The Honorable Heir Page 9

  “I’ll be sending an invitation to the Selkirks, of course. All the residents will be receiving one.” She bent her head over her list. “Not that I expect anyone from that house to attend.”

  Estelle poked Catherine’s arm. “I should think Lord Tristram would come. The two of you look rather friendly when you meet.”

  “And he and Georgette looked rather cozy at Mrs. Vanderleyden’s soiree.” Catherine chose to blame the unpleasant squeezing of her middle that she felt at this memory on her regret that she and Georgette hadn’t so much as made eye contact at the event.

  Five years ago, they would have dragged one another off to discuss their plans for the evening before facing the crowd—the young men—together. Now Catherine found herself thanking the Lord that Georgette’s grandmother hadn’t come along to create a scene when the poet Mrs. Vanderleyden had invited to entertain her guests had failed to arrive on the train. She’d substituted dancing with music provided by some of her servants.

  “He’s obligated to play the gallant to the sister of his host,” Mama pointed out. “But if he comes to the tea, you may reacquaint yourselves.”

  “Not that Catherine wants another Englishman for a husband.”

  Catherine scowled at her sister. “Not that Catherine wants another husband. I am making myself quite content helping Mama plan this tea. And Mrs. Rutlidge has asked me to help her plan her annual Christmas charity ball in the city. She hasn’t been well and thinks, because I lived in Europe for five years, I should know about all that is fashionable and refined.” She laughed.

  Mama’s face lit. “Catherine, that is wonderful. What an honor.”

  “Even if she is quite mistaken about your life overseas.” Estelle executed a pirouette and ended up at the door to the music room. “I must see what music will be suitable for the tea. Something proper for the month of Christmas, yes? May I send a note around to Fl— Mr. Baston-Ward and Mr. Wolfe?”

  “I shall do so on your behalf.” Mama rose from the sofa where she worked at a bit of embroidery. “Catherine, may I use the desk?”

  “I’ll go into the library.” Catherine gathered up her lists and moved next door to the library.

  Scents of leather from the hundreds of books lining the shelves and the heavy, masculine furniture contrasted with the sweet orange aroma from the oil rubbed into the desk. It gleamed beneath sunlight streaming through the windows that provided warmth, despite the frigid outside temperature.

  The sun wouldn’t last for long. Clouds piling up in the north predicted sleet or snow before evening. Catherine hoped it would arrive late enough that Papa and Paul didn’t get stranded in the city, but early enough that night’s entertainment would be canceled.

  It was a dance strictly for young people and she had been designated to be Estelle’s chaperone. She wanted something to do with her life, but acting as if she was forty-four rather than twenty-four was unacceptable. Whether she wanted to or not, Estelle would marry within a year or two, and then what would Catherine do? Her parents were too young to need her to stay with them. And she was too used to running her own household to be happy living with Mama’s management.

  For now, she was happy to plan the two charity events. The invitations to the tea needed to go out within the next day or two and decisions needed to be made. Should she send Lord Tristram a separate invitation, so he could attend even if the Selkirks refused? Other than brief conversations around Tuxedo Park, Tristram hadn’t tried to contact her, from which she concluded he had been unable to persuade Georgette to call on Catherine. Her heart heavy, she bent to the task of addressing envelopes for the tea.

  Mrs. Paul VanDorn II and Lady Catherine Bisterne invite you...

  A discreet notation in the bottom corner of the return card indicated the minimum donation the attendee was to include in the Répondez, s’il vous plaît envelope.

  As she wrote, the muted strains of Estelle’s banjo penetrated the wall of books, but it was not the smooth, liquid way in which she played. This musician was inexpert with the instrument. Estelle must be teaching someone—Florian and Ambrose must have called.

  She’d gotten so used to the men coming over to play in the afternoons, she paid them little attention. She didn’t approve, but she had, after all, recommended Mama not interfere and let the novelty of the Englishmen run its course.

  The last invitation addressed and sealed, she rose and stretched. The sun had vanished and a chill penetrated the chamber.

  So did silence.

  Catherine tilted her head and listened. Not a sound save for the wind sighing through the trees.

  Uneasiness took hold as she left the room and slipped into the drawing room next door. Mama and her needlework had gone. The music room door stood open.

  Catherine crossed to stand in the doorway.

  Florian perched on the piano stool. Estelle stood before him. One of his hands held the banjo. The other curled around Estelle’s fingers as they gazed into one another’s eyes.

  A hundred words of remonstrance rose in Catherine’s throat but none emerged. The bitter ache of longing for someone to look at her with adoration, as Florian gazed at Estelle, blocked their way. Edwin had never once looked at Catherine like that.

  As quietly as she could, Catherine took a step back and turned away. Her skirt rustled, but not loudly enough to interrupt the two young people.

  She found Mama in the housekeeper’s room discussing arrangements for the tea. Perhaps Catherine’s face showed her agitation, for the housekeeper rose with some excuse about ensuring they didn’t need any provisions from the village before the storm hit in full, and left Catherine and Mama alone.

  “I’m afraid Florian and Estelle are developing an affection for one another,” Catherine blurted.

  “I know.” Mama toyed with her fountain pen. “It’s not the sort of match we would like for her, but if it dispels this notion of becoming a musician, so be it. He seems to be a nice young man.”

  “He is. Or at least I never heard of him engaging in riotous living, and he’s been coming to church, but he has no prospects. He’s too much of a gentleman to work.”

  “So, my dear, was your husband, yet you saw fit to elope with him.” The rebuke stung.

  Catherine turned away. “I thought a title and land were enough. Now I know so much more is necessary for a husband. I doubt I’ll ever find another one.”

  “You will if it’s what the Lord has for you.” Mama’s voice was gentle. “Lord Tristram—”

  “Has no interest in me.” Catherine cut off her mother before she could suggest he was a potential mate. “And he’s not only English, he’s potentially heir to a title. Once was quite enough for me with regard to all that. Now I shall go chaperone those two before hand-holding leads to something inappropriate.”

  She reached the corridor just as Florian prepared to leave. Estelle, rather than a footman, was handing him his hat and gloves.

  He started to clasp Estelle’s fingers, then saw Catherine and drew back. “Lady Bisterne, how do you do?”

  “Fine, thank you. Where is Ambrose?”

  “He’s in the city with the Selkirks.” Florian grinned. “Seems he met some minor heiress there he’s thinking of courting. But we got bored squiring the ladies around to all their shopping, so Tris and Pierce and I came back this morning.”

  No wonder she hadn’t seen any of them even from a distance for several days. Perhaps now Tristram would call. She wished she could think of a message for Florian to give Tristram, but she did not want to raise any curiosity, so she said goodbye and returned to the library.

  The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the first flakes of snow beginning to fall. Catherine curled up on a chair before the fire and read as the storm turned into the first significant snowfall of the season, a white curtain so thick it blocked the view of the lake
. Papa called to say he and Paul would stay at their club in the city. As night fell, the wind rose, howling around corners and rattling the windows. Estelle played the piano with thunderous chords to match the blizzard, and Mama went to bed early complaining of drafts.

  Catherine returned to the library alone, where she sat and paced at intervals, trying to shake off the sense that the snow piled atop her like rocks. “Lord,” she said aloud for the sound of a human voice, “being here like this is unacceptable.”

  She should talk to Estelle about her closeness with Florian. That, too, was unacceptable. They were alone—alone together, a couple.

  Catherine slammed her palms to the sides of her head. Surely she wasn’t jealous of Estelle and Florian finding one another. No, no, she was concerned about Estelle marrying a fortune hunter, one who didn’t even have a home of his own. She didn’t want her younger sister to suffer as she had. And yet Florian looked at Estelle with a tenderness Catherine never received from her husband.

  And that hurt as well, hurt as had the sight of Tristram dancing with Georgette.

  Wait. She hadn’t cared about that. He thought Catherine a jewel thief. She should despise him, be happy he attended to escorting Georgette around the Park—and the city. Georgette hadn’t been alone for days. She was going to walk off with the English title this time. Tristram was no Bisterne. He would be kind to Georgette, as he had been kind to Catherine even while accusing her—

  She thrust speculations about Georgette and Tristram, Florian and Estelle aside—or tried to.

  Once Estelle went to bed, the two couples began to whirl through Catherine’s mind again. The emptiness grew as bad as being at Bisterne—a house full of servants and her heart aching with loneliness. Unable to face her bedroom, she remained in the library reading to block all else from her mind, until the wind died down and that peculiar hush of snowfall blanketed the world.

  And she could bear the stillness no longer.

  As quietly as she could, she raced up the steps to the third floor and the cedar-lined room in which they kept winter garments. From a corner, she unearthed her old fur-lined boots and muff. After slipping downstairs again, she donned the boots and bundled up in a hat, scarf and warm coat. Then she let herself outside through one of the library’s French doors.

  All her life she’d adored being the first person to leave footprints in pristine snow. She might even toss off her veneer of staid widow and create a snow angel for the household to wonder over in the morning. Laughing softly, she stepped off the veranda toward the edge of the lake. It turned out hers were not the first footprints to mar the snow’s perfection.

  By the light of a clearing sky full of stars, she caught sight of deep impressions in the white carpet, impressions twice the size of hers.

  Her heart sank at the idea that a man had intruded upon her private moments of freedom. Getting inside the fence around Tuxedo Park wasn’t easy, but it could be done. Most visitors were perfectly all right, though a woman alone at night must be careful.

  She started to turn back to the house when she noticed that the footprints stopped near the shoreline. And where they ceased lay the body of a man, crumpled against the trunk of a spruce.

  Chapter 8

  The well-bred maid instinctively makes little of a guest’s accident, and is as considerate as the hostess herself. Employees instinctively adopt the attitude of their employer.

  Emily Price Post

  Though the sky was clear, the stars weren’t bright enough for Catherine to distinguish the identity of the fallen man. Whether village worker, park resident or someone’s servant, he needed help and quickly. When she reached him, she stooped to check his pulse. Finding one, she pulled off her coat and tossed it over him, then she raced for the house as quickly as six inches of snow allowed.

  Every room was dark save for the library and her own chamber. She didn’t feel comfortable going into the servants’ quarters, but Sapphire would be in Catherine’s chamber waiting to help her undress. She headed there, taking the steps two at a time, and flung open the door.

  “Sapphire, we need two footmen and perhaps the housekeeper. Hot water. Perhaps bandages.”

  “Indeed, m’lady?” Sapphire set aside her knitting and rose from her seat by the fire. “Who is injured?”

  “I don’t know. I found him in the snow just now.”

  “The snow, m’lady?” Sapphire arched her finely plucked brows. “We will need a room made up for him, then. Servants’ quarters or guest room?”

  Catherine pressed a hand to her racing heart. “I won’t know until we get him into the light.”

  “Then we had best do so quickly. Who knows how long he’s been in the cold.” With an easy stride that seemed slow but covered a great deal of ground with each step, Sapphire headed for the back steps.

  Catherine grabbed a cashmere shawl from a drawer and raced back into the snow. The man still lay there in a heap like a discarded rag doll. His pulse beat in his neck, but it was slow and his skin felt barely warmer than the snow around him. With no idea what to do until the footmen arrived, she rubbed his cheeks with the fur muff warmed from her hands. Once, she heard him groan. But mostly she heard her own ragged breathing sending white puffs of steam into the air. She sent a prayer heavenward for his well-being, whoever he was.

  She didn’t realize how loudly she prayed until Sapphire arrived without Catherine hearing her, and rested a hand on her shoulder. “We’re here, m’lady. Let us take him in through the library so we can assess his condition and station.”

  “No, he needs to get warm swiftly. Take him straight to a guest room.”

  The footman looked at her askance, but Sapphire merely nodded, and when they reached the house, she led the way up to the second floor, where a maid was building a fire on the hearth.

  “Sapphire,” Catherine said, “do you think of everything?”

  “It’s my duty, m’lady. I guessed you would want the man here regardless of his station. I have also sent for Dr. Rushmore.”

  “Of course you did.” Catherine stepped out of the doorway so the footmen could lay their burden on the bed.

  Light from a bedside lamp fell on the injured man’s face. Catherine grasped the back of a nearby chair for support, a gasp escaping her lips.

  “Lord Tristram!”

  For a moment, the gold-tipped lashes swept upward, revealing eyes that lacked light, his face ashen. “You look like an angel.” He smiled, then his eyes closed again.

  Suddenly too warm in her white cashmere shawl, Catherine backed out the doorway. “We will leave you men to remove his wet garments and make him comfortable.” She turned on her heel and fled downstairs to wait for the doctor, to call Florian and Pierce, to forget he had called her an angel.

  It meant nothing. He knew her as anything but something pure and good. He wanted to prove her even worse than a mere selfish creature. Now that he was in the house, was this his opportunity? If someone was wily enough to plant the jewels in shops along her route through Europe, she wouldn’t put it past the real thief to sneak into her house and place one of the stolen pieces of jewelry in her dressing table.

  Given half a chance, she would have Lord Tristram moved back to the Selkirks immediately.

  But he couldn’t be moved, according to Dr. Rushmore when Catherine, Mama and Estelle sat in the conservatory with him an hour later. “Slight concussion. Looks like he slipped in the snow and hit his head on that tree.”

  “What was he doing on our lawn?” Mama asked.

  He shook his head. “Out for a walk in the snow. Seems he’s rarely seen this much snow but for a few times in his life.”

  “He should stay until February.” Estelle rubbed her arms. “He’ll have more snow than he wants.”

  “I still don’t understand why he’d be all the way over here.” Ma
ma sighed. “Young people these days. They make me feel old.”

  “Yes, Mama, you are positively ancient.” Catherine kissed her mother’s cheek, then turned her attention to Dr. Rushmore. “What shall we do for him?”

  “Let him rest. Keep him warm and watch for signs of fever. Call if he seems overly restless or flushed. I’ll return tomorrow.”

  Mama rose. “I’ll see you out, Doctor.” She and Dr. Rushmore left the room.

  Estelle faced Catherine and winked. “A rendezvous gone bad?”

  “Not anything planned.” Catherine snapped out the words.

  Estelle laughed. “You just happened to find him in the snow? Isn’t that too much of a coincidence?”

  “We had no arrangement. I do, however, believe he must have been coming to see me. Otherwise, he would have stayed with the road or the shore.”

  “Curious.” Estelle yawned. “We shall have to wait for the morning to find out.”

  But Catherine knew she couldn’t sleep until she had some kind of an answer. If Tristram were at all up to talking, she intended to speak to him.

  With Mama and Estelle back in their rooms, she told the footman on duty to wait in the corridor for a minute. Leaving the door open, she bent over Tristram. “You’re not sleeping.”

  “You shouldn’t be in here.” His voice rose barely above a whisper.

  “My mother is right across the hall and there’s a footman who can see me if not hear me, so bear with me for a moment, please.”

  “Just one?” A ghost of a smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. “Not several?”

  A tremor ran through her at his words, and she responded in a tone sharper than she intended. “I just need to know what you were doing on our lawn at half past ten o’clock at night.”

  “Coming to see you.”

  “Why?”