Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue - Mary Nichols, Anne Herries - Страница 14

As agreed, they waited in Hoskins’s office at eleven o’clock the next morning. Lord Henry, Hoskins and Eleanor. They did not know if Sarah Russell would attend. Perhaps not. It would be an unpleasant interview at best, possibly vicious in its outcome, and they had to accept that she might not feel strong enough to face down her brother, knowing that she was instrumental in his failure to achieve his nefarious goal.

Eleanor was nervous. But you cannot lose, she told herself. This is merely the final act in the tragedy, to expose the evidence before Sir Edward and thus accomplish his defeat. What possible evidence can he produce to refute the claims of his sister Sarah and Julius Broughton? She worked hard to keep an outward calm as she sat before the fire, resisting the temptation to fuss with her gloves, the strings of her reticule or the carved handle of her parasol. It could be seen, however, that she occasionally found the need to smooth her palms down the skirt of her deep blue muslin gown, and her cheeks and throat, above the delicately ruffed collar of her silk spencer, were more than usually, if becomingly, flushed.

Lord Henry stood beside her, immaculate and elegant in pale pantaloons, polished Hessians and dark superfine. Eleanor glanced towards him, intimately aware of his supportive presence, and privately considered him more devastatingly attractive than any man had the right to be. But that was not the first impression sensed by any casual onlooker. His face was cold, impassive, his eyes holding the glacial chill of mid-winter, his mouth grimly set. But when the door of the outer office was heard to open, and footsteps entered from the street, he leaned down to touch Eleanor’s shoulder, fleetingly but with warm comfort. She looked up, unable to disguise her nerves as the muted sound of voices could be heard. His expression softened, his smile for her alone.

‘We shall win, Nell. Never doubt it.’ His gentle tones, his supreme confidence, warmed her cold blood like the finest brandy.

Sir Edward arrived to the minute of the hour, bowed into the room by one of Hoskins’s clerks. As he walked in, it was clear from his demeanour that he had come intending to enjoy the final success of his risky enterprise. Immaculately dressed, well groomed, his blue eyes clear and smiling, he oozed confidence in the expectation of enjoying the Faringdon fortune through the enhanced status of his supposed sister. He bowed to Lord Henry and the lawyer with polished grace, his smile expressing magnanimous appreciation that he would win and they would lose and that he could afford to be gracious in victory. Then he turned to Eleanor, who had remained seated, took her hand to bow over it and kiss her fingers. Compassion was clear in every gesture, in the sorrowful expression in his intense gaze. Eleanor found the greatest difficulty in not snatching her hand away from his light grasp. Instead she gritted her teeth and kept her mouth curved in a semblance of a smile and hooded her eyes with downswept lashes. Henry did not even try for a pleasant expression, but regarded Sir Edward with a stony expression worthy of the Medusa. Although he gave the impression of arrogant assurance, he kept his hands clenched at his sides, eyes cold and flat, momentarily sorry that duelling was out of fashion. Or even if pistols at dawn were not an option, he would have liked to spread Sir Edward Baxendale out on the floor with a fist to the jaw.

Sir Edward, unaware of the latent hostility in the room, took a seat. Lord Henry did not.

‘A delicate situation, my lord, my lady.’ He sat with one leg crossed elegantly over the other, supremely at his ease. ‘But I am sure that we are all in agreement that it is time we settled the matter of the Faringdon inheritance. I presume that such is the reason for this meeting?’ He arched a brow towards the lawyer. ‘Then we can get on with our lives and allow the grief of the past weeks to settle.’ So accommodating. So reasonable. Eleanor felt a sudden urge to scream her objections to her husband’s name being so vilified.

‘Do you plan to remain in London, sir?’ Hoskins enquired with casual interest, as if nothing were amiss.

‘My sister proposes to remain for a week or two at Faringdon House. Then it is her intention to repair to Burford Hall.’ He turned his sympathetic gaze on Eleanor. ‘Have you finally decided on your own destination, ma’am?’

‘Not finally, Sir Edward.’

‘And I presume that you, my lord, will return to America. So much opportunity there for a man of enterprise such as yourself. And Lord Nicholas?’ His brows rose again in polite but pointed enquiry. ‘I think that Octavia will not wish him to stay on at Burford Hall. Or at least not in a permanent nature. Perhaps to visit eventually… She considers that it would be somewhat…ah, uncomfortable in the circumstances. Until her position in the family has become more generally accepted, you understand. We shall make our own arrangements for the administering of the estate.’

And so all was to be very neatly arranged to Sir Edward’s liking!

‘And I will discuss with Hoskins the matter of the annuity for yourself and your son,’ he continued with another sparkling smile in Eleanor’s direction.

‘How thoughtful, Sir Edward. I am sure that I should be grateful for your consideration in the circumstances.’

Hoskins cleared his throat in a little cough to draw attention back to himself. It was time, he decided, to end this cat-and-mouse scene as he bent a fierce stare on Sir Edward. ‘Before we consider all these arrangements, sir, there is one small matter remaining for us to discuss.’ Hoskins glanced up at Lord Henry who had remained silent, allowing the lawyer to take the initiative. His lordship could not guarantee the politeness of his words in the face of Sir Edward’s overweening triumph.

Sir Edward caught the glance between them and his eyes narrowed in quick suspicion. ‘Is there some problem here that I should be aware of? I cannot imagine what could now hinder the settlement.’

‘There is indeed a problem, sir.’ Hoskins lifted three documents from a pile in front of him and spread them on the desk. ‘There is indeed.’

‘Then perhaps you would explain—’

They were interrupted by a light knock on the door. One of the clerks from the outer office opened it to usher a lady into the room. ‘The lady is here, sir. You said to show her in if she came.’ He closed the door behind Mrs Sarah Russell.

Sir Edward turned his head in some surprise at the interruption, and then froze, the smile leaving his face. ‘What is this?’

‘The lady has some part in this discussion, it would seem, sir.’ Hoskins rose to draw the lady into the room. ‘She was kind enough to bring it to my attention yesterday.’

‘I do not discuss my family’s business before my servants.’ Sir Edward’s eyes were suddenly as icy as his insolent words, but there was a wariness in the clenching of his hands on the arms of his chair as he thrust himself to his feet.

‘Then there is no problem, is there, Edward.’ Sarah came to stand quietly beside her brother, to meet his supercilious stare with her own of sorrowful but calm acceptance. ‘Since I am not your servant, the discussion can continue.’

‘What is this?’ he repeated, a tinge of colour now creeping into his face. ‘You are my sister’s companion and nursemaid for the boy. Why are you here?’

‘You cannot continue with this masquerade, Edward. I have told Mr Hoskins the truth and my own shameful part in it.’

‘No. It is not true.’ He looked round, now uneasy, to assess the reaction of the other players in the game.

‘Will you deny your relationship to me, Edward?’ Sarah persisted, quietly but not to be intimidated. ‘Do you deny that you are my brother and that I am no servant of yours?’

‘No…no, of course not.’ He looked across at Lord Henry and then at Hoskins, searching for a way out of the abyss that had suddenly opened up, dark and deadly and totally unexpected, before his feet. ‘Yes, Sarah is my sister, fallen on hard times as a penniless widow. I have given her a home, as companion to my sister Octavia and nurse to the child.’

‘And the child?’ Sarah had no intention of allowing him to escape from the web of deceit that he had so carefully woven to catch the bright prize of the Faringdon inheritance. The web that had entrapped so many innocent people. ‘Do you dare to deny that John is my son, not Octavia’s?’

‘You must understand.’ Sir Edward grasped his sister’s arm, fingers white, as if to silence her, and appealed to Hoskins. ‘Sarah was overcome by grief at her husband’s death. It overset her mind and she has never recovered. She came to believe that Octavia’s son is her own, because she was never blessed with her own child. She needs sympathy…time to recover. The doctors tell me that there is no medical cure, only time and rest will ease her mind.’ He tightened his grip so that Sarah was seen to wince. ‘You should go home, Sarah. Octavia will care for you there. Let me arrange—’

‘Let me go, Edward.’ Sarah pulled ineffectually against the restraint, but Edward shook his head.

‘Come now, Sarah. I will arrange for a cab to take you back to Faringdon House.’ He would have pulled her towards the door.

‘I suggest that you release the lady.’ It was the first time that Lord Henry had spoken since Sir Edward entered the room. When Sir Edward hesitated, his lordship stepped forward with clear intent in his grim expression. Sir Edward allowed his hand to fall from his sister’s arm.

‘You do not appreciate, my lord—’

‘We cannot accept this explanation, Sir Edward.’ Eleanor’s clear voice broke the tension between the two men as she stood to move between them. ‘If Mrs Russell is indeed your sister, why should you imply that she is merely a nursemaid for the child, and treat her as such? When you first visited us at Burford Hall, you certainly gave the impression that she was a paid retainer, not a close member of the family. Besides, I have seen her with the boy. To me there is no doubt that he is her son. It could not escape my notice that Octavia appeared to have little interest in him.’

‘You must not misread the situation, my lady—’ Sir Edward tried to regain his composure, but his skin was waxy and sweat had begun to gleam on his brow.

‘Enough!’ Lord Henry intervened. ‘The game is at an end, Baxendale.’ He leaned forward, picked up two of the documents from the desk and tore them deliberately in half. ‘These, sir, are your witnessed papers, proof of Octavia’s marriage and John’s birth.’ Then he cast the pieces into the fire where they disintegrated in a shower of ash. ‘This is what they deserve.’

‘What have you done? They are legal documents.’ Sir Edward looked on aghast, still unwilling to accept that all was indeed at an end.

‘No, Baxendale.’ His lordship held him, eyes resolute and pitiless. ‘They are worth nothing. I know their true value because the Reverend Broughton admitted as much. In writing, so there would be no doubt, when he acknowledged that Octavia was his sister.’ He lifted and held out the third document for Edward to read. ‘I am certain that you will recognise the hand as that of your wife’s brother. No more lies, Baxendale. I think we know the truth.’

Sir Edward’s face was ashen as he stared at the incriminating admission in Broughton’s recognisable hand. His lips twisted into a snarl as he witnessed the destruction of his plans and he turned on his sister. ‘This is all your doing. How could you betray me? How could you show such ingratitude after I saved you from penury after your unfortunate marriage? I warned you of the consequences—’

‘The lady no longer needs your support.’ Lord Henry stepped forward to take Broughton’s confession from Sir Edward’s clenched hand. ‘I believe that she would no longer choose to live under your roof. I shall make it possible for her to live with a degree of independence. Her duty to you is at an end as, I suggest, is yours to her.’

‘Ha! You have come out of this very well, my dear sister. I should congratulate you.’ Whipping round with a snarl, he lifted his hand and would have struck her if Henry had not intervened. With lightning reflexes he seized Baxendale’s wrist and bore down, forcing him away from his sister, who had stood her ground, stricken at the unexpected attack.

‘Don’t give me an excuse to strike you down.’ His lordship’s words were low but none the less deadly. ‘There is nothing I would like better, for the anguish that you have inflicted on my family as well as on your own sister.’

‘Take your hand off me!'Sir Edward wrenched himself away, but made no further attempt to approach Sarah.

Shocked beyond words by the threat of violence, Sarah covered her face with trembling hands and began to sob. With a soft murmur of compassion, Eleanor moved to put comforting arms around her and to lead her to the door.

‘I will take Mrs Russell to Faringdon House to collect John and then on to Park Lane. It would be better, I think. Will you…will you follow soon?’ She looked anxiously from Henry to Sir Edward, caught up in the bitter mood between the two men, uncertain of the outcome.

Lord Henry nodded his agreement and smiled thinly. ‘Soon. There is no need for your concern, my lady.’ He strode to open the door for them, bowing with all courtesy as if he had not threatened physical violence a moment ago. ‘All will be well.’ So they left, accompanied by Hoskins, who would arrange a carriage for them, leaving Lord Henry and Sir Edward alone.

They faced each other across the room with its weight of law books and legal documents, the air still and heavy between them. As heavy as the unfinished business.

‘Tell me one thing before we finish this.’ Henry took up a stance behind Hoskins’s desk. ‘Why? Why Thomas? I presume your motive was money. But why choose to discredit him?’

‘Of course it was money.’ Baxendale had no hesitation in confession, a certain pride shining in his eyes as he expressed his illogical hatred for the family whose fortune he would have acquired without compunction. ‘And Thomas Faringdon provided the perfect candidate. His unexpected death was most opportune. I knew about his liaison with Octavia when she was presented to Society. How he sought her out, and flattered her. He obviously thought her birth good enough for a light flirtation! He would have married her, Octavia believed, but he was warned off by interfering members of your arrogant family. So he rejected her because she was not good enough for him, her family not sufficiently well bred for a Marquis! He should have been whipped for his casual treatment of her! But, of course, that is not the way of the world.’

‘But…’ Lord Henry’s brows drew together into a forbidding line. ‘You would base this whole campaign, to discredit a reputation and destroy the security of my brother’s wife and child, on something so tenuous as a flirtation that occurred four years ago? I find it difficult to believe any man of honour capable of such vindictive manipulation of a series of events that never even happened—that had not the slightest foundation of truth.’

‘Why not? Your brother’s death provided the perfect occasion for revenge. Octavia should have been Marchioness of Burford. Doubtless would have been if Lady Beatrice Faringdon had not stirred the mud in the bottom of the pool. So I would see to it that she achieved the recognition that was her due.’

‘And benefit from her newly acquired status by association.’

‘Of course.’

‘And, had you been successful, Octavia would have had the whole Faringdon fortune fall sweetly into her lap.’

Sir Edward made no reply, eyes focused on some distant unpleasant vista, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he saw the destruction of all his hopes and intricate planning.

‘With the financial reins in your capable hands, of course.’ Lord Henry pursued the matter with the inexorable intensity of a knife edge.

‘Yes!’ It was a hiss of despair, of abject failure. ‘Octavia should have had what she deserved.’

‘So it was money. As simple as that. A desire to line your pockets with gold.’

‘Oh, no.’ The shrug, the sneer were unmistakable. Baxen dale’s eyes snapped back to his tormentor, filled with a cold hatred. ‘There was nothing simple about it. Don’t patronise me, my lord, with facile explanations. What do you know of genteel poverty, which grinds you under its unforgiving heel? When every coin has to be counted, but your status demands that you keep up a gracious lifestyle. Cushioned in wealth as you have been all your life, even though a younger son—what do you know of a father who drank and gambled away the family inheritance before dying in debt over a losing hand of cards and a glass of brandy in a gaming hell? A weak mother who frittered away what was left in meaningless luxuries. You have not the slightest idea!’ His lips curled back from his teeth in a vicious parody of a smile. ‘The house at Whitchurch will fall around our ears without an input of hard cash. The only way in which we could fund our stay in London now was through a small bequest from a distant cousin. And that is now spent to no purpose. There might be money in my mother’s family, but there is no hope—’ Becoming aware of the rising tone in his own voice, the uncontrolled outpouring of despair, Sir Edward snapped his teeth together to cut off the flow of bitter words.

‘So you would cast the blame for your sins elsewhere. I should have expected it.’

‘No. I will shoulder the blame, my lord. But necessity can drive a man to extremes.’

Henry turned his face from the harsh lines of naked greed and desperate failure. There could be no room for sympathy here. Edward Baxendale’s glory would have cost Eleanor far too high a price.

‘But the risk you were prepared to take was nothing short of fantastic. Did you think that no one would remember Octavia and her brother? Were you so sure that you could conduct yourselves so as to blind everyone to the truth?’

‘Why not?’ A gleam of sly cunning lit his face for a moment, displacing the bitter failure. ‘After all, we nearly did it! If it were not for your interfering aunt, we would have carried the whole matter off in good style. People have short memories and mostly accept what they are told and what they see. No one other than your aunt thought to question my role as Octavia’s brother. Scandal is the breath of life to many who would call themselves your friends. Like the vultures they are, they were more than willing to pick over the bones of the Faringdon family with gleeful enjoyment. If our luck had held, Octavia would have claimed the Faringdon inheritance and would be made welcome into society.’

And, although it sat awkwardly with him, Lord Henry had to admit to the truth of it. ‘But after your confession, I can hardly believe that you were so idealistic as to do it all for your wife, can I?’ He made no effort to hide the repugnance in his voice.

‘Believe what you like. It no longer matters, does it? I think this conversation is at an end.’ Sir Edward lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug. ‘It was worth the risk. And what do you intend to do? Drag the case through the courts? I doubt it! Think of the entertainment it would provide for the ton!’

‘You disgust me. Get out of these rooms. And it would please me if you would remove yourself and your wife from Faringdon House at the earliest opportunity. No, I shall not take the matter further. You are not worthy of my consideration!’ His lordship strode to open the door.

‘Don’t dare preach morality to me, my lord.’ Baxendale did not move. The sneer on his face was heavily marked as he realised the depth of his failure. ‘Your precious sister-in-law made sure that she ensnared your brother, did she not? She has been no better in her dealings with the Faringdons than the sins that you are prepared to heap at my door.’

‘What?’ Henry’s hand closed on the door knob and was still.

‘Don’t tell me you did not know!’

‘There is nothing to know.’ But his eyes were watchful.

‘So she has not told you? Well, I don’t suppose she would. Females are always more devious than you would expect. And more mercenary, as exhibited by my dear sister Sarah, who has sold me for the price of her independence.’

‘Tell me.’ It took all Henry’s control not to seize Sir Edward by the throat and shake him as a terrier would shake a rat, to wipe the contempt for Eleanor from his thin lips.

‘Miss Eleanor Stamford was carrying your brother’s child before their marriage,’ Baxendale informed him, teeth glinting in vindictive pleasure. ‘Of course he would have to marry her, as a man of honour, whether he wished it or not. Her birth is no more distinguished than Octavia’s. A respectable gentry family, but with no claim to aristocratic supremacy. But Miss Stamford won the prize. You did not know?’ He sneered again as he read correctly the tightening of muscles in Lord Henry’s jaw. ‘Ask her how long after the bridal nuptials the child was born, my lord. You were in New York and so would not see the clever scheme being unfolded. She and her ambitiously devious mother were determined to get the Marquis before the altar. Your dear brother was well and truly trapped by a beautiful face and the promise of a bastard if he did not act quickly. So he married her.’ Sir Edward shrugged again. ‘So don’t talk to me about plotting and intrigue!’

‘Your unsubstantiated opinions do you no credit.’ There was barely a hesitation before Henry collected his scattered wits and replied, ‘The Marchioness is a lady of unquestionable integrity and principle. If I discover that you have spread such gossip around town, I shall have no hesitation in making it a matter of law. Believe it, sir, before you choose to meddle further in the concerns of my family.’

He flung open the door and bowed, coldly and formally, the merest inclination of his head. But his thoughts were in a turmoil.

Hoskins returned, having delivered the ladies to a waiting cab. As he approached the open doorway, Sir Edward pushed his way past to storm out of the room.

‘Get out of my way!’

They watched as he stalked to the door leading on to the street, flinging it back so that it hammered against the wall. Hoskins glanced at Lord Henry with raised brows.

‘Let him go,’ Lord Henry answered the silent question. ‘He has no more demands on my family.’ His voice was firm but a little weary as he eased his shoulders against the strain.

‘What do you wish, my lord? To pursue the matter through the courts? To obtain recompense? I have to say that I don’t advise it.’

‘No. Let the matter die a natural death. I don’t wish to provide the scandalmongers with any more salacious detail to discuss. I will make provision for Mrs Russell. The Baxendales will doubtless retire from town—I doubt that we shall see them again in the near future. They would not wish to draw further attention to themselves. And I believe that the Reverend Broughton’s membership of White’s will also lapse!’ Lord Henry showed his teeth, more of a snarl than a smile. ‘It will give me considerable pleasure to ensure that a man capable of such immoral dealings is no longer received at a gentleman’s club.’

Hoskins was moved to smile at the prospect. ‘It was well done, my lord.’

‘Yes. And I have to thank you for your timely support.’

He left the lawyer’s rooms with a lightening of the heart, but he could not dislodge a persistent worry that kept him on edge. He could not quite banish Edward Baxendale’s final accusations from his mind. A sour note that spoilt his sense of completion. Baxendale had been mischief-making, of course. Eleanor would never stoop to such devious means. Surely she would never deliberately use the conception of a child to force his brother into a marriage—simply to ensure a glittering title and untold wealth. He would never believe it of her. And yet the malicious words, delivered in Baxendale’s smooth, sly voice would not quite go away.

The Faringdon family chose to gather once more in the intimate family parlour in Park Lane. Sarah Russell, returning earlier with Eleanor, had retired to a guest bedchamber with her son and one of the maids who would look to their needs and act a nursemaid for the distraught but determined lady. Exhaustion had finally taken its toll. Although she had recovered from her bout of tears, she did not feel capable of sitting down with all the members of the family whom her brother had so ruthlessly pursued and exploited in his desire for wealth and revenge.

Exhaustion also laid its hand on the other individuals who came together to discuss and marvel at the recent development. There was a strange sense of emptiness, of anticlimax, Eleanor thought as she sank onto the sofa. She felt tired, but could not rest, could not quite accept that Sir Edward and Octavia no longer had any right to oust her from her home and rob her son of his birthright and herself of her widow’s jointure. And there was a tension here, particularly in Henry, that she could not quite pinpoint. Perhaps she was simply tired, as were they all. Perhaps it was all imagination. The morning would bring calm and a sense of rightness and completion.

‘What do you suppose Baxendale will do now?’ Nicholas lounged in a chair to the detriment of his coat and yawned.

‘Go back to the Great House in Whitchurch and live out his days in disillusioned reflection of what might have been, I presume.’ Henry frowned as he leafed through a handful of letters that had been delivered that morning and were so far unopened. ‘And his wife with him. And I expect he will find an excellent excuse to terminate the Reverend Julius’s tenure of the living of St Michael and All Angels. I find that I cannot feel sorry.’ His stern face was made no more approachable by the sardonic smile that touched his mouth. ‘The wages of sin for our devious vicar could be homelessness and poverty.’

‘And quite right, too. It is a disgrace that such a man should have a care of souls. I can find no Christian charity for him in my heart.’ Mrs Stamford cast a sharp look at her companions, daring anyone to disagree with her.

No one did.

‘I wonder what Octavia is thinking?’ Eleanor picked up a forgotten piece of embroidery and instantly put it down again with nervous fingers. ‘Nothing seemed to move or disturb her very much. Perhaps she does not care very deeply about the outcome. I doubt that she will miss John.’

‘Her brother Julius suggested that she simply did whatever Edward told her to do, and was not unhappy with the situation,’ Nicholas remembered with a twist of distaste to his mouth.

‘I think they will not return to London any time in the near future,’ Mrs Stamford gave her opinion. She was the only one of the little group with any energy about her. It burned in her face, in her eyes, a vindictive sense of triumph that flushed her narrow features with bright colour. ‘Octavia will be able to return to her beloved rose arbours and trellises. I think that polite society would not make them welcome again if they knew the full story.’

‘Perhaps. I think I do feel a little sorry for Octavia. Her life seemed to be so empty.’

‘You should not, Eleanor.’ Mrs Stamford’s voice was sharp, her fixed gaze condemning. ‘You were the victim. The Baxendales deserve no sympathy, no compassion whatsoever. How can you even think it? What thought did they give for your comfort? None! They would have stripped you of your name, your title and your home.’ She drew in a breath as she sought to control her damning words. ‘But you are now vindicated, my love. And the dear child. What a terrible few weeks we have had, to be sure. I am quite worn to the bone.’

‘I valued your support, Mama. It was not inconsiderable.’

‘Of course. When would any mother not do all in her power to safeguard the future of her daughter?’ Then, on a thought, ‘Should we inform Lady Beatrice of the outcome? And the Countess of Painscastle? And perhaps some of our closest friends? Such as the Carstairses. We should not risk you being snubbed again, Eleanor, by those who are still motivated by ignorance or cruel inaccuracies.’

‘No,’ three voices answered in unison.

‘I will not gossip about such private, family matters, Mama. It is not good ton.‘ Eleanor shuddered at the prospect, but her tone was decisive, all dignity. ‘Let us simply leave it and forget it ever happened. I forbid you to be the source of any further scandal.’

Mrs Stamford flushed. ‘Very well. If that is your wish. But I—’ She caught her daughter’s eye. ‘Very well. But you should give thanks for your release from Sir Edward’s clutches.’

Nicholas yawned again. ‘We do—we do indeed.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘I feel as tired as if I have experienced a week of bad hunting, all hard runs, heavy going, a poor scent and nothing to show for it in the end.’ He stretched his shoulders. ‘But at least I need never darken the doors of a gaming hell again.’

‘You have all my thanks, Nick.’ Henry stood to grasp his brother’s shoulder in gratitude.

‘My pleasure.’ He yawned once more and shook his head. ‘I am going down to the stables—I need a ride, fresh air, easy conversation. Care to accompany me?’

‘Later, perhaps.’

‘I shall go and check on dear Tom.’ Mrs Stamford, still a little put out, followed Nicholas to the door. ‘At least he is too young to realise the dangers and be affected by them.’

Eleanor and Henry were left alone. She wanted more than anything to thank him, to express her gratitude for his strength and active support over the past days, but he seemed edgy and distant, fraught with an energy that made no sense to Eleanor. It was not her imagination. She did not know what to do or what to say.

‘I would thank you—’

‘I do not want your gratitude. We have had this conversation before.’

Eleanor flushed, remembering the occasion far too well, yet persisted. ‘You have it anyway.’

Impatience lent his tongue an edge that startled her. ‘Forget the whole episode, Eleanor. You have what you wanted. The title for your son. The estate is secure with the entail. The income from it will allow you to live in luxury. One day you may feel able to marry again. There is no more to be said—let that be an end to it.’

‘Hal…’

She could think of no suitable reply, her mind a blank. This was not what she had expected or wanted. Why was he so brusque? What had she done? Silence lengthened between them as, with an intolerant shrug, Lord Henry put distance between them to stare unseeingly down into the remains of a fire. He tried to block out Edward’s words. What the hell should he say to her? If Baxendale had intended to cause dissension between them, he was succeeding beyond his wildest dreams! Henry cursed himself silently. What a fool he was. Turning his head, he looked across at her, acutely aware of her troubled expression and confusion. And he grimaced at his own lack of finesse in handling her. He stood upright, his back to the marble fire surround and tried to put matters right between them.

‘Forgive my ill temper. You are the last person who should be called on to suffer it. I have no excuse other than a surfeit of legal complications and Baxendale’s sly smile!’

‘Of course.’ The taut muscles in Eleanor’s neck and shoulders began to relax just a little. ‘Don’t apologise—there is no need’ The weight on her heart began to lift just a little. ‘Now you will go back.’ A statement, not a query.

‘Yes.’

‘How long before you leave us?’

‘I shall try for a passage next week from Liverpool.’

‘Mr Bridges will be relieved to see you at last. He must have quite given you up, believing you lost to the dens of iniquity in London.’ She tried to keep the tone light. A brief smile illuminated her face, forcing him to look away as he replied. Otherwise he might be driven against his better judgement to take her into his arms and kiss her until she sighed and melted against him. And then where would they be? He swore silently again, but his response was mild.

‘Yes. I think he is beleaguered by business. He prefers action to figures.’

‘Will Rosalind welcome you home?’

‘She might.’

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Then,

‘Tell me when you know of your departure. Otherwise I think I will take Tom back to Burford Hall. I have had my fill of London for the present, and I have no wish to live at Faringdon House yet. I will take Mrs Russell with me and see to her comfort—I expect she and the boy will enjoy life in the country.’

‘Of course. Nick will see to any financial matters and your comfort.’

‘He is very capable.’

‘He enjoys it. If you will excuse me, my lady, I have some letters to write.’

Eleanor sighed inwardly. So coldly formal. Whatever the problem, it still troubled him. And the rift between them was as wide and as bottomless as it had ever been.

‘To be sure.’

He looked at her, a searching glance that revealed nothing of his thoughts. Then, with a curt bow of the head, he turned and walked away from her, as she knew he would.

She had no right to call him back.

Edward Baxendale’s bitter accusations against Eleanor refused to be banished from Henry’s mind. Had she indeed trapped Thomas into an unwanted marriage with a child conceived out of wedlock? Without doubt, it would not be the first time that such a ploy had been used by an unscrupulous woman to gain a foothold into a noble family. But Eleanor? Never! And yet, how could he possibly discover the truth of it, if only to put his mind at ease. He could hardly ask Eleanor herself. Had she after all rejected him with the sole purpose of luring his brother into a far more advantageous union? Henry had decided that it no longer mattered, his love for her was absolute, no matter what had driven her to turn her back on him. But if she had used the child to spring the trap on his brother? He shook his head in disbelief. It simply did not fit with his image of her.

But sharp-edged doubts assailed him and refused to let up, and a far sharper edge that he should even contemplate questioning her honesty. He cursed himself for harbouring such doubts—but they remained. And there was no doubt, he knew in his heart, that Eleanor’s doting mama would be prepared to take any step that would ensure the well-being of her daughter. He had heard such words from her own lips. How could he forget her almost unseemly delight over Edward Baxendale’s fall from grace and Eleanor’s social reinstatement?

He paced the morning room, self-disgust riding him with sharp spurs, his unfinished letter to Nathaniel Bridges lying forgotten on the desk as he wrestled on the one hand with his conscience, which insisted that Eleanor’s honesty should not be questioned, and on the other the distrust created by Baxendale’s vicious and well-aimed words. He loved Eleanor. By God, he did, beyond all thought and reason. But it might be that he had at last learned the truth behind her failure to join him on his voyage, committing her future irrevocably to his. Who could he possibly ask to gain further enlightenment? Whatever happened, he must do nothing to create more scandal, to spread any further shadow over Eleanor’s name.

His head came up as he heard Nicholas’s riding boots echo on the tiled floor of the entrance hall. Here was the only member of the family with whom he could share his thoughts. And even then, not totally. He opened the door and stepped out.

‘Hal.’ Nicholas swung round. ‘Are you coming after all?’

‘No.’ He grimaced. ‘Much as I would like to. Too much neglected business. Nat Bridges will write me off as dead!’

‘Well, if you will sully your hands with buying and selling and the acquisition of something as common as money! By the by, I would not say it in front of the ladies, but…congratulations!’

Henry’s brow arched in silent query.

‘On burying the Baxendale plot so effectively…and without any fuss.’

‘I would have dearly enjoyed burying Baxendale himself!’ Henry smiled wryly at the prospect. ‘You will never know how difficult it was to keep my hands from his throat when he tried to throw the blame in any direction but on himself, his own greed and ambition.’

‘I expect it tapped the depths of self-control. Not something you used to be famous for!’

‘It did. It was still hard. A sharp right to the jaw would have been much more in my line. Or even the use of a riding whip across his shoulders. He deserves far worse for what he did.’

Nicholas continued to head to the door, picking up whip and gloves from a side table.

‘Nick…’

‘Hmm?’

‘Tell me…tell me about Eleanor and Thomas. Were they happy?’

‘Now there’s a strange question.’ It stopped Nicholas in his tracks and he swung round to face his brother. ‘Yes. To my knowledge. They seemed so.’

‘Why did Thomas marry her?’

‘An even stranger question!’ He slanted a quizzical glance at Henry’s face, but was unable to read the shuttered expression. ‘I don’t know. Speak with Eleanor if it matters. I don’t advise it, though. Nell is a very…a very private person.’

‘No. I wouldn’t, of course.’ He followed Nick to the door, unable to let the matter drop. ‘It’s just…’

‘Something Baxendale said?’

‘Yes. You are amazingly astute, little brother.’

‘I am always astute, if you did but notice. But it’s simply a matter of logic. Was it simply mischief-making?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Want to tell me about it?’

‘No. I am not proud of my doubts! It will be best if I keep his poisonous words to myself, I think.’

‘To share them could draw the poison. I can be a willing listener.’ Nick angled his head, waiting for the reply. He had not often seen his brother so troubled.

‘But not if it causes pain and even more hurt.’ Henry frowned at the problem.

‘True.’ Nick shrugged slightly. ‘Then you must perforce bear the burden alone. Do you want my advice?’

‘I think I can guess.’

‘Then forget it, Hal.’ Nicholas for once was deadly serious. ‘His intentions will have been malicious, for sure. How could you expect him to tell the truth about anything? You should not waste one moment’s thought on any accusations he made. And certainly not anything concerning Thomas and Eleanor. Baxendale would be overjoyed if he knew that he had been successful in destroying your peace of mind. Don’t let him!’

‘Sage advice.’ Henry turned as if to retrace his steps to the morning room, then with second thoughts, looked back. ‘Was it a love match?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Well, if we are returning to Nell and Thomas…’ Nick huffed out a breath and thought for a moment. ‘Yes. They were attracted. The marriage was certainly arranged quickly. Perhaps not a grand passion, I would have thought. But they were happy enough together. They talked to each other, laughed together. You know.’

‘And the child?’

‘That’s easy.’ Nick smiled, a little sadly, as the memories crowded in, of happier times before his brother’s death. ‘Thomas doted on him. Very proud. As he should be. He was already planning when to teach him to ride and to shoot duck on the lake at Burford Levels, even though he was barely a year old. I never thought of Thomas in a paternal role, but it suited him. Why?’

‘Nothing. I simply wanted to know.’ Henry decide there was nothing more that he could ask.

‘Problems?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Good.’ On a decision, Nicholas stalked across the hall and took his brother by the arm. ‘Come to the stables. Leave your letters for the afternoon—they will still be there tonight! Time you had some light relief.’

‘Very well.’ Henry smiled a little wearily, gave in and allowed himself to be led, grateful to have his mind taken from the suspicions that beset him. Perhaps Nicholas’s remedy would push everything back into perspective for him and then he could be at ease again. At ease with Eleanor. ‘Forgive me, Nick. I seem to have got into the habit of questioning everybody and everything—looking for shadows when they do not exist.’

‘And very uncomfortable for us all it is, too. You need a drink and some convivial company.’

‘True.’

‘Easily done. Come with me.’

So much for business. Henry shut the door on the morning room and the affairs of Faringdon and Bridges and accompanied his brother to the door, more than a little reassured by what could only be described as a most inconclusive conversation.

Eleanor spent another sleepless night, thoughts in turmoil. Would she ever sleep well again? she wondered as she pushed her fingers through her hair, tangling the already disordered curls. Within a week Hal could have packed his belongings, terminated the rent on the London house and taken the mail coach to Liverpool. It was very possible that she would never see him again. Never hear his voice or feel the touch of his hands, in simple care or in passion. She stiffened her muscles to hold off the desperate sense of loss that swamped her mind and her heart and once again threatened to drown her in a deluge of helpless tears. She must not think of that. She breathed deeply and fought against the fear that stalked her through the dark hours. She must not allow it to colour her judgement. Her own loss was not the issue here.

For a little time she sat in her bed against the soft pillows with a book open on her lap, but to no avail. She could not read. The words on the page meant nothing to her when all she could see was Hal’s stormy eyes, the groove between his brows when he was caught up in some matter, the utmost tenderness in his smile when he had kissed and held her against him, inflaming the needs in her body to match his own. Or the possessive fire when he had turned the key to imprison them together in his bedchamber. So she cast the book aside to pace her own room. Taking out Thomas’s letter from her dressing-table drawer, she turned it over and over in nervous fingers—and then replaced it beneath the cases of jewellery. That, she decided, was not the way forward. He would either believe her on her own merits or he would not. It was a risk she would have to face. With that thought in her mind, she took herself to her son’s room, to stand by the crib, silently watching him as he slept, fine lashes casting shadows onto his cheeks. How beautiful he was, what a splendid child she had been given. What a fine young man he would grow up to be.

The thought did not make her mind any easier. She had kept her secret for two long years, explaining it would be no easy matter.

By dawn, she had made her decision, for better or worse. Really, it was very simple. She did not know why it had caused her so much heartache, but her toilette took considerable time as she dressed with care, determined that she would look her best if she was to be on trial for her past sins. The exquisite silver-grey-and-cream-striped gown, demure and understated in its colouring, gave exactly the impression of sophistication and sobriety that she needed, the delicate ruffles at hem and neckline flattering but restrained. Her hair, charmingly arranged in ringlets, fell from a high knot to brush her white shoulders. She knew that she looked well enough, although nothing, other than the use of cosmetics that she determined to eschew on this occasion, could put colour into her cheeks or disguise the evidence of her sleepless night. No matter. It was important that she appear composed and assured, that her courage should not desert her in the face of Hal’s amazed disbelief. Or his total rejection.

In spite of her clear intentions and her determination to be courageous at all costs, Eleanor could not face breakfast. She waited in her room until it was late enough in the morning for Henry to be engaged in business in the morning room.

Then she descended the stairs at last, breathing shallow, palms damp with latent panic. It was a dangerous game she was playing. She could win the glittering prize. Hold the moon and stars in her hands. Or her hopes and dreams could disintegrate, her heart broken. But she must do it. It was only right. Henry must not be allowed to leave England without the knowledge, without the opportunity to make a choice that could change the direction of his whole life. If she kept silent, the guilt would be too heavy and would hound her to the day of her death. She owed him the truth, even if he damned her for it and left her to face the future alone.

Henry ignored the timid knock on the door of the morning room. It would not be one of the family—they would not knock, so probably one of the servants who would go away if he made no response. He did not need an interruption. Marcle could find Nicholas if there was some urgent matter to be dealt with. The neglected business of Faringdon and Bridges still lay before him as he had left it on the previous afternoon. He must complete it. There was a sailing next week from Liverpool that he would take. With luck and a fair wind the letters could leave tomorrow and would make land before he did, informing Nat of his imminent arrival and the decisions he had made. Caught up in the planning, he did not notice when the door opened quietly and Eleanor entered.

She closed it silently and remained by the door, watching him for a little while as he sat, head bent, reading rapidly, before making a reply with firm characters on the page. There was a line between his brow as he concentrated, just as she had imagined in her thoughts the previous night. The bright sunshine kissed his raven-black hair so that it shone blue-black, but it was too dense to take any gilding. She knew its weight and its texture, its softness against her skin that made her shiver with remembered passion, and her fingers yearned to touch it again. Her mouth was dry, her pulse hectic.

‘Hal.’

He looked up and immediately smiled. How could he not? How beautiful she was with the clear morning light teasing her hair with hints of gold and auburn, and bringing a jewel-like glow to her extraordinary violet eyes. He held out his hand to encourage her closer, his doubts assuaged by her presence and the fact that she had sought him out. He expected to see contentment in her face, an ease previously absent.

His gaze locked on hers. ‘What is this?’ He pushed back the chair and rose to his feet, approaching to take her hands in his, raising them to his lips, searching her face with instant concern. ‘The Baxendale issue need no longer worry you. You must sleep and eat and regain your peace of mind. Nothing can harm you now.’ He bent his head to press his lips to her forehead in a blessing, infinitely tender. ‘You need not be unhappy Nell.’

Carefully, she disengaged her hands, which caused him to frown, and took a step in retreat. ‘There is something I must tell you…’

Her low voice and the shadows in her eyes made his blood chill. There was something here. He set his mind and his will to remain calm.

‘Come and sit,’ he encouraged. ‘Tell me what it is.’

She resisted still, remaining tall and straight in the centre of the room. He noted that her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, although half-hidden by the folds of her dress.

‘No. I must stand. Listen, Hal. You must not go back to America without knowing…without realising…’ Her words dried on her lips.

Hal’s concern deepened, acquiring a sharp edge that sliced at his heart. ‘Do I really need to know?’ he asked gently. It was the coward’s way, he knew, to prevent her opening her heart to him, but what good would it do? Was she indeed going to confess at last that she had rejected him to set her sights so much higher—and had achieved her goal through less than honourable means? He did not think that he wanted to know. He would rather live without the unpalatable knowledge of her betrayal and perfidy, rather carry the memory of her softness and sweetness as she turned to him in the night.

‘I must say it,’ she said simply, studying her fingers now linked before her, white with tension. ‘It is on my conscience. And it could affect your future, your whole life. I must say it. By keeping silent I committed a great wrong.’

A pause. She moistened her lips with her tongue, then raised her eyes to his, a silent plea for understanding and compassion. For acceptance of a situation that had not been entirely of her own making, in which she had made the only choice possible.

‘My son. Tom. He is not Thomas’s child. He is yours…your son, Hal.’

The resulting silence echoed in the room, filling it from floor to ceiling with a tension that could be felt, tasted even. Lord Henry stared at her, blank shock imprinting his face, his brain repeating the words over and over again as if it might make for clearer understanding. Incomprehensibly, he could not grasp their significance.

‘What?’ The question was harsh, even though his voice was soft. He had suspected her of carrying Thomas’s child and cursed himself for his lack of trust. But he had never suspected this.

‘Tom is your child.’ Eleanor never once took her gaze from his face, pinning him with her words, challenging him to deny it. ‘That last night we spent together. I found that I was carrying him when you had gone…’

‘My son.’ The meaning took hold, searingly bright, as the implications began to leap into sharp and painful focus. As Henry recalled, suddenly with a terrible clarity, the words that he had overheard her speak to the child, his child, in the small sunlit parlour. Before he had held the infant in his own arms. You can never know your father…you will never keep his image in your memory… And he had not known, not understood. How could he have held his own son and not have realised? But then he had not understood her meaning. The powerful tangle of emotions threatened to choke him, but his eyes were stark, austere even, all emotion effectively buried when he turned his gaze on the woman who stood before him. ‘Why did you not tell me? Why did I not know of this?’

‘I did not know how to reach you. I wrote to you, but received no reply. And then it was too late—I was married to Thomas and it would have done more harm than good to tell you. And…'But there were no excuses, really. She gave up, eyes still searching his face to determine his reaction.

‘Did Thomas know?’ Henry rubbed his hands over his face, struggling to make sense of the incredible confession. ‘When you married him, did he know that you carried my child?’

‘Of course he did!’ She grew pale with anger and not a little shame that she had put Thomas in such an invidious position. ‘Would you accuse me of tricking him? Of course Thomas knew that Tom was your son.’

Baxendale’s words returned to Henry like a blow to the gut. Your precious sister-in-law made sure that she ensnared your brother, did she not? This terrible scenario opening before him, revealed by the only woman whom he had ever loved, was even worse than the one painted by his enemy with such malicious intent. The shock wave rolled over him with remorseless power. It coated his next words with pitiless despair.

‘Or did you allow my gullible brother to think that the child was his? Was that why he married you, to give his name to his own bastard child? Poor Thomas always did believe the best of everyone. Did you indeed trap him into marriage? Baxendale did not realise how far from the mark he was. Even he did not imagine that you would be capable of such a depth of deceit and trickery.’

Eleanor drew in her breath at the deliberate and ruthless assassination of her character. The pain in her heart was tangible.

How could he accuse her of such dishonesty? What could Edward Baxendale have possibly said to cause this volley of spiteful words?

‘Why tell me now?’ Lord Henry demanded, lips curled in a snarl. ‘If you made so little effort to inform me two years ago, why now?’

She strove for calm in the midst of this storm of callous cruelty. There must be a way out of this maelstrom if only she could find it. ‘Because with Thomas’s death it has changed everything. The title is yours by rights. You should be Marquis of Burford. My son—your son—has no right to inherit before you.’

No! Oh God, no!

An icy hand closed inexorably round his heart with exquisite torture as he contemplated the one thing in life he did not want, had never wanted.

‘I do not want it.’ The denial was flat and instantaneous, disguising his fear. ‘Neither the title nor the estate.’

‘Perhaps not. But it would be wrong if you never knew, never had the knowledge to make the choice.’ She swallowed against the lump in her throat. ‘If you never had the choice to claim your son and recognise him as your own.’

‘Do you really expect me to believe all this?’ She would never have believed the flat denial in his eyes, in his voice.

‘Why not? Why should you not believe me?’ Anger began to replace shock in her veins and she lifted her head, drawing pride and dignity around her shoulders like a velvet cloak. ‘I could have let you leave next week—without ever telling you that you had a child. Why should I make up a situation that would compromise my own honour? I have nothing to gain from this confession other than society’s condemnation if it becomes known outside these four walls. It was my decision to allow you…intimacies without marriage. For that I certainly deserve censure. And how I paid the price!’ She stifled a sob. She would not shed tears over this. Never again! ‘I trusted you to marry me.’

Her accusation hit home, but he was too angry to give it credence, to contemplate it for more than a heartbeat. Even though a small part of his brain admitted that in all honesty she could not take all the blame for this. The child was the making of both of them in a moment of mutual love and desire. Hers had been the innocence on that occasion. How could he be so utterly selfish as to heap the blame on her? If the child was really his, of course, a nasty little voice insinuated in his mind. But he pushed away the uncomfortable thoughts and concentrated on the burning issue that raged, destructive and uncurbed, through his blood.

‘You ask why I should accept your words. Perhaps you think your timely confession to be in your own interests. I suppose that it is just conceivable that, given the glad news of a son and heir, I would fall at your feet in guilt for my past actions and in gratitude marry you. That would restore all your status and wealth as Marchioness of Burford. An achievement indeed! Instead of the power being held in trust and your own income limited to that from the widow’s jointure, however generous it might be.’

‘Do you think so little of me, that I would deliberately lie to you?’ Her cheeks were ashen, her eyes so dark as to be almost indigo as she regarded him with horror.

‘Perhaps not, in all fairness.’ The admission was forced from him. ‘But I would not put it past your mother to lay out such a campaign! Her ambitions for you are outrageous. Whether you are compliant in her schemes or simply ignorant, I know not.’

Eleanor could find nothing to say. Her body seemed numb to all sensation. Nothing could be worse she thought, watching herself objectively, listening to Hal’s harsh voice as if it were from a great distance, than this one moment in her life. She felt as if he had struck her, an open-handed slap, as indeed he had, with words if not with his hand. Her heart ached from the blow.

Lord Henry saw the effect of his attack. It had been devastating. It struck him instantly that he was in the wrong, but his disillusion was as bitter as gall, his wretchedness at being chained into a life that he detested was intemperate. Resisting the urge to enfold her close, to stroke and comfort, to fall on his knees to beg a forgiveness that he did not deserve, was almost beyond his power. Even though he raged against himself for his brutal insensitivity, Hal continued to lash out to cover his own hurt, his own vulnerability.

‘Are you sure that you really know whose child it is?’

She had been wrong, Eleanor thought. This was worse. She shook her head as she struggled to find an answer to such an impossible question. ‘I…I can’t…’

Self-contempt now lodged in his chest to reproach him for so offensive an attack, disgust that he should make such an unwarranted accusation. Seeing the rigidity in her whole body, he reined in his temper and tried for a more moderate tone. ‘Could you not have told me this any time before now, Eleanor?’

But Eleanor was beyond moderation. Fury leapt within her with all-consuming flames. She was past considering the effect of her words and struck out in her own defence. ‘When do you suggest, my lord? The moment you arrived back at Burford Hall?’ The sarcasm was biting, although she kept her voice low and admirably controlled. ‘Welcome home, Henry. Let me introduce you to your son?’ She laughed with a hint of hysteria. ‘It would have put Sir Edward’s news of an unknown wife, hidden away in the country, in the shade, I imagine. No, I could not. And I will tell you why. I was afraid.’ She all but spat out the words. ‘I was afraid to tell you. I knew that you did not want me. I could accept that—and have done so for two years. But I was afraid to discover that you would not want your son either. I thought that would break my heart.’

‘Eleanor!’ He had hurt her beyond measure.

‘And I was right, wasn’t I? You have no wish to know him or claim him and I cannot persuade you otherwise. It makes me regret that I ever tried, simply for the sake of my own conscience. It would have been far better if neither you nor my son knew. Thomas was more of a father to him than you could ever be.’

The hurt shimmered between them. Her eyes bright with unshed tears. His face ravaged with the deep lines of hard-held emotion. The abyss yawned wide and dangerous between them, impossible to bridge.

‘Don’t concern yourself, my lord.’ Eleanor continued to pour out the anguish and the pain. ‘Tom will never have to know that his father did not choose to acknowledge him, for I know not what reason other than that you doubt my honesty. From this moment,

Tom’s father was Thomas, my husband. How could I have been so mistaken in my judgement? What a terrible mistake I made. And what a fool you must think me.’ She laughed again, a sharp sound without humour that told him more than anything else of the depth of her despair. ‘Go back to New York, Hal. Forget that Tom and I exist. I loved you to the depths of my soul and I gave you everything. I gave you a splendid child. But you are not worthy to be the father of my son. I wish Rosalind well of you.’

She turned her back on him.

Henry strode from the room, her final words, her merciless condemnation ringing in his ears. He thought that they would haunt him forever. He did not see the tears spangling her cheeks, despite all her good intentions. Or read the desolation in her face, not yet hidden behind a mask of hard serenity that would deny to the world that her heart had been ripped to pieces.

How could he have done it? How could he have been so deliberately cruel? So demon-driven, vicious as a wolf attacking its prey. Fear, he admitted. A title he did not want. A way of life that he had no desire for. But a son? The child whom he had held in his arms? He believed her, of course, every word that she had spoken. Her integrity was beyond question and she would not make up such a story. But he had hurt her so much. She would never forgive him, and rightly so. He was no better than Baxendale in his destruction of her life. Worse, in fact, since she had come to trust him and rely on him. And yet he had turned on her, cut her with taunts and vitriolic words. She had every reason to hate him. What the hell did he do now?

And he had a son.

‘Hal…’

‘Not now.’ He strode past Nicholas with savage grace. ‘Come and ride if you wish, but don’t talk to me for a little while. Just don’t ask. I am impossible company. I have just committed the worst sin of my life. I cannot undo the words I have said or the harm I have caused.’

Seeing the ungovernable torment and remorse in his face, Nick let him go, standing to watch as his usually impassive brother flung out of the house. At that moment, nothing would have persuaded him to restrain his brother, to question the reason for his distress. Nothing would have made him go into the room that Hal had just vacated, where Eleanor still remained. If he had needed any confirmation of his suspicions, his convictions even, it had just struck him with all the brutality of a slap to his face. Surely only two people helplessly in love could reduce each other to such devastating unhappiness as he had seen in his brother’s face.

From the window of the morning room, Eleanor also watched with eyes as cold and empty as the hollow places in her heart. Could she blame him? Yes, she could! She had not deserved such condemnation, would never have believed that he would show such harshness towards her. But circumstances had conspired against her, she had kept her secret from Hal, and whatever Edward Baxendale had said to him in the aftermath of their disclosure of his deceit had borne fruit. She had played the game out to the full and must now bear the consequences of her shattered dreams and bruised heart.

But she had told Hal the truth at last. His reaction to it was within his own dominion—and, besides, he would be gone in a few days. Her damaged heart would heal, in a hundred years or so. And whatever she had told Hal in her wretchedness, in the desert of her wasted emotions, she would tell her son about his magnificent father. But never that Hal had rejected him, had rejected them both.