The Disappearance of Lady Edith (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 1) Page 4

  “Mayhap.” Pru shrugged and turned back toward the women. The dancers had moved, enabling his sister to gain a decent view across the dance floor. “The black-haired woman is stunning, is she not?”

  Triston took his stare off the blonde to take in the sight of the tall, willowy, raven-haired beauty; however, his appeal for the darker variety of women had been snubbed long ago. Though it made sense for his sister to assume he would be taken with her.

  “She is certainly alluring. What do you know of them and their families?” he asked in way of steering the conversation—hoping Pru didn’t catch on to his true intentions.

  “Lady Lucianna Constantine is the black-haired beauty. Lady Ophelia Fletcher is the one with the downcast eyes—a terrible introvert, they say. And the petite blonde woman is Lady Edith Pelton.”

  Lady Edith.

  He allowed the name to roll about in his mind. He’d never heard of her before; which, from his sister’s explanation, made ample sense. Triston had avoided society after his broken betrothal forced him into the unwanted spotlight of every gossip-minded matron in London. He glanced about the room at the mere thought, but found no one staring at him. It had taken two years, but finally, the scandal sheets had moved on to other topics of fodder.

  “The trio only just arrived for the Season a few weeks ago, their mourning period having ended; however, it is said that not a single gentleman has dared ask them to dance or for a turn in the park.” Pru lifted her chin as if she were impressed by the women’s skill at keeping men at bay. “Chastity and I have been trying to gain an introduction since seeing them at the Crofton’s garden party a fortnight ago, but the women do not often socialize, and quickly depart societal events after a brief appearance.”

  Most likely because the trio was spying on Abercorn.

  Triston watched Lady Edith as she leaned close and whispered something to Lady Lucianna before nudging the auburn-haired chit to gain her attention, as well.

  Their glares still intensely observed Abercorn’s every movement. Did they wait for the man to strike again—in the middle of a crowded ballroom?

  If Abercorn were able to get away with killing his young bride, he would not be so foolish as to cause a scene before all of society.

  Suddenly, Lady Edith’s stare scanned the room—landing on him.

  Prudence tugged at his arm and hissed, “They are watching us, brother. Mayhap they will talk to me.”

  The excitement in his sister’s tone was evident; though Triston also sought to speak with the women, or more accurately, one of the women.

  Lady Edith owed him answers, and Triston was determined to gain them, even if that meant confronting her in a crowded ballroom.

  Chapter 4

  Edith scrutinized Lord Torrington across the crowded ballroom as the Duke of Abercorn returned his dance partner to the viscount’s left side before taking the gloved hand of the woman on Torrington’s right and returning to the dance floor.

  The women held a striking resemblance to Torrington and must be a close relation—sisters, perhaps?

  That would make the young women neighbors of Abercorn’s—and likely friends. The woman now in the duke’s arms seemed a bit too stiff and only spoke in answer to Abercorn’s unheard words. She did not look the blushing debutante, thrilled to be dancing with a wealthy, eligible lord.

  But, Torrington and the young women were positively acquainted with the duke. How close their relationship was, Edith could not guess.

  However, she was vastly relieved she’d fled when she did, or Abercorn would have been informed of her presence outside his townhouse. If the neighbors were known to one another well enough to associate at a ball, then there was little doubt Torrington might share news of Edith’s presence outside the Abercorn townhouse.

  “Do you know the man?” Ophelia asked, leaning close but managing to keep her eyes trained on the polished floor nonetheless.

  The woman was perceptive, always had been, noting things that both Edith and Luci continually missed.

  “Yes.” Edith needed to distract her friends before other guests noticed the way the trio kept a close watch on Abercorn. “He caught me outside Abercorn’s townhouse a few days ago.”

  “The day you fell out of the tree and bruised your backside?” Luci asked with a throaty chuckle, never taking her attention off Torrington. “He is certainly a handsome—“

  Edith crossed her arms and cut Luci short. “That is him—all arrogant, incorrigible, and…”

  “Massive,” Ophelia sighed, her eyes moving from the floor to the hulking man across the room. “He looks as if he could drive a hansom cab…without the horses.”

  Edith took in Torrington’s sheer size. His shoulders appeared far broader in a crowded ballroom, and his tight pants gave an optimal view of his muscular legs.

  “It is likely the man must turn sideways to enter a door,” Luci continued, prolonging the jest. “Those thighs could crush a boulder—imagine the fate of a woman between them.”

  “Lucianna,” Ophelia hissed, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment as she glanced to both sides to make certain no one had heard what was spoken. “That is a highly improper topic for a ballroom.”

  “Yes, however, it does appease my imagination,” Luci retorted with a sniff. “Do not be such a prude.”

  “I…well…I most certainly am not—“

  “Did your mind instantly visualize the man, complete with bridle and reins, sans a stitch of clothing, pulling a hackney?” At Luci’s question, Ophelia’s eyes widened and quickly returned to the floor. “I thought not. Prude.”

  Edith cocked her head and examined Torrington once more. Her mind hadn’t conjured Luci’s visual either, but now she thought of little else. She averted her stare to stop her own flush and scanned the ballroom. Highlighted in shades of gold and blue sheer bolt fabrics, the chandeliers above cast a glow that sparkled off the polished silver pots holding tall palms in several spots around the room. Gentlemen and fashionably adorned ladies swirled about the dance floor while many wandered the room and out onto the terrace beyond.

  She’d spotted Lord Torrington as he stood close to the refreshment table as the Duke of Abercorn had made his way toward them.

  Where he’d come from, Edith didn’t know. One moment, she and her friends were keeping watch on Abercorn’s movements while avoiding any gentlemen who might ask one of them to dance; and the next, Lord Torrington stood with two demurely gowned brunettes on his arms. Not that she and her friends had been observing anyone but the duke; however, Edith had been shocked to see Torrington.

  The man who currently observed her and her friends, just as they watched him.

  “What is his name?” Luci purred, not verbalizing the one thing Edith heard loud and clear from her tone: what is the handsome man’s name?

  “Torrington. Lord Torrington.” Edith watched him chuckle at something the woman on his arm said as he avoided eye contact with Edith. Pain shot through her jaw when she realized she clenched it tightly, her teeth grinding into one another. “He is certainly hiding something.”

  “Oh, I’d much enjoy seeing what his trousers are hiding.” Luci’s jest had Ophelia choking on her breath.

  Irritation caused Edith’s muscles to tense before she shrugged half-heartedly. “Likely nothing but an enlarged ego and unveiled arrogance.”

  “Why are you so overly critical of him?” Ophelia asked. “Has he done something to displease you?”

  “I would think his mere association with Abercorn should displease us all,” Edith retorted. “I will admit the man is hiding something.”

  “Hiding something more elaborate than Abercorn?” Luci asked, intrigued.

  “Possibly.” Or Lord Torrington was nothing more than a lord born and bred to be the arrogant gentleman. He appeared the Goliath rather than the Adonis from their previous meeting. “I think it best I keep watch on him. If he is hiding something, I will find it—and Ophelia will use the information in her next Mayfair Con
fidential piece.”

  “Are you suggesting we stop our surveillance of Abercorn?” Lucianna set her long, gracefully gloved hands on her hips.

  “You know we cannot jeopardize our true intentions and plans by reporting on Abercorn until we have solid proof of his culpability in Tilda’s death,” Edith argued, keeping her voice low. “If we write about him too soon, everyone in London will know who is behind the Mayfair Confidential articles in the Gazette.”

  Luci’s eyes flared with anger. “Are you saying I did not see what I have told you I saw?”

  “Come now, Lucianna,” Ophelia soothed. “You know we believe you, but that accomplishes nothing if we cannot prove anything to the magistrate or Tilda’s parents.”

  But Edith was uncertain she believed Luci’s accounting from the night Tilda fell to her death. She wanted nothing more than to believe her friend and prove her accusation true, but until that happened, she refused to be party to a story that would ruin a man’s life—more than they’d already ruined him.

  They’d agreed to have Ophelia write a story on Abercorn only when they had irrefutable evidence and did not fear any backlash if they were discovered as the people behind the Mayfair Confidential pieces. But they were all in agreement on the importance of warning other debutantes against men with unsavory pasts, the tendency to drink heavily, or an inclination toward violence. So, each week on Thursday, the London Daily Gazette published a column called Mayfair Confidential that highlighted gentlemen with distasteful habits. As of now, no one suspected who was responsible for the pieces—but the instant Abercorn was mentioned, with Luci’s firsthand account of the incident, there would be no doubt as to whom was supplying the information.

  Edith was uncertain she was prepared for the repercussions once London—and the many men they worked to expose—knew they were responsible.

  “Do not look now, Edith, but he is looking this way, and he does not appear happy to see you,” Lucianna said with a laugh. For reasons unknown to Edith, Luci always acted untouchable and invincible, as if no person could harm her; however, the stark reality of the matter was they were all as susceptible to injury as Tilda had been. And they all knew where their dear friend was now after her hasty betrothal and marriage to a man over twice her age.

  Edith notched her chin high and turned her narrowed stare in Torrington’s direction. If the man thought to intimidate her, he vastly underestimated the woman he was dealing with.

  Chapter 5

  “Triston!” a venom-dipped voice, which many mistook for a honey-coated melody, called to him as he attempted to escape his father’s townhouse without being waylaid after their weekly meeting. “Torry, stop, I am calling you.”

  He despised the pet name—always had—which was likely why his latest stepmother, Esmee, insisted on using it. The mere sound of her voice, and her quick steps behind him, had Triston longing to flee and never return.

  His teeth clenched tight, and his jaw ached.

  However, he knew enough to know that if he angered the woman by ignoring her and departing, she’d only take her wrath out on Pru and Chastity. Again, something he had little control over, and it irked him to no end.

  “Yes, Esmee?” Triston pulled his lips into a smile, but judging from the way the woman shrank back in horror, it was more of a snarl. “What can I assist you with today?”

  Meaning: in what way could she complicate his life?

  She hurried down the hall after him and flipped her fan, connecting with his elbow. “You know I prefer you to call me Mother,” she scolded. At his continued frown, she said, “But that is not why I stopped you. Your sisters and I are in need of your accompaniment to Hyde Park today.”

  The raven-haired, ice-blue-eyed snake was a year younger than Triston. Hell would freeze over and implode before he ever addressed the vile woman as “Mother.”

  Huffing, she tapped her slippered toes on the rug covering the floor and pushed her bottom lip out into a pout. “Well?”

  Once upon a time, it would have worked on Triston—the innocent-maiden-in-need-of-help charade, but not in over a year. And never again, he’d vowed the night he’d caught his father in bed with his betrothed.

  He’d like to say it was Esmee’s betrayal that had wounded him so deeply he never sought to tie himself to another woman, favoring a life of uncomplicated relationships with no lasting attachments instead.

  Mother…it was almost incestuous to think.

  She set her hand on his sleeve and gently caressed his arm, sending a shiver of revulsion through him.

  “I will accompany my sisters…under one condition.” He paused, waiting for her to acquiesce to his demand. When she only smiled as if she’d won some battle he hadn’t been aware they were fighting, he continued. “I will bring my own horse.” There was absolutely no way he’d willingly share a carriage with Esmee—or anything else for that matter. Though punishing his sisters and diminishing their chances of making suitable matches was not something Triston would carry on his shoulders.

  Her smile faltered slightly, but Esmee nodded in agreement. “We shall meet you in the drive.” With a flip of her hair, as black as her heart no doubt, she pivoted, calling, “Prudence. Chastity.” She punctuated each name with a clap of her hands. “To the carriage with all due haste. Do not be so rude as to keep Triston waiting.”

  He would wait for eternity if it made Pru and Chastity happy…what he would not do was inconvenience himself to appease Esmee.

  This was about his sisters’ futures, not pleasing the wolf in sheep’s clothing who’d almost duped him into marriage.

  He stalked from the townhouse, calling for the butler to have his horse brought round. He would be ready and mounted by the time the women arrived—making further idle chit-chat impossible. To the park, a turn or two down the trail, and he would be on his way.

  Blast it all, but he’d managed almost a fortnight without coming into contact with Esmee, and his temper hadn’t flared once. Now, with only a moment of conversation his blood boiled again.

  A Downshire livery brought round his horse at the same time his sisters’ carriage ambled down the alley leading to the stable house.

  He swung up into the saddle at the precise moment Pru and Chastity exited the front door, each beaming at seeing him in the drive.

  And Triston could not help but return their looks of joy with his own grin.

  They wore matching puce-colored gowns with walking boots, cloaks, and each had a fur muff to keep their hands warm. Their curls were pinned back in tight coiffures and garnished with strands of black beads. For not the first time in the last week, Triston wondered how the pair had grown from annoying girls in short dresses with pleats to the women who stood before him. Damn it all, but he wished he still resided at his father’s townhouse and could enjoy a bit more time with his sisters before they selected husbands and left home to start their own families—their time for their roguish ancient brother gone.

  And he had no doubt, despite their claims to the contrary, that they would marry. They need only find the right men—those who stole their hearts and saw beneath their outward appearances.

  Triston was determined to make certain they had enough time in London to do just that.

  “We are so pleased you will be accompanying us.” Pru accepted the footman’s assistance into the open carriage. “We have so missed you the last couple of days.”

  Triston chuckled. “Drop the demure, proper miss act, Prudence.”

  Both women looked back at the door, their stepmother still safely out of sight and earshot. Chastity sighed. “We are so grateful you’ve agreed to come—to save us from an afternoon of lectures on proper decorum during our ride in the park.”

  “Or another scolding on the proper way to address this lord or that lord.”

  “Bloody hell, Triston,” Pru continued. “The foolish woman thinks to betroth us to men older than Father. Did you hear that? Older than Father!”

  “And only half as wealthy,”
Chastity retorted. “She seeks us to be wed and bedded by any old, poor lord who will have us.”

  “Father will not allow this to happen, I assure you.” Triston’s words were meant to soothe his sisters’ unease; however, even he was uncertain whether their father would be able to put his foot down and stop his newest wife from marrying off Pru and Chastity to unsuitable men. “And if need be, I will step in and rescue you both.”

  “Rescue them from what, precisely?” Esmee’s shrill voice sounded behind them.

  His horse paced anxiously as he turned to see the woman, wearing white from her hat all the way to her boots as she made her way down the front steps and to the waiting carriage.

  “We were discussing the news that a wild bear has escaped from a traveling sideshow and is said to be roaming Hyde Park.”

  Both women nodded in unison as if to confirm Triston’s fib.

  “Ah, well, it may well be a foot race if that happens.” Esmee eyed the pair when the servant handed her up into the conveyance. “And I fear the pair of you would never make it far on foot.”

  All happiness and excitement drained from both women at their stepmother’s cruel comment directed at their ample size.

  He cringed as Pru’s and Chastity’s gazes fell to their laps. “Yes, my lady.”

  Bloody hell, but he would remove them from the abyss that was their home if he had the power—and the resources.

  “Shall we be off?” Lady Downshire signaled for the driver to put the horses in motion as she sat back in her cascade of white. The color represented purity, innocence, and goodness. The woman was none of those things, not now, and not on the fateful day Triston had met her.

  Thankfully, he was about to ride ahead of the carriage, cutting off the sight of her and giving him time to diminish his anger. He was here for Pru and Chastity. It was their future that a turn in Hyde Park would improve. He was only here for them, regardless of what anyone thought.