Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue - Mary Nichols, Anne Herries - Страница 12

At eleven o’clock on the following morning, Mrs Alicia Stamford, as promised, accompanied by the Marchioness of Burford and the infant Marquis, all suitably dressed for an informal morning visit, took the barouche to cover the short distance to Faringdon House in style.

‘We must devise some means to encourage Octavia to bring the nursemaid and the child into the room. I doubt it will be too difficult.’ Mrs Stamford settled herself in the carriage in a decided manner and unfurled her parasol. ‘Since you have the baby with you, it would be natural to wish to praise and admire.’ She removed the tassel of her embroidered reticule from Tom’s inquisitive fingers with firm and well-practised skill. ‘I will engage Octavia in conversation. You may talk with Sarah about the family.’

‘Thank you, Mama!’ Eleanor’s smile was wry. ‘I am not sure who has drawn the short straw.’ She distracted Tom from eating the fingers of her new kid gloves. ‘I hope that she is of a confiding nature!’

As it happened, there was no need for devious plotting on the part of the two ladies. The morning was warm and sunny. There, in the private garden with its ornamental railing in the centre of Grosvenor Square, they spied Octavia Baxendale, her nursemaid and her son taking advantage of the mild temperature. Octavia sat comfortably beneath a tree, a little apart, a book open on her lap. On the grass some distance before her sat Sarah with the child John. High voices and excited shouts gave evidence that other families from the Square, both children and nursemaids, were enjoying the fine morning with childhood games.

‘Fortune smiles on us so far.’ Mrs Stamford gave her hand to their coachman and descended, all regal dignity, to take this crucial meeting with Octavia Baxendale under her control.

The ladies exchanged greetings. Enquired after their respective health. They had come, Mrs Stamford explained, to ask after the welfare of Miss Baxendale after the demands of the previous evening and her meeting the Faringdon family en masse. A most successful at home, was it not, as acknowledged by all. Lady Beatrice Faringdon had particularly commented on her enjoyment at renewing her acquaintance with Miss Baxendale. She clearly remembered their previous meetings very well, when Octavia had first made her curtsy, in spite of the passage of time. And had Sir Edward found it an amusing experience? Mrs Stamford had noticed that he played a skilful hand of whist.

Eleanor hid a smile and simply allowed her mother to continue unchecked. Octavia expressed no surprise, no recognition of, or response to, Mrs Stamford’s subtle comments and answered in her usual calm manner. She smiled. Her eyes rested on her visitors with guileless acceptance. She was very well. No, she had not found it unduly stressful. Yes, she had enjoyed the evening, particularly her conversation with Lady Beatrice, who reminded her a little of her mother. So pleasant to have such a large family. Edward had said what an agreeable evening it had been. All so elegant and comfortable, as they had expected, of course.

Eleanor sighed inwardly and did not envy her mother her self-imposed task of bringing Octavia out of herself.

But Mrs Stamford sat beside Octavia, all determination, arranged her skirts and her parasol and set herself to entertain and elicit information. They discussed the care and design of gardens—of which Eleanor’s masterful mama had limited knowledge, but yet approved as an interest worthy of a lady; and Byron’s latest offerings of Parisina and The Siege of Corinth, both offered in the same volume—which she had never read but willingly condemned, as she did with equal fervency the infamous author for his scandalously wild life and lack of gentility, despite his elevated birth. There was no accounting for such aberrations in even the most well-born of families, she declaimed with a sharp glance at Octavia.

But Octavia had little to add beyond another smile and an inclination of her head. Nor did she claim acquaintance with the works of Lord Byron. Mrs Stamford quickly came to the conclusion that she had never spent so tedious a morning. Miss Baxendale might be a pretty girl with acceptable manners—no fault to be found in her upbringing, for sure—but she had absolutely nothing to say for herself. How Thomas could have married her, she would never understand! But then, she caught herself on the thought, she had to hold on to the conviction that he had never done so.

Meanwhile Eleanor, to the detriment of her figured muslin gown—but it was in a good cause, after all—sat on the grass with Sarah and the two children. Tom was intrigued, too young to enjoy the company of another infant, but content to crawl and to try to eat the daisy heads, which were opening in the sunshine. John ran about on sturdy legs, throwing a ball to Sarah when she encouraged him, but lured by the cries of the other children in the garden. Sarah allowed him to approach their game when the temptation grew too great to withstand, but kept a sharp eye on him. Octavia seemed unconcerned, deep in a discussion with Mrs Stamford of the value of auriculas for spring planting.

Here was Eleanor’s chance.

Naturally enough, Eleanor tried to encourage Sarah to talk about children. Their ailments. Their diet. The needs of a tearful, teething baby and how to encourage an excitable child to sleep. It should have been easy, but Eleanor found it hard work. Sarah was, for the most part, monosyllabic. Not shy, Eleanor decided, so much as intensely reserved, although clearly knowledgeable about the range of subjects that they covered. She unobtrusively took stock of the young woman sitting on the grass. Neat, was the word that sprang to mind. Hair drawn severely back into a knot at the nape of her neck with no curls allowed to flatter her face. Carefully dressed, without decoration of any degree, but in good quality clothes. Fair skin, blue eyes. As they talked she relaxed a little and was more willing to develop her answers to Eleanor’s gentle enquiries. Her voice low and well modulated, her speech evidence of a thorough education. And there was a certain confidence about her as she sat with the sunshine dappling her hair and features, shining through the leaves of the elms above them. Her eyes were reluctant to meet Eleanor’s at first, but gradually did so as she forgot her restraints in conversation with the Marchioness of Burford. Her hands, loosely folded in her lap, were long fingered and fine with none of the roughness that might be expected in a domestic servant.

Eleanor was puzzled. And then realised that there was no need. Here in all probability was a young woman from a good family, fallen on hard times, and forced to take service as companion or governess with an established family. It was a frequent occurrence, after all. She had Eleanor’s sympathy.

Having wrung every possible detail from the topic of children, Eleanor attempted to extend the conversation. To the matter of the Baxendales. How loyal would the nursemaid be in the face of pertinent questions? There was no way for Eleanor to know until she tried.

Did she enjoy town life? Would she rather be back at home in the village of Whitchurch? Did she find it very secluded there or did the Baxendales have a vast acquaintance who might visit the Great House with children for John to play with?

Sarah rapidly took refuge in monosyllables again, eyes downcast. Eleanor was getting nowhere, but persisted.

Did Sarah remember when Octavia came out? Was she in the family employ? How long had she been with the family? Miss Baxendale had said that Sarah was once her companion before taking over the care of the child. She must have enjoyed being in such a close relationship with her employer.

The Marchioness gritted her teeth. With no encouragement from Sarah, it was fast giving the appearance of a cross-examination. So Eleanor gave up. If they were to learn anything about the Baxendale family, it would not be from this girl who sat so still and composed and distant beside her. And was intent on saying nothing but yes or no! But why did she get the impression that there was far more below the controlled surface, something that troubled the girl, her eyes strained, her lips pulled tight and thin in her otherwise serene face? It occurred to Eleanor that there was an indefinable sadness about the young woman, but there would be no confidences exchanged here, even without the social divide of Marchioness and servant.

They were suddenly interrupted by a squabble and sharp voices between the knot of children in the centre of the garden. Who should hold the lead of a lively brown terrier owned by one of the families? The result was much shouting and pushing. As the youngest and smallest, John came off worst. There was a howl, not of pain but frustration, when the children abandoned him to race off with the dog to their own nurse across the garden. John howled louder, tears of temper sparkling in his blue eyes when he could not keep up with their longer legs.

Eleanor watched the outcome, her interest caught.

Octavia did not divert for one moment from her discussion of herbs suitable for a kitchen garden, despite her son’s loud expression of fury. Sarah immediately, without excuse or apology, leapt to her feet and abandoned the Marchioness. All her composure was gone in that moment of animation. She swooped on the child with expressions of concern, picked him up, wiped the tears away and promised a treat for little boys who were good and did not cry. The child’s tears instantly receded, replaced by a bright smile of anticipation. Sarah nuzzled his neck, kissed his damp cheeks, John returning her embrace enthusiastically and beginning to giggle when she tickled him.

Eleanor’s gaze became suddenly intent. Then she dropped her focus to her own child, who was attempting to crawl into her lap, taking in his dark hair and the promise of the striking Faringdon features. The differences were remarkable—there could be no denying it. So she stood, determined to seize the moment, smoothed down her skirts and approached the nursemaid who had set the child on his feet again, straightening his collar with loving fingers.

‘Sarah. Tell me…who is the father of this child?’ Eleanor bent to stretch out her hand, to touch the silky fair curls, to cup the soft curve of his cheek.

There was a flash of panic as the laughter in the nursemaid’s eyes vanished. Sarah cast a glance towards Octavia, who remained unaware of any development. Then she gathered John up again into her arms, held close despite his sudden squawk of protest, as if she would shield him from some unseen physical attack.

‘Sarah. I mean you no harm. Indeed…’ Eleanor would have taken her hand, but Sarah stepped back out of reach.

‘Excuse me, my lady. I must take him inside. He will be hungry…’

She fled, almost at a run, with a mumbled apology to Octavia in passing, and vanished through the doors of Faringdon House.

Eleanor picked up Tom, smoothing his hair reflectively. Sarah was afraid.

‘I have spent so dull a morning! You cannot imagine.’ The ladies were once more seated in the barouche, Mrs Stamford holding forth. ‘She appears to know little and will say even less! Her head is stuffed with nothing but pergolas and French marigolds!’

‘Sarah was even less communicative,’ Eleanor admitted. ‘I found out nothing other than an old wives’ cure for an infant colic, which I would certainly never try on any child of mine! A poultice of common groundsel, applied to the stomach of the poor little mite—I shudder at the thought. But Sarah swears by it.’

‘Which does not mean there is nothing to find out, of course.’ Alicia Stamford turned her severe stare on her daughter, choosing to ignore the diversion into country remedies. ‘Surely you could persuade her to drop some gossip about her employer?’

‘No! I could not! What do you suggest? There is no point in scowling at me, Mama. Short of asking her if Baxendale is her mistress’s real name, I could see no way of doing so.’ She turned her face away, holding her son close for a long moment. ‘But one thing is certain. There is some secret there that surrounds the child. And Sarah is not at ease.’

* * *

‘Hal! You were right! I have found it!’

Nicholas erupted into Henry’s bedchamber as the latter was putting finishing touches to his cravat.

‘Come in, Nick!’ His lordship continued to concentrate on his image in the mirror. He was no dandy, as he would be the first to admit, and was very ready to dispense with the services of a valet, but he knew that it was important to keep up some standards in London.

‘A Waterfall, unless I am much mistaken.’ Nicholas laughed and flung himself into a chair by the window to watch the operation. He was still in shirt sleeves and, although the morning was somewhat advanced, gave the appearance of not being long from his own bed.

‘I like the coat—very Weston—and the sartorial elegance of the cravat is amazing for someone wedded to the undeveloped backwoods and social equalities of the New World. A pink of the ton, no less.’ Nicholas smiled in friendly mockery. ‘But that’s not important! I would have come last night—this morning…it was only a few hours ago—but I presumed you would be asleep.’

‘I was.’ Their eyes met in the mirror. ‘And don’t sneer too loudly, little brother. New York may not yet be a centre of sartorial elegance as you put it, but neither it is the backwoods of anywhere. I can still cut a pretty figure.’

‘So I see. And do the ladies of New York appreciate this jewel in their midst?’

‘Rosalind has no complaints.’

‘Ah. Rosalind. Is she a serious matter or in the form of entertainment?’ There was more than a casual question in the voice that caused Henry to glance across from his task.

‘None of your business, Nick.’ Henry took a final glance at his reflection.

‘Of course not.’ He shrugged and grinned with easy acceptance of the rebuff from his brother. They knew each other very well. ‘I only wondered if you had marriage in mind—to set up your own dynasty to inherit the vast fortune you are intent on making.’

‘You will be the first to know when I do,’ was the only dry comment he received in reply. ‘Do I presume from your good humour that your efforts in the dens of iniquity paid off?’

‘More than you could ever guess.’ Nick settled himself more comfortably, one leg hooked over the arm of the chair, to regale his brother with the details. ‘I managed to run him to ground. Our sly fox is a frequenter of White’s, would you believe. And also the new establishment in Pall Mall—Whittaker’s, I think. The place where the major-domo looks you up and down as if you might be up to no good and about to steal the silver.’

‘So.’ Henry anchored his cravat with a sapphire pin, smiling down at his brother’s face, flushed with triumph. ‘We have tracked him to earth.’ His smile was not pleasant as he thought of the effect on Nell over the past weeks of fraudulent scheming. ‘So what has our friend been doing recently?’

‘He is not a frequent visitor to the clubs, but then puts in an appearance for a few nights in one week—as you would expect—when he escapes from his duties. He plays deep. Vingt-etun is his poison. It does not need much skill—just a steady nerve, and our friend, it would seem, has neither. So he is in debt, I gather, to Spalding to the tune of 2,000 guineas. And perhaps to Robert Mallory—you remember him? You once bought a hunter from him—but I am not certain. But he owes something near to 5,000 guineas all told.’

‘And where would he find money like that to pay off the debt?’

‘Exactly. Shall I tell you more? I had a very busy night.’

‘Please do.’ Henry’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of progress at last.

‘It gets better. When I mentioned the name to Kingstone, he was an amazing source of information. It cost me a bottle of brandy, but it was well worth it. There was a scandal recently. We did not hear of it because I was at Burford and you were in New York. It involved a new young actress called Elizabeth Weldon. She was taken up by an admirer and had a child. Both actress and child were found dead in her lodging, their cause of death uncertain. Rumour connected our quarry’s name with the girl, but there was no proof and his status would speak against it so the case was not pursued. But even so, Kingstone tells me that he is not liked. Hers was not the only name he has been linked with. It would seem that his appetite for pretty young girls is…shall we say, extreme.’

‘Better and better.’ Hal thought for a moment, toying with a silver-backed hairbrush. ‘What you say does not surprise me. Aunt Beatrice hinted as much. He has a very attractive young housekeeper, I remember, with a pronounced invitation in her smile. Our esteemed aunt would definitely not approve.’

‘Yes. Well, it would fit with the rest of the picture. And I only had to spend one night to get the information! Oh, and by the by, he drinks—to excess. Another reason for his being a poor gambler. Kingstone says that he has been asked to leave more than one club. His behaviour must have been vulgar indeed.’

‘I am indebted to you, Nick.’ Henry put down the brush and shrugged into the dark superfine coat which had attracted Nick’s admiration. ‘I think another visit to Whitchurch is called for. Tedious, but it will be worth it. Do you care to join me? This time Eleanor will be remaining in London, if I have to lock her in her room.’

‘I will go to Whitchurch with you willingly. But restrain Eleanor? I will not volunteer to help—on your own head be it. Besides, she would forgive you quicker than she would forgive me.’ Nick watched his brother closely, to see his response.

‘I doubt it. The lady has not hidden the fact that she has a low opinion of both my involvement and my motives in staying to unravel this unholy mess!’

‘Then you should not doubt it! The problem is, Hal, that you do not see what is under your nose where Nell is concerned. I thought you did not like each other at first. I admit I was wrong. Totally wrong. I am still not quite sure what drives both of you—or perhaps I am. In fact, I am convinced! But I know that you would not thank me for my opinions or advice.’ With which set of blindingly enigmatic statements, Nicholas rose to his feet and made to depart.

Then Marcle knocked at the door and entered with a silver salver bearing a note.

‘From Lady Beatrice, my lord.’

Henry sighed and frowned. ‘Now what.’

He broke the seal, unfolded the single page and read the brief note of a few lines. And then re-read it.

‘Well?’

He passed it on to his brother. ‘I think that we have just discovered our pot of gold.’

My dear Henry,

I remember the name. It came to me at some inconvenient hour in the dead of night when I could not sleep, as is ever the case. Perhaps it came from seeing the girl and speaking with her at your evening on Saturday. Her name is—or certainly was—Octavia Broughton.

I hope this information is to your advantage. I would hate to see the title fall into the wrong hands.

Your loving aunt,

Beatrice

‘God Bless you, Beatrice!’ Henry took back the note and stowed it carefully in his pocket.

‘And the Devil take the Reverend Julius Broughton, Octavia’s loving and expensive brother!’ Nick added with some venom. ‘When do we set out for Whitchurch?’

After Nicholas’s departure, Lord Henry added a gold watch to his waistcoat and a signet ring to his hand, made to pick up gloves and hat, then simply stopped, standing to rub his hands over his face in frustration. Nicholas knew. It had become impossible to disguise it. He had tried not to look at Nell. To touch her. To keep his distance when in the public eye. He had hoped, fought hard to hold his feelings in check. Not well enough, it seemed. Nick knew him too well. At least he could rely on his brother to be discreet. They both knew that they could not afford one whiff of scandal. If any word of an association between Lord Henry Faringdon and the newly widowed Marchioness of Burford got out to become the latest on dit, they would be all but destroyed. The censure of the haut ton would be damning indeed, for which he would never forgive himself. So he must guard his actions in future. There must be not the smallest hint of love or desire or need. He gritted his teeth. Nothing beyond brotherly affection and concern. But it was sometimes impossible when Eleanor looked so lost and weighed down by uncontrollable events. Or when she sparkled with courage and determination to fight back against the odds. Or when she smiled at him, her eyes glowing and her lips curving in just that way she had. Lord Henry groaned. In fact, it was simply impossible.

The morning visit to Octavia Baxendale at Faringdon House and her difficult but inconclusive conversation with Sarah gave Eleanor much food for thought. Sarah’s protection of the child, her awareness of his needs, had been keen and instinctive. When he was in distress her response to him was immediate and loving. Quick to restore him to laughter. Whereas Octavia…she had continued her conversation after the briefest of glances towards the source of the youthful tantrum. Eleanor could not imagine being so uninterested in her son’s concerns. But she lifted her shoulders in the slightest of shrugs. As Judith had been quick to point out, not everyone was blessed—or cursed—with strong maternal feelings. And, without doubt, the child was healthy and well cared for. There was no cause for concern for the well-being of Octavia’s son.

The sunshine flooded the window embrasure of the little parlour at the front of the house where Eleanor stood, her own child in her arms, contemplating their uncertain future. She had been driven to rescue her son from his nursemaid in the nursery, to spend time with him, perhaps to reinforce her memories of Thomas and her marriage when the future had seemed so settled. So certain. She held the child close, enjoying the warmth of his small body, the grasp of his fingers at the neck of her gown. She rubbed her face against his, making him chuckle, so that those glorious eyes, not the dark blue with which he was born—indeed, they were now the most beautiful clear amethyst of her own—sparkled with innocent pleasure. Whatever the future would hold for him, she vowed that he would be safe. She could protect him and give him the best life that was in her power to give, what ever the outcome of Sir Edward Baxendale’s assertions. And she would love him with all the fierce maternal love that flowed through her veins. The infant whimpered a little, his mouth downturned as her possessive hold tightened inadvertently. Eleanor laughed a little as she loosened her grip and turned towards the view from the window for instant distraction from tears.

‘One day you will own a house as fine as this,’ she told Tom. ‘Finer, in fact. As fine as the King’s own palace, if you wish it.’ Her cheek pressed against his hair as he leaned to stretch out his hand to the world beyond the glass. ‘One day you will own a splendid bay stallion, just like that one.’ She pointed as a rider went past, the hollow sound of the hooves echoing on the hard surface. ‘You will ride as well as your father—all style and dash and elegance. And you will look like him. I know it, even though you are still so small. I see his dark hair and straight nose.’ She touched him with gentle fingers, savouring the curves of childhood that would disappear all too soon. ‘Not his eyes—they are mine—but those splendidly arched eyebrows. And the curve of your jaw just there.’ She ran her finger over the soft cheek. ‘You will be tall and handsome and when you smile the young ladies will all want you to look in their direction. Just as I did when I saw your father. You will break many hearts, I am sure—and you do not care about one word I have said to you!’ She laughed in delight as she swung him round in a circle.

Then her thoughts drifted to Thomas, her husband, as the baby dozed a little on her shoulder. The images rose before her mind, crystal clear, finely etched, a painful and difficult meshing of contentment and grief. The morning she had gathered all her courage to present herself at Faringdon House to enquire for Hal. She had expected to be turned away, but Thomas had seen her, invited her into the library to know the reason for her distress. Only to inform her that Henry had sailed two days before. She had not believed him. She remembered as if it were yesterday the icy finger of despair that had traced its path down her spine. She had felt almost faint with shock, disbelieving that he could have left her, without word, without even a formal farewell. He had simply gone, in spite of all his protestations of love, in spite of the promise implicit in his lips warm against her own. In spite of her giving him the proof of her own love. How empty his words must have been. How cold his heart—and she had never realised it until that moment when Thomas had said, ‘But he is gone. Did you not know?’

Dear Thomas. Her lips curled sadly at the memory. His compassion and kindness had been overwhelming as he led her to a seat, helping her mop up her tears with his own handkerchief. She could not have expected such concern for her broken heart, but he had been open in his generosity.

And Thomas had married her. He knew that she loved Hal. Yet he had still married her.

Oh, Thomas. How unfair I was to you! She rocked the baby against her. I gave you friendship and companionship, but I could not give you my heart. I never pretended otherwise, but I pray that you were satisfied. I think you deserved more. Perhaps you did love Octavia…but I can never accept that you would have treated me—or her—with such lack of respect. It was simply not in your nature to dissemble and hide the truth. We were always honest with each other.

She brushed away the dampness from her eyes, determinedly refusing to let her thoughts return to her troubled relationship with Hal and his imminent departure. She cradled the sleeping babe more comfortably, humming softly, her cheek resting against his hair.

‘You are so very young, still so unaware,’ she murmured. ‘And so you can never know your father—it will never be possible for you to grow up to experience for yourself his love and care. But I will tell you all about him when you are old enough to understand. I will never let you forget how splendid a man sired you, even though you will never be able to keep his image in your memory, and he will not know you as you grow to manhood.’ Turning her face into the soft curls, she hid the anguish. ‘And neither shall I forget. I shall remember him until the day I die.’ Her voice was soft, even if the words were fierce. The baby snuffled and burrowed against her. ‘You do not understand, but one day you will.’

* * *

Henry stood in the open doorway to the parlour. He had been standing there for some little time, having been dispatched by Mrs Stamford with an urgent request to her daughter. He could not help but listen and watch, uncomfortable at eavesdropping on so private a moment, but caught up in the situation. She was so loving, so tender with the child. The picture they made together, bathed in bright sunshine, gave them the glowing mysticism of a holy picture. Otherworldly. Beyond time. He would have liked to have walked in, enfolded them both in his arms in a symbol of love and possession, but could not, dare not, break the spell. He was shut out from this relationship by present circumstances and past history. His throat dried, his heart beat with a heavy pulse as he controlled the wave of regret and longing that compromised him with its intensity. Into his mind came the memory of the woman and the babe as he had once seen them, when Eleanor had leaned over the crib in candlelight and crooned a lullaby to a restless infant. The image was sharp, clear as the faceted crystals in the chandelier, and it rocked him to his very soul. Such love and tenderness between them. Henry was forced to turn his face away from the brightness before him, to close his eyes momentarily to shut out the promise of what might have been, and yet could never be. He would have retreated, leaving her undisturbed. After all, he did not know what to say to her and in that moment could not trust his composure.

Then, as he would have stepped back, she became aware and turned her head, a little startled. He had no choice but to continue with his errand.

‘I did not mean to disturb you, my lady.’ Eleanor apparently did not notice his hesitation. But his voice sounded strained, even to his own ears.

‘You have not.’ What was he thinking? His expression was bleak, the flat planes of his face stark with an emotion held in check. She hid her own discomfort behind a polite exterior, but could not look at him.

‘Your mother seems to feel that there is urgent need for you below stairs. She accosted me in the hall. Some disagreement, I believe. She would not explain, but she is not happy.’

‘Oh. My mother tends to see household catastrophes where they do not exist.’ Eleanor managed a slight smile as she sighed.

‘I dare not suggest such a thing. I think you had better go.’ Henry’s appraising glance took in her discomfort, her lack of ease in his presence. He wished that he knew why.

‘It will be some trivial matter that Marcle will be able to solve without difficulty. My mama has a need to interfere!’

‘I am aware. But dare not say that either!’

Now she laughed, the atmosphere lightened, as had been his intent. ‘If you would ring the bell for Jennie to take Tom…’

‘No matter. I can watch my nephew for a few moments without danger to him or myself, I expect.’

‘Are you sure?’ He did not know whether he saw amusement or uncertainty on her face as her eyes finally lifted to his, but either was better than her previous withdrawal.

‘No. I can but try.’

She laughed again as she walked to the door, quickly turning her face away. How much had he heard of her foolish conversation with Tom? She was intensely aware of the hot colour that stained her cheeks, embarrassed by her vivid memories of a few moments before.

‘Eleanor.’ His voice stopped her. ‘Will you return when you have dealt with the crisis? There is a matter that I need to discuss with you.’

‘Of course.’ She frowned. ‘Should I be worried?’

‘No. Not a matter of concern—rather one of hope. But there is something you should know that Nicholas has discovered.’

‘Very well.’ Eleanor tucked the child securely into the corner of a chair, supported by a cushion and, with the brief instruction to watch her son, left in the direction of her mother’s raised voice.

‘So.’ Henry eyed the child with some disquiet. ‘What do we do? I know nothing of babes. I suppose I can talk to you. Or perhaps I simply leave you to sit there until your mother returns. And pray that it will not be long!’

A whimper at the loss of his mother was the only response.

‘Don’t cry. Not that. I shall have failed and have to face your mama’s wrath. Come here.’ He bent and lifted the child with definite lack of expertise, but carefully enough, to carry him to the window as Eleanor had done. ‘There—that is far more interesting.’ He looked at the child, noting the features, his heart suddenly clenching in his chest. ‘Oh, God! Thomas. I wish you had not died. You should see your son. So much like you.’ He smiled as the baby blinked owlishly at him. ‘Even to that innocent stare when there is mischief afoot. I predict he will be a handful as he grows—but with all the charm in the world.’ The smile faded, his features taking on an austere cast. ‘And his mother is exactly what you would have wished. I will care for your son—and Eleanor, if she will allow it. For both of them, as you would have done.’

Eleanor returned, the matter of responsibilities for ordering both household and kitchen candles quickly smoothed over, to see Henry in the window, holding the child. She came to an abrupt halt, much as Henry had done earlier. The breath caught in her throat at the unexpected scene. Both dark heads close together, some ridiculous conversation going on, which had caused the child to focus on Lord Faringdon with determined concentration and an instantly recognisable Faringdon frown. The object under discussion appeared to be Henry’s half-hunter repeater watch, which he had opened to chime the hours and the quarters. Tom’s frown suddenly replaced by a grin in which teeth were just beginning to emerge. He giggled at the bell-like tones.

She could weep for what might have been as Henry turned his head at her approaching footsteps.

‘Eleanor.’ The relief was palpable. ‘As you see, I am entertaining your son. Not a tear in sight.’

‘Thank you.’ She was unintentionally abrupt, to hide the emotion that threatened her composure.

‘You had better take him. I might drop him.’

‘You look very competent.’ She held out her arms, then turned her back, concentrating on the child, struggling to keep her voice light. Her heart ached. ‘You said you had something to tell me.’

‘Yes. It will interest you inordinately to know that Octavia’s name is not Baxendale. It is Broughton. Aunt Beatrice remembered.’

‘Broughton!’ Eleanor became very still as enlightenment came to her, her eyes widening. The unexpected news overrode her wayward emotions and her discomfort in Henry’s presence. She now turned to face him, features vivid with renewed hope, but still kept her gaze fixed on Tom’s face. ‘And so her brother? The Reverend Julius, I presume.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then…’ she shook her head ‘…why did Sir Edward claim to be her brother? Why did the Reverend Broughton lie to us?’

‘The details are not yet clear. But tomorrow Nick and I will go back to Whitchurch. The Reverend has an unsavoury reputation, it would appear. Nick has traced him to some of his London haunts. Debt is an issue. It might explain why he was willing to put his hand to documents so obviously fraudulent.’

‘And you do not want me there.’ She nodded once in quick understanding, but still disappointment.

Henry walked to the other side of the room, to put as much distance between them as was possible. He did not want to see the wild hope in her eyes. It was difficult enough to hear traces of it in her voice without surrendering to a need to hold and comfort her—in case their investigation came to nought.

‘It would serve no purpose, Nell.’ His words sounded cold, unfeeling.

‘I understand. Whatever you wish, of course.’

‘You amaze me, Eleanor.’ Those well-marked Faringdon brows arched.

‘Did you expect me to demand that I accompany you?’

‘Yes. Nick and I thought we would have to lock you in your room.’

‘I see. So you have already discussed the possibility!’ And clearly not something that he wished for. Against her will, she was touched by amusement and decided to be charitable. ‘No, I shall not be so difficult and uncooperative.’

‘We could have the key to the whole secret by tomorrow night.’ He tried to be encouraging.

‘Yes. It will be a relief.’ Her voice was colourless, disguising the thoughts that jostled in her mind, destroying the hope that should have been ignited by his words. It will all be over. I should be overjoyed. My son’s inheritance is safe. She looked at the handsome man standing by the door. Noting the distance between them. Recognising his deliberate intent. And then he can go back. Back to Rosalind. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about anything but the benefit for your son. Don’t hope for the impossible. He did not want you before. He will not want you now. It is finished.

Henry was shattered by the stricken look on her face, a fleeting expression of despair, seemingly incongruous with the news he had just brought her. Perhaps he misread it. Perhaps she was simply tired. But he doubted it.

He bowed and left. There was nothing he could do for her but unmask Edward Baxendale and Julius Broughton as the villains that they undoubtedly were.

He would do that, if he could do nothing else.

Lord Henry made the journey once more by curricle to the tranquil village where a malicious plot had been conceived and put into motion, accompanied as planned by his brother. It had to be admitted that he was not sorry; it was a more relaxed journey without the tensions and enticements of Eleanor’s presence. But he had been more than a little surprised by her compliant willingness to remain in London, her uncharacteristically placid acceptance of his decision. Or perhaps it had not been placid but edgy, withdrawn, an unwillingness to be in his company, and he said as much to Nicholas as the miles sped past.

‘She did not wish to come.’

‘She seemed very calm about the whole affair at breakfast.’ So Nicholas had sensed nothing untoward. ‘You did not then have to lock her in her room.’

‘No.’

Nicholas thought about it. ‘You can’t blame her. This will not be a pleasant interview and she would learn nothing that we cannot report back, after all.’

‘No.’

But it worried him. Did she dislike him so much, a renewal of the hatred and contempt that had flashed in her eyes when he had first returned to Burford Hall? And if so, what had precipitated it? Had their night together, however unwise it might have been, not been what he had thought? She had quite deliberately refused to meet his eyes when he had told her of Nick’s discovery, deliberately turning her back against him, when only the night after the Sefton soirée she had shivered in his arms. Arched her body against his and cried out his name with a fierce passion that had matched his own. And yet when she had returned to the parlour to take her son from his arms her response to him had been cold and aloof. He might as well have been a stranger to her. Women! How could a man ever be expected to follow their train of thought? He snapped his thoughts back to the present, tightening the reins, as one of the lively bays took it into its head to shy at a passing pheasant.

The minor skirmish and battle of wills over, his thoughts turned back to Eleanor whether he wished it or not. It was for the best. He could leave for New York with nothing to pull him back to England. No unfinished business, no untied ends, no tangled emotions. The bitterness might have dissipated from their relationship but, whatever Nick had intimated—and he was not perfectly sure that he understood his brother’s comments—Eleanor was more than willing to turn her back on him as if there had never been any passion between them. So be it. It would be better so. There were no alternatives open to them under the law and it would be irresponsible of him to even contemplate anything other than a distance between them. Time and space would allow them to forget. To heal. Memories would fade. He would settle in New York, marry, produce an heir—and think of Eleanor merely as a pleasant if complicated interlude in his past, with no power to hurt or move him to unbearable need.

Not that time and space had worked any such miracle in the past two years! But it would. It must!

What could he possibly hope for in a future with Eleanor? The law and the church forbade any relationship between them, other than that of brother and sister. He set his teeth and concentrated on his horses.

They approached the pretty village of Whitchurch once more with its Norman church and cluster of tidy cottages. Past the Great House, still shuttered, where Sir Edward Baxendale lived with a sister and a baby—a sister who was not Octavia Baxendale. Or Octavia Broughton. And on to the Red Lion where Jem Abbott welcomed them, remembered his lordship and his openhandedness, stabled their horses and offered them tankards of ale. Henry refused and they walked the village street to where the vicarage was tucked behind the church in its leafy glade. No funeral occupied the churchyard this day to take up the Reverend Julius Broughton’s time. It could be presumed that he would be at home to receive them.

The door to the vicarage was opened at their knock by the same village girl who had been present on Henry’s previous visit. Young and comely, dark haired and dark eyed, with a flash of vivacious spirit and interest as she cast a less than servant-like glance over the two visitors. Her lips curled in welcome, her eyes sparkled with a sly flirtatious intent. She was very young, as Henry remembered, an unlikely choice for a housekeeper—but the house was undoubtedly well kept. Perhaps the Reverend had discovered a jewel. And yet, Henry admitted cynically, in the light of their knowledge from Kingstone, and Jem Abbot’s knowing comments, perhaps housewifely duties had not been uppermost in the priest’s motives when employing her.

‘Come in, my lord.’ The girl stepped back. ‘The master is in the library.’

‘Molly, is it not?’

‘Yes, my lord. I remember you.’ She gave him an appraising stare again at odds with her apparent role in the household. ‘And could this be your brother? He has the look.’ She dropped a pert curtsy and then with a swing of her hips she preceded them down the corridor and into the front parlour. ‘I will see if the master is available to see you.’ And left them, closing the door quietly behind her.

Nick raised his brows. ‘I see what you mean.’ He grinned. ‘Not my first image of housekeeper in a vicarage. She is certainly nothing like Mrs Calke at Burford Hall.’

‘Nothing at all! Don’t let yourself be distracted, Nick!’

‘No. I would not dare! But I wager that the Reverend Julius is, between writing sermons and burying the dead. She must be a great solace to him. Especially on a cold night.’

Henry snorted in appreciation and agreement, when Molly returned to usher them into the library with the sweetest and most innocent of smiles for the two gentlemen.

The room was as Henry recalled it. Bright with sunshine, polished with the faint aroma of beeswax and lavender lingering in the air, the books arranged with neat precision on their shelves. What had he thought when he had first entered it? The room of a scholar and academic? How wrong he had been. The gentleman in question sat behind his desk, light falling on his fair hair and finely chiselled features. Appearances were deceptive—they had been well deceived by the Reverend Broughton! Lord Henry controlled the surge of bitterness that threatened to choke him when he considered the results of this man’s immoral meddling.

‘My lord.’ The priest rose from his chair, a faint but not unfriendly enquiry on his handsome face. ‘How can I be of assistance?’

‘Reverend.’ Henry inclined his head in a cool acknowledgement. ‘Can I present to you my brother, Lord Nicholas Faringdon? Nick, this is the Reverend Julius Broughton.’

They bowed, manners impeccable.

‘I believed our business to be complete, my lord. I think I can give you no further information about the affairs of your late brother and Octavia Baxendale.’ The priest’s forehead creased in a slight frown, but the smile remained on his lips. He looked from one brother to the other for enlightenment, causing Henry to marvel at the man’s ability to pursue the charade. How could anyone suspect a gentleman of such well-bred appearance and deportment—and a priest—of deceit and trickery?

‘But I believe that you can.’ Lord Henry’s voice was cool and flat, revealing nothing.

‘Very well. I will do what I can. Please sit. Perhaps I can offer you a glass of wine?’ He stretched out his hand towards the bellpull to summon Molly.

‘No. This is by no mean a social call, sir.’ But they took the offered chairs.

‘So, my lords.’ The Reverend Broughton lowered himself carefully to his own armed chair, his pale eyes moved between the two, but with no hint of discomfort or apprehension. No premonition of what was to come.

He is very sure of himself! Will he be willing to admit the truth, when we have no firm evidence? Only gossip and supposition that will prove nothing? Henry smothered the doubts, refusing to believe that they would fail in their mission. Too much hung on their success.

‘It would appear that you have something of a reputation in town, sir.’ Nicholas opened the conversation.

‘I don’t follow…’ For the first time there were the faintest shadows of strain at the corners of the priest’s mouth. His lips thinned marginally.

‘I should tell you that after my brother’s recent visit, I made it my business to ask questions in London.’ Nicholas crossed one leg nonchalantly over the other. He might have been discussing the weather. ‘Your name is well known, but perhaps not in the best of circles for the most altruistic of reasons.’ He allowed his lips to curve in a faint but humourless smile. ‘Some of my acquaintances were very ready to gossip about you, despite your position in the Establishment.’

‘I fail to see… What do you imply, my lord?’ Broughton picked up the pen from the desk, turning it in his fingers, as he kept his enquiry calm. ‘My acquaintance in London is small. I cannot imagine that my infrequent visits make me an object of interest to anyone.’

‘The word, sir, is that you are in debt. That you have a name for gambling, for hard drinking. And for unsavoury relations with certain women. Not what one would expect from a man of the church, I venture to suggest.’

‘And you would give credence to such slanders? Accuse me without giving me a hearing?’ The man to whom they had so casually tossed their accusations remained cold, austere, a man of principle, with just a touch of arrogance. He raised his chin to look down his aristocratic nose, his lips thinned with displeasure. ‘There is no truth in it. And what possible bearing could this…this gossip have on your interest in the marriage at which I officiated?’ The Reverend Broughton appeared to be genuinely stunned and outraged—until it was noted that his hands had clenched around the quill, to its detriment. ‘It surprises me that you, my lord, would so willingly believe the gutter-sweepings of society gossip. Mere empty-headed nothings, without proof or conscience. And what business is it of yours? What right have you to interfere in my private affairs?’ Broughton suddenly rose to his feet as if he could sit no longer, throwing down the pen as he did so, regardless of the spray of black ink that spread across the sheet of paper before him. There were high spots of colour on his cheekbones now. Of illconcealed rage.

‘I am not sure what bearing the gossip has yet,’ Lord Henry chose to answer, his response as controlled as the priest’s was not. ‘But I think it will. You lied to me, sir.’

‘Lied? I think not.’

‘The marriage of Octavia to my brother.’ He produced a copy of the document and laid it on the desk between them. ‘It never happened, did it? This is a copy of your fraudulent document—bearing your signature—of an event that never happened.’

‘You have no proof of that. On what grounds do you claim that the marriage never took place?’ Cold anger burned in his eyes and he kept them fixed unwaveringly on the man who challenged his authority. ‘You can have no proof!’

‘No. I do not.’ Henry admitted the fact with bland and unnerving assurance. ‘But I do have proof that Sir Edward Baxendale is not Octavia’s brother. That her true name is not Baxendale but Broughton, so that her name as written in the document is a fraud. And that therefore, I suppose by pure exercise of logic, you are Octavia’s brother. If you are prepared to lie about that, then you would hardly balk at perjury over the matter of my brother’s supposed marriage.’

Broughton had not expected this. His face paled, his breathing becoming shallow as he weighed the words spoken against him in such unemotional terms, but yet his voice calmed, his selfcontrol remaining intact.

‘A ridiculous notion.’ He sat again and spread his hands. They had no proof! ‘You can see the family resemblance between Octavia and Sir Edward. It is very clear.’

‘No. I disagree. It is merely a matter of fair colouring. Indeed, it is the same as your own.’

‘You have no proof.’ Broughton fell back on denial.

‘Oh, but I have.’ Nick tried not to glance across at his brother at Henry’s unexpected statement. It must be a bluff! He hoped it would work. ‘Did I not tell you?’ There was now an unmistakable undercurrent of menace in Henry’s voice. His eyes were glacial and without mercy. ‘Another lady travelled here with me today. An older lady. I have left her at the Red Lion, recovering from the journey. She claims acquaintance with you, Reverend Broughton.’

‘Really?’ His lips curled in a sneer of disbelief. ‘And who might this ill-advised lady be?’

‘My aunt. Lady Beatrice Faringdon. She remembers the Season when Octavia was presented into society very well since her own daughter made her curtsy to the polite world at the same time. She remembers my brother’s flirtation with Octavia. And she remembers Octavia’s brother who accompanied her to London. It was not Sir Edward. It was yourself, sir.’

‘I deny it. How could she make such a false statement! It was four years ago!’

‘Lady Beatrice has an excellent memory. She recalls that Octavia’s name on that occasion was Broughton. If I escort her here, I am sure that she would instantly recognise you as Octavia’s brother. She certainly had no recollection of Sir Edward Baxendale. Would you care to wager against it? As much as the 2,000 guineas which you owe Spalding? It would be a far safer bet for me than any wager which you might risk on the turn of the cards in vingt-et-un.’

Broughton said nothing, but sank back into his seat as if he needed the support, his hands clasping the edge of the desk in a vice-like grip. He contemplated the ruin of his life, spelled out in Lady Beatrice Faringdon’s words of recognition.

‘I suggest that this whole sorry affair is a sham, a cunning trick to take control of the Faringdon title and the inheritance.’ Henry continued to hammer the nails into the priest’s coffin. ‘Thomas did not marry Octavia. You put your name to a false document.’

The statement was again met with silence. The Reverend Broughton took a deep and ragged breath as failure and social condemnation stared him in the face through the implacable eyes of Henry Faringdon.

‘So, do we agree? This is not a genuine document. Or do I need to escort Lady Beatrice here to convince you?’

‘No. There is no need.’ The response was soft but quite clear. ‘The document is not genuine.’

‘Then the marriage never took place? You admit it?’

‘The marriage never took place.’ Broughton stared at his hands as if seeking an answer that would release him from the repercussions of his actions, but found none. His lips barely moved but he spoke the words. ‘It never happened.’

‘And are you willing to sign a declaration to that effect, sir?’

That brought the priest’s head up, his eyes narrowed, a faint wash of panic.

‘And if I do not?’

‘If you do not, I would make it my business to spread the details of your dubious and scandalous affairs and your lack of integrity. I doubt that your position in the Church would remain secure in the light of such damning revelations.’

‘Have I an alternative?’

‘No.’

‘Then I must.’

He pulled a clean sheet of paper towards him, picked up the pen, dipped it and began to write. For the next several minutes, the only sound in the room was the scratching of the quill on paper. When it was done, apart from the signature, Broughton looked up to find Faringdon’s eyes on him. Questioning. Stark with contempt.

‘Well?’

‘Why did you do it?’ Henry asked.

‘Think about it.’ Broughton laughed, a harsh sound in the sunwashed room. ‘A fool could work it out—and you are no fool, Lord Henry. I am in debt to a sum far beyond my income. As your brother intimated, there is a shadow of scandal over my life. I am not proud of it, but neither will I grovel.’ He shrugged his careless acceptance, without compunction. ‘But it means that I am open to blackmail.’

‘Sir Edward?’

‘Of course. I am not the villain in this piece, much as you might wish to believe it. Sir Edward owns this living, which brings me a meagre income. Thus he holds me in the palm of his hand. To crush or to give freedom. If I agreed to support his claim to your family inheritance, he promised me security of tenure and money to pay off my debts and keep the style of life that I enjoy. If I did not…I would be destitute. He had the whip hand and I merely bowed to the stronger force. I would do the same again tomorrow given similar circumstances.’

‘But now I hold the whip hand.’ The curve of Henry’s lips was not pleasant. ‘So which is it to be? Sir Edward or myself?’

Broughton shrugged again. ‘It seems to me that I am damned if I do, and damned if I don’t. An interesting position for a priest to find himself in, I think! But I know that you will carry out your threat.’ He read the determination in his lordship’s face and gave a brief nod. ‘I will sign to repudiate my actions.’

‘Then do it.’

He did, with a final flamboyant sweep of the pen across the white surface, flinging the quill down at the end as if it burned his fingers.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Henry stood, bowed with heavy mockery and retrieved the copy of the marriage document and Broughton’s written confession, folding them carefully and stowing them in his inner pocket. ‘I doubt that we will need to meet again. I fervently hope that it will not be necessary. I will leave you to work out your own salvation with Sir Edward, and wish you well of each other.’

He walked to the door. Then hesitated and looked back.

‘Why did you do it?’ He frowned his incomprehension and his bitter disdain. ‘How could you allow your sister to be used in this plot by Sir Edward? A young girl, easily manipulated by a stronger will. How could you allow it, even with the promise of money to pay your debts and a roof over your head? In effect, you sold your sister into Baxendale’s hands to be used for his own purposes. It is despicable for a man to stoop so low.’

‘I had little choice in it. How could you possibly understand?’ Broughton was also standing, still the epitome of the cultured, educated cleric. He laughed bitterly. ‘It is true that Octavia is my sister—but that is not all. She is also Sir Edward’s wife!’

‘His wife!’

‘His wife. And has been for some little time.’ The sneer on the priest’s face was heavily marked. ‘Which left me with no power whatsoever over his dealings with her.’

Henry looked at Nicholas, his gaze inscrutable, then back at the priest. ‘So you told us the truth! You said that you officiated at a marriage at which Sir Edward was present. He was, of course. But not as witness.’

‘Edward married her. Octavia’s name truly is Baxendale. And, whatever your presumption, there was no force involved in her relationship with her husband. Octavia is a biddable girl and quite content with her lot. I do not believe that obeying her husband in this affair has been difficult for her.’

Henry weighed the words carefully. They had the ring of truth. It was easy for the priest to shift the blame.

‘Then God forgive you, for I cannot.’ He bit out the words. ‘You have no remorse and deserve to be cast into the fires of hell. You do not know the pain you have caused to an innocent woman.’ He turned his back and walked out of the Reverend Broughton’s library.