Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue - Mary Nichols, Anne Herries - Страница 11

The gathering of the Faringdon family in the morning room of the house in Park Lane on the following afternoon, when Henry and Eleanor had arrived back in London, could not be described to be in a spirit of optimism or even qualified hope. They brooded over their lack of progress.

The visit to the village of Whitchurch had achieved nothing to their advantage, Henry reported. The Reverend Broughton might not be the most likeable of characters, with a shadow thrown over his morals and behaviour as a clergyman, but there was no reason to disbelieve him in the matter of the marriage of Thomas and Octavia. He had confirmed the events of marriage and birth. The documents appeared to be genuine. Sir Edward Baxendale was well known with a good reputation, and the existence of a sister with a recently deceased husband and a young baby was common knowledge. Eleanor said nothing, merely a silent witness to their failure to unearth any incriminating evidence.

The only outcome of the visit, in Mrs Stamford’s unexpressed opinion, was a certain intangible tension in her daughter. As now, she thought, glancing across at her. Eleanor might have been alone in the room, with eyes unfocused as if her thoughts were far away, turning the ring on her finger round and round with terrible monotony. And there was a distinct unease between Eleanor and Lord Henry, for which Mrs Stamford was not sorry. Too much intimacy would certainly be unwise. But Mrs Stamford was wise enough to remain silent about the night they had been forced to spend in the Red Lion in Whitchurch. Given the circumstances, and her memory of the previous occasion of confrontation when she had quite clearly lost the battle of wills, she did not feel up to taking on Lord Henry on such a personal matter. Even if she was the Marchioness’s mama.

London, likewise, had provided no scandal. Kingstone knew nothing of any interest about the parties. As far as Nicholas knew, Sir Edward was an exemplary character with no interest in gambling, horses or loose women.

Mrs Stamford frowned at his comment.

‘For whatever reason, Baxendale does not appear to have arrived at point non plus. He has no interest in the turf. He does not own a racehorse. He is not known at Tattersall’s. He does not frequent gambling dens. He does not keep a mistress. Nor does he visit opera dancers!’ Nicholas deliberately expanded on the subject, his lips curled with mischief as Mrs Stamford stiffened and sniffed her disapproval. ‘Sir Edward is a veritable pillar of society.’

‘So I must accept the situation.’ Eleanor had earlier returned from an emotional visit to her son in the nursery and, after holding him in her arms, watching his sturdy limbs as he pulled himself upright against his crib, she could not deny her duty to the child. ‘I must take the offer of an annuity from Sir Edward—and thank him for his generosity!—and find somewhere for myself and Tom to live. Perhaps we should return to our house in Leavening, Mama.’

‘No. It is too soon—’ Henry immediately turned his head, intent on halting such a scheme, but Mrs Stamford interrupted, very much of the same mind.

‘No, Eleanor. We should not. I went to see Lady Beatrice yesterday. Perhaps you had forgotten my errand in that direction. I swore her to secrecy, of course. I found her a most well-informed lady—not as flighty as her daughter. We had quite a detailed conversation and exchange of views.’

Henry avoided Nicholas’s eye.

‘I think you should not be in too much of a hurry to accept Sir Edward’s offer, Eleanor. For once I am in total agreement with Lord Henry.’ She smiled thinly at him. ‘It is true that Lady Beatrice remembers a fair girl with whom Thomas was much taken. And she thought there was a brother with her on some of the social occasions. But she is not sure, and is not convinced that the name Baxendale rings true. She claimed to know no Baxendales. But she had to admit that she is better at faces than names—after all, it was four years ago.’

She looked round the circle of faces.

‘I do not know if that helps us or not.’ Nicholas rubbed his chin. ‘I suppose that it is the only hint of doubt we have in an otherwise cast-iron case.’ He looked to Henry. ‘What do you suggest, Hal? Arrange a meeting between Sir Edward and Aunt Beatrice? Now that is an occasion which I would not want to miss.’

Henry frowned at him for a moment, considering the possibilities. Then: ‘Very well. This is what we will do. We will entertain. A small party—we have sufficient rooms here. Very select—mostly family. Cards, music, refreshments—you know the sort of thing. Eleanor will be hostess.’ He looked towards her, brows arched, not totally convinced that she would comply.

‘Yes. Of course, if that is what you wish.’

‘I do.’ He smiled at her, an unusually tender smile, which was not lost on the audience. ‘Don’t despair, Nell. We still have all to win—but we will not wave the flag of surrender quite yet. And a family party will be quite the thing, in spite of Thomas’s death. You need have no concern about that.’

She returned the smile, although a little sad, unable to resist such comfort. ‘Thank you, Hal. I shall never forget your kindness, whatever the outcome.’ As she looked down at the sapphires on her hand, they both knew that her thoughts were far from that room in Park Lane.

‘And we will invite the Baxendales.’ Nicholas picked up on Hal’s suggestion to deflect attention from the pair, aware of Mrs Stamford beside him, rustling in displeasure at the unexpected intimacy. He would give a pony to know exactly what had happened between them in Whitchurch. He must make certain to ask Hal. ‘We will stress that it is a family occasion. They will hardly be able to refuse since they are intending to fill their own niche in the Faringdon family tree. It will make for an interesting evening!’

‘And I must be certain to invite Aunt Beatrice?’ Eleanor asked, quickly appreciating the plan.

‘Exactly!’ Henry rose to his feet and strode towards the door. ‘We will try every means we have to flush the bird from the covert. Even if it means spending an evening in Lady Beatrice’s overbearing company!’

‘Will you escort me to the theatre? Tonight, my lord?’

Eleanor confronted Lord Henry in the breakfast parlour two days later and made her request without preamble or explanation, even before she had closed the door behind her. She had positively erupted into the room in a flurry of muslin skirts.

‘Well, I…’ His lordship looked up from his perusal of the Morning Post, suitably taken aback.

‘I realise that you might have other plans—and I would not normally ask that you put yourself out, particularly at such short notice—but I find that it is vitally important.’ The words tripped off her tongue, indicative of strong emotion. She came to stand before him, determined to have his attention. Lord Henry promptly put down the paper to watch her warily, aware of the high colour slashed along her cheekbones. Now what was afoot?

Since their return from Whitchurch the strain between them had lessened a little, submerged under a cool sensible acceptance of the need to unite in their resistance to the Baxendales’ claims. Although they were successful in keeping a distance, awareness of each other remained, a tangible thing. And so Henry was wary of Eleanor’s request.

‘Why?’ He hoped the suspicion did not sound in his voice.

‘We have not been invited—I have not been invited—to the Carstairs’s Drum this evening, when we know that all the world and his wife will be present. I would not even have known of it, if it had not been for Beatrice asking if she would see us there.’ Eleanor flung away from him to pace to the window, and back again. ‘How long has Marianne Carstairs been closely acquainted with this family? For ever, I shouldn’t wonder. She certainly counted your mama as one of her closest friends. And,’ she interrupted, brows drawn together in an uncompromising line, as Henry opened his mouth to reply, ‘don’t tell me that they are being considerate for my state of mourning. I have been out and about so often recently that no one in town would be under any illusion about my present circumstances.’ Eleanor sat herself in one of the straight-backed chairs with a flounce of indignation. ‘It is a deliberate snub. I will not stand for it from a family I considered friends. So I wish to go to the theatre.’

‘Perhaps the invitation has been mislaid?’ Henry tried for a mild reply, to calm the seething lady before him.

Her stare of withering disbelief was answer enough.

‘No. Of course, you are right.’ Henry mentally postponed his evening, which had promised a leisurely hand of cards at Brooks’s and a convivial drink with old friends. He managed not to sigh. ‘So, what do you wish?’

‘I wish to be seen at Drury Lane. I will not sit and hide at home when every other person of consequence in London is making merry!’

‘Shakespeare?’ His lordship mentally winced.

‘By no means.’ Eleanor was forced to smile at his reluctance. ‘The Bard is distinctly out of fashion since you left these shores. Mr Elliston, who has taken on the management of Drury Lane, has decided that a more popular entertainment is more the thing—and will bring in more money to his pockets! So it is likely to be The Beggar’s Opera rather than King Lear. Not as erudite, but more economically attractive, you understand.’

‘Then I will escort you,’ Henry agreed, amused at Eleanor’s quick assessment.

‘I can even promise you any number of opera dancers who will doubtless cast out lures to you. Your evening might not be wasted!’

He ignored her caustic comments, appreciative of her disordered spirits. ‘And to escort so attractive a lady as yourself. It will be my greatest pleasure. How can I refuse?’

‘How indeed.’ Her brows rose.

‘Ah—are we to be chaperoned to this seductive event?’

‘Of course. It is not my intention to be seen alone with you at such a performance—to replace one scandal with another. My mother will accompany us. We shall all enjoy every minute of it!’

Thus a private box was procured at Drury Lane.

Eleanor made an appearance, spectacular in a new gown, guaranteed to catch every eye. The Italian silk and lace shimmered in the candlelight, its intense violet hue iridescent and sumptuous. A jewelled aigrette held a discreet spray of egret feathers in her hair. A rope of amethysts wound its shining path around her slender throat. She had even made judicious use of cosmetics to disguise the ravages of strain and sleeplessness. A little Olympian Dew to bring a sparkle to her eyes, the veriest hint of Liquid Bloom of Roses to enhance the soft colour in her cheeks. Her appearance at the theatre, Henry realised, was to be a deliberate challenge, a throwing down of the family gauntlet to all those who would dare to question the Marchioness’s presence in London society. She looked magnificent, as had been her intention.

Henry dared make no comment, resorting instead to discretion, knowing that any compliment would have received a short reply. There was fire and temper in her eyes this night. So he merely bowed as he handed her and her watchful mama into the town carriage, quelling the desire with stern intent, desire that had run hot through his blood when faced with the glory of her appearance and her enforced proximity.

It was a tension-filled evening: more than one lorgnette levelled in their direction; more than one cold shoulder turned as Lord Henry ushered the two ladies with consummate ease through the crowded lobby; more than one half-heard whisper. But Mrs Stamford, well rehearsed by her daughter in her role for the evening, acted her part with undisturbed composure and dignity, set to ignore any unpleasantness as if it were beneath her notice. Eleanor was at her superb best. She bowed, smiled, conversed, sipped champagne—not everyone was at the Carstairs’s Drum!—gave her full attention to the performance as if nothing troubled her thoughts beyond the colour and style of the gown that she would wear on the following day. And she stared down those whose gaze she considered too insolent to be tolerated. She watched the remarkable Vestris in the role of Macheath, shapely legs scandalously clad in masculine breeches, with due admiration. She frowned at the courtesans who paraded in the lobby and sent flirtatious glances at her escort—how dared they!—and frowned equally at her escort, who was not averse to returning the smiles. And she engaged Henry in trivial and lively conversation to keep from dwelling on the critical stares of the Dowagers in their boxes.

Mrs Stamford found need to comment on young women—no lady here!—who cavorted on stage in male attire. She could not imagine why anyone of breeding and sensitivity would prefer such a performance to a production of King Lear with Edmund Kean—so talented as he was. The Darling of London indeed! Vestris was in Mrs Stamford’s considered opinion no better than she should be! What was the world coming to! Eleanor turned a deaf ear.

Henry watched the performance with an amused smile and appreciative eye.

‘I trust you are enjoying yourself, my lord?’ Eleanor wielded her fan with considerable energy and expertise. Her mama was momentarily and safely occupied in conversation with a passing acquaintance.

‘I am.’ He slanted a glance at her lovely face.

‘And you approve of Vestris?’

‘Miss Lucy Bartolozzo? Definitely an asset to the production. It is everything you promised me. And the company of a beautiful woman, of course. You outshine everyone here, even the ladies of the lobby.’ His smile was fast and devastating. Dangerous, Eleanor decided, lowering her lashes to hide her confusion at his compliment.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Her lips curved in a genuine smile, despite her best intentions to remain censorious on the subject of the courtesans. ‘Such a compliment lifts my spirits inordinately.’

‘Is it possible that you are flirting with me, madam?’

‘Certainly not!’

Henry laughed aloud, drawing more than one pair of eyes towards their box.

‘Hush! I would not willingly give the town tabbies anything other to talk about! I was merely expressing my heartfelt gratitude.’ Eleanor looked away, more than aware that her cheeks were burning.

‘You must not, you know.’ Henry covered her hand for a moment with his own, his voice very gentle. ‘You are doing very well, Eleanor. It is not necessary to take the town by storm.’

‘No? I think that perhaps it is. Smile, Hal.’ Her own was brittle, but she held her head high. Once again, he could not but admire her spirit. ‘The town is watching us. I will enjoy this evening if it is the death of me!’

At last the never-ending evening drew to a close. At last! Henry helped the ladies from their carriage and into the entrance hall in Park Lane.

‘Satisfied?’ he asked, with a quizzical glance.

‘Yes.’ Eleanor raised her chin, still vibrating with energy.

‘Something you would wish to repeat?’

‘No.’ She could not lie. ‘Not in the foreseeable future. If you wish to renew your acquaintance with Vestris, it will be without my company. But you have my gratitude, Hal. I felt a need to…to make a grand gesture and be noticed. I do not regret it.’

Mrs Stamford halted on the bottom step before retiring to bed, turning to look at his lordship over her shoulder. ‘I have to thank you, Henry. For your unfailing support of my daughter. It should not go unsaid.’ She spoke as if the words were wrung from her against her better judgement.

‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ Henry bowed, hiding his initial amazement.

‘Not the easiest of evenings,’ the lady continued, arranging her embroidered Kashmir stole more elegantly round her shoulders. ‘And I am sure that you would have preferred to spend your time in other amusements.’

‘Not when the comfort of her ladyship is a priority.’

‘No. I realise that you have Eleanor’s best interests at heart. I have not given you sufficient credit for that in the past, have I?’ She gave him a considering look ‘Perhaps I—’ She broke off, redefining her thoughts. ‘But no matter.’

She turned on her heel to precede them up the stairs.

Eleanor’s eyes met Hal’s in lively astonishment.

‘Now that must be a first,’ he murmured, when Mrs Stamford was out of hearing. ‘Your mama’s approval is a state that I had never hoped to achieve.’

‘I advise you to treasure it,’ was Eleanor’s dry reply. ‘In all probability it will never happen again.’

Before the Faringdon family could embark on their own social event, they were committed, the following evening, to the small soirée at the elegant London home of the Earl and Countess of Sefton.

‘I would rather not go,’ Eleanor stated, with every intention of following her statement with action, making a graceful withdrawal from the invitation. Taking the air in Hyde Park was one thing. So was an intimate family gathering. Even a private visit to the theatre. But appearing in public at so splendid an occasion, with the haut ton present, when she would draw the attention of, and need to converse with, any number of people without means of escape, was quite another matter.

‘If you will take my advice…’ Henry leaned heavily on the words, but with a bland expression ‘…you will present yourself with all the consequence you can muster as Marchioness of Burford and carry it off with the utmost assurance. I suggest you wear the diamond set, complete with tiara.’

‘But I don’t like the diamond set.’ Eleanor was momentarily distracted. ‘It is far too heavy, and the setting is very clumsy—it makes me feel like a Dowager of advanced years. And the stones need cleaning.’

‘You are a Dowager—so wear it.’ She silently dared him to mention her age, the glint of a challenge in her eyes. His lips twitched a little, but he desisted. ‘If you are carrying a fortune of badly cut diamonds on your person, personally designed by my grandmother, no one will dare treat you with anything less than supreme respect!’

‘But not the tiara!’ She might be prepared to compromise, but only to a degree.

‘Definitely the tiara!.’

‘It is not my choice of an evening’s entertainment either.’ Nicholas also would gladly have cried off. ‘Readings from somebody’s recent masterpiece. One of Lady Sefton’s protégés, I expect. A poet? Have mercy, Hal.’

But Henry took Nicholas aside when Eleanor had left the room with more than a suspicion of a revolt in her step. ‘You should attend with the rest of us, Nick. It might not be the easiest of evenings for her—we cannot know—and Eleanor needs all our support if any of Lady Sefton’s acquaintances takes it into her head to play the grande dame and turn the shoulder. Besides, it will be good to see the Faringdons out in force.’ His lips curved a little as he anticipated his brother’s reply. ‘It is not necessary for you to stay for the whole evening. I give you permission to leave before the poet takes centre stage!’

‘Very well.’ Nicholas laughed. ‘Whilst you, for your sins, can stay to the bitter end, to wallow in sentimentality and bad verse. Tell me, Hal. You seem to have come to some accord with Nell.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. Since your visit to Whitchurch.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And you intend to tell me nothing.’ Had Nick really expected his brother’s confidence on this issue?

‘Something like that.’ There was nothing to be learned from the bland reply.

‘Treat her gently, Hal.’ Nicholas was suddenly serious. ‘She has had an unenviable time since Thomas’s death. And now all this…’

‘I have every intention of doing so.’ Nicholas flinched a little at Henry’s fierce response. ‘Do you consider me to be so insensitive?’

‘Of course not.’ Nick decided to take a step on forbidden ground. ‘It’s just that—you will be leaving soon—and…’ He found it difficult to continue under his brother’s intense stare, but then Henry shrugged and allowed himself a smile.

‘I know. Don’t worry, Nick. I will treat her gently.’

‘Don’t break her heart, Hal. She is very vulnerable.’

‘I am aware.’ An icy reply. There was no chance. No chance at all of that.

Nick changed the subject with ease when it became clear that his brother would say no more. ‘I have discovered that you have a pronounced aptitude for management, Hal. I did not realise it—and must beware in future.’

‘I can only hope it pays off.’ But doubts crowded in. And not least that he was finding it increasingly difficult to disguise his emotions in his dealings with Nell. If Nick had his suspicions, he must be more circumspect. After all, who knew better than he just how very vulnerable she was? No, whatever was to come in the future, he must heed Nick’s warning and ensure that her heart remain intact.

Eleanor chose to wear a stylish evening gown of amethyst silk. She knew it was beautiful and could not but enjoy the sensation of restrained good taste in the silk shell with its muslin overskirt, patterned with tiny flowers, falling in soft folds. The low scoop of the neckline served as a frame for the diamond necklace and she clipped matching bracelets over her long gloves. She even pinned the heavy ring brooch to the lace on the bodice. But wear the tiara she would not, the corners of her mouth lifting a little as she contemplated Henry’s probable reaction. A lavender fan with silver sticks completed the ensemble. At the same time she cloaked herself in a veil of calm confidence, determined to smile and find enjoyment in the occasion since her family were so equally determined to support her. There would also be friends there, kind and supportive, as well as Lady Sefton’s warm compassion. Nothing to fear, nothing to make her heart beat in her breast like a trapped bird.

They gathered in the front parlour, Henry and Nicholas splendid and austere in black satin evening coats and breeches, white linen and subdued waistcoats. The Countess of Sefton might promise a small soirée, but they knew her of old.

Eleanor thought that they looked stunning together. Tall, broad shouldered, lean and well muscled, their physical power and attraction enhanced rather than disguised by the formal clothing, she knew that they would take every eye in the room. They looked, she decided, dark and smooth and dangerous. How could she be nervous? They were quite magnificent.

Quietly elegant in deep blue brocade with a heavy lace overslip, Mrs Stamford ran a critical eye over her daughter. ‘Very nice,’ she admitted. ‘Although, I have to agree, I have rarely seen so ugly a setting for fine stones. And so old-fashioned. What can your grandmama have been thinking of?’ She frowned at Lord Henry as if he were in some indefinable way to blame for his grandmother’s taste for the heavy and vulgarly ostentatious.

‘Impressive!’ was Henry’s only comment as Eleanor innocently arranged an embroidered stole around her shoulders, refusing to meet his eye. His brows arched at the lack of the tiara and knew that she was waiting. So he said nothing. But privately thought that she would outshine every lady present that evening. Her eyes glowed, reflecting the tint of her gown and her nerves gave her cheeks a delicate colour, with or without the careful and subtle application of cosmetics. She was lovely. He raised her fingers to his lips and bowed his silent appreciation, since he was in a position to do no other.

Lady Sefton’s town house in Berkeley Square, large, palatial and expensively furnished, and at the best of fashionable addresses, had been sumptuously decorated for the occasion with banks of flowers and silk swags. And as expected, the cream of society was present to hear the lady’s fledgling poet.

The Earl and Countess welcomed the Faringdon party, the Countess with a warm handclasp and particularly understanding smile for Eleanor. ‘Relax here tonight, my dear, and enjoy the company. I am well aware of what is being said. But you must not be embarrassed…’ She tightened her hold in warm affection and leaned closer for a private word. ‘I knew Thomas well. An estimable young man, of great integrity. As are all the Faringdons.’ She cast an admiring glance to where the gentlemen were still in conversation with her husband. ‘So attractive… My guests will respect your position, of course. I think you need fear no ill will here tonight.’

‘You are very kind.’ Eleanor felt her colour deepen as emotion welled. ‘It has not been the easiest of weeks.’

‘No. But you are here to enjoy the evening. A little conversation. Some music. A poetry reading, no less, by a remarkable young man. And here—’ she beckoned a passing footman ‘—a glass of champagne. Permit me to tell you, dear Eleanor, your gown is quite beautiful. You must be sure to tell me who made it for you—later, when we have a little time.’

Eleanor felt a gentle warmth creep through her iced veins with the bubbles of the champagne, bringing her alive again. How valuable good friends were. She need not have been so concerned. Across the room she could see Lady Beatrice Faringdon, as well as the Earl and Countess of Painscastle. She wondered idly if Henry had once again exerted some influence on this show of support. He must certainly have bribed Nick to guarantee his reluctant presence.

‘You must find your family most supportive.’ Lady Sefton picked up Eleanor’s thoughts before she moved away to greet more guests.

‘I do indeed.’

‘And I am interested to note a predatory look in Lord Henry’s eye for anyone he suspects of showing you less than good manners.’

‘Do you?’ Eleanor looked across the room to Henry in some confusion.

‘Of course. He is most attentive. And so very handsome. I am quite jealous.’ She tapped Eleanor’s wrist playfully with a pretty ivory-sticked fan and laughed. ‘Perhaps you should try to persuade him to remain in London. There are so few very attractive men in comparison. And certainly none, I suggest, in the marriage market!’ On a little laugh, seeing Eleanor’s deepening colour, Lady Sefton made her departure.

Does she suspect me of flirting with Henry? With my husband dead little more than four months? Eleanor was horrified as she turned to look to where Henry was in conversation with his aunt, Lady Beatrice Faringdon, a stout Dowager of considerable presence in sumptuous maroon satin and nodding ostrich feathers. Formidable indeed, as her mother had intimated. Then his lordship looked up as if he sensed her questioning gaze on him and, unsmiling, very grave, raised a hand in tacit recognition before bending an ear back to the Dowager, who was holding forth on some subject. Yes. He is attractive. And he cares. No matter what was between us in the past, he cares. Whatever happens, I am not alone in this.

And Nick watched the silent exchange. And understood. The flash of recognition, the almost intimate connection between them. Hal might as well have kissed her! The fierce heat, the intense possession in Hal’s eyes were unmistakable. He had set himself up as Nell’s protector, but there was far more involved here than family support in a potentially stressful situation. Just as there was no mistaking the delicate flush on Nell’s cheeks as she turned away. They might deny it, as he was sure they would. They might succeed in hiding it from the fashionable world, as was doubtless their intent, but Nick could read the love between them as clearly as if they had shouted it from the rooftops. He swallowed against the dismay as he contemplated the terrible uncertainty of the future.

With a lighter heart, unaware of Nick’s concern, Eleanor turned her thoughts back to the pleasures of the evening. Behind her a familiar voice took her attention and she soon found herself deep in conversation about the prevailing fashion for silkedged bonnets with Cousin Judith and Miss Hestlerton, a pretty girl related to the Seftons and in her first Season. Perhaps the polite world was not so quick to judge after all.

But her renewed confidence was to be short lived. Lady Sefton requested in her gentle voice that her guests take a seat to listen to a poem, an ‘Ode to Love and Romance', which was to be read by its author, a young man very much in the Byronic mode with ruffled dark locks and pale features.

There was some manoeuvring and much comment in the salon as guests took their places or attempted to withdraw to a little side salon, which had been set aside for those whose taste ran to a hand of whist.

‘Eleanor.’ Judith drew her notice with a hand on her arm. ‘Can I introduce you to Lady Firth? I am not sure that you are acquainted. She has been out of town for some months with her husband who is a keen traveller.’

Before them stood a thin, fair lady of her mother’s generation. Eleanor noticed that she had the coldest grey eyes. And for the first time there was no polite or welcoming smile, no exchange of light talk, nothing but contempt, barely concealed.

The thought flitted across Eleanor’s mind. Lady Firth. No, she did not know the lady, but she knew of her. An associate of the Princess Lieven, which would explain much. The lady looked at Eleanor with a frown. She raised a pearl-handled lorgnette, with thin-lipped superiority. There was a world of distaste imprinted on her haughty features and in her gesture as she raked Eleanor from head to foot with condemnation in her eyes.

‘No, my dear.’ Lady Firth addressed herself to Judith. ‘I do not think that I wish to be introduced to this person.’ Her smile could have cut through glass, all edges sharp. ‘I believe that she is here under false pretences and has no right to the title that she claims as hers through marriage. Lady Sefton really should have chosen with more discrimination for her guest list—but I suppose it is difficult to believe the depths to which some people will descend to be noticed.’ The lady’s voice had an unfortunate carrying quality that drifted across the elegant room, slicing through the conversations. Heads turned in their direction. Silence fell. All attention was drawn away from the budding poet.

Judith rose to the occasion without hesitation, eyes fierce, her red curls aflame with indignation. ‘I am certain, Lady Firth, that it is no such thing. The Marchioness of Burford is my dear cousin and worthy of all respect.’

Eleanor drew herself together, all dignity and pride and glittering diamonds. She had expected to be overwhelmed with shame, but it was anger that surged through her veins in a veritable tidal wave. She would not bow her head before idle gossip and common innuendo. How dare this woman snub her in so public a manner! How dare she presume intimate knowledge on so delicate and private a matter! If Judith’s eyes sparkled with indignation, Eleanor’s flashed fury, entirely at odds with their beautiful, soft-violet hue. ‘It is no matter, Judith. Do not allow yourself to be disturbed.’ She bent her cold regard on the lady with a curl of derision to her soft mouth, spine held rigid. ‘If Lady Firth is sufficiently ill mannered as to discuss my private affairs in Lady Sefton’s salon, she does not deserve any word of explanation or apology from our lips. If she chooses not to recognise me, then—’

A cold voice, frigid and lethal as the wind from arctic snows, interrupted and finished the sentiment, ‘—then it is her loss.’ A strong arm was placed beneath Eleanor’s and a long-fingered hand closed around her wrist in a firm embrace. At the same time she was aware of Nicholas, unusually stern and forbidding, standing to her other side.

‘Forgive me, Lady Firth.’ Lord Henry bowed with impeccable grace and deliberate intent. ‘Considering your ill-bred comment, it is not suitable that my sister remain in your presence. Come, Eleanor. You should not remain with one who listens to scurrilous gossip from the gutters and would give credence to it.’ The silence in the room increased, positively crackling with tension as ears strained to grasp Henry Faringdon’s words. He bowed again. ‘Since the Countess of Sefton has made us welcome here tonight in her home, may I suggest that your own presence, Lady Firth, is suspect indeed if you would choose to be discourteous to one of her guests.’ He turned his back on the astonished lady with deliberate and graceful arrogance and led Eleanor away towards a chair beside Lady Beatrice.

‘An excellent response, my dear Eleanor,’ he murmured through gritted teeth. ‘There is no need for you to feel in any way discomfited by such ill manners. Just think of what is due to the fortune in stones around your pretty neck!’

‘Of course.’ And she smiled, a little startled at his barely repressed temper. ‘Thank you for rescuing me, Hal.’

‘I do not deserve your thanks! You should not have had to suffer such crude indignities. Permit me to say that you handled the whole affair magnificently. You have my total admiration, my lady.’

Eleanor made no reply, unless it might be the hot colour in her cheeks, unwilling to exacerbate the rigid tension in the muscles and tendons of Henry’s arm beneath her hand, masked by the softness of the satin. Conversation flowed on around them. Everyone keen to gloss over the slight to one of their number—for the moment at least. She took her seat beside Aunt Beatrice, who patted her hand whilst scowling at the distant figure and flushed face of Lady Firth. For the rest of the evening, Eleanor rose to the occasion superbly, with grace and assurance and humour, a residue of anger sending ripples of energy and exhilaration through her bloodstream. No one watching her would know the fear that lurked below the surface. But Lord Henry saw and understood.

‘I know that you do not want my gratitude, but indeed, Hal, I—’

‘I did nothing.’ Henry interrupted, more than a little curt. ‘You seemed to be perfectly capable of conducting your own affairs. Your demeanour and response to Lady Firth were both incomparable, sufficient to quell the most arrogant comment. A positive rout, I would wager, without any real need for intervention on my part.’

‘Why will you not accept my thanks?’ He saw hurt and confusion in her face, which strengthened his resolve further. He knew without doubt that this was the wrong time and certainly the wrong place for an intimate exchange of views between them. He had delivered Eleanor home to Park Lane and would now make himself scarce, for both their sakes. It would be too easy for emotions to run high.

‘Any man of honour would have acted as I did.’ His reply was thus even more brusque.

‘Yet you have in the past accused me of treachery and betrayal. If true, if you truly believed me capable of such things, then you have no duty or demands of honour towards me. Yet you came to my defence with devastating effect and in full public gaze. I cannot let such kindness go unacknowledged.’

They stood facing each other, rigidly polite, uncomfortably distant, hostility sparkling between them as bright as Eleanor’s hated diamonds, on the landing of the first floor of the Park Lane town house. Lord Henry had escorted Eleanor home from the Seftons’ soirée with the intention of going on to relax over a hand of cards and a glass of brandy at Brooks’s. The night, although it had been fraught with dangers both personal and public, was not too far advanced. The last thing Henry had wanted tonight was this confrontation with Eleanor where, against all his best intentions, all his determination to keep a circumspect distance between them, his self-control might be stretched to the limit—and beyond. But he must play out the present scene before he could leave her with formal courtesy and cool respect. Neither of which sentiments was responsible for the vicious and aching need that held him in an iron grasp. He wanted her, in his arms, in his bed.

‘So I should leave one who bears my family name to be ripped at before the avid gaze of the polite world by the likes of Dorothea Firth?’ Ice coated Eleanor’s veins as she listened to Lord Henry’s aloof assessment of the event. ‘It was merely a matter of family honour, nothing more and nothing less. As I said, it does not require your gratitude. Nicholas would have done the same if he had been nearer to you.’

‘Why are you so cold towards me?’ Eleanor shook her head in a little movement of denial, unable to comprehend the chill that emanated from his lordship to settle around her. ‘I find your attitude incomprehensible. You would condemn me, reject me in one breath and yet come to my rescue with the next. One moment you are caring and protective, the next your tone would freeze me to the marrow. You escorted me to Whitchurch and held me when it all became too much to bear and I wept in your arms. You have stood between me and society’s condemnation here in London. But now… I do not understand. What have I done to earn your displeasure?’

She stood before him, tall and straight, yet intensely vulnerable. Challenging him. Demanding an answer. Yet it would be so easy to hurt her. Lord Henry groaned inwardly with frustration, a quick brush of temper. Why could she not simply retire to bed and allow the stresses of the night to calm before they must, by necessity, meet again over the breakfast table? He did not know what drove her. He only knew that desire and need had begun to simmer in his blood when he saw the proud light in her eyes, the indomitable spirit. Through narrowed eyes, he took in her flawless complexion, glowing in the soft light from the branch of candles at his right hand. Her soft lips, eminently kissable. The curve of her breast, enhanced by the low neckline of her gown and the glitter of precious stones. By God, he wanted her! He clenched his hands into fists and breathed carefully.

Eleanor stared at him, unable to interpret his stern expression, trying to clear her brain from the mist that engulfed it. Some unknown force seemed to be pushing her tonight. There was no need for this conversation, confrontation even. She should, if she were sensible, turn on her heel and leave him, ignore his ill temper, whatever the cause. She had played her role, held her head high through the whole nerve-wrenching proceedings, thanked him for his supreme moment of chivalry. And surely that was enough. But he stood there in the silent shadowed space where tension all but crackled around them. All dark power and male magnetism. And something kept her from sensible retreat. A need to provoke, she admitted to herself in that moment, honesty demanding that she see her motives for what they were. A need to strip away the polite exterior, the bland response. To discover what really lurked behind his cool, sophisticated, superbly governed outer defences. To see if this man before her bore any resemblance to the Hal she had known two years before, when she remembered his spirit and energy, his unquenchable thirst for a life of excitement and achievement that would cause his pulse to beat and his blood to run hot. When she remembered the heat in his eyes when he looked at her.

But did she know what she was doing? Unlikely, she decided, with a quick wash of panic that brushed the skin along her arms. It was like teasing a fireside cat, all fur and soft paws, only to discover a panther, sleekly elegant, but hiding lethal intent and deadly claws.

Emotion arced between them on that upper landing, unbidden, undesired and as yet unacknowledged. Created by their close proximity, the high, tension-filled emotions of the evening and their own past history. Alone, separate from time and space, they faced each other. Only themselves, so it seemed to be, in the silent, shadowed house. Caught, entangled in a fine web of silken strands, magical and unbreakable, which drew them together and bound them for ever whether they wished for it or not.

And they did. Albeit unacknowledged. The desire was there, unspoken, in their eyes, in the tingling awareness of their bodies, one for the other.

Henry was the first to speak, to break the spell.

‘Eleanor…'He grasped at sense, control, honour, all of which seemed to be sliding inexorably beyond his reach. ‘I must go.’ He took a step back from her.

‘Hal—’ Stretching out her hand, that one word and the plea in her voice proved to be all that was needed to bring him to a halt. Was she really so wanton? The possibility astonished her, as did the answer in her mind. It did not seem to matter any more. Only this moment mattered. ‘Ah, Hal—don’t go. Don’t leave me.’

‘What do you ask of me, lady?’ A hint of desperation crept into his voice.

‘I don’t know.’ And indeed she did not. A suspicion of a tear escaped from the amethyst depths onto her lashes, as bright as any diamond, a rival to the brilliance of the fortune which clasped her throat.

It was his undoing. He answered the demand in his body rather than the sane advice of his mind, now completely overthrown. ‘I know only one thing, Eleanor. I want you. I do not know if this is good or ill. Wise or unwise. But I can no longer deny it. I wanted you then—two long years ago. And I want you now—the feelings are no different.’

Before she could regret her ungoverned and blatant invitation, he took one stride towards her, grasped her wrist and stalked the length of the corridor, pulling her with him, deaf and blind to any resistance. Except that there was no resistance, which merely enhanced his desire for an ultimate fulfilment of this shattering revelation. Determined on privacy, he opened the door to his own room, pulled her through and closed it behind them. Locked it behind them. Then simply stood and looked down into her eyes, wide with anticipation, her lips parted, her breathing shallow.

‘Tell me that you do not want this,’ he demanded, ‘and I will open the door and let you go free. But tell me now before it is too late.’

‘You know that I cannot.’ Her voice might be soft, but her reply was immediate. Her eyes never faltered.

‘Have you then become a temptress, my lady?’ She could not read the expression on his face, the edge in his words.

‘No. Or perhaps yes.’ She would not lie, caught in the forcefield of his power. ‘I am not the naïve innocent that I was, no longer a green girl with no knowledge or acceptance of the desires of my own heart. And I remember you, Hal. I remember what it was like to lie in your arms. I remember only too well. So, yes, I want you. I would be a fool to deny it.’

He could wait no longer but pulled her close, destroying the distance between them. Her body was held hard against his, that she would feel the strength and urgency of his desire for her. His mouth met hers, hot, feverish, her lips parting beneath his in willing submission as his tongue sought out the inner softness of her lips. Yet it was no submission. There was no force here. Her response was as heated as his, meeting fire with fire, as demanding and overwhelming as the need that surged through his own blood.

Now, although he released her to stand alone, he gave her no chance to retreat. They were beyond that. With clever fingers he dealt with the intricacies of her gown, removing it with all due care to her and the delicate fabric that she wore, all the while subjugating the force that drove him to tear and ravage, to permit the sensation of his hands against her skin. Her silk stockings were unrolled to reveal elegant calves and high-arched feet, as soft and smooth as their delicate covering. The diamonds were unpinned and unclasped to be discarded at her feet as so much dross. Until she stood before him in her chemise, her feet bare, her face naked and vulnerable before his searching gaze.

‘I had forgotten how very beautiful you are.’

With neither reply nor response to the stunned amazement in his voice, Eleanor bent her head and began to unfasten the ribbons to remove her own chemise. She would not allow him this final intimacy, but would accomplish it herself. The gesture stripped him to the bone. Took his breath—and even more, when the silk and lace folds slithered unhindered down her limbs to lie on the floor.

‘I had indeed forgotten. I have longed to see you. How could I possibly forget such perfection?’ He simply looked at her, could not take his eyes from her, transfixed for the moment by the magnitude of the gift she was offering him with such deliberate concentration. If she had been vulnerable before, now she was at his mercy, yet she met his gaze with her own, a challenge still in her raised head. He allowed himself the ultimate pleasure of his eyes lingering on every curve and dip of her body. Feminine with high breasts, the soft swell of hip and thigh from her slim waist, she had indeed matured into a beautiful woman from the shy débutante of the moon-shadowed summer house. Flickering light from the single candle on the nightstand illuminated and cast shadows as it would, to entrance and invite his touch. She simply stood, arms loosely by her side, and let him look his fill.

And he knew that it could not be enough. It pleased him that when he finally stretched out his hand she did not flinch from his touch or withdraw into shy embarrassment. Yet he did not touch her yet, still intent on savouring the moment to come, but removed the pins from her hair, one by one, until the lustrous glory of it cascaded into his hands and over her breasts in a shining fall. Until his own needs allowed him to hesitate no longer.

Then, stripping off his own clothes, leaving the single candle burning, he came to her. Without further thought of the sense of his actions, he lifted her high in his arms and tumbled her onto the bed. To join her there, flesh against flesh at last. ‘Why can I not rid my dreams of you? You haunt me so.’ A touch of anger here as he framed her face with his hands. ‘I feel the touch of your hands on my skin, your lips on mine—both waking and sleeping. I can’t get you out of my mind.’ He crushed his mouth to hers, holding her as he wished, angling his head to take her lips more completely.

‘I have dreamed of this moment through so many nights.’ He rolled with her, pinning her body beneath him with his weight, braceleting her wrists with strong fingers to stretch her arms above her head. Even though his dominance might underline her vulnerability to him, Eleanor accepted it with a low purr of pleasure in her throat, secure in the knowledge that he would never be capable of hurting her. Only to drive her to the sharp edge of desire—and then over into dark delight.

Tracing a burning path with his mouth, Henry claimed her from her lips to slender throat, to satin shoulder, intoxicated by the heavy pulse that throbbed beneath her skin. He could not get enough of her, nor she of him. Here were no soft moments of tender reminiscence. No gentle interludes full of earlier memories. Only an onslaught of lips and hands to touch, to caress, to excite. Her wrists released, Eleanor was free to explore the man she remembered, as he explored her, hands stroking and moulding the taut muscles of his chest and arms, the flat planes of waist and hip and thigh. Ravaged bedcovers were pushed aside, as tangled and tumultuous as their emotions. Candlelight gleamed on sweat-streaked limbs that entwined, stretched, slid and clung luxuriously one against the other.

Relentlessly, refusing to let her rest, he brought her to the peak of arousal when her body shivered under his hands regardless of the heat. And raised his head as he felt the beginning of her response. Looked into her face.

‘Look at me.’ It was a demand from which she found no retreat, as she could find no escape from the glorious heat spreading from between her thighs, flushing her skin a delicate rose. ‘Open your eyes, Eleanor. Know who owns you, who possesses you this night. You are mine. I took your innocence—now I claim you again. You will never forget me.’

‘I cannot forget you.’ Her admission was wrung from her on a sharp intake of break as his teeth closed around one taut nipple, driving her near to insanity.

‘You torment me,’ he murmured against the hollow between her breasts where he planted flesh-searing kisses. ‘But I will not suffer alone. I will make you want me tonight.’ Hands slid, held, fingers drifting over the gentle swell of her belly to search out the ultimate softness between her thighs. She arched her body on a cry at the intrusion, but in welcome. As urgent, as aroused as he. Hot and wet, she opened for him.

Oh God, he wanted her, must have her.

‘Want me, Eleanor. Tell me that you want me.’ Past and future held no meaning, only this one moment together in the flickering candle-flame. Perhaps the only moment they would ever have. A moment that should never have been theirs to claim. His conscience damned him for it, but he ruthlessly closed his mind against it, unable to see past the fierce call of his heart and body.

‘I do. I want you.’ Her reply, the rise and fall of her breasts on ragged breathing, destroyed any conscience which he might have held to. As did the immediate response of her body to his.

As she had given him her virginal innocence, now Eleanor gave him her maturity cloaked in fire and inner knowledge. Touched him, stroked him, set him ablaze with her fine but confident fingers, closed her hand around him, revelling in his groan of shock, of desire. Tomorrow was soon enough for regrets. Tonight she would relive all her hopes and dreams. She burned for him. Flames coursed through her as she enticed him, lured him, the very temptress he had called her. She had dreamed of a night such as this for so long, long nights when it had seemed such an impossibility and she had awoken with tears on her face. Now reality made it true and she would not hold back from him. Moulding herself against him, marvelling at his strength, his muscled power, his weight as he lowered his body to hers, the heat of his erection against her thigh, she laughed softly as she covered his face with kisses. Ah, yes. Henry wanted her as much as she wanted him. It was no time for maidenly blushes or shy hesitancy on her part.

On a breath, unable to delay further, Henry slid into her, lifting her hips to take her to the hilt. On a gasp of stunned amazement and delight she surrounded him in impossible softness, impossible tightness.

A sigh of completion united them. They remained suddenly frozen in time, all frantic demands stilled without words, lost in each other, held fast in each other’s eyes, their bodies joined in this most intimate of joining. Taking his weight on his arms, he pressed her hands to the bed, linking his fingers with hers in perfect union, palm against palm.

‘Yes, Eleanor.’ He answered the question in her eyes, his voice harsh with emotion. ‘You know you are mine.’

Only then did he began to move, slowly, deliberately, withdrawing and then reclaiming, watching her every expression as he filled her, stretched her, made her whole body shudder beneath his. It was his intention to keep the pace, to draw out the intense pleasure, but the fire was too great. Caught up in it, its urgency consumed him, the needs of his body overturning the planned campaign. More forceful, more demanding, hips flexed, thrust after thrust, he destroyed them both, carrying her with him to the end. He had no choice but to allow his body to rule.

Without control, Eleanor arched her hips for him, to take him deeper if that were possible. Heat built within her again, low and liquid and throbbing once more in her belly and she rejoiced in it.

‘Say my name!’ he groaned through gritted teeth as he still clung to the knife-edge of control. ‘Say it.’

‘Hal. Oh, Hal.’ Her body convulsed in heat and light as a meteor shower erupted in golden spangles through her blood.

His control was at an end. Hal followed her into the darkness, losing himself in her, whispering her name as he buried his face in her hair.

Afterwards, when she would have curled into him, content to drift in a soft cloud of fulfilment, in his warmth and comforting presence, Henry exerted all his will-power to fight against the desperate temptation to allow it. Instead he left her warmth, shrugged into his gown to wrap her in a sheet and carry her back to her own room. It would be better so. To spend the night with her would be too painful. It was all too difficult. He should never have allowed such sweet but cruel-edged temptation to overcome him. Where was his much-vaunted control now? He steeled himself against the weight of her head on his shoulder as he carried her and the perfume of her hair that invaded his senses, aware once more of the response in his loins. It would be so very easy to give in and simply love her. To allow her to sleep in his arms, to give himself the pleasure of kissing her awake and taking her once more when dawn lightened the shadows of the bed.

‘Forgive me if I have done wrong, Nell. You were far too enticing tonight.’ He whispered the words as he relinquished his burden and she slept in her own bed, hair tumbled in a ruffle of curls onto her pillow. ‘I could wish that you had repulsed me—but the fault is undeniably mine. And how can I regret it?’ He gently touched a curl before withdrawing his hand as if it burned his flesh to the bone. ‘You are beautiful and desirable and I regret the events that separated us to the depths of my soul.’

Dousing the candle, he left her.

Only when he had returned to his own room, to spend a sleepless and restless night, did the thought come to him. Not one word of love had been spoken between them during the whole of their intimate coming together. Only of raw hunger and longing. It had been simply a moment of blazing need and desire for each other, a passion that had carried them along in its torrent as leaves in a fast-flowing stream, leaving them shaken and exhausted by the intensity of feelings at the end. But of love—not one word.

Perhaps because there was no love between them. That was the easiest conclusion to reach, the voice of cold sense and caution warned him. Perhaps the basic hunger of a virile man for a beautiful woman had now been assuaged. Perhaps the burning need to touch her, to possess her, had been cauterised by that one moment of brilliant, diamond-bright madness.

Perhaps. But he could not believe it.

Yet it would be better if that were so. Too many shadows surrounded them. The past with its weight of guilt and denial. Thomas, who had willingly taken her as his wife, a role that Eleanor had equally willingly accepted. And, not least, the pathway forward, which was too indistinct and uncertain to decipher. He should pray that this shimmering need had indeed been burned out in that final moment of glory.

But he had worshipped her with every movement of his body, every caress. Shown her consideration even within the towering demands of his passion. Never pushed her beyond what she was prepared to give to him. And she had given him everything with a generosity beyond measure.

All he wanted was to take her into his arms and repeat it.

And what he could possibly say to her when they came face to face on the following day, he could not envisage.

Little wonder that sleep evaded him.

The house in Park Lane began to hum with unusual bustle at the prospect of a small evening party for members of the Faringdon family and a select number of close friends. Mrs Stamford, in her element at having been given carte blanche by Lord Henry, took it upon herself to organise a tasteful, even cosy, evening with the hint of expensive sophistication. Eleanor too found her thoughts given new direction, away from the looming catastrophe of her social status, but her activities did nothing to redirect her mind from thoughts of her outrageous behaviour on the night of the Sefton soirée. She could blame it all on Henry, of course, who had lured her into such a provocative response. Had she actually removed her own chemise? She closed her eyes against the vibrant recall, but her blood heated at the image of his fierce eyes on her exposed body. But honesty forced her to acknowledge her own very willing complicity. He would have left her if she had allowed it, had resisted him to any degree. And she had done neither. Rather, she had flung herself into his arms. She closed her eyes in delicious sensation, ignoring the lists of guests beneath her hand as she sat at the elegant little desk in the blue parlour. He had fired her blood and she had stepped into his embrace and into his bed without hesitation. And she very much feared that she could be lured again.

What must he think of her, of her wanton behaviour? She had no idea. And it had to be admitted, as she sat contemplating the sunbeams stealing across the paper before her, she did not seem to care. All that mattered was the image of his intense loving, the desire that had burned in his eyes and in the heat of his restless mouth. It had swept her beyond thought and conscience. He had wanted her and given in to the temptation. She hugged that thought close as she realised that she had discovered within herself the power to drive him beyond control. She held her breath at that thought, releasing it slowly as she also discovered an overwhelming desire to repeat the experience. It was, she acknowledged, a morning for unsettling revelation.

But he had uttered no word of love. Not once, in all the other words he had whispered in the dark expanse of his bed. But then, neither had she. Surely he must have some affection for her. The line between her brows deepened, as she once again demanded honesty from herself. But it was not affection she wanted from him. It was a blaze of love and passion to sweep all before it. Perhaps men were capable of such physical desire without the need for love and she must accept it. But she loved him—and knew it beyond doubt.

Her fair skin shivered at the thought and became suffused with colour. Yes, she loved him, but that did not mean that she wished every glorious detail to be imprinted on her memory every waking moment of every day! Or in her restless dreams. She huffed out her breath in frustration as she focused on the list on the desk, seeing Hal’s name written again and again in the margin. With an unladylike hiss, she tore the page in two, consigned it to the flames, and began another. Then, she admonished herself, she must turn her mind to the far more important matter of staff to serve the food and wine to so many guests.

Although she would have preferred to take herself to the opposite ends of the house, even the attics, Eleanor found need to run Henry to ground in the small morning room which he had taken over as office, in lieu of a library in their rented home, and a masculine haven to escape the women of the household.

‘I need to know about staff, my lord. Do we hire more footmen? Do I leave it to Marcle to decide what is necessary?’ She kept her distance, remaining with her back against the closed door. She looked anywhere but at his face.

‘Yes. You need not concern yourself. I have already spoken to him and, unless your mama decides to serve a seven-course banquet, God help us, we should cope more than adequately.’

‘Very well.’ She was well aware that Henry had hardly looked up from the table at which he was sitting. Which was perfectly acceptable as far as she was concerned! She would have left with a swirl of muslin skirts, but noticed a pile of letters spread before him, some distinctly travel-worn, through which he was steadily wading. They clearly took all his attention. It pricked her conscience and it enticed her to stay, to approach.

‘Mr Bridges?’ she enquired, remembering his enthusiasm when discussing his new partner and their fledgling company.

‘Yes.’ He smiled and answered abstractedly. ‘I seem to have received a lot of correspondence, all in one batch. The post is still haphazard.’ He discarded the top sheet and went on to break the seals on the next. ‘A matter of new investments that we hope to take up. Nat has a mind to put some money into a new textile town in Massachusetts. He sees it becoming a second Manchester. And he could just be right. Power looms will make all the difference and there is plenty of water to drive them…’ He gave his attention back to the letter under his hand.

She looked at his bent head. Tried not to think of the smooth texture as she had curled her fingers into his hair. Or allowed her lips to trace those elegant cheekbones. And she could not possibly look at his hands without reliving their demanding caresses on her own body. A little shiver feathered across her skin and she silently damned him for reawakening such heady desires.

And then she looked once more at the piles of correspondence, noting Henry’s preoccupation with the advice of the absent Mr Bridges. It was all the proof she needed, as if she needed further confirmation, that he would go as soon as he could. The reinforcement of the knowledge destroyed all her remembered pleasure and her present composure in one fatal blow. Her heart ached in anticipation of the loss.

‘I think you should return to New York,’ she found herself saying brusquely, even though her soul shrieked its denial.

Henry now looked up, attention definitely captured by the harsh edge rarely heard in Eleanor’s voice.

‘Your business cannot wait for ever. Mr Bridges must feel the need of your presence.’

‘Perhaps.’ He had not expected this from her. The strain was showing this morning in her colourless skin and the shadows beneath her lids. Even her eyes had lost their sparkle. He realised that she was near breaking point and felt helpless to do anything constructive to alleviate it. Thus his answer was carefully worded. ‘But Nat is quite capable of holding the fort for a little while longer. This is merely informing me of decisions he has made in my absence—and I would have done no different. My business is in good hands.’

‘What use is there for you to remain here?’ She was cold, so cold. ‘There is no guarantee that our little event on Saturday night will produce anything of value. You cannot alter the demands of the law if Sir Edward’s claims are genuine.’

‘No.’ Henry now rose to his feet, sensing her distress, intent on taking her hands to offer comfort. ‘I trust the Baxendales have replied that they will honour us with their presence on Saturday?’

‘Oh, yes. I doubt they could resist being introduced to the family, as you planned. But what will Aunt Beatrice remember? Perhaps nothing. It is a wild goose chase.’ Eleanor took a step back.

He shrugged, allowing her to retreat against his better judgement, unwilling to damage the brittle shell which was holding her together. All she said was perfectly true.

‘Go back, Hal.’ Eleanor turned away and walked to the door.

‘Nell.’ His voice stopped her. ‘I cannot go back. Not yet.’

She stood silently. He had heard the desolation in her voice—she had not been able to prevent it.

‘Do you really wish me to do so?’ he asked gently.

Now there was an impossible question. ‘Yes. I think you should go.’ How cold her voice sounded in her own ears. What would he think of her now?

‘Nell …’

‘No, of course I do not wish you to go! You must know that. But it might be better if you did.’ The words, the stark truth, were wrung from her.

‘Better for whom, Nell?’

But she closed the door behind her without reply.

Hal was left, hearing the echo of the sharp click as the barrier closed between them. The need to give comfort to her was so great it frightened him, as did the yawning abyss between them. Although he had to accept, with more than a little disgust, that comfort had not been uppermost in his mind when he had all but dragged her to his room. Possession. Need. The control that he had spent years in perfecting had snapped in that one moment when she had raised her eyes to his, had begged him to stay, begged him both with and without words, but none the less with transparent longing. And she had allowed herself to be drawn along, as a leaf in a whirlwind, answering his every demand.

His mind once more stumbled over the fact that he had not told her that he loved her. And perhaps it had been deliberate. And certainly sensible—probably the only commendable part of his behaviour towards her that night. To burden her with his love, against her wishes, would be cruel and insensitive. He hoped, in the inner recesses of his mind, that she would know that she held his heart in her keeping. Remembering her final words, he doubted it, and perhaps it was for the best. He would do all in his power to rescue her from the scandal created by Sir Edward Baxendale and then would indeed return to America for good.

By nine o’clock on Saturday evening, the rooms in Park Lane, perfectly arranged to Mrs Stamford’s exacting standards, were soon flatteringly full. Not as elegant as Lady Sefton’s soirée, of course. No music had been provided. No poet—thank God! But conversation, cards for those who wished it and an extensive supper, all hosted by Lord Henry at his most urbane and the Marchioness of Burford in softest dove grey, but without the Faringdon diamonds.

Sir Edward and Miss Octavia Baxendale had duly arrived, two of the earlier guests. Octavia was swathed from high neck to ankle in black, as severe and unflattering as ever to her slight figure and pale colouring, and seemingly reluctant to attend any social occasion, but she had smiled prettily and thanked Eleanor for the considerate invitation. She hoped that attention would not be drawn to them. They were simply friends of the family. Eleanor smiled reassuringly, but sardonically. Had Octavia given no thought as to why they should be putting up at Faringdon House when the Marchioness and the rest of the close family were living in Park Lane? Surely she could not be so naïve as to think that there would be no speculation or innuendo? Heaven only knew what people made of it! But Octavia appeared oblivious to the speculation and interested glances.

What did she and Octavia find to talk about as she led the lady to a seat and found some refreshment for her? Afterward Eleanor could not remember. Octavia was decidedly dull, with no opinion of interest to offer on even the most frivolous of topics, once the condition of her rose garden and neglected flower borders had been thoroughly discussed.

Eleanor delivered her with some relief into the safe keeping of Aunt Beatrice and found herself drawn into a few unsettling words with Sir Edward. It was an embarrassing, anger-provoking conversation, despite being quite private. Even though she was aware of Henry’s hawk-like eyes on her in case he sensed her distress. She was angry, she thought, on any number of occasions recently, but put on her best sociable manner as hostess.

Sir Edward was as kind and compassionate, as sensitive to her situation as he had been throughout the painful developments. His fair countenance, with all the gravity of deep concern, should have comforted her. It did not. She took a step back when he would have touched her hand in sympathy. She found herself being complimented on her appearance and her fortitude under adverse conditions, which promptly set her teeth on edge. Henry might do so—but not Sir Edward. And her courage was remarkable in holding a social occasion—however informal—when the whole town was so obviously talking and smiling in derision behind its collective and judgmental hand. Eleanor held her breath until the urge to express her true sentiments in less than flattering terms had calmed.

Sir Edward bent his kind and understanding smile on her. ‘I believe that Hoskins will have confirmed the legality of all documents by next week, my dear lady.’ How dare you address me with such familiarity! I am not your dear lady and never will be! ‘I have discussed the ultimate outcome with him, of course.’

How dare you!

‘We must end this unsatisfactory situation soon. For your sake and for my dear sister’s. To postpone the final settlement would be unwise.’

How dare you choose my social event for such a sensitive matter!

How dare you and your sister even exist!

‘You are too considerate, sir.’ Eleanor’s clenched jaw ached.

‘I have instructed Hoskins to offer an annuity for yourself and the unfortunate child. Will you take it?’

‘I am considering it.’ She marvelled at her even tones. At the smile which remained in place.

‘There will be scandal, but it is unavoidable. My sister must take on her rightful title. She is very keen to be settled, as you might imagine.’

‘Of course.’ She continued to smile. She knew that Henry would bear down on them if she appeared in any way distressed—but her eyes were empty of emotion rather than unladylike, and rigidly contained, fury.

‘And we must then discuss your moving to your own accommodation, of course. I believe that Octavia would wish to take up residence as soon as possible at Burford Hall. Life in town does not suit her. She enjoys country air.’

‘I will inform Hoskins of my arrangements, Sir Edward. They are all in hand.’ But I will not discuss them with you!

Still keeping a tight hold on the anger that seemed to be directed equally at Sir Edward, at Thomas and at fate in general, Eleanor moved through the rest of the evening like a child’s puppet, automatically fulfilling her role. It seemed to be a success. She was complimented more times than she could count. She did not care.

After supper, at which she ate nothing but an asparagus tartlet without even tasting its succulent and delicate flavour, Eleanor made it her policy to find her aunt by marriage in a quiet corner where they would be undisturbed. Lady Beatrice had been able to watch and speak with Sir Edward and Miss Baxendale for a whole evening. She must have some recollection of any past meeting, if any such meeting had occurred. Eleanor had to know. Had Thomas cared for Octavia? Enough to have married her against family opinion and have a child by her? One more tiny nail in the coffin that was threatening to enclose her entire life. As cold as death itself, Eleanor faced the lady. Sensing her purpose from across the room, and not wishing her to be alone when his aunt delivered in typically forthright manner any bad news, Henry moved, silent as a ghost, to appear at her shoulder, to take up the initiative.

‘Well, Aunt. You said you remembered Thomas flirting with a fair girl. You have had the opportunity to see the lady and her brother. Do you remember her?’

‘Oh, yes.’ The Dowager, remarkable in puce satin and lace with garnets, which did nothing to compliment her fading red hair, turned her critical gaze on the innocent object of their discussion. ‘I remember her. She was a pretty little thing. Still is, of course but a trifle pale—understandable in the circumstances, whatever the truth of the matter. Thomas certainly had a tendre for her. Showed her a great deal of attention, in fact. Dancing with her on more than one occasion…more than I thought was appropriate. It does not do to raise pretensions and it was clear that the girl saw the glitter of a title within her reach. Judith was perfectly right. Thomas and the girl were infatuated—such a very unfortunate emotion, don’t you think.’

‘Oh.’ Eleanor forced her mind to hold the dreaded words.

‘I actually warned him off on one occasion—the child was far too provincial for my taste. Not suited to be Marchioness of Burford. Not like you, my dear.’ She patted Eleanor’s unresponsive hand with superior condescension. ‘You have a touch of class, as I was quick to tell Thomas when some of the family expressed their disappointment at his choice of bride.’ Realising what she had said, she coughed and spread her fan. ‘Your paternal uncle is, after all, a baronet. Most acceptable, my dear. But that is all in the past.’

‘So it is true…’ Eleanor sighed ‘…Thomas did marry Octavia.’ Henry took Eleanor’s cold hand into his keeping and refused to let her pull away. At that moment he did not care who might see or pass judgement.

He simply needed to touch her.

‘It may well be. He certainly did not take my advice, if rumours do indeed run true.’

Eleanor looked up at Henry, eyes over-bright. ‘It is hopeless, then, as we thought.’ But she tried to keep the smile. She would not weep. She would not shout her despair to the world. ‘At least we know—it is better perhaps than all the uncertainty. False hope is almost impossible to live with.’

‘There is one thing.’ Aunt Beatrice reclaimed their attention with narrowed eyes. ‘I do not quite recollect her name—Octavia, certainly—but I did not think that it was Baxendale.’

Henry sighed. What use to dredge up any more hope on such a flimsy point of order? He did not think Eleanor could take much more. ‘It was a long time ago, ma’am. Even your prodigious memory might play tricks. I cannot think that it is strong enough to cast doubt on the whole question of the legality of their claim. We have to accept that Octavia is Thomas’s legitimate widow.’

‘Now don’t be hasty, young man. Just like your father! Too impatient for your own good.’ Lady Beatrice fixed him with a withering glance which he remembered uncomfortably from his youth, and she drew her stout figure up to its full height before delivering her final opinion. ‘About the name. As I said, Baxendale I am not at all sure about. But there is one thing I can state for certain. And my memory is excellent when remembering faces! That man, Sir Edward Baxendale, is not Octavia’s brother! He is without doubt not the young man who was introduced to me as her brother four years ago.’

‘Are you sure?’ Henry frowned. Whatever they had hoped for, this was most unexpected.

‘Sure! Of course I am! I would wager my emeralds on it.’

‘But she may have more than one brother.’ Eleanor refused to believe that at the eleventh hour there might be the slightest chink of light, of hope, in the dark walls which hemmed her in. ‘You may have met—’

‘Don’t be foolish, my girl. That is not the man who squired Octavia to parties in her London Season.’

‘And I distinctly remember the occasion when Sir Edward said that he had been with Octavia when she had made her curtsy to the polite world!’ Henry allowed the fact to filter slowly through his brain with all its possibilities. ‘Why are you so sure, ma’am?’

‘I remember the brother very well—because I took him in instant dislike. Octavia was charming enough, but no family would wish to acquire her brother around the dining table, take my word for it. He had the appearance of a gentleman and the manners were well-bred enough—but there was an unpleasantness about him. You would not trust him with a purseful of gold. Or with the reputation of any pretty young woman—he had quite an eye for them, I am afraid. Or so my husband informed me. I understand he frequented some of the more unsavoury gaming establishments in town. Also I was led to understand that he had an arrangement with a lower class of woman—if you take my meaning. Not that you would be acquainted with any such shady dealings of course, Henry.’ She dared Henry to contradict her, but he recognised the glint of humour in her face.

‘Definitely not, Aunt. Can you describe him—the gentleman introduced as Octavia’s brother?’

‘Rather like Octavia, I suppose. Taller than Sir Edward. Slighter. A thin face. Hair not quite as fair, perhaps. And cunning eyes, my boy. Not quite the thing at all.’ Lady Beatrice furrowed her brow. ‘I cannot remember his name—I wish I could. Thomas did not like him either,’ she added inconsequentially.

‘It is not much to go on, but perhaps enough.’ Henry gripped his aunt’s hand in gratitude. ‘It may be that the whole family will owe you their thanks tonight for your part in overturning this cruel and malevolent plot.’

‘Family is important, Henry, as you very well know! It delights me that you are giving your support to Eleanor in a time of trial. Why you should wish to take yourself off to some Godforsaken wasteland on the far side of the world, I shall never know. Much better to settle here, take my word for it!’ Lady Beatrice, her mission completed, prepared to return to a cosy chat with one of her intimates. ‘But there is one thing I think you should do.’

‘And that is?’

‘Come, my boy! Use your wits! Ask Octavia how many brothers she has, of course.’

They held a post-mortem in the early hours of the morning when the guests had gone, Aunt Beatrice’s words heavy in their minds. Hope, so long dashed, began to run high, despite the essentially trivial nature of the information, and no one thought to claim exhaustion after so successful an evening.

‘So who is Sir Edward, if not Octavia’s brother?’

‘I see you like to start with the easy questions, Nick!’ Henry stretched out in a chair beside the settee on which Eleanor and her mama had taken up positions, his hands linked behind his head, ankles crossed. ‘We do not know the answer to that one!’

‘So what do we know?’ Mrs Stamford demanded clarification. ‘That her name was probably not Baxendale when Thomas met her. And Sir Edward is not her brother. Does it help us at all?’ Doubts still drew a sharp line between the lady’s delicate brows.

‘Octavia only has one brother,’ Eleanor put in quietly. ‘I asked her about her family, a casual query you understand, over a glass of wine. She said that Edward was the only family she had remaining alive. Her parents are dead and she had no sisters. She offered the information that she and her brother are, and always have been, very close.’

‘So we will work on the premise that Beatrice is correct.’ Henry frowned down at his highly polished boots.

‘But the innkeeper at the Red Lion—’ Eleanor turned towards Henry, impatient with her memories of their visit to Whitchurch ‘—he said Sir Edward had a sister who had a young child. And that the sister’s husband had recently died. A husband who rarely visited the Great House. Would he deliberately mislead us? I cannot see it.’

‘No. I do not think he lied.’ Henry found his mind working furiously with the scant evidence they had. ‘He would have no reason to do so—he did not know the reason for our visit.’

‘And they knew Sir Edward—both the landlord and the gardener,’ Eleanor reminded him again. ‘There was no dispute over his name or his living in the Great House.’

‘There was in all probability no reason to do so. He most likely is Sir Edward Baxendale and I am certain that he does live in Whitchurch. So consider. If you are going to set up a fraudulent claim to a valuable inheritance, surely it must be safer to use as much truth as possible. The more truth, the less chance for the lies to be suspected and detected. It is Octavia’s name which is in question after all, not Sir Edward’s. And the identity of her brother—although how he fits into the puzzle I know not.’

‘But Sir Edward has a sister with a baby,’ Eleanor persisted.

‘Yes. I don’t dispute it. But not Octavia.’

‘I still don’t know where that leaves us.’ Mrs Stamford lifted her hands and let them fall into her lap in frustration. She clearly spoke for them all.

‘Tell me, Eleanor.’ Henry now sat up and fixed the lady with a compelling stare. It appeared that he had come to some conclusions. ‘When you first saw the child John, what was your first thought?’

‘After I had recovered from the shock?’ She laughed a little. For the first time in days it seemed that a weight had been lifted from her mind. They still knew so little, yet there was a distinct crumbling in the edifice built up by Sir Edward. He had lied. And how many lies he had been prepared to tell they had yet to discover. She must hold on to the fact that Thomas’s marriage to Octavia was all a sham. And they would prove it! ‘I shall never forget those first revelations!’ she admitted. ‘I suppose I thought that the boy looked nothing like Thomas. And later Judith said—’

‘Judith said that Faringdons always breed true.’ Mrs Stamford smiled, the slightest touch of triumph as she followed the line of thought. ‘Look at dear baby Tom, the image of his father. And Judith is so like her father, apart from that unfortunate red hair which she inherited from Beatrice. But John looks like Octavia. Or even Sir Edward. Both very fair with blue eyes and fair complexions.’

‘What are you thinking? Who is the child’s father, if not Thomas?’ Eleanor’s face was suddenly flushed with a delicate colour.

‘I don’t know yet.’ Henry lifted his shoulders and let them fall, but there was the fire of battle in his eyes. ‘Who would know more about this?’

‘But look, Hal.’ Listening to the unfolding suppositions, sympathising with the need to destroy Sir Edward’s case, Nick could still see one major sticking point. ‘You have forgotten the documents. The marriage and baptism. All legal, signed and sealed, with witnesses. Guaranteed by Church and State. Can we argue round that? I don’t see it. We can destroy Baxendale’s credibility, but can we discount the documents in Hoskins’ possession? He certainly believes them to be above question.’

‘One witness of the marriage is dead.’ Eleanor reminded him. ‘Octavia’s mother. It is very convenient, I suppose.’

‘And do you remember the identity of the other?’ asked Henry. ‘It was Sir Edward. Even more convenient!’

‘So was the priest also lying? Witnessing something that never happened? Forging documents? Is that what you are suggesting?’ Mrs Stamford looked suitably shocked. ‘A man of the cloth, too! What a terrible muddle this all is.’

‘We need someone who can tell us more about the Baxendale family.’ Nicholas returned to his brother’s previous question. ‘Someone who will know about relationships, scandals, whatever, and be prepared to talk to us.’

‘That’s easy!’ Henry pushed himself to his feet to pour a glass of brandy, offering it to his brother. ‘Servants. They always know more about the family than the family members themselves. If you ever wish to know anything about the Faringdons, for the past two generations at least, ask Marcle. Don’t ever be under the misapprehension that you have any secrets, Nick!’

‘There is only the nursemaid here with them in London. Sarah, I think.’ Eleanor looked at her mama for corroboration.

‘Perfect! Eleanor…would you care to pay a visit to Faringdon House again tomorrow?’ Henry poured brandy for himself. ‘On the pretext of enquiring after Octavia’s health after her social introduction? And see if you can find an occasion to speak with Sarah.’

‘But what on earth do I ask?’ she demanded, startled at the role suddenly thrust at her. ‘Are your employers perhaps charlatans? Do they lie and cheat and—?’

‘I will go with you.’ Mrs Stamford rose to her feet. ‘Come, my dear. It is late. We will think of something. And if words do not get the right results, gold might! In my experience, money will open a multitude of doors.’

‘Well, Mama…’ Eleanor failed to hide her surprise ‘…I shall certainly not refuse your offer. We will be able to enjoy another exciting conversation with Octavia about the state of her roses! If you will accompany me, it may give us the opportunity to distract her so that one of us can talk to the child and Sarah. I shall take Tom with me. What a cosy family party we shall make, to be sure!’

‘Have faith, Eleanor. It seems that we have a mystery on our hands at last, rather than an open-and-shut case.’ Henry walked with habitual grace to open the door for the departing ladies, bowing them out. ‘And brother Thomas is beginning to look like an innocent pawn in an intricate and dangerous game of chance. More innocent by the hour.’

The ladies went to bed, deep in discussing tactics for the morrow. Hal and Nick sat on in the parlour, Hal deep in thought, a bottle of brandy between them.

‘What is it?’ Nicholas asked at last—his brother had spent the past ten minutes saying nothing, but staring into the fire.

‘I have been thinking.’

‘Never!’

Now he looked up, lips curving a little. ‘The documents presented by Sir Edward. They must be false. And Aunt Beatrice’s description of Octavia’s brother…’

‘So?’

‘Little brother.’ Henry smiled in gentle malice. ‘Would you care for another tour of the gentleman’s clubs and gaming establishments of London? And perhaps another informative conversation with Kingstone?’

‘No. I would not!’

‘I think this one may pay off. Just a hunch but. Say nothing to Eleanor. It would not do to raise her hopes until we have more concrete evidence than Beatrice’s ramblings. Our aunt has more faith in her memory than I have. But I think.I just think that we may have been looking for the wrong person!’