Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue

‘I see. I had not thought of that.’

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

‘Yes. Will it alter the inheritance?’

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

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

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

‘He is only a baby after all.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What had he said? What had he done?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eleanor—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now it threatened to tear her heart in two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Please, Sarah. It is most urgent.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh.’ It was little more than a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I dare not. Edward…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She bit her lip as the memories flooded back.

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

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

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

She began to weep again.

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

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

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

‘No. I cannot…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hoskins listened in silence until she had finished.

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