He held his stance, blocking her exit; however, Edith was uncertain she was in any rush to leave. It was highly improper and foolish to remain, but the man and his situation intrigued her.
“I am not the first lord to leave his father’s home.”
Edith pivoted and sat in a chair close to the fire, hoping her relaxed manner would lull him into an easy conversation. “No, but one does not normally find lodging in such an area.” Maybe she could use him to gain information about Abercorn, as well.
His posture loosened, and he paced toward the fireplace and back to the door before swinging around to face her. “I will answer your questions if you agree to do the same.”
It was an interesting proposition. “I can ask anything, and you will answer so long as I reciprocate?” she asked, her brow raising. She needed to be certain about what he offered.
It would not do to share information that could be used against her and her friends if she gained nothing in return.
Chapter 8
“That is exactly what I am saying, Lady Edith.” Triston was playing with fire, and he damn well knew it. If he didn’t watch out, he was likely to suffer burns that would not heal with time, only fester and spread. Though there were no secrets the ton and the many sharp-tongued matrons hadn’t used as gossip fodder since his broken betrothal two years prior. Could it be the lady before him was oblivious to his past? He moved from his place blocking the door and leaned down toward her, placing his hands on each of the chair’s arms before issuing his next warning. “However, allow me to caution you against lying or misleading me in any way. I do not take well to such actions.”
She stared wide-eyed at his forearms, his position keeping her seated, before averting her stare to her worrying hands. Lady Edith tilted her head back and sighed.
The woman was stalling, and Triston did not have time for any of it. If she were found alone in his bedchambers, Edith would be compromised…ruined, her reputation in tatters. And he would once again be the spectacle of gossip.
Triston could not allow that to happen; however, if he did not find out what she was up to, she would continue to plague him and put herself at risk.
Her eyes drifted shut, and he noticed her hand slip into a pouch in her skirt to grasp something.
“I have one question, Edith,” he whispered, still only inches from her. When her eyes sprang open, and her chin tilted back down to meet his gaze, he continued, “Why have you been following me?”
“I told you, I was not—“
“If I am to believe that, then why do you keep appearing near me?”
Edith pulled something from her pocket, it was barely larger than the palm of her hand, but she held it out to him.
“What is this?” Triston took the object, surprised to discover it was a leather-bound book. “You enjoy reading? That tells me nothing.”
“Open it,” she commanded, crossing her arms defiantly and looking to the small fire in the hearth. “You will find what you need to know within.”
Standing straight, Triston moved to the candelabra on his washstand for light and flipped the tiny book in his hands several times. The cover was worn, brown leather with tight stitching along the spine as if it had been repaired recently. One corner bent outward—the place where its owner repeatedly opened it.
Triston did the same, opening the book to reveal a hand-scribed, yellowing page.
Lady Edith’s name flowed across the page in large, swirling penmanship.
Was it her handwriting? If so, it was nothing like he’d expected from her. On the several occasions he’d made her acquaintance, or watched her from afar, she always seemed rushed and frenzied. This handwriting was painstakingly neat, as if the writer had much time to dedicate to each letter.
Triston glanced back at her, but the diminishing flames licking the underside of the logs in the hearth kept her attention, giving him a moment to study her—truly see Edith.
Certainly, she was the woman who’d fallen out of his father’s tree, the female who’d stared unabashedly across the crowded ballroom at him, and the one who had traversed an unsavory part of London to follow him to Langworth Inn.
But there must be more to this… No woman of gentle breeding would put so much at risk for a lark.
He admired her resolve. As yet, she’d never backed down from him, nor treated him as a fool.
Even now, she seemingly sensed him eyeing her, and her chin notched up.
With her petite frame—at least one-third his size—and her blond hair, she appeared little more than a girl just out of the schoolroom, but on the few occasions he’d garnered a closer look into her almond-shaped, whiskey-colored eyes, he saw a depth no innocent maiden should be burdened with.
But she was here. In his chambers. Sitting calmly.
She hadn’t fled as she had during their first meeting, and she’d willingly handed him the book he currently held. Truly, it appeared to be a journal.
Perhaps this was her attempt to seek his help.
Triston turned back to the journal and flipped to the next page. In the same neat script, he read:
Mayfair Confidential
His brow furrowed, and he rolled the words around in his mind, searching, attempting to grasp why the words were familiar to him.
Finally, he shook his head and turned to the next page.
One word was written at the top, a name, underlined several times.
Abercorn.
His sister had told him of Lady Edith’s and her friends’ connection to Abercorn.
What followed was page after page of barely legible notes. Dates, times, places where Abercorn had been seen. There was even a detailed accounting of people coming and going from his townhouse. Another page, only half-filled, noted both the day he’d discovered her on Downshire property—she’d noted Abercorn had been seen through his top-floor window, consorting with a raven-haired woman—and then continued with notes from the ball when the duke had requested a dance from both Pru and Chastity.
She hadn’t lied when she’d argued she hadn’t been there because of him.
Why did he feel a pang of resentment that Edith was so wholly focused on Abercorn and not him?
The tightness in his chest released, and his stomach twisted the moment he turned the page to see his name across the top, though it was only underlined once.
Below it was simply written: built as sturdy as a druid warrior, two sisters (?), does not live with family, friends with Abercorn (?), arrogant.
Was that the summation of his life thus far?
He should be angry to learn she was also watching him, but Triston was only confused.
“Let me see,” he mused. “Built as sturdy as a druid warrior? No, my heritage is closer to a Viking warlord. Two sisters, yes, Prudence and Chastity. Does not live with his family.” He paused and glanced around the room. “I think we have established the truth of that. Friends with Abercorn. I believe the term ‘friends’ is stretching our relationship a bit. We are neighbors. When in London, Abercorn is only the man who lives next door. He has no children or family so, naturally, he dines with us on occasion, but there is nothing more than that between our families. And arrogant? Most certainly. Does that answer all your questions, my lady?” He raised his brow when she turned to stare at him, remaining silent. “Oh, I also had a huge cat growing up…he was a bit of a pest and despised my father, but I loved him all the same.”
Triston used his finger and fanned through the rest of the pages—all blank, awaiting either more information about him or Abercorn. Perhaps she sought yet another man to shadow.
“Can you please put on a shirt?” she asked.
“I apologize if my hulking frame is disturbing your delicate sensibilities,” he threw back at her. “I was not expecting company in my private chambers and, therefore, was not dressed appropriately. You must excuse my ungentlemanly attire.”
“Do not be ridiculous, my lord,” she sighed. “But as enlightening as this has been, I wil
l need my journal back, and then I will be out of your private chambers immediately.”
She stood as Triston retrieved a clean linen shirt from his armoire and threw it over his head. “You are not going anywhere yet. I have not gotten my question answered.”
Triston sensed he’d reached a delicate topic, one Lady Edith was reluctant to speak about. It was so personal, she seemed prepared to flee without gaining any of the answers she’d come for. However, he had no intention of allowing her to depart yet.
“But—but—,” she stammered, her eyes lighting with contempt. “I gave you my journal.”
“Which told me what you know about me—and Abercorn—but not why you seek this information.” Triston tied his trouser flap closed, hoping the gesture would put her at ease. “Now, why are you so determined to ruin Abercorn?”
Edith took several quick steps until she stood a mere foot from him and turned her glare up to meet his. “Me, ruin him? He is the one who is responsible for my dear friend’s death. I presume the better question here is why you would allow your innocent sisters to be in the man’s presence for even a moment, knowing the accusations against the man.”
“As I said, he is my father’s neighbor—a harmless old man with no family to speak of.”
“He has been wed three times, and he has outlived them all, even though they are usually decades his junior,” Edith seethed, her hands securely on her hips, ready to argue her point. “What say you about that? What if he fancies one of your sisters? What then? Do you plan to accept his offer of marriage and hand your sister over to a man who will likely outlive her, as well?”
“What is your proof Abercorn did anything untoward in his previous marriages?” Triston hadn’t many dealings with Abercorn, as the man was nearly old enough to be his grandfather; however, the conviction in Edith’s tone swayed him greatly.
“Proof?” she asked. “I was there. I saw my dear, beloved friend lying prone at the bottom of a grand staircase—the duke’s grand staircase—on her wedding night. A night that should have been the happiest of her life. A day that was supposed to be remembered with great fondness as she and Abercorn set off on their bridal tour. But, instead, Tilda suffered a broken neck from her fall. The physician said she was dead before she hit the bottom step. What other proof do you need? I can sketch the scene for you, if that will make you happy.”
Triston had never taken much stock in the accusations leveled against Abercorn. Hell, he’d had enough of his own societal ridicule to last him decades—and within those bits of chatter there had been nothing but a grain of truth, yet that did not stop the gossip mills from feasting on him. He’d heard at White’s that the rumors swirling about Abercorn were much the same.
“You saw him push her?” Triston asked, shaking his head. If he heard confirmation, he knew he’d be honor bound to see that Abercorn paid for his crimes.
Edith pivoted away from him and paced toward the door. For a brief moment, he expected her to flee—leaving her journal safely in his hands—but she turned again and paced back toward the hearth. “Of course, I did not see him push her; however, Luci heard them argue at the top of the stairs—she saw him standing above before he fled the hall to return a few moments later when his butler summoned him. Or so Luci has claimed since that night.”
Triston breathed a sigh of relief. “No one saw Abercorn physically push his new bride?”
“Well, no, but—”
“And you think spying on the man with your gaggle of friends will find justice for Tilda’s death, by ruining a man who may very well be innocent of the crime you have levied upon his person?” He chuckled, harshly. “My own father is married for the third time, and I can attest that he caused no harm to his previous wives, my very own mother included. Abercorn may very well be cursed in love, just as my father is.”
“And if one of your sisters perishes because of their association with Abercorn, that blood will be on your hands—the weight on your conscience.” Her glare narrowed, but she refused to look away. “I do not know about you, but I will have no other deaths permanently staining my soul if I can make known Abercorn—or any other scoundrel disguised as a gentleman—poses a threat to any woman. My friends and I are determined to save others the fate our friend faced and ended her life.”
At some point, either Edith or he had taken a step forward, bringing them from a foot apart, to their bodies almost touching. And so they stood, as several long moments past, neither willing to back down.
Chapter 9
Edith would have been wise to agree with Lord Torrington—Triston—and then tuck her tail and run, not stand toe-to-toe with a man over twice her size, especially with another story due to Ophelia by nightfall.
In that moment, she made the mistake of breathing in deeply, allowing his scent to overtake her. Even with the hint of horse, his scent of amber and dark wood was in no way unappealing to her. Quite the opposite. The raw aroma of Triston had her heartbeat spiking, her chest heaving to gain breath, and she feared her knees would buckle before either of them backed down.
“I will do all in my power to see Abercorn gets what he deserves,” Edith hissed, breathing through her open mouth. “I will never allow that man to murder again.”
Triston’s muddy brown eyes flared with anger, but his tone only held annoyance. “And I cannot allow a man to be ruined without solid proof of wrongdoing.”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Go away!” Triston shouted. “I am otherwise engaged.”
Otherwise engaged. Is that what Torrington called a bitter disagreement with a woman alone in his chambers?
Their standoff was ended as quickly as it had begun when another volley of fistfalls hit the door.
“Open this door immediately, or I will have to call for the maid to bring me a key.”
Edith risked a glance at the window. What little light peeked through the slit in the draperies told her the sun was setting and the day was growing late. It would not be long before someone suspected she was not where she should be. Did someone see her leave the park following Triston?
Edith clutched at her chest, her heartbeat increasing. “Who is here?” she whispered.
Triston’s jaw clenched tightly as his hand massaged the back of his neck. “My father.”
Edith gulped. “Your father?”
“Do not think me too old to kick down this door!” the man called, grasping the latch to the door and attempting to barge in. “Open the bloody door.”
The color drained from Triston’s normally overconfident face, and his demeanor shifted to uncertainty.
Edith knew the feeling well.
She glanced about the room for a place to hide, yet the bedrails made it impossible to squeeze beneath, and the armoire would not hold more than a small child. As a final resort, she hurried to the window.
“We are three stories above the ground,” he hissed from right next to her, startling her. “You may survive a fall from a tree, but if you slipped from this height, you would be no better than your dear departed friend.”
“Then where shall I hide?” she demanded in a low tone. “I cannot be found here.”
He snorted. “Do you think I do not know that?”
“That is it, Triston!” Footsteps could be heard walking down the hall.
“The dressing closet.” Triston set his hands on her shoulders and spun her around to face a door she hadn’t realized was there. It was little more than two feet wide—certainly, Torrington could not fit through the opening without turning sideways. “Go. I will handle my father quickly, then you must depart.”
Edith didn’t waste another moment, but hurried toward the closed door, pulling it open and slipping inside. He closed the door behind her, casting her in complete darkness. Yes, she knew the tiny room was likely littered with boots, ballroom shoes, shirts, cravats, and trousers; however, the notion of not knowing for certain was daunting. Pressing her ear to the wood, Edith heard Triston move toward the door and as he unla
tched it, and used the sound to cover her own opening of the dressing room door a crack.
From her vantage point, she could not see anything but Triston’s hand pulling the portal wide, and a glimpse of a large man—nearly as tall as Triston—stepping into the room.
The door shut behind him, cutting off the light from the hall beyond.
Footsteps sounded, and Edith feared that Triston’s father suspected someone hid within the room, and was set on finding her. She took a step back, deeper in the closet and away from the voices. Though, even if she ducked behind the pressed and hung shirts would she not be hidden entirely from view.
“Father, to what do I owe this visit? I was under the impression our meeting this morning was sufficient to count toward your forced weekly conversation.” Triston’s words dripped with sarcasm. “Am I wrong?”
“You did not show up to escort Prudence and Chastity to their evening entertainment,” his father responded with a hint of jest. “I asked three things of you: fall in line, accompany your sisters, and do not outshine their endeavors to find suitable husbands. Why in the bloody hell is that too much to ask?”
Edith stepped forward once more, needing to see Triston’s reaction to his father’s harsh tone. The need to exit the closet and stand at Triston’s side was almost overwhelming. That would not help either of them and would only go to proving his father correct.
“I escorted the girls—and Lady Downshire—to Hyde Park after I left our meeting,” Triston countered. “I only just arrived home an hour ago, and I am awaiting a bath. I planned to come for them immediately after.”
Edith knew they’d been speaking for more than an hour. It was her fault Triston had failed to appear for his sisters.
“I will dress immediately and come for them; the evening is still early.”
Edith saw the elder man wave his hand in dismissal. “Do not bother, Esmee dressed and escorted the pair.”
“Father, I—“
The Disappearance of Lady Edith (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 1) Page 7
