The Disappearance of Lady Edith (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 1) Page 3

  “I am not on your property, and you have no right to demand my name.”

  The man was swiftly turning from an Adonis to Dolon—demanding, arrogant, and forthright. She much preferred admiring him when he kept his mouth closed. Edith hadn’t thought her schooling in Greek and Roman mythology would ever be of use, yet, here she was, dredging from memory the attributes of legends long past.

  Lord Torrington, or whatever the man claimed his name to be, was incorrigible. Unlike any gentleman she’d ever met.

  Not to touch on the matter of his handsomeness…which did not matter to Edith in the slightest, yet was undeniable.

  “My name is none of your concern because I am not, in fact, on your property.” There, she’d spoken her mind—and the world hadn’t crumbled around her, nor had the Adonis before her disappeared into the mist. “And I would thank you not to concern yourself with my travel arrangements.”

  “Whose property do you assume we are standing on?” His brow rose, and the corner of his lip turned up in a smirk.

  “Lord Abercorn’s,” she stated simply.

  Torrington pointed to a line of stones, barely noticeable but still a definite line between her and the Abercorn townhouse property. “As you can see, the tree you climbed is securely on Downshire property. And I have every right to demand your reason for being on the marquis’ land—and more to the fact, summon the magistrate.”

  She’d assumed being caught by Abercorn, or the woman he currently shared his chambers with, was as dire as her afternoon could get. Yet, the lord before her seemed determined to have the information he sought. But what would he do with it? If he took her name to Abercorn, she and her friends could be in serious peril; and if he insisted on calling the authorities, her parents would be notified.

  Edith would not allow that to happen. “Wait a moment, did you not say your name is Torrington?”

  “I did,” he confirmed with a nod.

  “And we stand on the Marquis of Downshire’s property?”

  “Correct once more.” He said the words slowly as if she were daft.

  Yet, it was Edith’s turn to smirk. “Well, as I see it, you have no authority here if you are not the marquis.” Maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to escape without Abercorn or her parents finding out. It would only leave her to inform Luci and Ophelia they were no closer to proving Lord Abercorn’s culpability in Tilda’s death.

  The positive side was that she would be free to continue searching for evidence that Abercorn had pushed his new bride down the stairs of his country manor on the night of his wedding.

  Edith slipped her hand into her pocket to make sure her journal hadn’t fallen from its place. When her fingers touched the familiar leather binding, Edith’s assuredness returned, and she pivoted to depart.

  “Where are you going?” The lord’s feet sounded behind her as she picked her way through the shrubs on her way to the street. “Stop.”

  Edith glanced over her shoulder, determined to keep out of Lord Torrington’s reach until she made it to Pall Mall and the nearest hackney she could wave down. “Good day, my lord.”

  Chapter 3

  Triston glanced about the crowded ballroom, or at least as much of the room as he could see from his current location. “Do we plan to hide behind these potted palms all evening?”

  His question gained him a scathing look from his two sisters, six and seven years his junior, before they turned their stares back to the ballroom in unison.

  “For at least another set,” Pru hissed, her pastel green gown blending in exquisitely with the foliage bordering the dance floor. He wished he could say the dress complimented her just as exquisitely, except the shade clashed with her pale complexion, and the gown was far too tight by any person’s standards. “Now hush, or we will be noticed.”

  “We are at a ball, Prudence, we are supposed to be seen.” He shook his head at this sister’s reprimand.

  “We are not ready to be seen as yet, brother,” Chastity chimed in, her dull brown curls bouncing as she shook her head. “If we are discovered, that will mean we must speak with someone.”

  “Which we are certainly not ready to do.”

  The pair shared an exasperated look, leading Triston to think that something was going on he was not privy to, which would not surprise him.

  It was going to be a long Season if this was how it was to start. Triston glanced at his sisters on either side of him. Many mistook the pair for twins, though they were born ten months apart. Their hair was always styled in a similar fashion, their gowns always the same cut, and they rarely left one another’s side.

  A pang of jealousy hit him, something he’d endured far more often in his younger days. Not that he was ancient, by any means, but at twenty and three, Triston was securely the older, odd-man-out sibling. Certainly, he adored his sisters, doted on them even, but they shared a bond that Triston could never hope to be a part of.

  “I know I am going to regret inquiring, but why are you not ready to do that?” he asked, as the musicians concluded another set, and the dancers departed the floor.

  “Because, dear brother…” Chastity spoke slowly, as if uncertain he understood her words. “If we are noticed, that would mean we need speak with someone, likely a horde of eligible men seeking a dance partner, and we are not ready for such a commitment.”

  “And because, dear brother,” Pru said, picking up when Chastity sighed, “we have many things we seek to see before becoming entangled with a gentleman who might offer for our hands.”

  Both girls’ heads bobbed, but they did not take their eyes off the dance floor when the musicians signaled another set was about to start.

  Triston couldn’t help his open-mouthed stare. Commitment? Eligible men? And offers of marriage? He wondered if his sisters had a looking glass in their bedchamber—or if their eyesight was good enough to afford them an adequate view of the other women in the room.

  Not that his sisters would not find suitable matches, maybe even highly sought after lords with the dowries his father had settled on each girl; however, they were not diamonds of the first water. They took much more after their father and Triston than their mother. Both debutantes more firmly weighted on the side of stout rather than lithe. They were built in a similar fashion to Triston: broad of shoulder and thick of waist, with legs more suitably constructed for scaling tall mountains than graceful waltzes.

  For a man, the attributes were looked upon favorably by the fairer sex.

  While for women, men usually gazed upon his sisters as if they were reckoning the value of a brood mare.

  Which only made Triston seek to put his fist through the unlucky bastards’ faces.

  They were his baby sisters, after all—they were delicate bloody flowers.

  Innocent, intelligent, and great conversationalists.

  And any man who sought one of their hands in marriage—or even a dance—should best well understand that.

  This was exactly the reason Triston had argued with his father a few days prior. He was not qualified to escort his siblings about London. It was not safe—for his sisters, himself, or any sorry gent who thought themselves worthy of one of the Downshire sisters.

  Maybe Triston’s doting ways had given the pair an incorrect estimation of their visual appeal, leaving him to tidy up the mess that would be made when they either hid behind these palms all Season or turned down every man who asked to put their name upon Pru’s or Chastity’s dance cards.

  “I am in need of refreshments, ladies.” Triston stepped around his sisters and turned, blocking their view of the room. “It would be best if the pair of you accompany me.”

  He held out both arms, and his sisters eyed his offer with matching skeptical expressions before slipping their arms through his.

  “Very wise, dear sisters,” Triston whispered. “I think you both are in need of a glass of sherry.”

  “Heavens no,” they gasped in unison.

  “Stepmother would never allow it,”
Chastity said.

  “Yes, Lady Downshire is adamantly against women of fine breeding consuming any type of spirits,” Prudence agreed, keeping true to her name.

  “Well, the good Lady Downshire is not here to witness anything,” Triston argued. “What she does not see will not hurt her, as the saying goes.”

  Pru’s eyes widened. “But she will find out.”

  “She always finds out,” Chastity said, her head shaking. “And then we will be made to do without.”

  Triston weaved through the crowd gathered around the edges of the ballroom, careful to not make eye contact with anyone, lest they approach him for conversation.

  However, he could not disagree with his sisters’ fears in regards to Esmee Neville, the latest Marchioness of Downshire. She was a spiteful woman with a tendency to enact retribution on anyone who disobeyed her commands. She was a raven-haired beauty, who captured a man’s heart before crushing it between her elegant, pale hands; watching the pieces crumble to the ground before stepping on them.

  Not that Triston could blame his father for falling in love with such a beautiful creature—he only wished the marquis would have heeded his son’s warning about the sharpness of the woman’s talons.

  “Do not allow the beast to crush your spirits, my dear sisters.” They stepped into the line for refreshments. “She will shortly attain what she wants, a babe of her own, and then she will leave the three of us to our own devices. I am certain of it.”

  The current marchioness was only a year younger than Triston and had yet to start her own family. But he assumed she would soon, as she did not consider the marquis’ previous children up to her required standards, nor would her position be solidified if something were to happen to her husband without a child born of the union. And so, she’d set out to provide Downshire with a spare heir, should something untoward happen to Triston.

  The girls looked to one another before Pru responded. “We will have one sherry—”

  “Wonderful!”

  “To split between us,” Chastity finished. “And we shall endeavor to hurry to our rooms when we arrive home to avoid the marchioness catching the scent of spirits on our persons.”

  “Whatever you must do,” Triston said with a chuckle. “I am happy I no longer have to put up with the ice queen’s edicts.”

  Both girls pouted at his mention of no longer residing with them at their father’s townhouse. “We do not understand why we could not go with you,” Chastity whined.

  “Yes, Esmee would not mind, so long as we were no longer underfoot.”

  Triston took in their downcast expressions and, not for the first time, he sensed they felt as if he’d abandoned them. “You both know living in a boarding house is not proper for two young women, especially ones seeking to find elevated matches.”

  “We are not looking to wed!” they protested as one.

  He’d known the comment would distract them from thoughts of Triston’s recent departure from their family home; however, he could not reside under his father’s roof a moment longer, especially if it meant he remained under Esmee’s control.

  However, the girls’ insistence that they were not looking to wed was preposterous. Every young debutante was taking part in the elaborate fiasco that was the Marriage Market for the eventual outcome of…marriage. He could not see Esmee taking kindly to Pru and Chastity spending money on a Season when neither was actually inclined to wed.

  As the marquis’ third wife—Triston’s mother having passed from influenza when he was only a toddler, and Pru and Chastity’s mother having died giving birth to Chastity—the woman was set on vanquishing all memories of those who’d come before her, even Downshire’s previous children.

  And that meant marrying off Triston’s two young sisters.

  A voice cleared behind them, and both women stiffened on his arms, making no move to turn to see who sought their attention.

  “Good evening, my lord.” The deep, throaty voice sparked a familiar memory. “Lady Prudence, Lady Chastity. You are both the height of composure this evening.”

  Abercorn.

  Their father’s neighbor—and friend. And a man Triston was barely acquainted with beyond their two bordering townhomes. In fact, it was odd to have the blonde vixen mention Abercorn followed by the man appearing.

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” Triston greeted the elderly man as he turned. “Lovely to see you.”

  “And you, as well, Torrington.” Abercorn’s evening attire was tailored to fit his frame perfectly—and Triston suspected outfitting a man as tall and rail-thin as Abercorn was no easy feat. “Your father said you’d be in attendance tonight, and I must claim a dance from both Lady Prudence and Lady Chastity.”

  A shiver went through both of his sisters at the man’s lecherous stare.

  He wondered if his sisters knew things he did not.

  How his father stood the company of the duke was beyond Triston’s comprehension; however, Pru and Chastity dipped into graceful curtseys before holding out their wrists with their dance cards.

  Abercorn hastily scribbled his name on Pru’s card, but only glanced at Chastity’s blank slip. “A set is about to begin. May I have this dance, Lady Chastity?”

  Triston wanted to deny the gentleman’s request, but was left without reason. The duke was his father’s friend—and even if the girls despised the marchioness, they adored their father and always sought to please him, even if that meant dancing with a man old enough to be their father—or an uncle.

  “Chastity would be honored,” Triston answered when his sister’s gloved hand squeezed his arm. He handed his sister off and watched as the pair made their way to the dance floor. “That man is an odd one.”

  Pru giggled, highly improperly, before ending it on a snort. “Chastity feels sorry for him.”

  “Sorry, why?”

  She turned a stern look on him. “Dear brother, do you not follow societal gossip at all?”

  “No.” And he was surprised his sisters did. “Why in heavens name would I want to know what Lord so-and-so does after he deposits his wife following a ball? Or who the widow, Lady Palmer, has sunken her claws into this time.” Mainly, his lack of interest was because he’d been the topic of hurtful, slanderous gossip, and he took zero stock in any of it.

  Hell, his family was likely still a topic of conversation in most drawing rooms.

  When a man’s betrothed leaves him to marry his father, the ton does not forget.

  Even now, Triston noticed a woman avert her stare when his eyes landed on her.

  Yes, he was commissioned to see his sisters safely about London proper—not hoard all the attention for himself.

  Thankfully, they’d reached the front of the refreshment line, and he selected two flutes of sherry. Handing one to Pru, Triston downed the other and held it out for a refill before they moved on.

  “I hope you do not plan to slip deep into your cups this evening,” Pru commented, her eyes wide with astonishment, her own glass forgotten in her hand.

  He certainly would not disagree with a tumbler or two of scotch, but at best, he had watered-down sherry. “It would take an entire trough of this sherry to see even a hint of drunken behavior. Worry not, dear sister.”

  They resumed their place on the fringes of the dance floor and turned to watch Abercorn and Chastity swirl about with the other pairs—a bit slower than the other dancers, and less coordinated. Triston supposed age did that to a person.

  His eyes settled on a trio of women standing on the far edge of the ballroom, across from Triston and Pru. The group also watched the duke and Chastity as they whirled in time to the beat.

  An auburn-haired woman tried to hide her interest in the couple, while her two companions, a towering, midnight-haired beauty, and a woman with hair the color of spun gold, glared openly at Abercorn and Chastity. Triston could only gain a side profile of the group, but they were most definitely watching Chastity.

  “Do you know those women?” he as
ked Pru, nodding in the group’s direction.

  Prudence took to her tiptoes to see over the dancing crowd. “Oh, yes. I do.”

  “Who are they?” Just then, the blonde woman turned in his direction, and his mind stopped short. It was the woman from outside his father’s townhouse. Her hair was respectably coiffed, and her evening gown was expertly crafted to fit her short frame. He’d need ask after her seamstress, as she’d likely create a miracle for Pru and Chastity’s wardrobe. “I do not think I have made their acquaintance.”

  Pru shook her head dejectedly. “It is unlikely you have. They were presented last Season, but quickly retreated after that unfortunate night.”

  “What unfortunate night?” he asked.

  “And this is why you should take greater note of the gossip rags,” Pru sighed. “They are Ladies Lucianna, Edith, and Ophelia. They were the talk of their Season, with their friend, Miss Tilda Guthton.”

  The last name was vaguely familiar; however, Triston was unsure from where he knew it. “What happened? Why would they retreat?”

  Pru dropped his arm and turned to face him, bewilderment clouding her features. “How are you so unaware, Triston?” When he remained silent, she continued. “Miss Tilda became the Duchess of Abercorn only a few short weeks into last Season.”

  “Abercorn isn’t wed,” Triston challenged.

  “He isn’t wed now.” Pru folded her arms across her chest and then quickly uncrossed them, running her hands down the front of her satin gown. “Miss Tilda…Lady Abercorn, died on the night of their wedding. Fell—or was pushed—down the main staircase, depending on who’s account you believe.”

  Triston narrowed his eyes on the trio of women, suddenly making sense of why the blonde woman had perched herself in a Downshire tree to watch Abercorn’s townhome. “And her friends believe she was pushed?”

  Why in heaven’s name would a duke take a wife only to see her gone on their wedding night? Besides, Triston found it hard to believe Abercorn capable of such an act.