‘Why not?’ His face held no warmth, but perhaps a little surprise in the consternation that he read in Eleanor’s momentarily unguarded expression. ‘My business will not prosper in my absence, whereas you do not need my help here. Nick is more than capable and far more interested in developing the land than I. And Hoskins has his finger on all the legal niceties. The inheritance and your jointure are secure, ma’am. There is nothing to keep me here.’
‘Very well. I … we shall be sorry to see you go, of course.’ Her tone was low with no inflection but, to his disappointment, her gaze now quickly fell before his. She rarely allowed herself to look directly at him so that he had presumed her uninterest. And yet he realised, beyond any sort of logic, that he had been hoping that she would care. It seemed from her reply that she did not. He allowed himself a sardonic smile at his foolishness. If Eleanor had been prepared to reject his offer two years previously in the face of better prospects, she would hardly show any concern for his presence—or his absence—now.
But, on hearing Hal’s announcement, Nell’s heart had fallen to the region of her fine kid slippers, her nerves skittering like mice in an underdrawing. She did not want him to go. She was afraid of him, of her reactions to him, but she did not want him to leave Burford Hall.
Mrs Stamford took up the conversation, breaking in to her daughter’s distraught train of thought. ‘I am sure that life in America has much to entice you to return, my lord. And I expect there are friends who will be missing you.’
‘It has indeed. And, yes, there are some who will have missed me.’
Eleanor heard and came to her own conclusions. Of course. She should have realised. Her heart sank even lower, if that were possible. There was nothing to hold him in England. And there would be a lover waiting for him there, a woman who loved him and fretted for his return. A woman who was without doubt beautiful and who enjoyed the intimate attention of his mouth and hands. Her own hands clenched on her knife and fork. Of course he would wish to go back. How ridiculous to think that he would even consider her own needs. Not that she had any true idea of what they might be!
She put down the knife and fork, the slices of chicken un-tasted, her appetite suddenly gone. And began a detailed conversation with her mama with respect to a planned visit to a neighbouring family during the afternoon. Should they take the landaulet or the barouche? And what was the possibility of inclement weather?
And Hal bitterly accepted that, yes, there was nothing to keep him at Burford Hall.
The plates from the cold collation had hardly been cleared from the table and dishes of fresh fruit and cheese set out when Marcle entered to approach Lady Burford.
‘My lady. There are a lady and gentleman come here.’ He frowned his disapproval of such lax adherence to acceptable visiting hours.
Eleanor raised her brows a little in some surprise. ‘Now is not a very convenient time, Marcle. Perhaps you could show them to the red parlour and supply them with refreshment. We shall be finished here in half an hour.’
Marcle persisted, if reluctantly. ‘The gentleman apologises for the unwarranted interruption, but claims urgent business. Of a highly personal nature, which requires immediate attention from your ladyship.’
‘I see. Who is he? Do we know him?’
‘Sir Edward Baxendale, my lady.’ Marcle presented a neat visiting card on a silver salver. ‘And Miss Baxendale, his sister, I believe.’
Eleanor looked at the tasteful lettering on the card and then across the table to Nicholas, who was in deep and detailed conversation with Henry about the merits of a favourite hunter. ‘Do we know a Sir Edward Baxendale, Nicholas? Does he live locally? I think I have not heard that name, but he might be one of the hunting fraternity. In which case you will be acquainted at least.’
Nick shook his head. ‘There is no one of that name who lives in this part of the county, I am sure.’ He looked to his brother for confirmation. Henry shook his head, uninterested.
Eleanor decided. ‘Very well. Since it is an urgent matter …’ She nodded to her butler. ‘Show them in, if you please.’
Within minutes, Marcle ushered the visitors into the dining room.
‘Sir Edward Baxendale and Miss Baxendale, my lady.’
The gentleman was a man in his early thirties, perhaps a little older than Hal, of medium height and stocky build. Eleanor gained a general impression of quiet elegance and understated fashion in his clothing and appearance. He was without doubt a gentleman of some means. The lady who accompanied him was younger, slight of build, clothed in black as if recently bereaved, but again with a distinct air of fashion. Behind them came a young woman, clearly a companion or governess from her plain and serviceable dress, carrying a young child who squirmed to be set on his feet.
The gentlemen bowed. The ladies curtsied. Marcle hovered with interest in the background.
‘Well, Sir Edward. What is this personal business that cannot wait?’ Eleanor smiled to put the visitors at their ease. ‘Perhaps we can offer you a glass of wine. If you would care to sit—’
‘Forgive me, your ladyship, my lords.’ The gentleman bowed to the assembled company, face grave, politely deferential but firm. ‘I would not normally arrive on your doorstep without due notice. But this is not a social visit. Time is, I believe, of the essence. And what I have to say will certainly, I fear, be distasteful to you.’ He allowed his gaze to linger on the faces around the table, his own face and voice strained with compassion.
‘Then in what way can we be of help?’ Eleanor approached the little group, now with some concern, noting that the young woman was nervous and kept her eyes fixed on Sir Edward, as if for guidance or reassurance.
‘I fear that we are come here in some way under false pretences. This is my sister, Octavia.’ He took the hand of the young woman beside him to lead her forward. ‘She was Miss Baxendale. She is now, I must inform you, Octavia Faringdon, wife of the lately deceased Thomas Faringdon, and has been so for the past three years. She is the lawful Marchioness of Burford. And this child—’ he indicated with a glance behind him ‘—is their son, John. Heir to the title and Faringdon estates. I believe, madam, sirs, that we have much to discuss.’ Sir Edward bowed again and waited to see the impact of his declaration.
The silence that hung in the room was painful in its intensity, as enveloping as the cloud of dust motes that drifted around them in the sun’s rays.
Until Mrs Stamford grasped the edge of the table and pushed herself to her feet in outrage. ‘A marriage? Thomas’s wife? I have never heard such disgraceful nonsense in all my life!’ She glanced fiercely at her daughter. ‘If I were in your shoes, Lady Burford, I would have nothing to do with this scandalous claim. It is my belief that it is merely a charade on the part of these … these people, to get their hands on the Faringdon fortune.’ She paused to cast a look of pure disdain towards the pair, her lips curled in what, in a less well-bred lady, would have been seen as a sneer. ‘If I were you, I would have Marcle show these impostors the door, on the instant!’
The company, robbed of any desire for further social platitudes, or to sample the fine array of cheese and fruit set out on the dining table, repaired immediately to the blue withdrawing-room in stunned and uncomfortable silence.
‘Perhaps you would be so good as to explain your astounding claims, Sir Edward,’ Lord Henry requested with remarkable calm.
The gentleman was now seated on the silk-covered sofa, his sister beside him, palpably uncomfortable with hands clasped tightly in her lap. Their companion chose to take the child into the window embrasure, away from the heart of the crisis, to look out at the park and gardens and be entertained. Eleanor had lowered herself to an oval-backed chair as if she did not trust her legs to support her. Nicholas stood behind her, Mrs Stamford took a seat at her side. Lord Henry, either deliberately or through natural inclination, took a position of authority before the fireplace. When thoughts