The Disgraced Marchioness

‘I have every confidence and shall come to you for a loan when you have made your first fortune.’ Nicholas returned the smile. ‘And the women of New York?’ He slanted a sly glance at his brother. ‘Are they pretty?’

‘I believe they would compare with London. I have found so.’

‘So tell me, Hal. Is she a prime article?’

‘Of course.’ Hal’s answer was as smooth as watered silk.

‘And the name of this fair Cyprian?’

‘Rosalind—and the rest is none of your affair, little brother, although she would box your ears for you if you dared impugn her morality with such a title.’

Nicholas laughed and Henry broke into a reluctant grin at the exchange but then became deadly serious again and returned to the Baxendale claim. ‘But, no,. I don’t think it would be politic to simply accept the story that we have been fed so far. I think—’

The door opened. The Marchioness of Burford swept into the room, carrying her son, her mother in close pursuit.

‘I do not think, my dear Eleanor, that—’

‘Forgive me, Mama, but I have made up my mind.’

Eleanor came to a halt before Lord Henry, mood confrontational. She had no difficulty at all in meeting his surprised scrutiny this morning, meeting it with a bright gaze that issued a challenge to anyone who might be sufficiently ill advised as to stand in her way. A sleepless night with much time for reflection had achieved a very positive effect on the lady. Yesterday, she acknowledged, she had been weak. Spineless, even. She shivered in humiliation at the memory of her tears and her outpouring of grief and disillusion in Lord Henry’s presence. She must have been out of her mind to do so—to show such weakness. She had no excuse. Today she would grasp the nettle with both hands, crushing the stinging stems and leaves at whatever cost to herself. She would not meekly accept this hideous development. She would fight for her position, and, more importantly, the inheritance of her son!

Letting his gaze rest on her, Lord Henry had to appreciate that the lady had dressed for battle. The arrangement of her burnished ringlets à la Sappho could not be faulted, nor the quiet elegance of her high-waisted, narrow gown, long sleeved with only one row of discreet ruffles around the hem. The black silk creation, rich and costly, gleamed in the morning sunlight, undoubtedly created by the hand of an expert. Probably Eugenie in Bond Street, he thought, unless this most fashionable of modistes had changed in his absence.

Eleanor certainly had, he was forced to admit. Composed and sophisticated, her presence reinforced the impression that he had absorbed since his return. She had grown into her role as Marchioness of Burford and he could not fault her in it, although he felt a strange sense of loss that the young girl he had known had changed for ever.

‘I have decided,’ the Marchioness now announced to the room at large. ‘It is my intention to go to London to confront this problem. I cannot sit here, buried in the country, waiting for decisions on my future to be made without my knowledge. I need to speak with Mr Hoskins. I cannot believe that Thomas had married Octavia Baxendale, visited her and had a son by her without my being aware! Certainly not for the whole span of our marriage! Such deceit is completely unacceptable.’

‘But where will you stay?’ Mrs Stamford broke in, continuing her earlier objections, but for once unsure of her ground. She could not but agree with her daughter’s basic premise that the whole matter could not simply be ignored. ‘Surely not at Faringdon House, with the Baxendales in residence. Think of the mortification of having to meet them every day, of sitting down to breakfast with them. Do think, Eleanor …’

‘I have thought, Mama. I have done nothing else but think all night long! I shall not, of course, go to Faringdon House. It would not be at all suitable. I shall put up at an hotel until I can make more acceptable arrangements. But go to London I will!’

She glared at Henry as if she expected him to join her mother in condemnation of her scheme. Would he dare to thwart her? She did not care! Her mind was made up!

Henry watched her with none of the indifference he would have preferred. The anger that now drove her rendered her magnificent. She might be dressed in deepest unrelieved mourning, there might be light shadows beneath her eyes from her sleepless night, but her face was vivid and alive. Her skin glowed with delicate colour, her soft lips firm and uncompromising in her decision. The deep amethyst of her eyes was dark and turbulent, rich as glowing jewels. He was held by them, a slow enchantment which barred him from damning her hopes of success in her cause.

‘Of course you must go.’

Eleanor blinked, momentarily lost for words as she marshalled an impassioned argument to use against him when he denied the validity of her plan. Lord Henry’s lips curled a little at her obvious discomfort, but he had the wisdom to suppress too obvious a smile.

‘But there is no need for you to consider an hotel. Nor, as you say, would it be proper for you to stay at Faringdon House in the present climate—it is not fitting. I shall myself go to London and I shall rent a house. I make you free of it. Rather than the Baxendales, you may sit down to breakfast with me instead!’

‘You?’ Her brows rose in sharp disbelief. ‘But you are returning to America!’

‘No. I think not. I cannot leave you with this situation unresolved. My departure for America can wait.’

‘I do not need your help!’ Temper flared again in the sun-drenched room. She would not be beholden to this man who had kissed her into desire and then rejected her! She would not come to depend on him again!

‘So you informed me yesterday. You appear to have a very low opinion of my abilities and my priorities, my lady!’ Henry noted her guilty flush with some satisfaction and drove the point home. ‘But this is not merely for you. My brother’s good name is in the balance. And my nephew’s legal recognition.’ For some elusive reason, as he looked at Eleanor and the child before him, recognising her utter determination to discover the truth, he suddenly had no doubts about his own convictions. The Baxendales, for some devious reason known only to themselves, had concocted a series of lies and deceits. He lifted a hand to stroke one gentle finger down the baby’s satin cheek.

The result both surprised and unsettled him. Tom ignored the gesture and continued to grasp the black satin ribbon on his mother’s dress with fierce and destructive concentration. The Marchioness took the smallest of steps back, a subtle movement and yet very obvious to Lord Henry. As was the fleeting emotion that clouded her eyes. He thought it was fear—yet could not imagine why. He was no threat to her or to her son. Stifling a sigh, he accepted that it was simply another mystery in the complicated weave but must be put aside until the more immediate concern with Octavia Baxendale had been dealt with. Henry deliberately lowered his hand, but not his eyes from Eleanor’s face, which was now flushed with rose.

‘I need to know that the inheritance of this family is in the correct hands, you see, even if those hands are still very small and as yet incapable of handling the reins,’ he stated quietly. ‘And I think the matter deserves some investigation. I cannot leave.’

‘But I cannot agree.’ Mrs Stamford stood her ground. ‘I have told my daughter that hers is a foolish idea. She could stay in residence here. To be turned out of her own home is insupportable. Besides, it is not seemly that she should put up in your rented property in London, my lord.’

‘And why in God’s name not?’ Lord Henry’s brows snapped into a dark bar of extreme exasperation, temper finally escaping his control. He had had enough of his family for one day and it was hardly mid-morning. ‘I presume you will accompany her ladyship to London, ma’am? Does she need more of a chaperon than her own mother? And what the devil do you expect for her at my hands? That living under my protection will sully her reputation? The Marchioness is under no danger from me! Your comment, ma’am, is as uninformed as it is insulting, to me and to your daughter.’

The brutal statement was met with stunned silence. Nicholas turned away to hide a smile. Eleanor looked as startled as her mother. Lord Henry was not normally given to such a show of emotion.

‘Well … I never intended to suggest … I did not think that … But how can you have agreed to the Baxendales taking possession of Faringdon House?’ Mrs Stamford was flustered, but reluctant to admit defeat and pursued her quarry with more energy than sensitivity.

‘What do you suggest?’ The reply was immediate, biting. ‘That we get to haggling over property at a time like this? As if we were in the market place? I think not!’

‘Of course not. I never—’

‘No. Perhaps you did not. But your thoughts were not complimentary to a lady who already has enough to contend with, without her mother casting doubts on the morals and motives of members of the Faringdon family!’ Then, before anyone could recover from so direct an attack, Lord Henry addressed his next words to Eleanor in quite a different voice. ‘I think it is an excellent idea. See to your luggage, ma’am. We leave early tomorrow morning. You, too, Nicholas,’ which effectively wiped the smile from Nick’s face.

‘But I thought it might be better if …’

‘No, it wouldn’t.’ His lordship’s voice was now clipped. ‘You are not going to escape a short visit to town, so save your breath. I have need of you in London, little brother. We have a campaign to wage!’

Eleanor looked from one to the other of the Faringdon brothers. Their determination, their confident air of authority, the implacable manner in which they undertook whatever they set their mind on, touched her heart after all. Yes. She would join her efforts to theirs. They gave her more hope than she could have dreamed of. And Hal was not going back to America. Not yet! She hugged the thought to herself as she hugged her precious son, even as she reprimanded herself for her foolishness. Henry had defended her before her mother. Perhaps he would not abandon her, whatever the outcome of the case. ‘I will not go without Tom, you understand,’ she informed Henry, looking again for disagreement, perversely unwilling to appear too compliant. ‘He comes with me.’

Henry sighed and ran a hand through his hair at the prospect of arranging transport for a large party. The unnerving experience of being regarded by two identical pairs of deep lavender eyes, one openly critical, the other innocently curious, decided the matter for him. ‘I suppose you must. Very well. I will arrange for the cleaning of the chaise. Be so good as to inform the stables, Nick. Be ready tomorrow morning, ladies.’

The Faringdon family was rapidly ensconced in a smart and stylish town house in Park Lane in the most fashionable part of London. By no means as spacious or as elegantly furnished as Faringdon House in Grosvenor Square, and lacking all personal touches, of course, yet it was proclaimed sufficient for their needs, even by Mrs Stamford, who was initially prepared to dislike it on sight. The proportions and furnishings of the main withdrawing-room, smaller parlours and reception rooms were declared adequate, the bedrooms comfortable, the furnishings suitably tasteful if a little bland. The address, of course, could not be bettered. The matter of staff was ably dealt with by Marcle, who had accompanied them, despite the state of his arthritic joints, and took charge of the lower regions with seamless competence. Eleanor did not bother to marvel at the speed or the smooth efficiency of the whole operation. If she did, she would have to allow considerable credit to Lord Henry who, she considered, carried it off with typical high-handed arrogance—and faultless style. But she was grateful. It was easier to take the comfort and concern for her well-being for granted and simply accept it when more momentous issues were to be faced.

The following morning, after persuading Mrs Stamford with a tact and a remarkable patience, which surprised everyone, that her presence was not essential to the success of the operation, Lord Henry escorted the Marchioness to the chambers of Hoskins and Bennett. Mr Edward Hoskins, a gentleman of advanced years and wide experience, had enjoyed the confidence and management of the legal affairs of the Faringdon family for many years, but his welcome on this chilly morning did not hold much pleasure for his noble employers. The low clouds, Eleanor surmised, accurately reflected the mood of everyone in the dusty, book-lined, wood-panelled room off Fleet Street.

‘My lord. My lady.’ The lawyer ushered them in with every consideration and saw to their comfort, pouring a glass of canary for Lord Henry and ratafia for the Marchioness, even though no one had the heart for refreshment. ‘What can I say? I could never have believed that such an occasion as this would arise in my lifetime. And certainly not with respect to your family, my lord, so correct and respectable as they have always been in my lengthy experience.’

He took Eleanor’s black-gloved hand and pressed it in fatherly concern before taking his position behind his document-strewn desk. Such a lovely lady to be faced with the possibility of so much future heartache! And the Marquis of Burford had always struck him as a most conscientious young man. Mr Hoskins frowned down at the pages before him, hoping that Lord Henry could be relied upon to deal with the situation in a fitting manner. He knew little of the gentleman other than that he had left the country to seek his fortune—but this was sure to be a true test of his character. He glanced up under heavy brows at Lord Henry who stood behind the Marchioness’s chair, a hint of the protective in his stance despite the lack of physical connection, noting the stern lines of his handsome face, the implacable will expressed in the cold grey eyes. Mr Hoskins suppressed a shudder. He would not care to make an enemy of this man. He trusted that the absent Sir Edward knew what he was undertaking.

‘Sir Edward Baxendale and Miss Baxendale have been to see you, I surmise.’ Lord Henry lost no time in broaching the delicate subject, meeting the crux of the matter head on.

‘Indeed they have, my lord. Yesterday afternoon. A most personable pair, I might add, in spite of the reason for their appointment. I have heard their story and I have seen the documents. In fact, I have them here in my possession.’ He laid his hand on them on his desk, as if with a degree of distaste for their content. ‘Sir Edward left them so that I might check their authenticity.’

‘And your opinion, sir? No dissimulation, I beg.’ Lord Henry cast a quick glance at Eleanor’s impassive features. ‘I fear that they bear the mark of validity.’

Mr Hoskins noted again the strained but composed features of the Marchioness. She sat perfectly still to hear her fate, but her fingers, closed around the strings of the reticule on her lap, were bone white from the pressure.

‘I believe that the documents are legal.’ Mr Hoskins stated the matter without inflection. ‘The marriage and the birth are recorded, as you are aware. It is simple enough to check the existence of the church and the priest concerned, and thus the signatures—which I am in process of doing. The marriage would appear to have existed.’

‘And the witnesses?’

‘Sir Edward himself, and Lady Mary Baxendale, their mother, were witnesses of the marriage. Lady Mary is now unfortunately deceased.’

Lord Henry nodded, keeping Eleanor under his close surveillance. ‘So tell me, Mr Hoskins, in your legal opinion, where does her ladyship stand?’

Hoskins sighed. It would not be good news. ‘There is nothing that I can tell you that you do not already know, my lord. The estate is entailed on the eldest son. A jointure is established for the widow to ensure her comfort for the rest of her life. The Marquis your husband, my lady, made no further will other than to give the trusteeship, if necessary on his death, into the hands of Lord Henry and Lord Nicholas and myself. He would not expect his untimely death at such an early age and so felt no compulsion to outline his wishes in more detail. If Miss Baxendale is proved to be the legal wife of the Marquis, then there is no legal recognition or provision for yourself, my lady, or your son.’ He gave her the title, although now so clearly in doubt, through courtesy and compassion, his heart going out to the innocent woman who sat before him as if engraved in stone. ‘The recipient of the widow’s jointure will be Miss Baxendale,’ he concluded, ‘the Marchioness of Burford, I should say, not yourself. And the heir to the estate is the legitimate child of that marriage, John.’

‘I see.’ Eleanor felt as if the walls were closing in on her. She fought to stave off the blackness that threatened to encroach and rob her of all sense. Then, through the mists, she became aware of a warm hand on her shoulder, a firm pressure. The heat spread through the black silk of her spencer to reassure and comfort. As she turned her head to look up, there could be no doubting the depth of understanding in Lord Henry’s face as he willed her to be strong. For one moment she covered his hand with her own and struggled to smile in reassurance.

It almost broke his heart.

His voice was harsh as he spoke again to the lawyer. ‘Do you truly believe that my brother married Octavia Baxendale some three years ago, sir?’

‘I do not like it, my lord. But on the face of it, yes. I am unable to argue against the evidence.’

So there it was. Eleanor covered her face with her hands.

‘Forgive me, my lord, my lady. I would never willingly cause you such pain. If there is anything I can do …’

Lord Henry took Eleanor’s arm in a firm hold, encouraging her to rise to her feet, then tucked her hand within his arm. She obeyed as if in a trance, all her hopes and dreams for the future destroyed. He fixed Hoskins with a flat stare. ‘Will you be so kind as to do one thing for us, sir? Sir Edward claimed that an annual sum was paid to Miss Baxendale from the date of her marriage. A substantial amount, it would seem, to ensure her complicity in keeping the marriage secret. Is there any trace of such a sum being paid from the estate finances? I have asked the agent to look at the estate accounts at Burford Hall. It would be interesting to know if and when any large amounts of money were paid out and apparently unaccounted for.’

‘I will certainly do that, my lord. But if there is no evidence of such, it may not prove that they were not made, of course.’

‘I know. But it is a start and the best we can do.’

They returned home in pensive and uncomfortable silence, in a hackney that Lord Henry hailed outside the lawyer’s rooms, to relay the depressing results of their morning’s endeavours to Mrs Stamford and Nicholas who awaited their return.

‘It is as we feared.’ Lord Henry stripped off his greatcoat and strode into the front parlour to pour glasses of port. ‘The documents would appear to be legally binding.’

Eleanor handed her spencer, gloves and bonnet to Marcle and followed, determined to hold herself together. Henry cast one glance in her direction and stalked to her side to take her hand in a firm hold. ‘It would be better if you sat before you fall to the floor.’ His tone was harsh to cover the depth of his feelings for her. She looked so fragile, the impression enhanced by her black gown. Lost and vulnerable. He suppressed the fury that surged within him as he saw the result of their morning’s work and felt the uncontrollable trembling in the hand that, for a brief moment, clung to his. ‘Here.’ He held out the glass of port. ‘Drink this. Don’t argue with me, just do it. You have had a most distressing morning, perhaps the worst hour of your life. It is not weakness to admit it and take a little stimulation!’

Eleanor looked up into his face, her eyes betraying her inner fears. She looked stricken—he realised that she must indeed be so, if she was willing to lay her emotions bare before him. All he wished to do was sit beside her and pull her into his arms to shield her from the cruelties of the world. Anything to smooth away the look of helpless desolation.

‘Don’t give up yet. This is only the first hurdle. We shall come about.’

Tears threatened at his gentle words but she would not, determined to keep her voice calm and composure intact. She sat at the pressure of his hand and obediently took the glass. ‘But what hope is there? You heard what Mr Hoskins had to say. Thomas was in all probability wedded to Octavia Baxendale at least a year before I even knew him.’

‘I am not convinced, in spite of the evidence to the contrary.’ Lord Henry tossed back the port as if he needed it and poured another glass. ‘Let us start from the opposite premise. That the claim is false. Consider this. If the whole venture is nothing but a deliberate trickery, a charade, why would they embark on such a risky enterprise in the full view of the haut ton? If they fail, and so are unmasked as frauds, the result will be a disaster for them. So what motives would they have to risk all on the turn of a card?’

‘Money!’ Nicholas stated without hesitation.

‘Social consequence?’ Eleanor suggested.

‘The title!’ Mrs Stamford added in flat tones.

‘Money would seem to me to be the strongest motivation.’ Henry cast himself into the chair opposite his brother. ‘I wonder about the financial circumstances of the Baxendales.’

‘An easy enough matter to discover, surely?’ Nicholas lifted his brows.

‘Do you believe,’ Eleanor asked, considering a matter that had worried her since the first meeting at Burford Hall, ‘that Miss Baxendale is strong enough to have stood against her brother if he wanted her to reveal her marriage to the world? Sir Edward said that she refused to do so when Thomas contracted to marry me, in spite of his persuasion to the contrary. Do you really believe it? She seems so biddable.’

‘She might. If she loved my brother enough.’ Henry acknowledged the point. ‘But she is certainly not made of stern stuff. I think that we should get to know Miss Baxendale a little better. And perhaps without the presence of her more forceful brother. There is a role for you, Eleanor! You will not like it, I dare say, but I think you should further your acquaintance with Octavia.’

‘But she is in black gloves.’ Mrs Stamford pushed herself to the edge of her seat in horror. ‘It is not yet six months since dear Thomas died. It is not fitting that Eleanor start going about in society. What will people say? I cannot condone a plan of action which would result in the Marchioness of Burford being considered fast. How can you suggest it?’ Her eyes locked with Lord Henry’s in accusation. ‘I suppose that such casual ways are acceptable in New York …’ she sniffed ‘…but they are not considered respectable in London!’

Henry turned his glittering gaze on Mrs Stamford without compunction. ‘I both can and will suggest it. And I will suggest even more outrageous action. I think that you, Eleanor, should put off your full mourning and begin to go about a little. There is no hint of scandal yet, but there will be, and without doubt it will take the Polite World by storm. It is too salacious a story to keep quiet.’ His lips thinned at the disagreeable prospect. ‘We shall soon find that we are living our lives under full public scrutiny and, however unpleasant, I think we must not be seen to be in hiding over this matter. We should go about as normal, make no comment, presume that Eleanor is without question the Marchioness of Burford, and I think that you should try for an intimate relationship with the fair Octavia. If she wishes to confide her troubles, you should be available with a sympathetic ear! I am not asking your daughter to attend a full dress ball!’ he informed Eleanor’s outraged parent. ‘Merely to show herself and the child in public a little and pay some private visits.’

‘That should be an interesting development!’ For the first time that day, Eleanor managed a faint smile, appreciative of the plan. ‘It is better to be active than afraid. I will do it.’ Sipping the port, which restored colour to her ashen cheeks, she signalled her agreement. ‘We should go about as if nothing were amiss. And I will put off my mourning.’ She frowned as her mama prepared to interrupt. ‘Better to be fast than a pawn at the whim of Sir Edward Baxendale.’