Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue - Mary Nichols, Anne Herries - Страница 10

Henry leaped down from the curricle, winced at the headache, cursed all gaming hells, and walked back into the entrance hall as Eleanor emerged from the breakfast parlour on the following morning. She had dressed in a smart travelling costume of deep blue, the fine wool double-breasted coat with its long tight sleeves and high waist already buttoned. She was in the act of arranging the wide collar so that it draped elegantly into a cape effect. If his lordship noticed that she wore a particular jewel on her breast, whether deliberately to provoke or through custom, he chose to make no comment.

‘I am ready to leave.’

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ He frowned at her as she tied the bow of her neat straw bonnet beneath her chin to charming effect.

‘Yes. There is no need to scowl at me, my lord. We have already had this conversation and come to an agreement.’

‘I do not remember actually agreeing to anything—simply bowing to a stronger force when you threatened to go on your own.’ The scowl did not lessen. ‘I hope that you realise that we may learn nothing. I could see the Reverend Broughton myself and be back here within the day…’

She shook her head. ‘You do not understand. I want to see the village…and hear what he has to say.’

‘Do you not trust me to do the right thing?’ The demand was brusque, Henry’s mouth set in displeasure.

Did she? She looked at him consideringly, head a little on one side. All she knew for certain was that she must not rely on anyone, certainly not on Hal. She had trusted Thomas, had accepted his offer of marriage—which was more than she could ever have dreamed of and for which she would always be grateful to the depths of her soul—but look where that had got her. She must look to her own inner strength to weather this storm.

She turned her back on his lordship to pick up her tan leather gloves, thus evading the answer—which he was quick to notice with regret and a degree of hurt that jolted him. She did not trust him, not even to do all in his power to restore her good name.

‘I simply need to go there,’ was all that she would say.

The weather was set fair for travel. They made good time in the curricle on the main roads as they negotiated their way out of the growing sprawl of London. There was little conversation between them. Eleanor was too tense and could find nothing to say. Henry concentrated on his horses. When they took to the country lanes their progress was slower, but the pair of greys were excellent animals with strength and stamina and well up to the task. Henry drove them with patient skill to conserve their energies.

Eventually as the sun rose to the height of noon, they drove into the village of Whitchurch. They could see the cluster of stone houses nestling around a squat Norman church over to their left, calm and peaceful in the growing warmth, hardly the place where sordid schemes were in hand. Before reaching the village street, to their right, they drew level with a pretty stone manor house and Henry reined the greys to a walk. Jacobean in construction, behind its ornamental gates and stone wall with well-tended gardens on either side of the gravelled walk leaning up to the main entrance, it made an appealing picture. Behind the house were glimpses of a walled garden and an orchard with a rose-covered pergola leading to a sweep of open parkland.

Lord Henry halted the curricle before the wrought-iron gates.

‘What do you think?’ Eleanor sat and looked at the house where her husband might have spent time of which she knew nothing.

‘It could be. An attractive little estate.’ He studied the mellow stonework with a critical and knowledgeable eye. ‘Well cared for. Prosperous enough.’ A gardener was engaged in clipping a neat box hedge. ‘There is someone who can furnish us with a little information.’ Henry hailed him. ‘Tell me. Does Sir Edward Baxendale live here?’

The gardener, a man of advanced years, opened the gate to come and stand beside the curricle, pulling off his hat and squinting up at his lordship.

‘Aye, y’r honour. But not at home—none of the family is. In London, so they says.’

‘And his sister?’

‘Gone with him, I expect. There’s no one ‘ere at any event—and not likely to be for the near future, so they says.’

‘My thanks.’ Henry tossed him a coin and watched him amble back to his box clipping. They sat for a moment and took stock.

‘It does not suggest an immediate need for money, does it?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘Do you suppose…?’ She hesitated, a deep groove forming between her brows. ‘Do you think that Thomas came here to visit Octavia? Did he walk in this garden with her? Beneath those roses? Or sit with her in the arbour in the dusk of a summer’s night? Octavia is very fond of gardens…’

‘Enough, Eleanor. You must not torture yourself like this! Did I not warn you that it would have been better for you not to come here?’ His voice was harsh and when she glanced up in some surprise, she saw no softness in his face. ‘What is the point,’ he continued, ignoring her distress, ‘of perhaps and what if? It will only lower your spirits and drain your courage. It may be that Thomas did all of those things.’ He looked away from the pain that filled her beautiful eyes and swore silently. ‘But we still do not know the truth of it.’

She looked away from him and swallowed against the knot of fear and desolation in her throat, unable to find an adequate response. She had not expected such sharpness from him and yet had to admit that his words were justified. He had indeed warned her.

‘So what do we do first?’ Her voice was admirably controlled.

‘We find the inn. It is after noon and you need food. And it might be to our advantage to talk with mine host before we tackle the servant of God.’

They left the curricle and horses in the charge of the ostler at the Red Lion Inn, which overlooked the village green. They were shown into a dark, dusty parlour where the innkeeper fussed over having the gentry call at his establishment. Not many people travelled through the village, the main post road passing to the east as it did. He could not remember the last time that a lady and gentleman of Quality made use of his inn, other than the people at the Great House, of course. But he hoped they would not find the Red Lion wanting. Certainly he could provide refreshment for his lordship and the lady. If they would care to be seated. He whisked ineffectually with a grubby cloth at the dust on table and chairs as his wife bustled in with bread, meat and cheese and a jug of local ale.

Lord Henry pulled out a chair for Eleanor to sit at the table and silently frowned at her so that she began to eat, or at least crumble a piece of bread on her plate.

‘You are too pale. And I wager you did not break your fast before we left.’ He took a seat opposite, cut a wedge of cheese and added it to the crumbs on her plate, ignoring her objections. ‘I would prefer to deliver you back to your son in one piece and in good health.’ She had lost weight, he thought. Of course she would in the circumstances, food would be her last consideration, but he had to try to do something to help her. When she had looked at the comfortable manor house and the pretty gardens, when she had envisioned Thomas living out a dream there with another woman, it had taken all his will-power not to drag her into his arms and blot out the cruel vision with his own kisses. He tightened his lips in a wave of disgust. So what had he done? Only snarled at her and increased the pain by his vicious words. He lifted his shoulders a little, discomfited by the thought that his command of his emotions when dealing with Eleanor was not as firm as he would like.

He took a mouthful of ale and then, tankard in hand, engaged the hovering landlord, who had returned to the room with a platter of fruit, in casual conversation.

‘We had hoped to visit an acquaintance of ours in the village. Sir Edward Baxendale. We understand that he is from home.’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘We do not know him very well. Have his family lived here long?’

‘Generations of them, my lord. There’s always been a Baxendale in Whitchurch, at the Great House.’ Mine host, to Lord Henry’s relief, was not reluctant to demonstrate his local knowledge and did not object to their interest in the local gentry.

‘Do you see much of the family?’

‘Quite a bit. With the hunting. And church. And the ladies walk in the village.’

‘Are they well thought of locally?’

‘Aye, my lord. Sir Edward’s open-handed enough and a fair lord of the manor.’

‘I am more acquainted with his sister,’ Eleanor prompted, hoping for enlightenment on Octavia.

‘Aye. Poor girl.’ The innkeeper shook his head in ready sympathy. ‘Not that we see much of her, o’ course. But it can’t be easy for her.’

‘Oh?’ Eleanor looked up enquiringly, hoping to encourage a more detailed comment.

Mine host nodded. ‘What with a baby—growing up he is now—and a husband not long dead. Poor girl. And so pretty. But Sir Edward will ensure that she lacks for nothing—there’ll always be a roof over her head. He’s always been caring of his family.’

‘Of course.’ Eleanor smiled and nodded despite the tight band around her heart. ‘Did you…did you ever meet the lady’s husband before he died?’

‘Don’t know that I did.’ The innkeeper scratched his head. ‘Away from home a lot, as I remember, but the lady had made her home here with her brother.’

‘Has she…has she gone to London with Sir Edward now?’

‘Aye, ma’am. All of them. Saw them myself. And the baby as well. Not to mention the mountain of luggage. Seems like they intend to stay for the Season and the Great House all shut up. Pity you missed them.’

As the innkeeper prepared to return to the public room and leave his guests to eat their luncheon in peace, Lord Henry stopped him.

‘One more matter, sir, if you would be so kind. The Reverend Julius Broughton—is he vicar here?’

‘Aye, my lord. He is. If you wish to speak with him, the vicarage is the house next to the church, set back behind the stand of elms. But you’ll likely find him in the church. They’re burying old Sam Potter from down by the forge. So the Reverend Broughton will be doing the Lord’s work today at least—you can’t turn your back on a funeral if the body’s coffined and waiting at the church door! He’ll be there—at least for today.’

An interesting comment, Henry thought, not sure what to make of it. Or the slight undercurrent in mine host’s voice. Was it dislike? Contempt?

‘Do you know the Reverend well?’

‘Some.’ The innkeeper’s smile was sly as he turned for the door. ‘Some would say more than an innkeeper should! Likes his ale does the Reverend, and fine brandy. And he has a mind to other things many would say as he should not, being a man of the cloth. Some days he’s in the Red Lion more than he’s in the church! Not to mention his comforts at home!’

On which he left them.

With Eleanor’s hand drawn through his arm, held firmly, Lord Henry stepped out of the Red Lion and strolled down the village street in the direction of the church. The village itself was small, not much more than a score of stone cottages at most, the village street merely hard-packed earth with grassy verges, but the church was impressive with solid walls and zigzag carving on the round-headed arches of door and window. When they came to the gabled lych-gate into the churchyard, they discovered that the innkeeper had been accurate in his information. A funeral was in progress with a small knot of mourners in the far corner of the churchyard where the coffin was being lowered into a grave. They could make out the black and white vestments of the Reverend Julius Broughton amongst them, his white surplice and ministerial bands fluttering in the light breeze.

‘We must wait on Samuel Potter for the final time, it seems.’ Henry led Eleanor to a sun-warmed seat beside the church door to wait. It was a tranquil spot, sunlit and restful, only the distant murmur of voices to disturb the silence and the nearer chirp of sparrows which were nesting in the roof above their heads. A tranquil place indeed. But one, Eleanor feared, where she might discover the indisputable evidence that she was not Thomas’s wife, never had been. In this church Thomas could have been joined with Octavia Baxendale in the sight of God. His son named within those sun-warmed arches. She bit down on the panic that swelled beneath her breast bone. Her life would be shattered beyond redemption.

At last the mourners departed.

‘Sam Potter returned to his Maker.’ Henry took one of her hands in his, noting her calm outward composure. Perhaps too calm. ‘Are you well enough to face the Reverend? I will speak to him alone if you prefer it.’ On impulse he pressed his lips to her fingers. ‘I do not doubt your courage. I never could. You have nothing to prove to me, Nell.’

‘I know. And I know that you would take on this burden.’ She smiled her thanks, but rose to her feet, smoothing the skirts of her coat with nervous hands as the clerical figure approached them along the path. ‘We will see him together. He cannot tell us anything worse than the knowledge which we already have.’

Introductions were made, the cleric expressing polite interest. Henry, after a glance at Eleanor, opened the point at issue.

‘We wish to speak with you, sir, concerning a marriage and a birth in this parish. It concerns a member of our own family.’

Julius Broughton raised his brows at the request, but smiled his compliance. ‘Very well. Perhaps you would come to the vicarage where we can sit in comfort and I will see if I can help you.’ No hint of unease here.

They followed him to the spacious vicarage, built in the previous century and tucked away behind the elms, to be shown into a library at the front of the house, overlooking the churchyard and the church itself. A pleasant room. Wood panelled, lined with books, a fire offering welcome from the hearth, the retreat of an educated and scholarly man. It was also spotlessly clean, the furniture polished with the books properly on their shelves and the papers on the desk in neat order. It gave the impression of care and order and efficiency, suitable to a conscientious man of the cloth.

The appearance of the man who faced Henry and Eleanor also confirmed this impression. Shorter than Henry, he had a spare figure, fair hair with a touch of bronze when the sun caught it, and pale blue eyes. His narrow face was also that of a scholar with fine, aesthetic features. He had an easy smile that made them welcome as he offered refreshments. Yet Eleanor felt uneasy in his company. She thought there was a slyness in his gaze, which did not sit and linger on anything for long. And his lips, which smiled so readily, were too thin.

The priest rang the bell beside the fireplace and the door was immediately opened by a young girl, as if she had been close at hand and awaiting the summons.

‘Molly.’ Julius Broughton addressed the girl. ‘We have, as you see, visitors. Be so good as to bring brandy for his lordship and ratafia for the lady.’

She bobbed a curtsy, casting a sharp eye over the guests. A village girl, Henry presumed by her simply cut blouse and skirt, very pretty with dark curls under her white cap and attractive curves not in any way disguised by the white apron that enveloped her. Her smile revealed a dimple and she was not averse to a flirtatious glance from beneath long dark lashes. She had an air of smugness and her smile a hint of sly. Henry would wager that Mistress Molly was a most competent housekeeper, if surprisingly young for the position. He suppressed a sardonic gleam as he found himself remembering the innkeeper’s enigmatic comments on their priest’s interests. They were not difficult to understand,

The refreshments were dispensed, with graceful skill and concern for their comfort, and then as Molly departed with a final swing of shapely hips the visitors were free to turn to business.

‘We are looking for information, sir,’ Henry repeated, wondering fleetingly if Mistress Molly was listening at the door.

‘So I understand.’ The Reverend indicated that they should make themselves comfortable in the charming room. ‘I will try to help. Is it something that occurred within my holding of the living here?’

‘Yes. The first event less than four years ago.’ From his pocket, Henry took a number of gold coins, which he placed, without a word, on the desk beside him.

The Reverend’s eyes fixed on them for more than a second, a flush mantling his cheeks. He pressed his lips together. It was, Henry knew, a gamble, based purely on first impressions. It crossed his mind that the priest could see it as an insult to his pride and standing in the community, and so refuse all co-operation with sharp words. Justifiably so if he were an honest man. But he did not. He answered, his eyes still on the money being offered so blatantly, ‘Of course, my lord. As I said, I will do what I can.’

Lord Henry had read his man well.

‘A marriage. At which you officiated. Between Octavia Baxendale and one Thomas Faringdon. Can you remember such a marriage?’

‘Dear Octavia.’ The clergyman took his seat behind his desk, resting his hands before him on the polished oak, fingers spread. His lips curled in a smile—or perhaps it was not. ‘She is well known to me. A most beautiful girl. Indeed I officiated at her marriage. I remember it. A handsome couple.’

‘Were you aware,’ Henry asked carefully, ‘that the groom was the Marquis of Burford?’

‘No, I was not. Before God, a man’s title has no relevance. And the law merely requires his name. You hinted, sir, that the matter concerned a member of your family.’

‘I did. Thomas Faringdon was my brother.’

‘Was he now?’ A strange little smile again flirted with the cleric’s lips. ‘Now I begin to understand. Can I help you further in your search for truth, my lord?’

Henry frowned, but continued. ‘I understand that Lady Mary Baxendale, who was a witness to the marriage, has since died.’

‘She has. She is buried in the Baxendale tomb here in the crypt. I myself conducted the service.’

And Sir Edward Baxendale. He, too, was present at the marriage ceremony?’

‘He was present.’ Julius Broughton bowed his head in acknowledgement. Eleanor’s brows arched a little. Was it her imagination, or were those clerical fingers suddenly clenched together?

But the Reverend was in no manner disturbed by the questions. His voice remained calm and assured. ‘Why do you ask? There was nothing illegal or unseemly about the marriage of Octavia. I have known her, as I said, for many years.’

‘And the birth of her son?’

Now there was the slightest hesitation, but the answer was forthright enough.

‘You must mean John. I certainly baptised the child John in this church. He will be about two years old now, I surmise.’

‘Yes.’

‘And the image of his mother! I am sure she is very proud of him. He must be a great solace to her in her time of grief.’

Henry glanced again at Eleanor who shook her head. It was difficult to see where the conversation was leading.

‘I presume that you know the Baxendale family well.’

‘Indeed I do. You must know that the living here is in their gift. I have every reason to be grateful to Sir Edward for his Christian charity.’ The lips that smiled at them were now drawn tight against his teeth. ‘He has assured me of his continued benevolence, to the parish and to myself. I have always found him to be a man of his word.’

‘If you will forgive me, sir, I hesitate to push the point but—this is a difficult question to ask—have you ever found reason not to trust Sir Edward? To question his honesty?’

‘A strange question, if I may say so, my lord.’ The Reverend continued to smile, but there was no humour in his pale eyes. ‘Let me answer it like this. Octavia is as dear to me as any member of my own family. And I know nothing of Sir Edward that would make me question his integrity. Does that suffice, my lord?’

‘Yes.’ Henry stood and inclined his head. ‘I must thank you for your time and patience, sir.’

They left the room, leaving the little pile of coins on the edge of the desk, glinting brightly and enticingly in the sun.

‘I do not like him. I don’t know why, but I would not trust him, clergyman or no.’ Eleanor spoke her doubts as soon as they were out of sight and sound of the vicarage. ‘He smiled like a snake.’

‘I have never seen a snake smile, but I take your point. A wily character, I make no doubt. But equally without doubt, he confirms all we knew and feared.’ Henry’s expression was bleak as he replayed the conversation in his mind. ‘Thomas married Octavia. And a son, John, was born.’

Eleanor could make no reply. After all, it was the truth.

The sun still shone. The sparrows still chirruped in the churchyard. And Eleanor’s life, as she had feared, lay in pieces at her feet.

During their brief interview the heavy rain-clouds had begun to gather on the horizon and the evening drew close. Seeing the threat of poor travelling weather, Henry made a decision.

‘We stay here tonight. I have no mind to be drenched before we arrive home. Let us see if the Red Lion can provide us with some suitable accommodation.’

The landlord at the Red Lion, by the name Jem Abbott, welcomed the return of the lord and lady to his inn with a greedy eye to their generosity. Yes, he could provide them with accommodation. Perhaps not what they would be used to, but comfortable enough. There was a private parlour they could make use of and an adjoining bedroom. Would that be sufficient for their needs? They would not be disturbed. He surveyed them with mild interest. There did not appear to be the stuff of scandal here, but you never knew with the Quality. A law unto themselves, they were! No matter how confident and assured his lordship might be in the settling of his affairs, no matter how elegant and composed the lady. Whether the lady was his lordship’s wife was open to debate. But it was none of their concern, as Jem Abbott informed his critical wife, if his lordship had brought his mistress to their establishment. As long as their guests were prepared to pay with hard coin, who were they to judge!

So the landlord set himself to please. His wife could serve an adequate meal for them in the parlour—in an hour, if that would suit. They did not keep late hours in the country. If they would care to sit in the downstairs parlour until all was in readiness? And perhaps some refreshment for the lady, who looked a little tired after her long day? Lord Henry accepted. It was now far too late to return to London, having waited on the affairs of Sam Potter. And the burden of the Reverend Broughton’s information pressed heavily on Eleanor.

They were soon ensconced in the promised private parlour, dusted more adequately than the public room, probably by the lady of the house. A fire warmed the room which was low beamed and whitewashed, provided with an array of old country-made furniture, which had seen better days but was not uncomfortable. Mrs Abbott was able to produce a raised game pie and a roasted chicken with various side dishes, more than sufficient for their needs, as promised, and a platter of fruits stored from the previous season.

‘I hope it will be acceptable.’ Mrs Abbot added logs to the fire, then, stopping to wipe her grimy hands on her apron, ‘Not expecting your honour and the lady,’ she apologised. And won Eleanor’s heart by producing a dish of tea, albeit somewhat bitter, as well as the jug of ale. She smiled and thanked their hostess with real warmth. They would do very well.

Eleanor shed her coat and bonnet, determined to do justice to the simple meal provided for them and to banish the depressing outcome of their conversation with the priest until later. But there was no hope of her achieving either. In the event she picked at her food and Henry did not have the heart to remonstrate with her. Even so, by the time she had tried the pie and sampled the chicken, the food and the warmth from the fire had returned colour to her cheeks and her eyes were less bleak.

Henry disappeared through the door that led downstairs to the public rooms, returning with a dusty decanter of port. Without comment he poured two glasses and sat, beginning to pare one of the wizened pippins from the dish. He quartered it neatly and pushed the pieces to Eleanor. She thanked him with a smile and ate.

‘Tell me about your life in America,’ she asked suddenly, deliberately breaking the silence, pushing her chair back from the table. ‘What is it like? What are you doing with your life there? Is it what you could have wished for?’

And so he told her. Watching her eat the sweet apple. Not so much to tell her about the momentous changes in his life since leaving England, but to distract her mind from the developments of the day.

‘I live in New York. I rent rooms there, but it is in my mind to build a house for myself in the future. It is a thriving place and growing by the day. There is money there and it hums with energy. It is difficult to imagine unless you have experienced it for yourself.’ He frowned down at the rings of apple peel as he let his mind return to his new life. ‘One day New York will be as elegant as London. There are new people arriving every day. Different languages. Different customs. It has an excitement that stirs the blood.’

‘Are you making your fortune—as you planned?’

‘I am trying hard.’ His face was lit by a sudden sardonic smile as a thought struck home. ‘Your mother would sniff in disgust. I have become engaged in trade! She would certainly not approve! But there is money to be made, businesses to invest in, and I intend to make my mark. I would be a fool not to. Birth is less important than energy and initiative. I like it. It is novel to be addressed as Mr Faringdon.’

‘So you will be a big name there?’ She smiled a little at the subtle tension that gripped him, the shimmering ambition that she had not seen since he had left her two years ago.

‘With good fortune.’ His eyes now held hers, alive with subdued excitement. ‘I am in partnership with Nathaniel Bridges—Faringdon and Bridges, no less. He is another young man of ambition and useful contacts—and a little capital, which he is willing to sink into the business, like myself. Now that the war with England is over our trade will expand. The treaty was made just before I landed, and it made expansion possible. This year we have a tariff to protect our own manufactures from foreign imports. We aim at self-sufficiency, which can be nothing but good for those prepared to invest in the future.’

She noted his casual identification with the new world, even if he did not. There was no doubt that he would return to New York when the inheritance was settled one way or the other. London, even Burford Hall, held nothing for him now except for memories of the past. She tensed against the pain around the edges of her heart when she acknowledged that he would leave again. Not that it should matter to her, of course. She turned her face away so that she could not see Henry’s burning desire to be gone from England, away from her and the hideous complications left by his brother.

‘Roads and canals are being developed,’ he continued, unaware of her disquiet. ‘And we are looking to develop trade routes further with Iberia and southern Europe. There is certainly a demand for wheat and we can produce it in huge quantities.’

‘So you are making money, it seems.’ She brought her thoughts back into line.

‘It seems very possible—and we only pay a quarter of taxes compared to English tax payers. So it will leave us with more money to plough back into the business and into a comfortable lifestyle. But not yet! We are ploughing all our profits back until the company is more secure so there is little money to spare. Hence the rented rooms over a shop.’

‘And when there is money to spend? What will you do then?’

‘I intend to build a large house as befits my new status as successful entrepreneur and businessman!’ Henry stretched back in his chair as he envisioned the future. ‘There is plenty of timber and prime sites to be had. The Commissioners in New York have drawn up plans to rebuild the city on impressive lines. Nothing like London, all congestion with narrow streets and winding roads and dark alleys. It will be very splendid with wide avenues crossing each other into a grid. If fortune smiles on us—and a little business acumen—Faringdon and Bridges will be part of it.’

Eleanor watched him as he spoke, assessing the new Hal compared with the one she had known. All the old enthusiasm was still there, but now tempered with experience and knowledge and an edge to his maturity that had been missing when he was still enjoying a life of moneyed leisure in London. His eyes glowed, dark and vibrant, as he outlined the plans of Faringdon and Bridges, probably forgetting to whom he spoke. Her smile was a little sad as she realised that he might have been addressing Nicholas or the unknown Nathaniel Bridges. She had no doubt, no doubt at all, that he would be successful.

‘We think we might invest in our own shipping.’ His thoughts drifted through the endless possibilities for men with money and the willingness to take a calculated risk. ‘And then there is the prospect of the opening up of the west. A lot of migration is under way and new states being added every year. And where people settle, they need goods and commodities. So much opportunity for those prepared to supply them. Forgive me.’ His lips twisted in a grimace. ‘I did not intend to bore you for so long. If you are unwise enough to ask, I am afraid that you pay the penalty.’ The curl of his lips was apologetic.

‘You did not. I would not have asked if I was not interested.’ Eleanor looked at him consideringly. ‘Will you marry?’ Why she had felt the need to ask so personal a question, she did not know, but waited for his reply.

Henry regarded her with a quizzical look. ‘Do you mean have I a lady in mind? No, I do not. But one day I shall marry.’

‘Do you have a mistress?’

‘Yes.’ His brows arched at her question, perhaps a little amused at her directness.

‘Is she pretty?’

‘Rosalind. Yes. She has dark hair and green eyes.’

So now she knew. Eleanor reprimanded herself for initiating the subject. All she had achieved was a sore heart and a leap of jealousy that sank its claws into her flesh, even though she knew that she had no right or claim on him. But she envied the unknown but pretty Rosalind, with her dark hair and green eyes, with all her heart. He had smiled when he spoke her name. There would be no weight of guilt or betrayal from the past to hinder their love. Eleanor immediately knew that there was a harsh lesson here for her that she would do well to learn and act on without delay. Hal was not for her, and never could be.

She fell into silence, brooding a little, unaware of his watching her.

‘What are you thinking?’

She blinked and withdrew her gaze from the flames, brought back to the present. Her eyes were suddenly clear and cold as she pushed herself upright in her chair, spine braced against its curved back. Her voice was equally cool and measured.

‘Why, I was thinking about what I must do now. It is perfectly clear to me that my marriage did not exist. I can no longer deny it, even to myself. We have heard nothing today to undermine Sir Edward’s written evidence and I must accept it.’ She took a visible deep breath. ‘I need to consider my future—I can put it off no longer.’ Spreading her fingers, palm downwards, before her on the table, she contemplated them with a little frown. Then, without comment, she slid a gold ring set with a hoop of diamonds and sapphires from her finger and placed it carefully, deliberately, in front of her on the table between the empty plates and glasses. The sapphires gleamed balefully at their rejection, the diamonds glinted. She could not take her eyes from them, shocked at what she had just done, but she spoke firmly as if compelled by an unseen force. ‘I need to make some decisions and act on them. And I may as well start now! It would seem that I have no right to wear that ring. Thomas gave it to me on the day that we were wed. I know that it is one of the Faringdon jewels and that your mother wore it as a bride.’ She touched it with one finger, almost a caress, before drawing her hands away into her lap, fearing that in a moment of weakness she might snatch up the ring and replace it on her finger. ‘I cannot wear it.’ Her eyes, glassy with unshed tears, were no less bright than the stones that she had just discarded amongst the debris of the meal.

Her action stunned him. And painted for him, more clearly than words could have done, the quagmire that the future would hold for her. He opened his mouth to deny her words, to say anything that would restore a fragment of hope, but could not. He would allow her to speak her mind before offering any advice, before putting forward his own suggestions.

‘So what will you do, Eleanor, if matters stand as Baxendale would have us believe?’

‘I do not know.’ A hint of panic nibbled at her determination to be strong-willed and positive, to take her future into her own hands. ‘I do not as yet know where I will go.’

‘Your family home, perhaps?’ It was not a plan that would seem to hold much attraction, for any number of reasons.

‘Yes. I can return to the village where I was born. My mother still has the house there, so there will always be a roof over our heads and we shall not starve.’ She shivered a little as if a draught had suddenly crept into the room. ‘I don’t think I can do that.’ Her courage wavered a little. ‘Everyone in the village has known me since I was a child—they would know about my present…situation. What would I call myself? Miss Stamford? With a child, but with no claim on its father? And not even the right to call myself a widow?’ She laughed, but there was a sharp edge to it, and her eyes were desolate. ‘I cannot contemplate it. I will have to accept talk, of course, but not intimate knowledge from everyone I meet. It would be too humiliating, day after day.’

He remained silent, but filled her glass again and pushed it across the table. Her fingers toyed nervously with the stem as she allowed her thoughts free rein.

‘Are you aware,’ Henry enquired finally, when the silence stretched uncomfortably, her thoughts apparently bringing no joy, ‘that Sir Edward has made the suggestion to Hoskins that the estate pay you a small pension?’ How would she react to that? he wondered.

‘No!’ Her head snapped up, her eyes sparkling with quick temper. ‘The thought of such charity appals me!’

‘Are you in a position to refuse? For your son, if not for you?’ He kept his voice deliberately gentle. ‘You married Thomas in good faith. I suggest that the estate owes you enough and more to allow you and the child to live in comfort. Don’t reject it out of hand, I beg of you.’

‘No!’ He watched her struggle for control, but then she sighed, and although she kept her head high in defiance against the agonies that the fates had flung in her path, her answer was bitter and plumbed the depths of despair. ‘Your are right, of course. How could you not be? For my son’s sake I must realise that I have no right to refuse. I must accept Edward’s… kindness!^,

‘Can I tell you what I think?’ Unable to remain seated, unable to bear her pain without sheltering her in his arms, Hal rose to his feet to stand beside the fireplace. ‘I don’t think you should shut yourself away in the depths of the country. It would be a terrible mistake. You are young. Very beautiful. There is no reason why you should not attract a husband and marry again. And find contentment, even happiness.’

She was silent, eyes wide as they connected with his.

‘You look as if you had never contemplated the possibility!’

‘No. How could you expect it? My situation would hardly attract a husband. No man would want his wife to be the subject of gossip and speculation. And without a dowry, not to mention an illegitimate child into the bargain.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘Apart from the fact that my experience of marriage would not encourage me to repeat it. I think not!’

Henry remained motionless, elbow resting against the heavy oak mantel, face set, no hint of the direction of his thoughts. Then, ‘I would marry you, Eleanor.’ He ignored her sharp intake of breath, as much surprised as she. ‘I would protect your reputation from the world’s censure with my name.’ He stepped across to her, reached down to still her restless fingers with his own. ‘Consider the advantages before you refuse.’

As he watched her reaction, one of utter amazement, he was forced to admit to his own astonishment at his words, which had come unplanned, unbidden, but at the same moment knowing in his heart that he wanted it more than anything—to protect and shield her from his brother’s disastrous and ill-chosen course of action. But he was by no means certain of her response to his offer, and could have wished it unsaid as he saw the reaction sweep over her.

Eleanor flinched as if she had been struck, a sharp open handed slap, her face becoming ashen as blood drained from beneath her fair skin. Her hands flexed under his. When she could find words to speak around the confusion of horror and intense longing in her mind, it was the horror and bone-deep humiliation that emerged to the surface, to colour her answer.

‘Do you really think that I would leap at the prospect of marriage to you, Hal? After your deliberate and callous rejection of me?’ Her voice was low, a bare whisper, but laced through with deadly venom.

‘Why not?’ Her refusal did not surprise him to any degree—but the tone of it hurt. ‘I did not reject you…’ What use going over this old ground? ‘Surely we can deal well enough together, given the present circumstances. I can offer you security and respect, a comfortable life for you and your son.’

But not your love! ‘Two years ago you did not want me.’ She held up her hand, palm outward toward him, as he would have refuted this accusation once more. ‘So why change your mind now? How dare you offer me pity!’

‘I would never offer you pity, Nell.’

‘No? It is the only reason I can think of, why you would offer me marriage now! Or do you think that our night here together might compromise my reputation? It may have escaped your notice, Hal, but I have no reputation.’ The bitter irony lay heavily between them. ‘You owe me nothing! I suppose I should thank you for making the grand gesture so selflessly, in spite of your attachment to Rosalind. You should feel proud of that. But you will doubtless be relieved to know I refuse your offer! There is no need to make the ultimate sacrifice for me.’ Pushing back her chair, she stood, her eyes now level with his and full of contempt.

‘Think what you wish, Nell. But don’t be so quick to misjudge me.’ There was a hint of temper in his voice, brows snapped together. ‘I would give you and the child—Thomas’s son—some security, some respectability—some recompense for the loss of all you had hoped for, if you wish. There could be worse scenarios, as you yourself admitted.’

‘I don’t doubt it! I could live in the gutter with the dispossessed of London!’ He was taken aback by the sneer. The débutante he had known did not sneer. ‘But to live in gratitude for your sacrifice for the rest of my life? For my son and myself to be dependent on your charity? I will not. Rather Edward’s than yours!’

Tell her you love her, you fool. She is hurt and despairing and without hope. Of course she will refuse your offer! Take her in your arms and kiss that soft, sad mouth. Tell her that she holds your heart in her hands, and always will. And that Rosalind means nothing to you.

But in the face of such contempt he could not. He sighed, lips pressed together into a harsh line.

‘Go to bed, Eleanor. Perhaps we have both said too much this night.’ He turned away, so did not see her blink back the tears before she turned to the door.

Well done! You handled that magnificently!

Henry flung himself back into the chair with a curse, disgust riding him hard. He had been given a chance to make her life easier, with care and consideration, with compassion. Perhaps even at some time in the future to win her love. Instead she was under an indestructible impression that he had made his move through pity. The barrier that she had built between them in the last halfhour was formidable indeed. And to be honest, he could not blame her. He had, unwittingly, helped her to heap stone upon stone between them.

He swore again and reached for the decanter of port to refill his glass.

And, even worse, she would in all probability refuse out of hand any help offered by him now.

Subtlety? Finesse in his dealings with women? Ha! He did not know the meaning of the words! Instead he had ridden roughshod over her feelings and sensibilities. To offer her marriage in such a situation had been crass in the extreme. But what man of honour could remain unmoved before so courageous and so lovely a woman in distress?

And he loved her.

He had tried to build her trust and, he thought, with some success. She had begun to relax a little in his company. He remembered her listening to his plans not an hour before, a smile on her face, a certain contentment in her eyes. Now all destroyed. He had hurt her pride—and she would feel that pride was all she had left. She was so sad and he had simply made it worse.

He drank the port, struck anew by the knowledge that, although she had now rejected his offer of marriage twice, he could still want her. And it had nothing whatsoever to do with pity!

What had she said to him? Hurtful things. Terrible things. She had meant none of them, but they could not be unsaid and now he would never forgive her. Eyes closed, she leaned with her back against the bedroom door, permitting the longing in her heart to sweep through her. What better future could she envisage than to allow him to take all her troubles on to his strong shoulders and let him stand protection against the world and its condemnation. And Tom. Her son would grow up with no slur on his name. As he should, as was his right.

And perhaps, one day, Hal might even return the love that burned so brightly and hopelessly through her veins.

The tears that she had battled against claimed victory at last. She removed her dress with fingers suddenly numb, her shoes, to stand in the centre of the room, in her chemise, hands by her sides, and weep helplessly, heartbrokenly for all that was lost.

Because she truly did not know what to do and Hal had offered her her dreams, to hold in the palms of her hand. And by the manner of her refusal, she had alienated him irrevocably. She knew that he did not want her, so she had refused his offer. Of course she had, as any woman of integrity must—but her pride was obliterated by bitter tears.

In the parlour, Henry rescued the sapphires and diamonds in their golden setting from the table. He held the family jewel in his hand as if it might give an answer to his problems, and then, with a shake of his head, slipped it into his pocket, to return it to her on a less emotional occasion. A thought struck him, chilling him to the marrow in his bones. He had offered Eleanor marriage carelessly and without consideration, acting without any thought other than his own desires, other than the simple expediency of rescuing her from her worst fears.

But it could not be.

The law recognised Eleanor’s affinity to him only as his brother’s wife and so in its wisdom frowned on any closer association between them. Certainly not marriage.

Eleanor had not realised it. Nor had he in the heat of the moment.

Marriage, with the possibility of further scandal attached to Eleanor’s name, was no answer at all. The realisation stuck him with the force of cold steel.

The minutes ticked past in the Red Lion in the village of Whitchurch. Henry continued to sit by the fire, booted feet propped on an iron fire-dog, contemplating an uncomfortable and sleepless night, probably on the oak settle, when a faint sound from beyond the door to the bedroom brought him out of a morass of far from pleasant thoughts.

He sat up. And knew without any doubt.

Oh God, no! He rubbed his hands over his face, dragged his fingers through his hair and pushed himself to his feet.

The coward in him told him to ignore it. Eleanor would soon be exhausted and would fall asleep without any intervention from him. Any attempt to comfort her would solve nothing for either of them and might make the situation even worse with impossible legal complications that he did not feel up to explaining to her just at that moment. He bared his teeth in a grimace at the prospect of holding her in his arms and remaining unmoved by her softness and her beauty. No! Don’t even think about it!

But he could not ignore it, of course he could not. Especially when he had in some sense been the cause of her emotional state of mind. His mouth curled sardonically. He had not expected that an offer of marriage would reduce any woman to a fit of hysterics! Rosalind, he thought, would leap at the chance.

With a sigh he walked to the door where he hesitated, listened, head bent. And then, without knocking, before he could change his mind, opened the door and went in.

She stood on the rag rug in the centre of the floor in her chemise, her feet bare. She was shivering with emotion and cold, but had been unable to make the decision to get into bed. And she wept, sobs that shook her whole body, tears streaming down her face. She made no effort to hide them or her tear-ravaged face from him, even if she were aware of his presence. He was not certain. She was beyond awareness, lost in a wilderness of insecurity and grief.

‘Nell.’ He felt his heart turn over in compassion, touched beyond measure by her wretchedness against which she had no defence. Courage she might have, but not the will to fight this deluge of pain. ‘This is no good.’ He stepped quietly to her. ‘You will make yourself ill if you weep in this way.’

‘Go away!’ She choked out the words and now covered her face with her hands. ‘I don’t want you!’

‘I will not.’

Without hesitation, he folded his arms around her, as any man must, and pulled her close, using one hand to press her head to his shoulder. She resisted, as he knew she would, standing rigidly against him, refusing to accept his comfort. But he persisted, until suddenly on a sob she melted and clung to him, turning her face against the base of his throat. Too sad to be embarrassed or to refuse the warmth offered by the one man who had possession of her heart and whose offer she had discarded with wounding and unforgivable words.

Henry stroked her hair, removing the pins that secured her curls as he did so, allowing it to tumble over his hands in a heavy fall of silk. He murmured and crooned, foolish words that promised the impossible, the unattainable, and yet soothed by their mere sound. He kissed her temples, the lightest of kisses, and let her cry, his cheek resting against her hair. She would have fallen at his feet if he had not held her.

‘My love. My dear love. I will not leave you. I could not leave you to grieve alone. I will love and care for you, whatever the future brings.’

Momentarily horrified at hearing himself speak such sentiments aloud, he could not regret it, but fervently hoped that she would not remember when she awoke.

Gradually her breathing quietened, so that he was able to stoop and lift her high against his heart, carrying her to the bed where he placed her, sitting beside her to rock her in his arms until utter exhaustion claimed her and her lashes closed on her tear-stained cheeks. Only then did he turn back the covers, place her against the bank of pillows and tuck her in. He would not look at her. His instinct told him to leave, to go whilst he could still resist the lure of her fragile femininity and her need for comfort. But she held on to his hand, even in sleep, and it would be cruelty indeed to reject her now.

So be it.

He eased into a chair by the bed and let her be comforted by his presence, watching her now-sleeping face. Even when her fingers finally relaxed he still remained, unwilling to leave her for fear that she would wake alone in the dark and be unable to deal with the torment in her mind.

Eleanor.

Images flooded back into his mind from that night two years ago, that night that had haunted him every hour of every day since, no matter how hard he had tried to banish the painful and yet glorious memory. Images that swamped him with their clarity and intensity. He would like nothing better than to strip away the fine linen and lace chemise, to feast his eyes on the creamy white perfection of her exposed body. As he had in the summer house beneath the rose pergola, in the garden of Faringdon House. Escaping her chaperon, they had been intoxicated by the sense of freedom as he had pushed her gently back on the cushions. He had seduced her with tales of America and their new life there together. And with his kisses, the touch of his hands that awakened her innocent emotions, setting her blood on fire. She was virgin, of course, but as caught up in the silver enchantment of the moonlight, as he had been. He should have known better than to take advantage of her, he now admitted in that shadowy room in Whitchurch, but that night he had given in to youth and impulse and an overriding need to bury himself within her soft and tantalising heat. The scent of honeysuckle and jasmine invading the senses, robbing him of all integrity and responsibility towards her. And yet she had willingly given him the greatest gift she could, clinging to him as he took her with less than subtle skill. He smiled bitterly. He knew more about women now. He might not be much older in years, but was vastly more experienced in the arts of seduction. Now he knew how to awaken passion, how to pleasure and delight. He must have hurt her in that moon-kissed garden, but she had wrapped her arms around him, vowing her everlasting love.

What had gone wrong? Why had she not joined him when he had sailed for America? He could not believe that on that one night, drunk on shared passion, she had not loved him to the exclusion of all else. And yet she had rejected him. Wilfully ignored, presumably destroyed, the letter that he had sent, which he knew she had received, and thus turned her back on his offer to share his life with her. And even if he had not been so very certain of this letter, diligently delivered by his groom, there was the one further note that he had hurriedly penned on his arrival in New York. She had also failed to respond to that plea for an explanation. She might deny their existence, but the evidence weighed heavily against her. It would have been far better if she had told him bluntly that she had simply changed her mind. It would have sliced at his heart, but anything would have been kinder than the cruel edge of indifferent silence.

He breathed deep to still the beating of his heart, the pumping of his blood to his loins. Because, in spite of everything in their past, in spite of all her apparent duplicity, he could not get her out of his mind, much less out of his blood where desire still surged. He wanted her. Now. To show her again the splendour of passion that could be awakened between a man and a woman. To bury himself deep within her hot, velvet-soft body, so that she could forget everything but the two of them. To drive her beyond control so that she could forget uncertainty and grief. To claim her as his own, bodies joined, slick with desire. To own her and possess her, the one woman he desired. He wanted all of that now!

But he could not. And deliberately eased the unwitting tightening of his fingers around her hand. She was his brother’s widow. With a fatherless child, a reputation under attack and complications on all sides. He must not allow himself to forget it, no matter the temptation to sweep it all aside and cover her body with his own, crushing her to the bed so that she cried out his name in the dark. She needed comfort and support. He would try to think as a gentleman, remember his duty towards her as a trustee of the Faringdon estate, and give her what she needed most. But, by God, he had given himself a hard task!

He looked at her, drawing on his memory and imagination. Tormenting himself but unable to fight the bittersweet longing. Long, slender legs that she had wrapped around him. High firm breasts, her nipples hardening under the onslaught of his lips. Shadowed secrets waiting to be discovered. He had not forgotten and wanted nothing more but to rediscover them again.

‘I will care for you,’ he murmured on a sigh of frustration, softly so as not to wake her. ‘I will not let the world condemn you for some mischance that is no fault of yours. I will look after you, whether you wish it or no.’

Quite what he intended to do, he was unsure, but it was a solemn and binding vow, even though she slept on, unaware of it.

Eleanor awoke at some time in the night, disorientated and in discomfort from her long bout of tears. But even though her head ached, her first conscious thought was one of simple pleasure, that Hal had not left her. He was asleep in the chair beside her, head pillowed on one arm, resting on the edge of the bed. His other hand was still covering hers, even though lax in sleep. His face was turned away, hidden from her. She would have liked to touch his hair, the dark, vibrant strength of it where it curled onto his neck, but feared to wake him, nor did she wish to lose contact with his hand on hers. He had stayed with her, even though his stiff, cold muscles would be a matter for regret in the morning. But she would not reject his decision. Simply his presence comforted her. Thomas had been her friend, but Hal was the love of her life. She fell asleep again, holding the thought, as she held his hand, against the onslaught of disturbing dreams.

When Eleanor awoke again the next morning, with light creeping through the heavy swags, he had gone and the place where his head had rested was cold. She felt an instant chill of regret. He might comfort her, he might watch over her as she slept, but he had felt no desire to repeat the experience of two years before in the gardens of Faringdon House. An experience which she would not remember! Even after two years she flushed as the memories pushed their insidious tendrils into her thoughts, just as the wisteria invaded the balustraded terrace at Burford Hall. She could not imagine how she could have been so unmaidenly. A chaste kiss, perhaps, but she had allowed Hal far more intimacies. The flush deepened to flaming rose as she recalled the episode in the summer house with a ridiculous mix of horror and intense delight. He had handled her with such care, mindful of her innocence. Loved her, cherished her, left her in no doubt of his tender feelings towards her, except that they had apparently not been sufficiently strong to outlive the night! Perhaps he had been disgusted by her lack of skill, her lamentable lack of knowledge, the still unformed curves of a young girl. He had certainly discovered no desire to develop their relationship further! She had not seen him again until he had bowed before her in the withdrawing-room at Burford Hall. No matter the soft words and beguiling images he had painted of their future together, his promises had been empty indeed, proof that no man could be trusted!

Turning back the bed covers with a little huff of disgust at her wayward thoughts, she noticed, and remembered—and understood, with a sinking heart. Her ring. She had removed it in despair, leaving it on the table in the parlour, but now it was back on her finger. She twisted it so that the morning sun glinted on the edges and the tiny jewels. Hal must have restored it while she slept. She could not but admire his loyalty to his brother’s name, even when she herself had despaired and denied the legality of her own marriage. But she also understood very clearly and knew that it would be wise of her not to forget. For the ring was a symbol of her union with Thomas, and Henry had replaced it where he considered it belonged. That simple action should tell her more plainly than any words that Henry saw her as his brother’s widow, and nothing more in his life.