The Honorable Heir (16 page)

“I know you did, Catherine.” Georgette hastened to Catherine’s side and embraced her. “Things are different this time. You didn’t even particularly like Edwin. You just wanted the prize. But now— You truly love Tristram. I don’t think you would have kissed him in front of everyone if you didn’t.”

Tristram smiled. No, she would not have.

“But you... Again.” Catherine wiped her eyes. “It’s not right.”

“It wouldn’t be if I loved him like you do. But, as with Bisterne, I wanted to marry Tristram so I wouldn’t be stranded here. So now my parents will have to let me travel somewhere besides the city with them.” Georgette kissed Catherine’s cheek, then Tristram’s. “You are both my dear friends. As the Lord brought you two together, I know He has someone for me.” She embraced Catherine again, then headed for the door.

“When you least expect it.” Still smiling, he let the medication take over his mind again and woke sometime later to the murmur of voices.

“If his sister-in-law has a boy, you’ll have nothing but a useless courtesy title.” Ambrose spoke with a sneer to his voice. “His father is going to cut him off. Tris has been such an embarrassment. He has no standing in society. They all know he was asked to leave the military, even if we pretend he resigned on his own.”

“Do you think that matters to me? I had a title once. I haven’t seen it’s brought me anything but misery.”

“And you think he loves you, not your trust fund? Ha.” Ambrose’s bark of laughter held no mirth.

Tristram stirred, wishing for the strength to shout Ambrose down.

Catherine’s hand tightened on his, almost as though warning him to remain quiet. “Money isn’t important to Tristram. He’s wanted his father’s respect and has given it up for me.”

“Love and money.” Ambrose sounded more sad than bitter now. “Some men get everything and some of us nothing.”

“Perhaps you need to find work for yourself,” Catherine said, “even if it’s not right for an English gentleman. It’s not that way here.”

“I don’t know how to work unless I join Estelle and Florian making music, for what? Coins tossed to them on the street? But then, Estelle has enough money not to stoop to that sort of life.”

“If my parents allow her to have it.”

“They will, and Florian won’t mind about the jewels anymore, either, but his brother and my uncle will never give up on getting back what’s theirs.” Ambrose began to pace, his heels clunking on the wooden boards, then silent on the rug, and back again to the boards. “I’m only good at gaming.”

Catherine smoothed her fingers over Tristram’s. “And spending it or losing it again. You must have won a fortune from my husband. Did he not pay you?”

“Oh, he paid me—in false coin. That is to say—” Ambrose didn’t say what he intended. He collapsed onto a chair.

And the drug washed from Tristram’s brain as though a tidal wave had swept it clear. He rose on his elbow and grasped Catherine’s wrist. “False...coin.” Each word hurt to speak. “False coin.”

Her eyes wide, she stared back at him. “As in false jewels.”

“No, no, I didn’t!” Ambrose cried. “I couldn’t. The jewelry was in the safe.”

“No, it wasn’t, was it?” Catherine rose and walked to stand with her back to the door.

“Don’t,” Tristram gasped out. “He’s dangerous. He tried to kill me.”

“I did not. You’re family. You’re my friend.” Ambrose shook so badly Tristram saw it from across the room. “I wouldn’t have let you die. I just wanted to scare you off hunting the jewels. I wanted you to think it was Catherine or... I didn’t try to kill you. You weren’t truly dangerous to me.”

“I am one more barrier to the title,” Tristram said between shallow breaths.

“That auto nearly killed him.” Catherine’s tone was as hard as real diamonds.

“It got away from me. I thought he’d get out of the way in time.” Ambrose’s pitch rose like someone on the edge of hysteria or an act of violence. “I’ve been sitting vigil here because I was afraid. I’m not a murderer.”

“No, just greedy.” Tristram’s eyes burned. His heart ached with pain worse than his broken ribs. “If you weren’t family, I’d have worked it out sooner. But we’ve been friends all our lives. You didn’t shun me when I came back from South Africa.” Spent, he sank back onto his pillows, a lump rising in his throat. “Suspected Catherine. Suspected Florian. Believe me, Ambrose, if I legally could, I’d give you the title. I don’t want it.”

“Well, you have it.” A hard edge rang through Ambrose’s words. “A telegram came yesterday morning. Her ladyship, the vicountess, has safely delivered a girl, albeit early.”

Tristram’s heart squeezed. “I’m sorry. I don’t want it.”

“No, but you get it. You get everything. And I—” Ambrose sprang to his feet. His chair crashed to the floor as he sprang toward Tristram.

“Run!” he managed to gasp out before Ambrose pressed a pillow over his face.

He clawed at his cousin’s hand. He may as well have tried to move a boulder with a teaspoon. The pillow remained, blocking off breath, sending spots dancing before his eyes and blood roaring in his ears.

A scream and another crash penetrated the waterfall blackness. And the pillow sailed away. Air rushed into his lungs so fast his ribs protested.

“Tristram.” Catherine rested her hands on either side of his face. “Look at me.”

He looked at her. He smiled.

“Thank You, Jesus.” She was breathing hard and weeping, but smiling. “I hit him over the head.”

“How fitting. Better ring for help.”

But the door flew open and Mrs. VanDorn, Georgette, Pierce and three footmen burst into the room. Confusion reigned for several minutes, and in the end, the footmen carried Ambrose away and Pierce called the police. Through it all, Catherine stood beside Tristram, holding his hand until quiet settled over them.

“You can’t stay alone with him in here,” Mrs. VanDorn said. “Not more than a minute or two alone.” She left, allowing the door to hang open an inch or two.

Tristram turned to Catherine and gazed into her lovely eyes. “I’m sorry, Catherine. I know it’s not what you want, but I do love you. Will you marry me and live in England with a future marquess?”

“I love you enough to live with you under any name in any country.”

Epilogue

A wedding in very best taste for a widow would be a ceremony in a small church or chapel, a few flowers or palms in the chancel the only decoration, and two to four ushers. There are no ribboned-off seats, as only very intimate friends are asked. The bride wears an afternoon street dress and hat. Her dress for a church ceremony should be more conventional than if she were married at home, where she could wear a semi-evening gown and substitute a headdress for a hat. She could even wear a veil if it is colored and does not suggest the bridal white one.

Emily Price Post

F
or once, Estelle did not insist on providing the music. Carrying a bouquet of yellow roses and wearing an indigo gown and wide-brimmed hat trimmed in indigo ribbons, she stepped out of the music room and headed up the aisle made by the rows of chairs set up in the VanDorns’ drawing room. Forty friends and family turned to watch her, some with disapproving frowns, some with raised eyebrows, but most smiling.

No smile could be as wide as Catherine’s as she clutched her father’s arm and watched her beautiful, talented sister glide toward the fireplace, where her new husband stood as best man to Catherine’s groom.

“Even if she did elope,” Catherine murmured to Papa, “you should be proud of her.”

“We are.” He cleared his throat. “Even if they went all the way to Virginia to get married so they didn’t need our permission. If she’d waited a bit, we might have given our permission.”

“It’s the
might have
given your permission that was the difficulty.” Catherine patted his arm. “They’ll make you proud.”

“As traveling musicians?” He shook his head. “Outrageous.”

It was rather, but Catherine had never seen two people so happy—except for she and and her beloved.

Only three things brought them sadness on their glorious day. Georgette was not there to be Catherine’s attendant, as she and a hired companion had sailed for Rio de Janeiro the previous week. She intended to explore the Amazon, the furthest life from Tuxedo Park she could imagine. Far from seeking freedom, Ambrose waited to learn whether he would stand trial in America or England, as he had committed crimes in both. Catherine and Tristram prayed for his salvation daily.

The biggest source of Tristram’s regret was that he hadn’t heard a word from his father since telegraphing the news regarding Ambrose six weeks earlier. Catherine prayed that the marquess would at least acknowledge their wedding. Doubt that her prayer would be answered rose upon occasion, but she thanked the Lord for His will working in their lives and held on to hope even as the string quartet played the wedding music behind her, signaling her moment had come to walk toward her groom.

The minute she stepped through the drawing room doorway, she felt his eyes upon her. Along the length of the chamber, she met his dark green gaze and held it. The closer she drew to him, the more she read tenderness, love and approval in his eyes. She hoped he liked her gold satin gown and wide-brimmed hat with filmy gold veiling floating from the brim. She certainly approved of his black suit, white shirt and inability to tame his cowlick. That errant curl made her smile.

She reached Tristram’s side and handed Estelle her bouquet of creamy roses. Papa set her hand in Tristram’s and stepped back to make room for the pastor.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here—”

The drawing room door flew open. “So sorry to interrupt.”

Everyone turned toward the newcomer, a tall, elegant man in late middle age with light brown hair going gray and familiar features.

Catherine caught her breath and looked up at Tristram. Barely healed from his injuries, he had grown pale and swayed forward half a step.

She slipped her arm around his waist. “Are you all right?”

He shook his head. “Father, what are you doing here?”

“You did send me an invitation.” The Marquess of Cothbridge strode up the aisle and gripped Tristram’s shoulder. “I tried to get here sooner, but it’s difficult getting across the North Atlantic this time of year. You couldn’t have waited until spring?” He glanced at Catherine and bowed. “But of course not. How do you do, my lady?”

Catherine opened her mouth, but no words emerged.

“Better if I sit down and let this ceremony continue?”

“Yes, my lord.”

His brows arched nearly to his hairline at her forthright response, but he merely inclined his head and accepted the seat her brother had vacated for him.

“Continue,” Tristram directed the pastor in a voice that quivered with what some might have thought anger, others distress, and Catherine knew from the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, to be suppressed laughter.

His face bemused, the pastor continued with the ceremony. Tristram and Catherine spoke their vows and, against custom, exchanged rings. Then, with Tristram’s hand covering Catherine’s where it rested on his forearm, they recessed to the drawing room door to greet the well-wishers.

While the guests filed into the dining room for the wedding tea, the marquess held back so that he was the last to approach them. He bowed, then gripped both their hands. “I owe you both apologies.” He cleared his throat.

They gazed back at him.

“For what, sir?” Tristram asked.

“For being ashamed of you. For sending you into danger. For not listening when you tried to tell me about your work with the former soldiers. When I learned you were nearly killed—” He scowled. “From others, not you, I must note, I realized I’d, uh, been so determined to have a son who did the things I thought would make me proud that I didn’t realize I had a son who had already done things to make me proud.” He kissed Catherine’s cheek. “I like your wife. She spoke her vows like your mother did—like she means every word.”

“I do.” Catherine smiled, her heart swelling with joy.

Tristram slipped his arm around her shoulders. “And I love her rather intensely, the more for the fact she has put my accusing her of theft and worse behind us.”

“Then I have hope that you can put everything I’ve said and done to you behind you,” the marquess said.

Tristram reached his free hand out to his father. “I already have.”

His father clasped the proffered hand.

“Now, if you will excuse me, sir, I’d like a few minutes alone with my wife.”

“The guests are waiting for us,” Catherine said.

But she didn’t protest when, his arm still around her, Tristram led Catherine up the steps to the conservatory. With the guests in the dining room below, the room was dark, save for outside lights glowing off the snow. “I am going to miss this room.”

“Why this one?” Catherine rested her head on his shoulder.

“I think maybe I fell in love with you here overlooking the lake and the trees that first day I came to see you.”

She laughed and slipped her arm around him. “It was so cold I thought I’d freeze you out of my life.”

“Instead, you warmed me to my heart.” He turned from the frosty landscape to his radiant bride and kissed her. “I love you now and forever.”

* * * * *

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