Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue - Mary Nichols, Anne Herries - Страница 9

On the following morning Lord Henry found himself alone in the sunny breakfast parlour. It was as he expected—and planned; it was still very early, but he intended to be under way to the village of Whitchurch before the rest of the household had risen. With good fortune he would return within the day. It crossed his mind with some force, and had done so more than once during a restless night of knife-edged introspection, that it might be to his advantage if he did not have to make conversation with Eleanor that day. What had driven him to such an unwise gesture towards her? He cursed himself once again for his blind stupidity. Within a few weeks this whole fiasco would be settled one way or another, and he would leave England. He would be out of her life for good—and he would be free to forget her and return to the attractions of Rosalind. But even though he swore at his uncontrolled actions, castigated himself for not keeping his distance, he was being driven to admit that he was not unmoved by Eleanor’s plight. Unmoved? He swore again, brows drawn into a black bar. A magnificent understatement! He had loved her once and was bitterly aware that, however inappropriate and insupportable it might be, given their past history, he loved her still. Wanting nothing more than to take her to his bed, to undress her, to touch, to taste and to savour her for the rest of his life. To feel her stretch against him, beneath him, and hear his name on her lips when he roused her beyond thought and beyond sense. It would have taken a man of callous indifference not to respond to her plight of the previous night without tenderness and compassion. And where Eleanor was concerned, Henry was not that man.

So it would be better for everyone if he did not have to exchange polite conversation with her that morning! And doubtless Eleanor too would welcome his absence.

The door opened and there she stood.

They both became very still, Lord Henry with a teacup raised to his lips, Eleanor braced in the doorway. The previous night loomed between them, tension stark.

‘Good morning, my lady. I trust you slept well.’ Henry rose superbly to the occasion with the first bland comment that came to mind, wincing inwardly at his lack of polish. Then the emotional memories of the previous night were effectively wiped from his mind. With eyes narrowed he surveyed the lady from her head to her feet, momentarily taken aback.

She had taken his advice! And with stunning effect. He had not really expected it, but she had cast off her deep mourning and her black ribbons. The result took his breath, silenced any comment he might have been about to make. His memories of her had been as a débutante, certainly beautiful, but still ingenuously naïve in simple pastel muslins. And then in mourning, the stark black of her high-necked gowns highlighting her glorious hair and porcelain skin, grief adding a fine-drawn maturity to her face. But now he was struck anew by her beauty. Two years had added sophistication, elegance, confidence. An unfathomable grace. He had not realised the true worth of the woman he had lost that night when he had sailed without her. But he realised it now, with a blow to his gut, over the breakfast table with the sunshine pouring through the windows.

She had abandoned her black silk for a walking dress in dove grey spotted muslin, banded with a delicate interweaving of purple and amethyst flowers, the whole completed with a frilled hem. Its sleeves were long and tight with short puffed oversleeves, the neckline high and pleated into a little frilled ruff. It fit to perfection, emphasising her slender figure, the embroidered decoration bringing out the intense colour of her eyes. She glowed in the morning sun, the fragile tints shimmering round her. It might still be mourning, demure and understated, but it complimented her colouring beautifully, her hair falling rich and burnished in a profusion of artless curls from a high knot to her shoulders.

His eyes came slowly back from their appreciation of her transformation, his mouth dry, words beyond him, to study her face. She did not look rested. Her pale skin still lacked colour, her eyes were strained and the shadows still left their delicate imprint. But she looked determined, a challenge in every line of her firm shoulders and the proud carriage of her head. She also looked apprehensive.

How fortunate, she realised, that he could not read her thought as she stood under his unnerving gaze. She had dreaded this meeting, needing all her pride and composure. But she had dressed for impact and raised her chin against any disapproval she might read in his face. She should never have allowed him to touch her. But she had, and had melted beneath the unmistakable tenderness of his touch. A mistake! Which she would not repeat, she promised herself—however great the temptation to do so. She would hide her trepidation behind a mask of fashionable unconcern. Yet she still found it well nigh impossible to lift her eyes to his or accept his critical survey with any degree of ease.

‘My lady!’ Henry rose to his feet at last, and bowed his head in acknowledgement of her gesture. But he did not approach her. Did not dare if he wished to mask the leap of heat in his blood as he studied her. He cursed again as the fire built and stirred in his loins. ‘Allow me to say that you look lovely. And allow me to admit that I did not think that you would do it. What does your mother say?’ His eyes narrowed again at the prospect of biting words from that quarter.

‘Thank you, my lord. She does not know.’ Eleanor still could not meet his eyes, unsure of what she would see in his face. If it was contempt or condemnation for her lack of respect for his brother, she could not bear it. Not after the unbelievable and exquisite cherishing of the previous night. ‘I need to ask. I understand the reason for your advice, but I would not wish to show insufficient respect for Thomas. It is hardly more than four months. Do you perhaps consider it improper?’ Now she lifted her troubled eyes to his. ‘I hope that you would be honest with me. Indeed, I know that you will.’

Henry chose his words carefully to allay her anxieties. He could not take her in his arms as his heart might dictate, so he would use his mind to enfold her with comforting words, to soothe and calm. His face was stern, his voice firm with conviction, willing her to accept and believe. ‘Your respect for Thomas can be questioned by no one, Eleanor. Your friends must know your qualities as wife and mother. As for your clothing, it is becoming and befits the situation. All you need is the confidence to carry it off. Yes, people will talk. Of course they will! Let them, until the next scandal raises its head to replace the sordid details of our family difficulties on their lips. We have nothing to hide and we will not allow society to dictate the behaviour of the Faringdons.’

‘Even if I am not a Faringdon? It is a matter of some dispute, after all.’

There. She had said it aloud and waited, eyes closed, for his reply.

‘There is no doubt in my mind, Eleanor. No matter the weight of evidence, I cannot accept that my brother would make such a terrible mistake with such painful and disastrous consequences for all concerned.’

She sighed and opened her eyes, blinking against the unexpected threat of tears at his firm declaration. ‘That is what I needed to hear. I am in your debt, Hal.’

‘No. You are not. You are in no one’s debt! And besides, the dress is very becoming. You are a beautiful woman, Eleanor. Lift up your head and smile.’

She did just that. The smile might waver a little, but she would hold her own, of that he was certain.

Satisfied with his reply, Eleanor took a seat opposite to his place at the breakfast table and Henry resumed his seat. ‘I hoped that I would find you here. I wished to know—what is your next strategy?’

He breathed out slowly. Now they were on even ground again, without the threat of uncomfortable emotions to stalk and trap them. He could cloak his feelings in practicalities. ‘It is my intention to go down to Whitchurch to speak with the Reverend Broughton. I know that Hoskins will be efficient in his investigation, but I would wish to see the village for myself, perhaps speak to some who know the family.’ He frowned down at the scattering of crumbs on his empty plate. ‘What I will discover I know not. Merely some knowledge of the Baxendale family, I suppose.’

Eleanor leaned forward, fingers linked on the table. ‘Would you agree to wait until tomorrow and allow me to accompany you?’

‘No.’ His reply was unequivocal.

Eleanor was taken aback. ‘Then I must go on my own.’

‘To Whitchurch? Why should you? It is not a good idea.’

‘If you will not drive me, then I will simply hire a carriage and go myself.’

Henry knew when he was being driven into a corner. She was quite capable of doing just that. Her lips were firm, her eyes ablaze with the certainty of her actions and there would be no gainsaying her. Lord Henry’s mouth set with displeasure. He retreated but with little grace; the last thing he wanted was to spend the better part of a day in Eleanor’s company.

‘Very well, if that is what you wish. But, I warn you, I intend to take the curricle and travel fast. I would return within the day. And I will not tolerate your mother with us, so do not even suggest it!’

‘You will not have to. There is insufficient room for her in a curricle!’ Eleanor was maddeningly matter of fact in dealing with his objection and he suspected a spark of triumph in her eyes before she veiled them. ‘Tomorrow it is.’

‘Why not today?’ he enquired brusquely.

Eleanor rose to pour herself a cup of tea, looking at him over her shoulder. ‘This afternoon I intend to pay a visit on Miss Baxendale. I hope to take Judith with me for moral support. She may be able to discuss matters of which I know nothing. Perhaps Octavia will speak more openly if her brother is not present and I would know more of her supposed marriage.’ She returned to her seat, her face pensive. ‘The most difficult thing for me will be to face the servants at Faringdon House…but I must do it.’

Any ill feelings that Lord Henry might have been harbouring over his change of plan were instantly dispelled by the stark courage of Eleanor’s proposed scheme.

‘You have all my admiration, Nell.’

‘Don’t be kind to me or, even worse, show me pity, or I shall surely weep,’ she snapped immediately. ‘I cannot afford to be downtrodden over this. Even though there seems to be so little hope.’ Her face was closed, shuttered against his careful scrutiny. She sipped her tea, holding her cup with hands which were not quite steady.

‘I would ask a favour from you, Hal.’

Now she looked at him.

‘Anything in my power.’ He found himself stretching out his hand to her across the table, the lightest of touches on her fingers, a symbol of unity with her. Her reply astounded him, showing the lengths to which she was prepared to go to fight for her good name.

‘Will you drive me around Hyde Park this morning? At a time when most of our acquaintance will be there? You said that we should be seen, and I wish to do so. The scandal has to break some time and I believe it will be soon rather than late.’ She took a breath. ‘I do not know how bad it will be, but I fear it. I cannot allow that fear to dominate my whole life. Will you drive me?’ Her eyes pleaded with him, holding his until he would give her an answer. He could not but respond to such anguish, but she misread the brilliant glitter, the firming of the lines around his mouth as he was driven to acknowledge once again his love for her. She drew back a little and looked away. ‘If you do not wish to, of course, Nicholas might.’

‘You mistake me, my lady.’ He kept his voice low. ‘I am always at your service.’ It was as much as he could say. Then a smile lightened his expression as he saw the possibilities of her plan. ‘I will drive you round Hyde Park with great pleasure. And I think that we should go out of our way to make an impression. I will take Thomas’s high-perch phaeton, which is sure to draw all eyes. Fine feathers indeed! It is in the stables at Faringdon House with some suitable bloodstock. Will that suit your intention?’

Eleanor shuddered, bringing the equipage to mind. ‘If I must. An impression indeed! I…I will not let you or your family down, whatever the reception from the haut ton.’

‘No matter. I will support you, Nell, whatever the outcome. You should know that.’ Standing, he walked round the table, took her hand to urge her to her feet. ‘You are not alone in this battle, you know.’ He kissed her fingers with grave respect, holding her fingers still within his warm clasp.

‘Of course.’ Her words might be politely non-committal, but she returned the pressure of his hand, compelled by the instant warmth in the region of her heart.

Henry felt it and was satisfied. ‘If you have the courage to visit Octavia, then I suppose that tonight I must join Nick in the gaming hells of Pall Mall!’

Two hours later, Eleanor presented herself promptly on the front doorstep of their house in Park Lane as Lord Henry manoeuvred the high-perch phaeton to a halt at the curb before her. Eleanor eyed it askance, but was forced to admit the excellence of Henry’s scheme. In this carriage they would without doubt draw attention to themselves, as Henry had predicted. The woodwork gleamed glossily. As did the well-groomed coats of the pair of bays with their glittering harness. They pawed the ground with restive impatience, eager to be off. The huge hind wheels and the seat that overhung the front axle had been picked out with elegant simplicity in dark blue. Eleanor chose not to contemplate its height from the ground.

But it would suit their purpose. They wished to be seen and noticed. They could hardly help it.

And Henry himself had risen to the occasion, she was quick to appreciate, in the height of fashion with more care than was his wont. He was now sporting the palest of biscuit pantaloons, highly polished boots, a coat of dark blue superfine, which fit to perfection, and a discreetly striped waistcoat. His neckcloth might not be as extreme as some, but the folds were precise, tied by the hand of a master and secured by a sapphire pin. The whole ensemble was covered by a caped greatcoat, which hung negligently open with casual grace.

Eleanor found herself staring. With his striking good looks, he would draw any woman’s eye. What hope was there for her poor heart when faced with his dark splendour? What chance to persuade herself that she did not care and that her heart did not beat faster merely at the sight of his dark hair and arresting features? She would have as much success in persuading herself not to breathe! And it was made even more impossible by knowing that his sometimes hard exterior hid a depth of kindness and understanding. Not to forget the burning kiss to remind her of what they might have meant to each other. She flushed and bit her lip as he reined in and leapt to the ground with fluid agility.

He looked her over critically.

‘Excellent! A smile would help.’

And she did. It might be a trifle brittle, it might not quite reach her eyes, but it illuminated her face and would fool those who did not know her or did not choose to look closely enough.

Henry did both and felt his heart stir with compassion and longing.

She had completed her outfit with a close-fitting, highwaisted spencer in black silk. It added the perfect touch of sobriety to the silver grey of her gown. Her grey silk-covered bonnet tied beneath her chin with long ribbons, its brim framing her lovely face, the silk flowers in shades of violet and amethyst, detracting from the severity of the whole. A pair of flat slippers, grey kid gloves, a neat reticule and a silver grey parasol—and she was ready for the ordeal. She had exquisite taste, he acknowledged. Elegance and sobriety, layered in perfect harmony, not full mourning, but quiet and respectful. He could not fault her. And he was struck anew by her beauty as she turned her head to look at him.

He handed Eleanor up into the high carriage, mounted himself and waited as she arranged her skirts and unfurled her parasol.

‘Ready?’ He closed his hand momentarily over hers, knowing exactly what was going through her head, the pain of the anxieties that gripped her with fierce claws. ‘Do we not look splendid?’ His smile was wry. ‘And highly respectable, of course! Not a whisper of scandal between us!’ The groom swung up behind them as Henry took up the reins and the longhandled whip.

Before they could pull away, Nick appeared from the front door to stand beside them on the pavement, dressed to take a turn in Bond Street or stroll through Piccadilly, a quizzical expression on his face as he surveyed his brother.

‘I am impressed, Hal.’

‘So you should be. I hope the Polite World in Hyde Park will say the same.’

‘Can you manage those bays? They can be lively. Perhaps I should offer to drive Eleanor round the park, for her own safety. You must be out of practice. Or do they have such sophistication in the colonies these days?’ His lips curled in gentle mockery, hoping to drive away the strained shadows in Eleanor’s face.

‘I can manage. If you remember, I taught you to drive—to my cost! For your sins, you could find yourself a mount and come and ride with us.’

Henry’s expression held a silent message. A show of force in the face of the gossips would not come amiss. Eleanor would welcome it.

‘Very well. I will join you in the park—so don’t crash the carriage before I arrive!’

A superior smile from Henry was the only answer.

‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ Eleanor’s soft murmur told him that she was perfectly aware of his intent. He smiled reassuringly at her, before turning his attention to his horses.

In spite of Nicholas’s barbed comments on his brother’s expertise, Eleanor found herself in no danger at Henry’s hands. He drove carefully through the crowded streets, skilfully avoiding a multitude of carriages and heavy wagons that thronged the centre of the city. He had the horses well in hand. She was left with the freedom to watch and admire his skill, the clever strength of his hands, with their broad palms and long fingers. They looped and wielded the reins and whip with casual and confident ease. She knew the gentleness of their touch for herself. And their power. She turned her face away in dismay.

Meanwhile, as Nicholas made his way to the stables at Faringdon House to acquire a suitable hack, his thoughts were taken up, not with the complications and, probably, repercussions of the Baxendale claim, but with the teasing matter of Eleanor and his brother. There was some past history here. The more he watched them together, the more he was certain of it. And it had left a bitter residue. He tightened his lips as he remembered their first meeting in the withdrawing-room at Burford Hall. The tension in the atmosphere. The crackle of shock, of controlled hostility, particularly from his brother. Nicholas had decided, although he did not understand it, that it was simply a case of instant dislike, but now he was not so sure. Hal was so caring of Eleanor. So concerned. He had altered all his plans, transported them all to London and was intent on waging an all-out battle campaign. Yes, to protect the family name and Thomas’s integrity, of course. Hal could be expected to do just that. But there was a far more personal involvement here. Nicholas saddled up his hack, deciding that he would be prepared to wager five hundred guineas that Hal’s feelings for Eleanor were not those of a brother towards a sister. As for Eleanor, it was difficult to tell. Who could ever read a woman’s mind with any degree of accuracy! With a shrug, he pulled on his gloves, looped his grey’s reins and set himself to join the fray in Hyde Park.

Some ten minutes later Lord Henry Faringdon and the Marchioness of Burford turned into the formal gates of Hyde Park near Apsley House, to be immediately swallowed up by a constant promenade of those of the fashionable world who wished to see and be seen. Carriages, riders, saunterers, turned out in the height of fashion, ready to hail acquaintances, issue and accept invitations, chatter and gossip. Eleanor squared her shoulders and set to face the unknown beast in its den. Her smile was securely pinned in place, her parasol positioned to a nicety as she looked around her with commendable interest and confidence, not afraid to meet anyone’s eye or raise her hand in greeting.

It did not take long.

Veiled looks. Whispered comments behind gloved hands or hidden by the little feather muffs that had become so fashionable. Quick speculative glances from bright eyes.

‘They know!’

‘Yes. It had to happen.’ Henry, too, was aware. ‘But we are not concerned with trivial and empty gossip. We know the truth. You are the Marchioness of Burford.’ He smiled at an acquaintance and nodded his head as he looped the reins to pass a curricle. ‘Your son is the Marquis of Burford. Don’t forget it.’ He inclined his head with superbly arrogant condescension toward an elderly Dowager who raised her lorgnette in their direction.

The Marchioness promptly followed suit. She took a deep breath and set herself to follow instruction as Nick joined them on a lively grey hack.

‘I see they’re tattling.’

Which brutal words, Eleanor decided later, summed up the experience of the next hour.

It proved to be an education. Few people were secure enough in their knowledge to risk an outright snub to the well-born Faringdon brothers and their fair companion, no matter their doubts over the lady’s present position.

The Princess Lieven, handsome wife of the Russian ambassador, did, of course. As her barouche drove past, she stared straight ahead, eyes cold, mouth unmoving, the epitome of cold disapproval of the English in general and the Faringdons in particular. The Faringdon phaeton might as well have been invisible. There was no recognition of a lady with whom the Princess had taken tea or exchanged cool pleasantries at Almack’s. What would you expect from the most feared patroness of Almack’s, so fixated with what was seemly and proper and good ton, Eleanor thought, her heart sinking.

‘A disagreeable woman with an acid tongue!’ Henry broke into her thoughts with a more forthright observation and lifted her spirits. ‘All self-consequence and pride with nothing but contempt for those around her.’

‘No more vouchers from Almack’s from that quarter!’ Nick, riding beside them, smiled wryly at the calculated snub.

‘Thank God! A blessing in disguise!’

Eleanor laughed at Henry’s irreverence and had to admit the truth of it. But it hurt.

Mostly the pleasure-seekers in Hyde Park were unsure. They were quite prepared to smile, wave or stop for a brief exchange of words. But eyes were uneasy. Glances interested, assessing the weight of evidence—or lack of it—that might suggest that the Marchioness of Burford was an impostor. And her infant son. Well! Knowing eyes slid away from too close a contact. Yet the Faringdons still received an invitation to a quiet evening party, from no less a personage than the Countess of Sefton. Just a small gathering. Perfectly proper for their present situation, with the loss of dear Thomas. Isabella Sefton’s eyes were full of sympathy, her soft tones saying what her words could not. But the fact that she had gone to the lengths to instruct her coachman to rein in so that she could speak to them was balm to Eleanor’s soul. Such kindness from one of the patronesses of Almack’s threatened her composure.

They met Cousin Judith being escorted by the Earl of Painscastle in a smart barouche. The couple made a point of stopping to engage in animated conversation. Eleanor intercepted an eloquent glance between Henry and the lady, immediately alerting her suspicions. Henry had arranged the very public assignation, intent on leaving nothing to chance. A show of family unity and support could do nothing but good.

When the gentlemen fell to discussing horseflesh, Eleanor took the opportunity for a quiet word with Judith across the two carriages.

‘It is my intention to pay an afternoon call on Octavia—I would be more than grateful if you could accompany me.’

‘Octavia?’ Judith’s face lit up with sly enthusiasm. ‘Of course I will come. I would not miss it for the world. What do we talk about?’

‘Herself. Thomas.’ Eleanor shrugged a little helplessly. ‘Anything that might help me to understand.’

‘Anything that might brand her as a liar?’

‘Yes.’ Eleanor sighed at the outspoken truth. ‘That is what I could hope for.’

‘I will definitely accompany you.’ The Countess of Painscastle opened her frivolous lace parasol with a definite snap. ‘I will collect you in the barouche at three o’clock!’

They drove, waved, exchanged polite greetings under the intense scrutiny of the Polite World for more than an hour.

‘Take me home, Hal. I have played out this role for long enough.’ Eleanor furled her parasol with weary distaste.

‘You were magnificent. You should feel nothing but pride.’ Henry’s quick glance at Eleanor confirmed his suspicion that the morning had begun to take its toll. If she would admit to it, a headache had begun to build behind her eyes from the strain of smiling and denying the effect of sharp, critical glances.

He would take her home. He would have liked nothing better than to take her away from London, from the whole sorry mess. To remove the hurt and the humiliation. But he could not. They must face it and defeat it if they were to restore Eleanor to her rightful place in society—and in her own eyes, a matter of even greater importance. Her spirit had been superb, carrying off the morning’s exercise in full public gaze with considerable panache, but the threat of society’s condemnation loomed on the horizon, as threatening as a thunder cloud.

They turned out of the gates, once more below the imposing façade of Apsley House.

‘You did not stop to speak to Melissa Charlesworth,’ Eleanor noted as a landaulet bearing the lady, now the Countess of Saltmarshe and once the object of Henry’s gallantry, passed them with no change in speed.

‘I did not see her.’ His voice was surprisingly harsh.

Eleanor’s brows arched. ‘No?’

‘No. She is not important.’

With which caustic comment Eleanor had to be content.

Eleanor and Judith arrived, as arranged, at Faringdon House to pay an afternoon call on Octavia Baxendale. The door was opened by Eaton, the Faringdon butler, momentarily lost for words when faced with the mistress of the house come as a visitor on a social call.

‘My lady…’ he stammered. ‘It is not fitting that you should remain standing on your own doorstep.’

Before embarrassment could fall and smother both parties, Judith took the matter in hand, manipulating the situation in a highhanded and confident manner worthy of her mama, Lady Beatrice Faringdon, a lady of considerable presence and force of character, indicating that the Marchioness was staying with Lord Henry who had hired a town house in Park Lane, but only until he returned to America later in the month.

‘It is more convenient, you understand!’ But for whom and for what purpose the Countess of Painscastle made no attempt to explain.

And how was Eaton? As well as ever? And was Sir Edward Baxendale at home? No? How unfortunate. But perhaps Miss Baxendale was receiving visitors? She would no doubt welcome some company, knowing so few people in town! Perhaps Eaton could discover if.

Eleanor caught Judith’s eye in deep gratitude—and then they were being shown into the familiar red-and-gold-striped withdrawing-room where Miss Baxendale sat alone beside the fireplace, a piece of needlework lying abandoned on the table beside her. The lady sprang to her feet as Eaton introduced the guests with a flourish. He did not know the full background to this development, and although common gossip was rife…he would dearly have loved to listen at the door, except that it was below his dignity. A pleasant enough young lady, Miss Baxendale, but not to compare with the Marchioness, of course. But the word in the town suggested deep doings. He shook his head as he departed for the kitchens to organise tea and inform the members of the servants’ hall that things were afoot upstairs.

‘Edward is not at home I am afraid.’ Octavia looked rather nervously from one lady to the other. ‘But if you would care to sit. And take some tea?’

The faint look of unease that hung about her black-gowned figure suggested that she would rather they did not, but Eleanor came forward in friendly mode with hand outstretched and a smile on her face. There was nothing for Octavia to do but participate in the gentle social occasion with the lady whose social position, it appeared, she had every intention of appropriating for herself.

‘We have come to see you, Miss Baxendale, to find how you are settling in,’ Eleanor explained. ‘I trust that we are not disturbing you. And my cousin Judith has come, with whom you might be acquainted.’

Octavia looked at the lively redhead as they made a polite curtsy. ‘Perhaps… You were Miss Faringdon, were you not? And now the Countess of Painscastle? Pray take a seat.’

They did so.

‘How uncomfortable this is…’ Octavia picked up her embroidery and promptly put it down again, lost for words, unable to raise her eyes above her restless hands.

‘But it will not stop us drinking tea together and having a cosy exchange of news.’ Eleanor tried to put the lady at her ease, not for the first time wondering how Thomas could have possibly married this pretty but insipid creature.

‘We came out in the same Season, Miss Baxendale.’ Judith smiled encouragingly. ‘I believe that we met at any number of balls and soirées.’

‘Yes. I met so many people. But I think…I am sure that I remember you. I came to your coming-out ball in this very house. My aunt and uncle—and my brother, of course—chaperoned me. I remember thinking what a beautiful house it was. I never thought that I should be living here…’ With which ingenuous comment she flushed and turned her head with relief when Eaton and an interested footman brought in the tea.

The ceremony was performed with nervous competence by Miss Baxendale, the tea was served, and the ladies chatted about a range of inconsequences of fashion and the events offered by London to ladies with a degree of leisure and affluence. Then Judith returned to her reminiscing over the glories of her Seasonal debut, Octavia agreeing and nodding but adding few of her own impressions.

‘And how are you spending your time in London now?’ Judith tried for another approach as the conversation dried.

‘Sir Edward has been very busy,’ Octavia explained. ‘I have rarely been out.’

‘And of course, you are still in mourning.’ Eleanor sympathised with a sad smile, eyes keen and watchful.

‘Why, yes…it would not be seemly for me to go about in public to any great degree. I see that you, my lady, have laid aside your black gloves.’ She took in the glory of silver grey with some surprise.

‘Indeed I have.’ Eleanor did not elaborate. ‘Have you perhaps driven in the park yet, Miss Baxendale? The days have been very pleasant. And I am sure Sir Edward would drive you to take the air. It would be quite acceptable for you in your situation.’

‘No. I have not been beyond the garden.’

‘Do you enjoy music or painting? To help to pass the time a little when your brother is from home?’ Judith arched her brows.

‘No. I do a little embroidery, as you see.’

‘Perhaps you miss your garden in the country. Where is it that you lived?’

‘In Whitchurch. And, yes, I miss it so much. The roses will just be coming into bloom. I shall not be there to tend them and wish I was…’ It was the first animation that Octavia Baxendale had shown since her guests had arrived, her whole countenance blooming as did her roses, but only to be stemmed as if she feared an indiscretion. ‘But, of course, it is necessary for me to be here.’

‘You must miss it indeed. Now I have no interest at all in gardens, but I understand that it can be a great solace in times of grief.’ Judith put down her teacup and leaned across the little table to pat Octavia’s hand. ‘Eleanor has been telling me about your little son. What a splendid boy he is. Could we perhaps see him? My lord and I are hoping for a child very soon…’ She lowered her lashes in coy anticipation.

Eleanor hid a smile. Cousin Judith had a remarkable range of skills of which she had been unaware until now.

‘Of course.’ Octavia appeared a little surprised that her guests would wish to see her son, but rose to her feet to pull the bell hang beside the fireplace.

‘Would you ask Sarah to bring the child down?’ The footman bowed and departed.

Within minutes the door opened. In came the young woman whom Eleanor had last seen in Burford Hall. Fair and neat with a ladylike composure. Fair enough, perhaps, to be one of the family. A dependent of good birth, Eleanor decided, but most likely fallen on hard times, now holding the hand of the child, John. John Faringdon, if the documents were correct.

‘This is Sarah,’ Octavia said, confirming Eleanor’s impression. ‘She has been my companion and now acts as nurse to John.’ The lady curtsied and released the little boy, who immediately ran to show his mama a wooden boat that he had clasped in his hand. Miss Baxendale patted his head. John thrust the precious possession into her hands, announcing ‘Boat!’ with a disarming smile.

‘What a beautiful child.’ Judith held out her hands. ‘Come here, John. Let me see your boat.’

The child, aware of the possibility of a wider audience, walked shyly to Judith and then gurgled with shocked pleasure when she snatched him up and sat him on her knee. ‘What a handsome boat. And so are you very handsome. All those golden curls and such blue eyes.’ She pinched the end of his nose to make him laugh.

‘He is a good child.’ Octavia nodded and smiled as Judith stood him back on his feet when he struggled for freedom and restored his boat to his grasp. With a crow John launched himself back towards Sarah where she had remained beside the door, but, with uncoordinated enthusiasm, fell on the wide expanse of deep turkey carpet. For a second he crouched motionless. Then tears came to his eyes and a sob to his chest.

‘There, now,’ Octavia said. ‘You are not very hurt.’ Sarah swooped, picked up the child, kissing his cheek, smoothing away his tears with her hand, crooning to him in a soft voice.

‘Is he well?’ Octavia watched the little scene with a graceful turn of her head. So did Eleanor and Judith.

‘John took no hurt, ma’am.’

‘Perhaps you could take him back to the nursery, Sarah. He tends to get a little excited in company’ she explained to the visitors. ‘It is not good for a child.’

With a curtsy to the assembled company, Sarah walked to the door, holding the boy close, and left.

What else should they talk about? Judith tried fashions and the opening of a number of new modistes where the most ravishing hats and gowns could be purchased, but although Octavia was pleasant and smiling, she had little to say and shared little interest in what might or might not be considered de rigueur.

‘I believe that it is time we left.’ In desperation Eleanor was about to rise to her feet. ‘My own son will be missing me by now, I expect.’ Then the door opened to admit Sir Edward Baxendale. He greeted his guests with great charm and a warm smile, sat with them and accepted a hand-painted porcelain cup of tea from his sister. The talk encompassed the weather and Judith’s new barouche, which awaited them at the door, but it was noticed that Octavia said no more.

‘Well?’ Eleanor and Judith were once again ensconced in the comfort of Judith’s barouche after what could only be described as a frustrating and disappointing afternoon.

‘That child is no Faringdon!’ Judith pulled on her gloves with conviction.

‘But he is very fair like his mother.’

‘Faringdons breed true!’ Judith insisted. ‘Look at your own son. He might have your eyes, but his father’s hair, his nose and mouth are very pronounced. There is no denying his parentage. I swear there is no trace of Thomas in that child!’

Eleanor flushed and hesitated at Judith’s observations. ‘But that is not proof. You inherited your mother’s red hair and green eyes rather than your father’s features.’

‘Very true. But I have the Faringdon nose. And eyebrows. There is no mistaking them. The golden-haired child we have just seen bears no resemblance at all.’

‘No. Perhaps not.’ It had to be admitted. ‘She is no doting mother, is she?’ Eleanor commented. ‘That surprised me a little.’

‘Ha! Just because you are!’ Judith smiled in understanding. ‘We are not all born to lavish unbounded love and affection on our offspring. He is certainly a healthy child and well cared for.’

‘I suppose.’ Eleanor frowned at her recollection of the child’s tears. She would not have been able to ignore them—to allow his nurse to lift and comfort him! ‘I presume that Octavia’s reminiscences of her coming-out were correct?’

‘Yes…’ Judith wrinkled her nose ‘…but she does not have much to say, does she?’

‘No. And even less when Sir Edward arrived home.’

They were silent in thoughtful communion as the barouche made its steady way towards Park Lane.

‘You know…’ Judith ventured, brow furrowed in thought, ‘Simon would make himself scarce if he knew a party of ladies were gossiping in his withdrawing-room. Wouldn’t Thomas have done the same?’

‘Why, yes…I hadn’t thought. Thomas would have gone to the stables until they had all gone! Sir Edward joined us straight away. Why do you think that was?’

Green eyes met amethyst, their thoughts clear between them.

‘But it does not add up to much, does it?’ Eleanor queried. ‘Merely that Sir Edward would prefer his sister not to be alone with visitors.’

‘Or is it that he did not wish Octavia be alone with you!’ responded Judith.

There was no answer to it.

The two ladies prepared to part company on Eleanor’s doorstep. Judith leaned down from her carriage to where Eleanor stood on the pavement and clasped her hand in firm support.

‘Have we proved anything?’ Judith asked.

‘No.’

‘Except that Octavia was definitely not Thomas’s usual flirt!’ Judith tightened her hold to enforce her point. ‘It is very difficult to believe, after spending such a tedious half-hour in her company, that he fell in love with her and married her. Whereas I can quite believe that he loved and married you, dear Nell!’

Eleanor took a breath. ‘Sir Edward said that—’

‘Tell me, Nell.’

‘When they first came to Burford Hall—when they told us of the whole dreadful complication—Sir Edward said that Thomas forced Octavia to keep their marriage secret because of her lack of rank. That his family would disapprove.’ A line deepened between her fine brows as her mind worried at the problem. ‘But my birth, Judith, is no better than Octavia’s, and I know that the Faringdons would never have chosen someone of so little consequence as myself for Thomas’s bride, however supportive you and Aunt Beatrice might be now that we are faced with this scandal. Yet Thomas followed his own wishes in the face of family opposition and married me with as much public display as he could achieve.’ She smiled a little sadly as she remembered the festivity and ceremonial of her marriage. ‘All I am trying to say is that social standing does not seem to me to be a good enough reason for Thomas to hide Octavia away in the country—if he truly loved her and wished to marry her.’

Judith had flushed uncomfortably at her companion’s devastatingly accurate reading of family opinion on her marriage to Thomas, but patted Eleanor’s hand, for once all the careless flippancy quite gone from her face. ‘Of course Thomas never married Octavia, dearest Nell. You must never allow yourself to think that. And as for your lack of rank—all I can say is that marrying you was one of the best decisions Thomas made in his whole life.’

‘Thank you, Judith.’ A faint smile touched Eleanor’s pale lips. ‘At least that is something for me to hold on to!’

In the entrance hall Eleanor’s path crossed that of Henry and Nicholas as the two gentlemen prepared to leave the house and look in at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy in New Bond Street before repairing to Brooks’s for a hand or two of whist.

‘Any fortune with your visit to the fair Octavia?’

‘None. But tell me. If I were entertaining a group of ladies to tea and you arrived home, what would you do?’

‘Head for the library and take a glass of port until they have gone.’ Henry’s response took no thought.

Neither did Nicholas’s. ‘Turn around and go back out to the stables.’

‘Thank you. I would expect as much.’ Eleanor nodded her head and proceeded to climb the stairs.

‘Did we say the right thing?’ Nicholas asked.

‘I have no idea. Women can be very uncommunicative—and devious! But I am sure that Eleanor will let us know in her own good time. And since we have no library here in this house…’ Henry turned on his heel towards the door of the morning room ‘.I think I need a glass of port before we depart!’

Later that evening Henry and Nicholas prepared to visit some of the discreet gaming establishments that opened their doors to those who had bottomless pockets and sought more excitement than the play offered at Brooks’s and White’s. There were any number of them with unmarked doors, opened by black-clad individuals who were careful whom they admitted. Some were more legitimate than others, some more honest, but the stakes were high and the play keen in them all. Some were the haunts of card-sharps, quick to lure young men newly arrived in London into the dubious delights of hazard and macao, where disgrace and ruin waited for the unwary flat. And if point non Plus was reached, it was always possible to patronise the fashionable establishment of Messieurs Howard and Gibbs, who were more than willing to lend at extortionate rates of interest. It might be that Sir Edward passed his evenings in such company. It might be that he had lost heavily and so was now in debt, sufficient that he would be prepared to risk an outrageous plan to get his hands on a vast fortune. It might provide them with a reason why he should put forward such a preposterous claim of marriage on behalf of his sister.

It proved to be a long evening.

By the end of it, after numerous hands of whist, reacquaintance with French hazard and roulette and too many glasses of inferior brandy, they had nothing to show for it other than lighter pockets and the lurking prospect of a hangover.

Sir Edward Baxendale did not spend his evenings or his money in any of the gaming hells they visited.

‘So what does Sir Edward do with his time when he is in London?’

They strolled back to Park Lane in the early hours of the morning.

‘Horses?’ Nick suggested. ‘But how we are to discover if he squanders his money on the Turf, I know not. I suppose we could look in at Tattersalls and see if he is known for betting on the horses. We do not know even if he is in debt.’

‘No.’ Henry fought off the looming sense of depression at the futility of the evening and the prospect of the long journey on the following day.

‘Do you think he has a mistress?’ Nicholas asked.

‘To demand vast sums of money and diamond necklaces? A possibility.’ Henry grinned at the prospect. ‘Mistresses can be very expensive.’

‘The voice of experience.’ Nicholas returned the grin. ‘And how would we discover that?’

‘Have him followed, I expect!’

‘That I will not do!’

‘Go and talk to Hoskins tomorrow. Suggest to him that he make discreet enquiries with Howard and Gibbs—unless you care to? No, I thought not.’ He laughed as he saw the expression on Nick’s face They had arrived on the steps to their front door. ‘But if Baxendale is short of the readies, and does not wish to advertise the matter, a moneylender would be his first port of call. Hoskins will know how to go about it, I expect.’ He thought for a moment before opening the door, all humour drained in the dark shadows. ‘But you might visit the other gaming houses. Meanwhile I will see what the Reverend Broughton has to say about our elusive gentleman.’ He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider visiting Aunt Beatrice to discover her thoughts on the Baxendales four years ago. Judith reminded me that she has a formidable memory.’

‘No.’

‘Mmm. Then I will suggest that Mrs Stamford pay a morning call. They can enjoy a comfortable dissection of the manners and morals of the younger generation—and perhaps Aunt Beatrice will remember something of import.’