The Disappearance of Lady Edith (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 1) Read online

  The Disappearance of Lady Edith

  The Undaunted Debutantes (Book One)

  Christina McKnight

  La Loma Elite Publishing

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  The Undaunted Debutantes Series

  Sign up for Christina’s Newsletter

  Also by Christina McKnight

  About the Author

  Author’s Notes

  Copyright © 2017 by Christina McKnight

  Cover Image by Period Images

  Cover Design by The Midnight Muse

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1-945089-17-2 (Electronic book)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-945089-17-6 (Electronic book)

  La Loma Elite Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  [email protected]

  To Marc~

  Thank you for your unwavering support and love!

  Prologue

  Devonshire, England

  December 1813

  As it sounded its final gong, Lady Edith Pelton glanced at the towering, mahogany clock nestled between two bay windows overlooking the dark gardens below. The fire in the hearth had long been reduced to nothing but glowing embers.

  However, the chill that had settled on the room hadn’t been noticed.

  “I truly must return to my chambers before His Grace suspects I have slipped out…before our marriage was so much as consummated.” Lady Tilda Abercorn, formally Miss Tilda Guthton—the lowly daughter of a mere baronet—leapt to her feet from the lounge she shared with her dearest companions. That very morning, she’d wed the Duke of Abercorn, becoming a duchess.

  And the envy of her three bosom friends.

  Edith laughed along with the other two women, Lady Ophelia and Lady Lucianna, as they stood, all prepared to send Tilda off to her waiting marriage bed, her new husband, and the delights certain to await her.

  Not that Edith or her friends knew anything about what awaited Tilda behind those closed doors; however, this hadn’t stopped them from gossiping about it for the past hour.

  They likely would have remained ensconced in the salon had the tall clock not chimed twelve…it was even now five minutes past midnight.

  Tilda was rightfully anxious; innocent and demure, much like Edith and their two other friends. She’d asked them to meet her after everyone else retired, not because she was avoiding her marriage bed—certainly not. She’d simply needed to draw a measure of confidence from those who cared most for her.

  The hour was scandalously late; however, it meant all the other guests had retired to their beds. As such, it would be much easier for Edith and her friends to go unnoticed as they made their ways to their own rooms. The darkened household gave them the perfect opportunity for a few private moments with Tilda before she departed to France for her bridal tour with her new husband. It was unlikely the couple would return before the end of the Season.

  “You will tell us everything on the morrow? At breakfast, and not a moment later. I truly must know if everything is as I’ve been told.” Lady Lucianna raised one brow suggestively. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief as she wrapped Tilda in a tight embrace before withdrawing and taking in her appearance from head to stocking-covered toes. “You look breathtakingly innocent.”

  Edith noted a flash of unease when Tilda’s soft, brown eyes widened.

  Tilda, for all her bravado, was petrified.

  Edith stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Tilda, much as Luci had a moment before, pushing from her mind the revelation that the girl’s shoulders shook with nerves. “You are beautiful. You are smart. And today was a perfect way to start your married life. I only hope that Ophelia, Luci, and I are blessed with such generous husbands,” Edith whispered to her friend.

  “Thank you, Edith. You have always been a great friend.” Tilda melted into Edith’s embrace before pulling back. “I must hurry. It will not do for my husband to arrive and find I have fled. He said he would arrive by half past midnight, after attending to a few business matters.”

  Luci slipped her arm through Tilda’s, while Ophelia grabbed the book she’d been reading and held it to her chest as she followed the women toward the door.

  “Now remember that thing we spoke about. That thing with your tong…” Luci’s whispers trailed off when the women moved out of hearing.

  “I will extinguish the candles,” Edith called to their retreating backs.

  “Always the responsible one,” Luci said over her shoulder with a smirk.

  Ophelia paused at the threshold, her long, auburn locks mussed as usual. “I will help you.”

  “No, hurry along,” Edith said, waving the woman off. “I know you are eager to return to your book. It will take but a few moments. I will meet you in our room as soon as I am done.”

  “If you insist.” Ophelia smiled. With the corridor light at her back, she appeared an angel with her tousled hair and pale complexion. “I am eager to see how the fair Lady Daniella escapes the rogue pirate, Xavier.”

  Edith laughed softly. “Well, do get back to their story.”

  The woman didn’t wait a moment longer, she flipped her book open and began reading as she turned to follow Tilda and Luci through the door.

  Edith hurried about the room with the candlesnuffer, and before long, the salon was cast in shadows. The only remaining light came from a single lit candle—and the sconce in the hallway.

  Grabbing the candleholder, Edith made certain that the room was as they’d found it—tidy, without a thing out of place—and turned to pull the door closed behind her, her friends nowhere in sight.

  A scream tore apart the stillness of the sleeping manor, echoing down every hallway and bouncing off closed doors.

  The hair on the back of Edith’s neck stood on end, and goose pimples spread across her bare arms as the shriek cut off, followed by the thump, thump, thump of something.

  “Edith!” Lucianna shouted. “Ophelia!”

  With her empty hand, Edith took hold of her skirts and ran toward the foyer, unconcerned that candle wax splattered on her exposed hand and the floor in her rush.

  Edith turned the corner…and halted dead in her tracks, her heart pounding clear out of her chest.

  A sob escaped Ophelia as her book slipped from her grasp and hit the polished floor.

  Edith took a few steps until she stood at Ophelia’s side. Luci was crouched on the bottom landing of the stairs, her long, raven locks blocking Edith’s view of what she knelt over.

  “Luci.” Edith took a step forward as her friend stood. “What is it—“

  But there was no need to go on. A trail of soft brown hair lay across
the bottom stair, spilling onto the foyer floor.

  “No, no, no,” Edith sobbed as she hurried forward. “This cannot be—“

  “He did this.” The venom in Luci’s tone had Edith looking away from the prone body of Tilda to where Luci stood, pointing toward the top of the stairs.

  Following her friend’s indicated direction, Edith narrowed her eyes on the darkened landing above them but could make out nothing—no person, no movement, no noise.

  “Who?” Ophelia squeaked behind her.

  “That is not important at this moment,” Edith scolded, hurrying to Tilda’s side. “We must wake her up, make sure she is all right and call for the duke—and a physician.”

  “There is no point.” Luci knelt next to Edith, sweeping Tilda’s hair from her face. “She is gone.”

  Vacant, chestnut-brown eyes stared back at her.

  Tilda’s doe eyes, always seeing to the heart of a matter, were empty of life. Tilda’s carefree demeanor and the positive outlook she so desperately adored would never guide Edith again. Never again would Edith and her wonderful friend giggle behind their fans at some London dandy, cloaked in all the colors of a peacock’s feathers, nor amble in the park, speaking of matters much more delicate—their fears, their passions, and their hopes for the future.

  In the blink of an eye, it was all gone; as if the last sixteen years of friendship had never been.

  A candle extinguished at the end of a long day.

  “They argued,” Luci insisted, grasping Edith’s arm to halt her from touching Tilda. “He was up there, and he pushed her. I swear it.”

  Edith was helpless to take her eyes off Tilda, still unmoving at the bottom of the stairs. Even if her eyes hadn’t been open, staring at the chandelier above, Edith would have known something was not right. Tilda’s head was cocked at an odd angle, and one arm was tucked behind her back under her prone frame. Her demure, white nightshift was tangled between her legs, exposing her stocking-clad calves.

  Tilda’s innocent yet intense light was gone. It did not fade over time as it should, but was cast out without warning.

  “Wha-wha-what should we do?” Ophelia wailed.

  “We will rouse the house and tell them what the duke has done!” Lucianna shot to her feet once more. “Someone must have heard the commotion.”

  Edith glanced around the foyer, deserted except for Luci, Ophelia, Edith, and, of course, Tilda. “You are correct. I heard her scream, and then the thump”—Edith cringed at her choice of word—“as she fell down.”

  “She did not fall.” Lucianna’s tone reached hysterics as she narrowed her glare on Edith. “She was pushed by Abercorn!”

  The trio stood, staring at one another. Tears overflowed and fell down Ophelia’s reddened face, while Luci appeared far more in control. Her widened green eyes held no hint of the waterworks Ophelia had been reduced to. Edith was oddly in between—neither overtaken by grief nor completely in command of her faculties. Edith reached out toward Luci, but the woman ignored her hand.

  “How could this happen?” Ophelia asked, stooping to collect her book as she dashed the tears away.

  Luci’s long, onyx hair swung over her shoulder as she turned to Ophelia. “That is a question for him. You saw him, right, Ophelia?”

  The color drained from the girl’s face, making her pale complexion turn almost green.

  “Tell her what you saw.” Luci took an intimidating step toward Ophelia. “You were standing right here.”

  “I—I—I was reading.” Ophelia turned to Edith, her book held tightly against her bosom. “I swear it, Edith, I did not see anything. I was reading about Xavier and—“

  “What is going on here?” Townsend, the Abercorn butler, bustled into the foyer, his hair askew as if the noise had pulled him from slumber. “Your Grace!” His eyes widened and fastened on Tilda as he rushed across the room to where she lay. His hand moved to her wrist and settled. “No pulse. She has no pulse!”

  The servant shuffled to his feet, teetering for a moment at the shock of seeing his new mistress dead at the bottom of the grand staircase—on her wedding night.

  “Petunia, Petunia!” Townsend shouted as he flapped his arms to and fro, rushing toward the kitchens. “Petunia! We must summon His Grace. Petunia, where in all that is holy are you, woman?”

  Doors opened, and voices sounded above from the guests’ wing as Townsend continued calling for Petunia.

  Edith hadn’t the faintest notion whom Petunia was, but she was obviously very important.

  “Oh, Your Grace!” Townsend said, staring toward the top of the stairs. “Please, do not look. This is not for your eyes.”

  Scanning the landing above, Edith noted the duke, still garbed in his wedding day finery, his once blond hair now shot through with grey, starting down the stairs with a tumbler in hand. His leisurely pace and unhurried movements spoke volumes. Either he’d had no hand in the matter of Tilda’s fall, or he knew damn well what had happened and could care less. He took a measured swallow from his tumbler, and his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the scene below.

  Abercorn had not yet set eyes upon his bride—lying prone below him, a trickle of blood now escaping her parted lips.

  Or perhaps he knew exactly how Tilda lay, haphazardly broken. From the stiff set of his shoulders and his cold, unaffected stare toward the gathering in his foyer, Edith did not know.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Edith watched Luci’s hands ball into fists at her sides, and her face redden in fury.

  Could the duke have pushed his new bride down the stairs as Lucianna claimed? If so, what did he gain by doing so? The thought that a wealthy lord, with everything within his grasp, would take a young, beautiful woman as his bride only to push her to her death before the marriage had even been consummated made absolutely no sense.

  And how could the man look so unaffected by it all?

  Chapter 1

  It is hereby stated that this writer has born firsthand witness to the

  7th Duke of Montrose, scandalously alone with a golden-haired nymph

  in his private opera box, all whilst betrothed to Lady Daphne

  As this writer can also attest, Lady Daphne’s hair is pure night,

  compared to the observed doxy’s crown of light. Let this article stand as proof that Lady Daphne would do well to find herself another eligible

  lord to take as husband.

  -Mayfair Confidential, London Daily Gazette

  St. James Place, London

  January 1815

  Triston Neville, Viscount Torrington, glared at his father, forcing himself to breathe in deeply and hold the stale air, heavy with cigar smoke, in his lungs to avoid it exiting in a rush of rage.

  The Marquis of Downshire couldn’t possibly fathom what he was asking of his son. Triston doubted his father understood the ludicrous nature of his demands, masked as simple fatherly requests.

  “Did you hear me, Triston?” His father’s nostrils flared, and the tiny vein that ran up his forehead pulsed…once, twice, three times. The man’s frown deepened, and Triston was uncertain if the marquis was annoyed at his son’s antics or only mildly agitated.

  To be fair, Triston had been aiming for annoyance.

  He straightened his shoulders, holding in his sigh once again, but responded before his father fainted from holding his breath. “Yes, Father. I heard you and will keep all you’ve said in mind.”

  “You will accompany your sisters during their Season?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will endeavor to not draw attention to yourself and, therefore, away from your sisters?”

  Triston looked up at the study ceiling, attempting to suppress his irritation. “I have never sought the ton’s notice, if you will remember.”

  Downshire stood, pushing his chair back. He placed his hand flat upon the desk separating the men and leaned forward. “That is neither here nor there.”

  In his younger days, Triston would have needed to steel himself fr
om quaking in terror at his father’s imposing stance and razor-edged words. However, those days passed when Triston grew several inches taller than the marquis, and his shoulders spread far wider than his sire’s. Though both men towered over six feet in height and had matching golden-brown hair, Triston was larger on every scale that mattered—including intellect, which he hadn’t vocalized since leaving the schoolroom for Eton.

  “Father, I will do my best to make certain Lady Dow—“ A movement over his father’s shoulder, out the study window, caught Triston’s notice. A flash of white was visible in the tree between the Downshire townhouse and their neighbor’s. “I will make sure Esmee is not inconvenienced in any way.”

  Normally, his stepmother’s name would have stuck in his throat, clawing to get free as he attempted to keep it unsaid. At present, he was determined not to allow the woman to overshadow his day; it was enough Triston would be forced to accompany the dreadful woman on social outings whenever she chose to attend.

  His father nodded, apparently accepting Triston’s pledge to see his sisters, Prudence and Chastity, safely wed before the year was out. To do that, the girls needed proper gowns with all the trimmings, and then needs must be presented to society to have the opportunity to meet eligible lords—all without their raven-haired stepmother criticizing their every move.

  Triston leaned forward slightly to gain a better view out his father’s study window. There was certainly something going on; however, alerting the marquis to it would not be wise and only lengthen their meeting. Blond hair hung down the back of a petite, female frame, the flash of her white petticoats being what had drawn his attention in the first place.

  “Very well, Triston, I believe…” His father’s brow scrunched, his eyes narrowing on his only son. “Are you even listening to me?”