In a lull in the music and conversation below, from a chamber down the hall, bows drew across a cello and violin. Just then, Lord Tristram stepped into the corridor and beckoned to Catherine.
She closed the distance between them. “Is she in there?”
He raised a hand and flattened his cowlick. It sprang back the instant he removed his hand. “She...is.” His unflappable demeanor seemed to have deserted him.
As butterflies fluttered in her middle, Catherine said, “And she’s not alone.”
“No.” His tone held an odd note of annoyance.
Catherine reached for the door.
Lord Tristram opened it for her. “Lady Bisterne.” He announced her as though he were a butler and she arriving at afternoon tea with a duchess.
The cello ceased. Its owner stood, and Catherine flung out one hand to grip the doorframe. “Florian?”
He bowed. “The same, my lady.”
And just beyond Florian, Ambrose stood bowed as well, a violin tucked under one arm. Between them, Estelle remained seated, her banjo perched on her lap, her lips curved in a smile of satisfaction. For several moments, they stood like posed mannequins, then Catherine broke the tableau.
“What are you doing in here alone with two gentlemen you scarcely know?”
Estelle sighed. “If someone wishes to play music, what does formality matter?”
“Propriety.” Catherine resisted the urge to snatch the banjo from her sister and take it someplace where she couldn’t retrieve it. “And your word. You promised me you would stay for one set of dances after the performance.”
“I did.” A dimple appeared in Estelle’s right cheek. “I didn’t promise I’d dance.”
Someone snickered.
“We will discuss this when we are not in front of strangers.” Catherine shifted her gaze from her sister to one gentleman and then the other.
Ambrose and Florian refused to meet her eyes. Beside her, Lord Tristram stood with his mouth set in a grim line. “I do believe,” he said, “my fellow guests have forgotten their manners.”
“Considering how Florian greeted me,” Catherine said, “I believe he didn’t come with his this evening.” She took a step toward her cousin by marriage. “Tell me, why did you accuse me of stealing those jeweled combs?”
“I recalled them from the family jewels that belong to the estate.” His gaze went to her hair. “They, like the rest of the jewels, went missing with Edwin’s death...and they seem to be missing now. What did you do with them?”
“Lord Tristram has one.” Catherine steeled herself against the pain of betrayal reawakened. “And I broke the other.”
“So long as it can be repaired—” Florian began.
Catherine shook her head. “It can’t be repaired. I stepped on it, and the jewels smashed.”
Florian paled. “They were artificial?”
“As useless as library paste,” Lord Tristram interjected.
And with that, Ambrose Wolfe’s bow went sailing across the room to crack against the wall.
* * *
If it weren’t for the din of the party, the withdrawing room at the top of the Tuxedo Park clubhouse would have been quiet enough to hear a mouse scuttling through the cellars. Silent and still.
Tristram observed his companions regarding one another, while avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes. If not for those shifting gazes, they would have resembled a staged tableau or a set of scolded schoolboys.
As the eldest at twenty-eight, Tristram should break the stalemate. On the other hand, Lady Bisterne, as the social superior in the room, held the right to do so. She might not realize that fact, even after four years in England and another on the continent of Europe.
If she did know and chose not to end the impasse of wills and Tristram took matters into his hands, he would be insufferably rude.
How long the five of them would have sat or stood like salt sculptures Tristram didn’t know, for in the corridor, someone laughed. Lady Bisterne startled, and her hand hit the door, slamming it all the way shut. Everyone jumped.
Ambrose laughed and retrieved the broken bow. “So how do I go about replacing this?”
“In the city.” Estelle began to pluck soft notes from the strings of her banjo. “Tuxedo Park is sadly lacking in music.”
“Not with you here, Miss—”
“Florian.” Tristram snapped out the younger man’s name to stop the flattery. “Lady Bisterne and Miss VanDorn do not need you interfering here. You, either, Ambrose. We should repair to the ballroom.”
“And dance with young ladies who won’t look twice at me because I don’t have a title?” Ambrose’s lips turned down at the corners.
“They would if they heard you play the violin.” Miss VanDorn gave him a positively worshipful look.
Lady Bisterne touched her gloved fingertips to a loose strand of hair fluttering charmingly over one ear, shook out the skirt of her gown as though it were coated in dust, then stepped forward, her head high, her chin thrust out and her shoulders drawn back. “Put your instruments away and bid good-night to these gentlemen.” Her clear, deep blue gaze flicked from Florian to Ambrose. “I use the term as a courtesy, as you’re considered gentlemen in England. Here, however, you have not behaved like gentlemen in coming to this room alone with a young lady. Do not do anything of the like again.”
“Catherine.” Miss VanDorn’s face flamed. “You have no business in scolding them.”
“Actually,” Tristram said, “she does, as the social superior in this room.”
“This is America. We don’t hold with such ceremony.” Miss VanDorn began a complicated finger-picking pattern on her five-stringed instrument. “We believe in equality.”
“Which is why half the debutantes in the country want to marry European titles,” Ambrose teased.
Tristram glared at Ambrose. “Enough, cousin.” He bowed to her ladyship. “I’ll take care of this riffraff if you wish to see to your sister.”
“Thank you.” Lady Bisterne smoothed out a wrinkle in her glove, then tapped her fingers against the fragile wrist beneath. “Estelle, put up your banjo and return to the ballroom.”
Miss VanDorn continued to play. “You know I detest dancing. Of all the men who’ve asked me to dance tonight, these are the only two with any sense of timing.”
“We’ll sign your card for the rest of the night.” Ambrose and Florian spoke in unison.
They sounded so absurd, so young and eager, that Tristram laughed. “I think that would prove unacceptable.”
“Indeed.” Lady Bisterne’s chin edged higher. “But they may escort us downstairs and carry the instruments.”
Ambrose and Florian jumped to comply.
Tristram’s gaze flicked to Lady Bisterne’s expressive chin, where a dimple lay. It appeared as though a fingertip had pressed into the mold of her features to keep them from appearing too perfect, to give them character. Tristram’s forefinger twitched as though he would trace that flaw and test the porcelain smoothness of her complexion.
He tucked his hands behind his back. “You lads should dance with Miss Selkirk, you know.”
“To get her away from you?” Florian grinned.
Lady Bisterne paled. “I forgot you are staying with the Selkirks. You had best go do your duty by Georgette. I will assist Estelle.”
“You can’t carry a cello downstairs any more than I can.” Estelle’s glance was scornful. “Mr. Baston-Ward and Mr. Wolfe shall assist me since it’s not either of them Georgette is interested in.”
Lady Bisterne’s complexion appeared paler than the pearls around her neck, and she stooped to gather up the broken bow, her skirts billowing around her like petals.
“Do help the ladies, you two.” Tristram looked at the pieces of the bow and opened hi
s mouth to ask Ambrose why he had broken it, then silenced himself. He could talk to his cousin at any time regarding his poor behavior. Not so Lady Bisterne. Instead of nonsensical notions of touching that dimple in her ladyship’s chin, he must remind himself that she was the reason for his presence in Tuxedo Park, New York. She was his prime suspect and he needed to talk to her in an environment where they would not be distracted or interrupted, which was not easy with everyone indoors in this inhospitable climate in November. Country walks proved far more convenient for private dialogue, but not in freezing rain.
He might get the opportunity momentarily, however, for with alacrity, Ambrose and Florian began replacing the violin and cello in their cases, and Miss VanDorn did the same with her banjo. Lady Bisterne stood staring at the broken bow as though not certain what it was or what to do with it.
Tristram took a step toward her, his intention to ask her if they could talk.
She thrust the bow at Ambrose. “Estelle and I will go before you two, lest our reputations suffer.” She strode to the door, beckoning to her sister.
Slowly, Miss VanDorn followed.
Her ladyship was right. He couldn’t talk to her there. Eagerness to solve this problem with the jewels and get away from Tuxedo Park before Georgette got her hopes raised in his direction were clouding his good sense.
He reached the door before Lady Catherine did and touched her arm. “May I call upon you tomorrow, my lady?”
“Call?” She patted at her hair where one of the combs had helped pearl-headed pins hold up her masses of glossy waves. “If you intend to explain your ridiculous charges, then yes, you may. Eleven-thirty. We shall be able to speak privately.”
“Thank you.” Tristram bowed and opened the door. “Good evening, ladies. If we do not see you in the ballroom, we shall see you tomorrow.” He closed the door after them, then leaned against it, his arms crossed over his chest. He glared at Ambrose and Florian. “What were the two of you thinking? You know better than to be alone with a young lady.”
“We found a way to get into the good graces of a pretty heiress,” Florian said.
“We aren’t heirs to a fortune and title, like you are,” Ambrose added.
Tristram reminded him, “I am not an heir to a title if my brother’s widow bears a male.”
And if he did not restore the Bisterne jewels to the family, as well as recover the money the marquess was spending to recover those jewels, Tristram wouldn’t continue to receive so much as the quarterly allowance owed him as the second son. Taking away his only means of support was his father’s way of punishing him for failing as a military officer.
Not that Tristram considered what he had done a failure. His actions had succeeded quite well and saved dozens of lives. Unfortunately, saving lives was not the outcome the superior officers wanted.
Tristram focused a narrow-eyed glare at his cousin. “Why did you break that bow and how do you expect to replace it?”
“I’ll take the train down to the city and buy a new one.” Ambrose stroked the splintered edge of the bow. “It looks rather worn anyway. Miss VanDorn might appreciate something new.”
“Purchased with what?” Tristram asked.
Ambrose grinned. “Your largesse, cousin.”
“Reward money for retrieving the jewels.” Florian made the suggestion without a hint of humor.
“If she hasn’t had them all copied and sold the originals.” Tristram retrieved the undamaged comb from his coat pocket and held the jewels up to one of the gas sconces set on the wall.
Light glinted in the diamonds, but then, they were faceted enough that even this poor form of illumination would shimmer off them. He needed sunlight and a magnifying glass to be certain these jewels were artificial.
“The ones you found on the continent were real. Or at least the jewelers and pawnbrokers thought so.” Florian picked up the cello. “We know she must have sold those.”
“But they could have been copied first,” Ambrose suggested. “We’d best hurry if we wish to dance with Miss VanDorn again. She may leave at any moment, and we don’t have permission to call.”
Florian rose, but Tristram blocked the doorway. “Our hostess can leave cards for us.”
“If the elder Mrs. Selkirk is willing to do so,” Florian said, but Tristram didn’t move from the door. “I have the impression that the Selkirks and the VanDorns are not in the habit of making social calls.”
“Then we should have made better arrangements.” Ambrose joined Florian. “Are you going to get out of our way, cousin?”
“In a moment.” Tristram dropped his gaze to the bow. “You still haven’t told me why you broke that.”
Ambrose’s mouth tightened at the corners, forming furrows beside his lips that added ten years to his five and twenty. “Rage. Pure and simple rage that she would steal and lie and cheat her husband, my old friend, and then the Baston-Wards, and act as though she were the affronted one.”
“She is rather cool for a lady we accused of stealing a fortune in gemstones.” Florian drummed his fingertips on the top of the cello’s case.
Tristram recalled seeing her ladyship drumming her fingers against her own wrist and shook his head. “Not as cool as all that. She’s anxious about something.”
“Being caught in her larceny.” Florian grinned as though the prospect of catching her ladyship in the act of thievery pleased him. “Now, if you will excuse us, Tris, we would like to do some pursuing of our own.”
Tristram stepped aside and opened the door for the men. They moved down the hall with strides long and fast enough to fall minutely shy of a trot. He followed at a more leisurely pace, getting trapped behind a crowd of older men who reeked of cigar smoke and talked too loudly. They reminded him of his father—wealthy, self-satisfied men who spoke of nothing but stock investments, railroads and land. They talked of ordering this person to do this and that person to do that. How many of those minions were their sons, whom they called disappointments? If any of those sons of these American equivalents of noblemen wanted to go into the church, they, too, would more than likely be shoved into a profession for which they were wholly unsuited, or worse, be like his brother and have no profession at all, to their own destruction.
Perhaps he was being judgmental without cause and many of these men and their offspring wanted to do good in the world, as did Tristram. With the stipend his father promised him if he succeeded in finding the gemstones and proving he was not a ne’er-do-well embarrassment to the Wolfe family, Tristram could continue the charity to help discharged soldiers too damaged by war to take up their old jobs. If he didn’t solve the matter of the jewels, his father would remove the income and too many of these forgotten servants of the Crown would die in poverty along with their families.
The steps before him cleared, and he took them down two at a time. He wanted to observe Lady Catherine Bisterne before she was aware of his presence in the ballroom and see if she was as nervous without him around as she had been with him close at hand. He wished to take her hands in his and feel for himself if they were cold with composure or warm with her shame...or the fire he had seen in her luminous dark eyes.
Chapter 3
Paying visits differs from leaving cards in that you must ask to be received.
Emily Price Post
“I told Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Baston-Ward they may call on me today.” Estelle’s cocoa-brown eyes sparked with golden light behind their fringe of long lashes. “And not for Mama’s at home.”
Catherine set down the slice of dry toast she had barely touched and stared at her younger sister across the breakfast table. “You can’t do that, Stell. They are penniless ne’er-do-wells who are only interested in your trust fund.”
“They are interested in my music.” Estelle clipped each word. “Both are accomplished musicians who have no ins
truments on which to practice here.”
“They don’t even have titles to recommend them.”
Color bloomed along Estelle’s cheekbones. “I’d rather my friends have only their musical ability to recommend them than someone like your husband, who had only his title to recommend him.”
The toast crumbled between Catherine’s fingers. Tears stung her eyes and she looked away from Estelle, focusing on the expanse of Tuxedo Lake, white edging the wavelets in the center. A sheen of ice rimmed the shore like her heart—cold on the outside, turbulent in the center.
“You’re right, Stell.” Catherine’s throat constricted so she couldn’t speak above a murmur. “Edwin chose to give nothing to the world but his title, but then, that was all I thought I wanted. Well, his title and his handsome face. Which is precisely why I wish to spare you from looking only to the surface of the man.”
“I know seeing those men must be difficult for you.” Estelle reached across the table and covered Catherine’s hand with hers. “But I feel like their presence here is such a godsend. So few people here are accomplished musicians, and Mama never lets me associate with the townspeople anymore.”
“I understand they were giving you notions of joining a band.” Catherine grimaced, the mere word denoting lower Manhattan factory workers who turned amateur performers on their off days.
“Amy Beach performed in public.” Estelle never failed to point out the talented Boston musician and composer as an example of a woman of good family who performed. “With an orchestra. And now she is married and not publicly performing.”
Estelle sighed.
“I know you want to play for others, Stell, but playing in a low theater is no life for a VanDorn.”
“And what is a life for a VanDorn?” Estelle removed her hand and drummed her long fingers on the lace table runner. “A marriage where my husband stays in the city more nights than he’s at home with me and the children? Do you know how pathetic Mrs. Post is, driving down to the train station night after night, hoping her husband will appear? He scarcely does. I’m mortified for her. And then you were stranded in that mausoleum of a house on Romney Marsh while your husband gambled away your dowry in London.”
The Honorable Heir Page 3
