is for me?”

  Which meant Tristram would escort Catherine into dinner instead of her brother.

  “He is quite unexceptionable as a suitor, Estelle.” Mama directed her attention to the footman who had responded to her ring, directing him to carry the crystal bowl of flowers out of the room. Mama followed, no doubt to supervise its placement on the table.

  Estelle covered her eyes with her hand. “Mr. Loring is nearly twice my age and doesn’t know an A from an F. I’ve heard him try to sing in church.”

  Catherine examined her finger for blood and resumed her embroidery. “Well, Lord Tristram doesn’t like me.”

  “Ha.” Estelle flashed Catherine a grin. “That’s not how it looked in the music room the other day. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you.”

  “Probably afraid I’d steal his tiepin,” Catherine muttered.

  “What did you say?”

  “Never mind.” Catherine set her needlework into its basket and lifted the handle. “I’m going for a walk. Do you want to join me?”

  Estelle glanced out the window at the pale blue sky free of clouds. “I don’t wish to risk chapping my hands. I’m going to go practice before Mama returns and finds something for me to do for this party. It is going to be so very dull if I have to entertain Mr. Loring.”

  “Unless you attach yourself to the ladies planning the charity tea.”

  “It’s a good notion.” Estelle slipped through the narrow door leading to the music room.

  Catherine climbed to her room to fetch a hat and coat for a
brisk walk along the lakeshore. She had grown fond of walking during her years in England. It got her away from the never-ending hammering and sawing as her money repaired the manor. Only the rainiest days kept her inside, and she had kept up the practice once back in New York.

  She set off down the path leading to the lake. Though the sun blazed across the sky, ice still rimmed the lake, shiny on top where the surface had thawed. In no time, they would be able to ice-skate or toboggan. She gave a little hop of excitement at the prospect. Ice and snow were as foreign to Romney Marsh as she had been. Soon, perhaps, if she could make her peace with Georgette, Tuxedo Park would be home again. But Georgette hadn’t responded to any of her notes. Between that and Lord Tristram being determined to ruin her, she was beginning to doubt that anywhere could be home.

  “Lord Jesus, feeling settled somewhere isn’t too much to ask, is it?” she said aloud.

  Catherine didn’t pray a great deal. Perhaps she should, yet now, when her heart ached over the unfair accusation and the not-so-subtle messages that Georgette still wished for nothing to do with her, seemed wrong. If she wasn’t going to keep in contact with the Lord in good times, then she shouldn’t ask Him for help during the bad.

  Guilt and cold air constricted her breathing. Even Estelle, who would disobey their parents with the first opportunity to become a professional musician, could write a song called “Praise.” Perhaps the best alternative was a combination of prayer and request? “Hallowed be Thy name” and “Give us this day our daily bread” in equal measure?

  Contemplations on prayer needed to wait. If she didn’t head home, only a miracle would get her ready for the party on time.

  And tonight, preparing for the party meant more than donning an evening gown and choosing appropriate jewelry that would not bring the wrong kind of attention.

  It meant working out exactly how to manage Lord Tristram Wolfe.

  * * *

  Tristram’s mouth went dry at the sight of Lady Bisterne. In a purple gown that emphasized her long neck surrounded by a necklace of flat gold and enamel plaques, she looked like a queen.

  If Edwin Bisterne had married her only for her fortune, then he had been a bigger fool than Tristram believed. If he’d married her only for her money, then perhaps he owed her those jewels after all.

  Poised in the doorway to the VanDorns’ drawing room for half a minute longer than he should have been, Tristram watched Catherine ministering to the oldest guests. She tucked a pillow behind the back of an aged matron he already knew from experience was more than a little crotchety, then she glided across the floor to move a fire screen to better reflect heat for an old man with twinkling eyes. A middle-aged gentleman caught her hand as she passed. Instead of giving him the set-down he deserved, she offered him a brilliant smile, said something that not only made him release her fingers, but laugh while he let her go.

  Tristram’s conscience bit deep. Believing her guilty of revenge theft, especially once he realized how much she disliked her husband, was easy when he wasn’t with her. But this gracious and elegant lady could surely not so much as contemplate stealing her wedding ring on purpose, let alone an entire vault full of jewelry.

  And yet...

  Deciding he had been the fool this night for accepting the invitation, he entered the drawing room. Mr. VanDorn came toward him, one hand extended in greeting, the other holding a cup from which steam wafted.

  “Hot cider after what was surely a cold ride over.” Mr. VanDorn gave Tristram the glass.

  “I walked.” Tristram took the cup and wrapped his hands around it. “I enjoy walking, weather permitting.”

  “You sound like my daughter.” His gaze flicked across the room toward Catherine. “Which reminds me, she is your dinner partner.”

  Of course she was. Social precedent dictated the two of them would be seated either across from or next to one another. No doubt his hostess would be on the other side.

  “Allow me to make a few introductions for you.” VanDorn set his hand on Tristram’s shoulder. Then he proceeded to introduce people with names Tristram recognized because they occasionally made news in the English papers.

  “Dinner’s about to be announced,” Mr. VanDorn said, “so I’ll leave you with my eldest daughter.”

  The circuit of the room had ended in front of Catherine and more windows offering a spectacular view of the lake beneath a full moon. She stood close enough to the window that her breath fogged the glass, blurring her reflection. His was perfectly clear beside hers.

  “Good evening, Lord Tristram.” She raised one hand, on which sparkled an amethyst ring the size of a quail egg. The scent of spring swirled around her, violets and lily of the valley.

  Tristram found he could think of nothing to say. He watched her reach toward the glass, half expecting her to write in the steam. Instead, she started to use the lace frill at the bottom of her sleeve.

  “Allow me.” He reached past her and wiped the glass with his handkerchief.

  She faced him. “Why did you come?”

  “I can’t ferret out your secrets if I don’t ever see you.”

  “All you will learn is that I have no secrets.” Indeed, her brown eyes were wide and as guileless as a child’s.

  Too guileless.

  He gave her his own limpid gaze. “We shall see. I—”

  The dinner bell rang, and couples began to form.

  Tristram offered her his arm. For a moment, she remained motionless, as though she were about to refuse his offer. Then, as the last of the other couples left the drawing room, she laid her fingertips on his forearm. Just her fingertips.

  She may as well have pressed hard upon the nerves in his forearm. He needed all his self-control not to jerk away a reaction that must be wholly wrong. He was pursuing her, not courting her.

  He reached the dining room on feet that felt as though he wore large Wellington boots rather than light evening shoes. To his relief, she released his arm the instant they reached their places.

  A footman drew out her chair. She settled into it with fluid grace. As soon as Mr. VanDorn asked the blessing over the meal, Catherine turned to the gentleman on her right, leaving Tristram to his hostess through the soup course. Mrs. VanDorn was practiced at polite dialogue, asking him questions about his family, then his work.

  “Though I suppose you don’t work, do you? So different between England and America. Here, even the men in our best families work.”

  “Besides some charity work, I’ve been helping my father manage his land holdings since my brother’s passing. That, ma’am, is a great deal of work.”

  “Oh, and how much land is that?” Her tone suggested it was no bigger than a farm.

  “Twenty thousand acres.”

  She choked on her sip of soup.

  “It’s a respectable size.” For no good reason, he wanted her to know his branch of the family had enough money that he didn’t need an heiress. “Nothing like what you have out in the west.”

  “But more civilized.”

  Their rapport after that was quite good. Mrs. VanDorn, Tristram couldn’t help but notice, was a fine image of what Catherine would look like in twenty years—poised and still beautiful with those fine bones.

  Catherine would remain beautiful if she didn’t let her anger over her husband etch lines of bitterness into her face. Her mother was a happy woman who glowed whenever she mentioned the name of one of her children.

  Pure motherly pride...that he could shatter.

  He felt like a hypocrite eating at her table.

  When the salad course arrived and Mrs. VanDorn turned to the man on her left, Tristram switched his attention to Catherine. She stabbed a strip of lettuce and moved it from one side to the other, set her fork down, sipped water, then resumed the lettuce relocation process. Not once did she so
much as take a bite or glance at him.

  “Isn’t not speaking to me unforgivably rude?” Her actions finally pressed him to ask.

  “Isn’t coming to the home of people whose daughter you’ve accused of theft unforgivably rude?”

  He winced. “I could end up proving your innocence, too, you know.”

  “You could choose to believe me.” She set down her fork and gave up the pretense of eating.

  “Please, let us converse like civilized beings.” Beneath the edge of the tablecloth, he pressed his right hand over her left.

  Her hand twitched, but she did not draw it away. “I’m rather out of practice with social repartee.”

  “Tell me about your favorite places on the continent.”

  “The Alps?” She sounded uncertain, her words tentative. “We have magnificent mountains in this country, though I have never seen them, but the Alps were... Well, who needs a cathedral for worship when one has places like that?”

  “You prefer the mountains to Florence or Rome?”

  “I do. Paintings are all well and good, but nature...” Her hesitation vanished the more she talked, and by the end of the meal, when Mrs. VanDorn rose to lead the ladies from the room, he had discovered many interests he and Catherine shared—land, quiet and things of beauty, such as soaring mountains and well-written books. She was pretty, intelligent and in possession of a gift for witty observation. Under other circumstances, he would love to spend more time in her company.

  In truth, he would love to spend more time in her company regardless of the circumstances. Indeed, with her clear, cultured voice still caressing his ears, he perhaps should consider proving her innocence rather than her guilt. Surely a lady who appreciated God’s creation over man’s wouldn’t hold much stock in jewels. Yet the evidence against her was rather strong.

  He wanted to pursue her and talk to her with less antagonism than they had shared when the subject of the jewels was their subject of dialogue. For now, he was stranded in the dining room with a dozen men he barely knew. The VanDorns were an abstemious family, so coffee and tea were the only beverages. Tristram accepted a cup of excellent tea, and leaned back in his chair. Knowing too little of American politics to join in the discussion of President McKinley’s reelection the day before, Tristram listened with partial concentration, mainly concerned with how he should proceed with his investigation into Catherine and the jewels.