Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue - Mary Nichols, Anne Herries - Страница 13

‘H is wife?’

Eleanor was incredulous, her voice rising, brows arched in amazement. Whatever she had expected from the visit to Whitchurch, it was not that.

‘Octavia is Edward’s wife,’ Lord Henry confirmed. ‘She was never married to Thomas. Your marriage is recognised in the eyes of the church and the law. You are, without any doubt, Marchioness of Burford.’

Eleanor and Henry faced each other across the morning room in Park Lane. The hour was nearing midnight, the ladies had already been retired for the night, the house quiet with only one branch of candles left by a conscientious Marcle to illuminate the hallway for the late arrivals. But on their return from Whitchurch, Henry knew that Eleanor would need to know the truth, no matter how late the hour. It would be cruelty indeed to withhold it. So, lingering only to strip off his greatcoat and gloves, whilst Nicholas returned the curricle and horses to their stabling at Faringdon House, Henry sought what promised to be an emotional audience with his brother’s widow.

She now stood before him. It was clear that she had been awaiting their return, unable to rest, unable to sleep. He had not even needed to knock on her door. Now she waited, frozen into immobility, the heavy lace robe falling from throat to floor as she steeled her mind to hear and accept her fate. Her hair curled in a rich bronze mantle onto her breast, ends tipped with gold by the subdued candlelight, drawing his eyes to her soft curves. He could imagine that hair, as he had seen it, and saw in his dreams, pooling on his pillow, the sensuous silk of it curling onto his chest as she bent over him to lower her lips to his. He would have given the world at that moment to have the right to take her to his bed, to tell her the result of his journey as she lay in his arms, replete from the demands of his body, but pushed the thought away. Instead he stood at a little distance, watching her carefully as she took in the import of his words. Her eyes were huge, glazed with shock at first, but now the flicker of hope gave them an inner glow. She stood motionless, her mind focused somewhere far beyond him, weighing the repercussions.

‘I thought you would wish to know tonight. You might rest easier for the knowledge. You can sleep again, knowing that your son cannot be disinherited.’ He took a step back, away from the candlelight, so that she could not read his expression.

‘Yes. Oh, yes. Thank God!’ Without thought beyond the deluge of relief and gratitude that threatened to overturn her delicate control, she covered the stretch of Aubusson carpet between them and stretched out her hands to him. He simply had to take them in his own clasp. How could he possibly reject her? Drawing her closer so that their joined hands rested against his chest, even though his instinct warned him to keep his distance. But he could not.

‘How can I ever thank you?’ She tightened her grip, oblivious to their closeness, to his own struggle for mastery of his desires, and smiled up into his face. ‘And my child? Is Tom truly safe?’

Henry took a deep breath in an attempt to restore some semblance of order to his thundering heart, without any noticeable effect. Surely she would feel the harsh rhythm that shook him to the core? But he kept his voice calm and unemotional in the eye of the whirlwind that prompted him to sweep her into his arms, to kiss her until all the sadness and heartbreak was finally obliterated. ‘The child’s inheritance is secure since you were Thomas’s legitimate and only wife. The Reverend Broughton was persuaded to put his signature to his own confession, repudiating the documents presented to Hoskins by Sir Edward Baxendale.’

‘Tell me why. How did it happen? How were you able to make Julius Broughton admit to such treachery?’

Henry drew her to the little couch, pushing her gently to sit and taking his own place beside her. He might resist taking her in his arms, but he would not willingly forgo his possession of her hands, which still clung to him as if he were indeed a lifeline in a storm. Her hands were trembling with the force of the relief, but she did not let go.

Henry explained, simply and lucidly, the content of the audience with Octavia’s brother, the Reverend Julius Broughton, detailing all that he had revealed.

‘So there we have it.’ He smiled a little as relief and triumph chased each other across her lovely face.

‘So. Sir Edward blackmailed him into forging the documents.’ Eleanor frowned at the news, looking down at their joined hands. ‘I did not like him. But I would never have thought him guilty of that. All the pain and turmoil he has caused. I know that he has admitted his fault—but I do not think I could ever forgive him. Or Sir Edward. Or those who turned their backs on me and wished me ill.’ She glanced up, a bitter little smile twisting her lips, which touched his heart. ‘You have no idea how vindictive I can feel when I think of the willingness of those friends to listen to poisonous unsubstantiated gossip. It shames me—but I cannot resist it.’

‘It need not shame you, dear Eleanor.’ He encircled her wrists with strong fingers, caressing the soft inner skin where the blood pulsed against his gentle clasp. ‘A great wrong was committed against you. But it is over now. You must try to forget it and live out the rest of your life, secure in your social position, as if your status had never been questioned.’

‘I think it will be difficult. I feel as if my good name and my position within the Faringdon family has been called into question and I have been left feeling—ashamed and unworthy.’

‘I know it. But your family—those closest to you and those who knew my brother Thomas well—they never had any doubts.’

‘No. You did not, I know.’ She glanced up at him, a little shy, a little unsure.

‘No. How could I?’

‘Forgive me, Hal. I could weep.’ She loosened one of her hands to brush a tear from her cheek. ‘Even though the relief is great, I feel sad. Perhaps it is reaction. Perhaps I should be singing with joy!’ Her laugh was a little tremulous.

‘You need to sleep. You will feel better tomorrow. There is one thing, Eleanor.’ His words were very gentle. ‘It should not be a problem, but it would be as well if you were prepared.’

‘What is that?’

‘It may be that Octavia’s son John is indeed the child of Thomas,’ he warned, eyes sombre as he waited to see how she would react. ‘We know that they were attracted and spent time together. But how far did their relationship progress? It could be that she carried Thomas’s child before her marriage to Sir Edward, and it was that fact which gave Baxendale the idea to pursue the claim in the first place.’

‘I see. I had not thought of that.’

‘John could indeed be Thomas’s illegitimate son.’

‘Yes. Will it alter the inheritance?’

‘No. The child will have no claim on the estate—indeed, there will be no actual proof of his sire apart from Octavia’s own words. And how far should we trust her? I fear that she would follow Sir Edward’s instructions to the letter without compunction. And Sir Edward could use the boy’s existence to stir up scandal against the family if his darker scheme to disinherit you failed—as it now must.’

‘Poor child. A pawn in everyone’s game. Do you suppose anyone loves him for his own sake? He is very beautiful.’ Eleanor remained silent for a long moment. ‘If he is Thomas’s son, I think the Faringdons should recognise him as such. And arrange an annuity perhaps.’

‘You are very generous, Nell, and you humble me.’ It took every inch of self-control not to lean forward and kiss away the furrow between her brows. ‘Your spirit is as beautiful as your face. In spite of the agony they have put you through, you can still feel compassion.’

‘He is only a baby after all.’

‘Yes. Listen to me a moment. I think, if you are willing, we should try to speak with the nursemaid again. If we have some evidence to prove the relationship between Sir Edward and Octavia, she may be prepared to say more of what she knows about the child. She clearly cares for him and may be prepared to tell the truth. And perhaps if we met her away from the house, away from watchful eyes and the malign influence of Sir Edward. If I speak with Eaton, he will know if the girl takes the air at a particular time of day, and where. We should be able to waylay her without too much difficulty. Would you agree?’

‘Of course. I truly believe that Sarah knows more than she is saying.’

‘We may be able to persuade her, if she knows that it is for the good of the child.’

Henry raised her hands to his lips and kissed her cool fingers, first one hand and then the other. He could not resist. Even less when she smiled, her amethyst eyes glowing with an intensity of colour at the sudden restoration of hope. ‘You are so very beautiful.’ He turned her hands to press his lips to her palms, marvelling at their softness, the slender elegance of her fingers as they curled around his.

And Eleanor? The burning heat of his mouth against her skin made her breathing as ragged as his.

‘Hal,’ she murmured, closing her eyes against the feather-light brush of his lips, ‘you are so very kind. To me. And even more to a child who may or may not be Thomas’s son.’

‘Perhaps.’ She felt his lips curve against her wrist where he was pressing kisses against the pulse, which beat so hard that it took her breath away. ‘But I do not think that I do it out of kindness. That is too mild an emotion.’

‘Why do you care so much?’ A whispered enquiry born out of the yearning in the depths of her heart.

‘Because I…’ he hesitated, aware of the words that he might have spoken but reluctant to break the spell of that intimate moment ‘…because I care about your happiness. And I suppose that I hold to a belief that every child has the right to know the identity of his father.’

She stilled, froze, the colour in her cheeks and the smile on her lips draining away. It was as if her blood had turned to ice. He watched the transformation with shock. And to be replaced by what? Fear? He could interpret the stark expression in her eyes in no other way.

Abruptly she pulled back, away from him, tugging her hands free.

What had he said? What had he done?

She rose to her feet, an edgy movement quite unlike her usual graceful elegance, backing away from him. ‘I must go, my lord. It is late. You have all my thanks, of course.’

She almost ran from the room, leaving him totally at a loss.

Eleanor fled up the stairs, into her bedroom. She closed the door and leaned against it, her breathing uneven, not simply from her flight. She felt very cold, all the pleasure of the past hour destroyed by that one chance comment. She must think. Must decide. Dear Thomas—he had foreseen that some moment like this might arise in the unknowable future. And now it faced her.

What should she do? She could leave things as they were, the easiest option of course, Tom secure in his inheritance. Indeed, what had changed? Only her perception of the situation. And her knowledge of what was right.

Guilt pooled in her blood, her breath refusing to settle, cheeks ashen.

Every child has the right to know the identity of his father.

She pushed herself from the door to go to the dressing table. Sitting on the low stool, she pulled open the lowest drawer and lifted out a number of flat jewellery cases. The dreaded diamonds and other Faringdon family pieces. Below them was a small carved box, deeper than the others. As she opened it, it released the distinctive scent of sandalwood and she lifted out a silk-lined tray of smaller jewels. Worth a fortune, a king’s ransom, but they did not interest her to any degree as she laid them aside without a passing glance.

Beneath them was a letter on thick cream vellum. Not very old, it was as clean and uncreased as the day it was written, the seals intact. Faringdon seals. The inscription, as she had known, was in Thomas’s erratic scrawl. And the inscription was enigmatic.

Eleanor—

This is for Hal if you should ever consider that he needs to know.

She held it in her two hands, knowing exactly what it contained, torn apart by indecision.

What do I do, Thomas? Remain silent, safe in deceit, safe in the letter of the law? Or speak the truth and risk everything on the throw of this one dangerous dice? If the dice runs true, will the winning not be magnificent, worth every risk? But if it runs against me… What then?

She really did not know what Thomas would advise. Nor did she have any presentiment of Hal’s reaction if she gave him the letter.

Somewhere in the depths of the house a clock struck the hour with quiet chimes. One o’clock. Eleanor sighed. Now was definitely not the time to be making so crucial a decision. With weary fingers she replaced the letter, then the jewels, back into the drawer

Whoever said that love brought happiness and contentment, she mused, as she took herself to bed, facing another restless night in spite of Hal’s good news. It had brought her nothing but indecision and despair.

Now it threatened to tear her heart in two.

Discreet inquires of Eaton, butler at Faringdon House, elicited the information that it was customary for the young maid who cared for the child to take him for an airing in the park on fine mornings, before the fashionable crowd began to gather for their promenade. Armed with this knowledge, Henry and Eleanor took the barouche on the following morning to make contact with the girl. Whatever had disturbed Eleanor seemed to have released its hold on her, Henry noted, but she kept her distance from him, mentally if not in person. Approachable enough, but cool. And the shadows beneath her eyes were stark testimony to the fact that she still was not sleeping. Whatever relief his news had brought her, there was still something that troubled her. She would not confide in him, of course. So, waging a war against frustration, Henry decided to await the outcome of their morning’s task and simply engaged her in trivial conversation and observations on their mutual acquaintance as they turned into the gates of Hyde Park.

They had not far to go before sighting the two figures whom they sought. Early as it was, it was very quiet with few interested parties to watch and comment on the scandalous developments within the Faringdon family.

‘Stop the carriage,’ Lord Henry requested his coachman.

They pulled to a halt near to where Sarah walked along the grass at the edge of the carriage drive, trim and composed as ever in a plain dark pelisse and an undecorated straw bonnet, holding the hand of the golden-haired child who attempted to pull her in the direction of the squirrels that hopped and chased around a distant stand of trees. She was laughing at his enthusiasm and inclined to follow his lead, but turned her head as the barouche drew up along side her and instinctively pulled the boy close to her side.

‘Sarah.’ Eleanor deliberately kept her voice low and undemanding as she leaned to smile down at the pair. ‘A lovely morning for a walk. I think John would like to run rather than walk—at least he is still small enough that you can catch him.’

The young woman looked up, a fleeting shadow of concern crossing her features, but then as she recognised the Marchioness of Burford she smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, my lady. He is always full of energy.’

Eleanor put aside her parasol and reticule and descended from the carriage without waiting for Henry to assist her. ‘I would like to talk to you. It concerns the child.’

Sarah immediately stepped away, casting an anxious glance at Lord Henry who also joined them on the carriageway, and swept the protesting child up into her arms as if she sensed danger. Even, perhaps, an abduction.

‘Don’t be nervous.’ Eleanor reached out to touch the young woman’s arm in reassurance. ‘I intend no harm to either you or the child. This is a public place and you are in no danger from me. I wish you nothing but well. This is Lord Henry, brother to my late husband. You must remember him from your visit to Burford Hall.’ Henry bowed, deliberately remaining beside the carriage. To approach might be seen in the light of intimidation. ‘Perhaps you would consent to ride with us a little way. And then we will return you back to Faringdon House. I am sure John would enjoy to ride in the barouche. My own son likes nothing better.’

‘It is very kind of your ladyship, but…’ Sarah’s anxieties were clear.

‘Please, Sarah. It is most urgent.’

‘Very well.’ How could she refuse a request from the Marchioness herself? Reluctantly the young woman allowed herself to be handed up into the barouche with John ensconced on her lap, looking round with wide-eyed interest.

‘We need to know, Sarah.’ Eleanor took her seat and turned to face her as the barouche moved off at a sedate pace. ‘You must know that it will not be to the disadvantage of yourself or the child. Will you help us?’

‘If I can.’ She was nervous. Her eyes moved from one to the other as she waited. ‘But I do not understand what you could want from me. I am only the nursemaid, employed to care for the boy. How can I possibly help you?’

Henry’s voice was gentle and full of understanding as he broached the issue. ‘Let us be open and honest from the beginning, ma’am. You should know that I have spoken recently with Julius Broughton.’

There was now a distinct flash of panic in her eyes. Eleanor knew that if the barouche had stopped, Sarah and the child would have fled. But it was not possible so she simply sat, her hands white-knuckled as they clasped around the small body on her knee.

‘I know that he and Octavia are brother and sister,’ Henry continued.

‘Oh.’ It was little more than a sigh.

‘I also know that there was never a marriage between my brother and the lady. That, in fact, Octavia is the wife of Sir Edward Baxendale. The Reverend Broughton has admitted as much.’

Eleanor leaned forward to touch the girl’s unresponsive hand where it clasped around the child. She was startlingly pale, but made no reply. There was no need. The truth was obvious in her face, in her teeth buried in her bottom lip.

‘We need to know about the child, Sarah,’ Henry continued. ‘Is he Sir Edward’s son?’

Sarah was silent for a long moment, studying the boy’s upturned face as he laughed, enthralled by the speed with which they were travelling. Then she looked at his lordship, at his stern face but kind eyes. ‘No.’ She shook her head, compelled to reply. His eyes and voice might be compassionate, but she knew that he was determined to learn the truth. She made the decision to tell it. ‘No. He is not Edward’s son.’

‘Then…is he…is John the son of Thomas, my husband?’ Eleanor dared to ask the next question. ‘Did Octavia bear Thomas a son out of wedlock?’

Sarah transferred her gaze to Eleanor’s taut features, only able to guess at the emotion that surged within her at such a question, but could find no words to reply. She snatched away her hand from the comforting grasp, to hold the child close as she hid her face against the curve of his neck.

Watching them together, the light dawned for Eleanor. How could she not have made the connection? She had seen it before, and commented on it, without understanding its significance. It was as clear as faceted crystal in the morning sunshine.

‘Of course,’ Eleanor said softly. ‘He is yours, isn’t he? You are Edward’s sister with the baby, who lived with him at the Great House.’

‘I must not say.’ Sarah’s voice was muffled against her son’s head.

‘I should have guessed days ago,’ Eleanor persisted. ‘You are so loving, and caring of his needs. When Octavia was so uninterested—’

‘Octavia cares nothing for him!’ Eleanor’s words brought an instant reaction. Sarah raised her head, lips thinned in anger, her words bitter. ‘He is mine! Never hers! I should never have gone along with it. It was a terrible thing to do. I am so sorry…’ Tears began to stream down her cheeks, as much in anger as in grief.

Eleanor produced a handkerchief and tried to calm the girl’s anguish. Henry instructed the coachman to turn into one of the quieter drives where no one would be witness to her distress.

‘Will you tell us, Miss Baxendale?’ Lord Henry asked, giving her the respect of her true name.

‘I dare not. Edward…’

‘I will do everything in my power to protect you from Baxendale,’ Henry tried to reassure her as the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together in his mind. Sarah’s participation in Baxendale’s intrigue, willing or otherwise, would prove to be the final key to the mystery.

‘But I have nothing.’ Her words were clipped and despairing. ‘I need his protection. He warned me that—’

‘We know so much already.’ Eleanor tried to hide the urgency of her need. ‘You must tell us the truth. It was a despicable thing for your brother to have done. I can see that you have been given cause for great suffering. If you will trust us, we can rescue you and make it right again.’

‘Why not?’ Sarah sighed, closed her eyes for a moment. ‘What do I owe Edward now? I am so tired of all this deceit. It is true that I am Edward’s sister and that John is my son.’

‘Could you tell us how it was that you allowed your brother to make use of him?’ Eleanor asked in her gentle manner so as not to distress the lady further. ‘It must have been very difficult for you. Why did you agree to play the role of nursemaid?’

Sarah Baxendale looked at Eleanor for a long moment. Then nodded and began to explain the events which led to the deception.

‘I was married to a naval officer, Captain John Russell,’ Sarah explained. ‘He was killed in action in the last months of the war against Napoleon. My son was born two months after his death—his father never knew him. The pension is very small and I had no resources of my own so Edward gave me a home and an allowance to bring up my child. I was companion to Octavia. He was very kind to me, you see.’

She bit her lip as the memories flooded back.

‘And then he told me of his plan: for Octavia to pretend that she had been wedded to the Marquis of Burford, who had just died. And to claim that John was her child. Her brother Julius would provide the legal evidence, lured by the promise of a welllined pocket. Even if he is Octavia’s brother, he disgusts me…’ Sarah frowned as she considered the sins of the Reverend Broughton. ‘I refused, of course. How could I give my child into Octavia’s careless hands? But Edward said that if I cared so much, I could take the role of nursemaid so that I could be with him. He threatened to…to turn me out if I did not comply. I would be homeless and without financial provision. I have no other relatives, you see. I did not know what to do. He knew that I had no choice and had no compunction in threatening me. But he told me it would not be for ever—perhaps only a few months at the most. So I gave in—for such a short time whilst we were in London. I know it is no excuse, but that is why I allowed myself to become involved in something that has filled me with guilt and a self-disgust beyond all bearing. I have shamed my own name and that of my dear husband.’

She dashed the tears from her cheeks with an impatient hand, determined to regain some of the dignity that had been stripped from her by her wilful brother.

‘I don’t think I realised that it would cause so much hurt. I did when we came to Burford Hall, of course. When I saw the effect of Edward’s claims on you, my lady. But I closed my heart to it because I seemed to have no choice in the matter.’

She began to weep again.

‘Mrs Russell,’ Henry addressed her with due formality. ‘Would you consent to tell this sorry tale to my lawyer, Hoskins? That is all that would be required of you.’

‘I dare not face Edward,’ she whispered in broken tones. ‘He will punish me if he learns that I have spoken with you.’

‘There is no need to face him, unless you wish it.’ He looked to Eleanor for confirmation, an eyebrow lifted. She nodded, reading his thoughts. ‘Nor will he harm you. I would suggest that you owe your brother nothing. He had no consideration for your feelings when he forced you to agree to so diabolical a plot against all your maternal instincts. We will acknowledge our great debt to you. You are free to live at Burford Hall with your son. Not as an employee, but as a guest. And the estate will provide you with an income. Until you decide what you wish to do and where you would wish to live. But you will never suffer for what you have done for us today.’

‘No. I cannot…’

‘Will you at least consider it? For the sake of John, if not for yourself?’

Sarah sat silently, looking at her son. She ran her fingers over his fair hair, so like her own, her lips curling into a reluctant smile when he looked up into her face and laughed with childish delight, lifting a hand to pat her cheek as if he would have given comfort. She would do anything for the safety and happiness of her child.

‘Very well. I think that once again I have no choice.’ She looked up, her eyes now clear and determined, and addressed Lord Henry. ‘I fear that sounds churlish, which was not my intention. I know that I do not deserve your gratitude or your help, rather your condemnation. I have done you and your family a terrible wrong, helping to destroy the good name and integrity of your brother and his true wife.’ She inclined her head towards Eleanor. ‘But for the sake of my son, I will accept your offer, and thank you from the bottom of my heart. I will speak to Mr Hoskins.’

Henry took possession of one of Sarah’s hands and lifted it in formal recognition of her intent to his lips. ‘You must not blame yourself, ma’am. The wrong was Baxendale’s—and you have now remedied it. My family’s inheritance is no longer in doubt. The guilt is not yours.’

‘And you have taken a terrible weight from my mind.’ Eleanor touched the lady’s hand in ready compassion. ‘Your courage has ensured that the future of my son, as well as your own, is safe.’

If Mr Hoskins was surprised to see his noble Faringdon clients at an hour when they might normally be partaking of a light luncheon, he did not show it, but ushered them into his office.

He was unable to disguise his amazement, however, when he was introduced to the young woman who accompanied them. Why should the Baxendale nursemaid and the child at the centre of the controversy be on such terms with the Marchioness of Burford? She apparently was under no duress, but entered his rooms with quiet composure, holding the child tightly against her. He sensed a tension within the little group. But he did not express his speculative interest—instead he found seats for the ladies and fussed over a glass of ratafia for them and a brandy for his lordship. The child seemed content, in the short term, to sit on his nurse’s knee and investigate the contents of the Marchioness’s reticule.

Hoskins cast a sharp eye over the tall figure of Lord Henry as he took up a position beside the hearth with its smouldering fire. His reacquaintance with his lordship since his return from New York had given the lawyer considerable cause to re-evaluate the man who dominated the small room. If he had chosen to pay a visit at this time of the day, then there must be some pressing need. He remembered a young lad with vivid features, athletic build, and more energy and charm than was good for him. Always into mischief, but with the ability to extricate himself without too much difficulty. Always ready to challenge authority, to kick over the traces, but with a smile to win over those who might condemn him too harshly.

America had been good for him, Hoskins decided. Somewhere to channel his energies, without the rigid restrictions of birth and privilege to hamper his plans and dreams. Not for everyone, of course, but Lord Henry had done well. Confidence. Authority. Determination. They sat lightly on him, but made an immediate impression. He was still elegantly sophisticated in style and dress, still dramatically handsome, still capable of the effortless charm of his youth, but there was now an edge to him. Not a man to tangle with, as Hoskins had thought on their previous meeting in these very rooms, not a man to cross. From the look on his face at this moment, Hoskins would not have cared to be in Sir Edward’s shoes. And as for the business with Faringdon and Bridges in New York, which his lordship had put temporarily into his hands during his stay in London—he would lay a wager that Mr Henry Faringdon of Faringdon and Bridges would do very well and make a fortune to rival that of his noble family in England.

‘Well, my lord.’ Hoskins finally took his own seat behind his desk. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’ He allowed his gaze to take in the ladies, but then returned his attention to Lord Henry. There was an air of anticipation here that he did not understand. He had no good news for them. There was no doubt in his mind now that Sir Edward Baxendale’s claim was genuine. He frowned, contemplating the wound that he must inevitably inflict on the Marchioness, and wished that it was on an occasion of his own making. But she was here and he supposed that a final statement from him was necessary. It would not lessen the pain by drawing out the situation. ‘I expect that you have come about the inheritance. A most unfortunate business, of course, as I have previously expressed. We have, I believe, to accept the truth of the Baxendale claim.’

‘No.’ Lord Henry spoke with quiet certainty, and moved to sit beside the Marchioness. ‘No, we do not. The truth is this. We have undeniable proof, sir, that Baxendale’s proposal that his sister was married to my brother and therefore that her child is heir to the title is nothing but a fraudulent sham.’

‘Proof, you say?’ Hoskins’s frown deepened. ‘I have to tell you, my lord, that in my opinion as your lawyer, the legal documents produced by Sir Edward are without question genuine.’

‘No, they are not. They are fraudulent. I think that we should begin, sir, by allowing Mrs Russell to explain her presence here today.’

So Sarah Russell, née Baxendale, laid out before the astonished lawyer the nature of Sir Edward’s scheme and her own part in it. Reluctant at first, with much hesitation, she grew in confidence as the enormity of her brother’s behaviour towards her struck her anew. As she spoke, the persona of family employee and nursemaid dropped away, to be replaced by the quiet dignity and pride of both a lady of gentle birth and the widow of a naval officer.

Hoskins listened in silence until she had finished.

‘I have kept silent when I should have spoken out,’ she stated finally, impressing Hoskins with her admirable composure. The time for tears was past and she would follow her conscience. ‘John is my child, the son of my late husband, Captain John Russell. Octavia is Edward’s wife, not his sister, and she is childless. That is the truth of it, sir.’

‘Well.’ Hoskins leaned back in his chair, looking from one to the other. ‘Well! I am speechless!’

He was rendered even more so when Lord Henry produced and laid before him on the desk the written statement from the Reverend Broughton, which explained further the source of the forged documents.

‘So these documents…’ his lordship finally indicated the ostensible proof of marriage and birth that had caused all the heartache in the first place ‘…are worthless.’

‘Indeed. You have been busy, my lord. And very clever in your investigation.’ There was more than a hint of admiration in Hoskins’s shrewd eyes as he gathered up the documents.

‘Not as clever as we should have been, I fear.’ His lordship gave a rueful smile. ‘We asked the wrong question. Or did not ask enough of them about Baxendale’s family.’

‘How so, my lord?’

‘When we visited Whitchurch, the people who knew Sir Edward spoke of his sister and a baby, a sister who had lost her husband.’ Eleanor took up the story. ‘We did not ask if he had a wife as well. Since she was never mentioned, we presumed that he was unmarried and so came to the wrong conclusion. We thought the sister was Octavia.’

‘I see. We have to thank Mrs Russell for her honesty in this matter. We are much in your debt, ma’am.’ Hoskins inclined his head gravely towards the young woman.

‘There would have been no need for the debt if I had been honest from the beginning,’ she replied with shattering honesty, unwilling to accept a lessening of her burden of guilt. ‘I simply hope that I have been able to make restitution, although the pain and grief will always leave its shadow.’

‘Nevertheless, ma’am, without your courage, we would be unable to thwart Sir Edward’s plans quite so effectively.’ Lord Henry, who had risen to his feet, bowed in recognition of her admission. He smiled at her, a smile of great charm, hoping to allay her guilt. ‘Do not be so ready to take the blame that your brother should bear.’

She looked up at him, cheeks now a little flushed, in gratitude for his understanding. ‘Thank you, my lord. I hope and pray that you will indeed thwart my brother. I owe it to the memory and integrity of my husband’s name. I have not done well by him, allowing his son to be used in so vile a scheme.’

‘We shall unmask Sir Edward.’ Hoskins stated with calm assurance, then glanced at Lord Henry from under his brows. ‘So what is your plan of action now, my lord?’

‘We need to see Baxendale. I suggest that you set up a meeting here. He will presume that it is to ratify his sister’s position and the child’s inheritance, and so will come without apprehension or fear of discovery. Then we will lay the evidence before him. I wish to be present. And her ladyship, of course. Mrs Russell if she wishes it.’

‘Good.’ Hoskins rubbed his hands together at the prospect of the completion of the unseemly business. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yes. Let us finish it as soon as possible.’

‘It will be my pleasure, my lord.’

So tomorrow it would all be over.

Mrs Russell returned to Faringdon House with her son, to take refuge in the nursery, thus avoiding her brother and his wife, and to decide whether she would wish to be at that meeting. She did not know.

Eleanor acknowledged the relief that she could finally allow to sweep through her veins, as cold and clean and sparkling as a glass of the finest French champagne. She could hold her head up in public again, although she chided herself for allowing so foolish a situation to matter so much. The rest was far more important. Thomas’s good name would be restored, no longer the subject of barbed gossip and sly innuendo in the clubs and fashionable withdrawing-rooms of the town. And her son… Tom would come into his inheritance in the fullness of time, as was his right.

Her cup should be full, her happiness complete. So why was there a shadow overlying her sense of achievement? Why was there a constriction, a tightness around her heart? She asked herself the question, her eyes unseeing of her surroundings as they drove home in the barouche, but she knew the answer. It was engraved on her very soul. Hal would leave. Let us finish it as soon as possible, he had said. She would lose him and her heart was sore. And, whatever excuses she could make to herself to explain away her behaviour, she was forced to acknowledge that she had not been honest with him

Henry watched the Marchioness in silence as she studied her gloved fingers so intently, wrapped in her own thoughts. It was almost done. He had fulfilled his duty as his brother’s trustee and his success was on the verge of completion. The moment should have been sweet indeed. His family was secure and matters could easily be left in Nicholas’s more than competent hands. That was it. His life in New York called to his blood and his imagination—and there was nothing to keep him here. No matter how much he longed to hold Eleanor and celebrate their triumph. The need to touch her as she sat with her face turned from him made his fingers burn. He accepted with the innate honesty so typical of him that the fact that she had rejected him for marriage with his brother no longer mattered, had not mattered for some time. Somewhere over the past days, his anger had drained away. He had loved her then. He loved her now. He would love her to the end of his days