‘But if he loved you and had married you, regardless of…of the differences in your social rank,’ Eleanor spoke at last to the fair lady, ‘and since you had presented him with a son and heir—why would my Lord Burford consider the complications of a second marriage to me? It does not make any sense! Most particularly as—’ She closed her lips into a thin line, unable to continue. Particularly as my birth and the social status of my own family is no better! It simply did not make any logical sense.
‘My lady…'Sir Edward hesitated, all deference and concern. ‘I cannot tell you. Perhaps you are the only one here who might know the reason for such an unfortunate decision.’
‘But why wait to make any claim until now?’ Mrs Stamford interrupted, impatient as she pinned the fair couple with an eagle stare, clearly not believing a word of Sir Edward’s explanation. ‘My lord has been dead for four months. Why did you not speak on hearing of his death? It has been no secret, after all.’
Sir Edward turned to face the lady with calm purpose. ‘We knew of Burford’s death, of course. A great shock to us all. We expected that Octavia would have been considered in the will. And that clear provision would have been made for the child—who, after all, is the heir. And so we waited in anticipation. But there was no word from the lawyers, there was no settlement for Octavia or for the child.’ His voice hardened and looked down at his sister’s face with concern. ‘As the will stands, she has been left with no income, no security…no recognition of her position as Burford’s wife. That is not right, as I am sure you will agree.’ His gaze swept his audience. ‘She deserves what is rightfully hers after three years of neglect, of being forced to live as if she had a guilty secret. I have persuaded her to come here today to lay the truth before you, knowing that you will not allow her to go unheard. She must receive what is due to her under the law.’
‘Is this indeed so?’ Eleanor appealed to the young woman who sat so blamelessly in her withdrawing-room and threatened to destroy her whole life.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Did you love him?’ And what a ridiculously inconsequential question that is!
‘Yes. I did. And he loved me. He told me so.’
‘Did he…did he visit you often in Whitchurch?’
‘When he could. It was not always easy.’
Eleanor’s blood ran cold from her lips to the tips of her fingers. Was that why Thomas had been prepared to enter into a loveless marriage with her? Because it would have given her the protection she needed? And, more importantly, because he had already given his heart elsewhere so a union without love was of no consequence? It could be so. It could all be terribly true. The thought struck her with terrifying power. But why did he agree to marry her at all if he was already legally bound? The cool voice of common sense impressed itself on her mind, insisting that she listen to its reasoned tones. Surely Thomas, whom she had respected and married, could never have taken a decision so unworthy of a man of honour. Eleanor no longer knew what to think.
‘Forgive me, Sir Edward, if I put this bluntly.’ Henry broke into her thoughts. ‘Is there any reason we should believe this remarkable claim?’
‘Of course.’ Sir Edward released Octavia’s hand and stood, a deliberate confrontation now. ‘I am not so foolish as to believe that you would accept my sister’s claim without legal proof. I have it. I have with me the proof of the marriage of my sister and your brother. And the registration of the birth of the child. At the church of St Michael and All Angels in the parish of Whitchurch and both witnessed by the Reverend Julius Broughton who is resident there. It proves beyond doubt that the marriage predates any other agreement that Burford might have entered into and that the child was born in wedlock. Thus he is your brother’s legitimate heir.’
From his pocket he produced two documents and handed them over. Henry read them, noting places, dates and signatures. And passed them to Eleanor, who did likewise, holding them with fingers that were not quite steady. Yes. There it was before her eyes. She swallowed against the tight constriction in her throat as the truth sank home. The documents predated her own marriage and the birth of her own child. She was not Thomas’s wife. Her son was not Thomas’s heir.
‘It predates my marriage,’ she stated in toneless acceptance, as if her world and that of her son did not lay shattered at her feet.
‘It is as I said.’ Sir Edward rescued the papers from her nerveless fingers. ‘Octavia is Burford’s true wife. Your marriage, I am afraid, my lady, is invalid.’
At these gently spoken but brutal words, Lord Henry took a step forward, an automatic gesture, to put himself between Baxendale and Eleanor, discovering an overwhelming desire to shield her, to protect her from these destructive insinuations, as if his physical presence could rob the words of their veracity.
It was a futile attempt. Pride came to the rescue as, choking back a sob, Eleanor rose to her feet. She could sit no longer and so walked to the window where the child chattered unintelligibly and pointed excitedly at the circling rooks. She stretched out a hand to touch his hair. Pale gold like his mother, so different from her own dark son. A lively, attractive child who clutched at the coat of his nurse with fierce fists. Then, disturbed by Eleanor’s scrutiny, tears welled in the blue eyes and a wail broke the silence. Eleanor stroked his hair and the nurse shushed him, crooning to him in a soft voice until he hid his face against her shoulder.
Oh, God! How has all this come about?
Eleanor turned to look back over her shoulder at the tableau before the fireplace, with Sir Edward and Miss Baxendale—or was it the Marchioness of Burford?—at its centre. Both fair, well bred and respectable, Octavia appropriately clothed in black silk, a black satin-straw bonnet framing her lovely face—it was indeed difficult to suspect them of any degree of duplicity or trickery. And they had the documents with all the force of the law behind them…
‘This is a matter that needs our consideration, sir.’ Her attention was drawn back to Lord Henry, who had taken a hand in the discussion again. What were his thoughts on this untoward turn in family events? For a moment, his eyes caught hers and she thought that for that one second of contact he was not indifferent to her plight. And then he turned away. ‘What do you intend now, Sir Edward?’
‘It is my intention that we go to London and lay this evidence before your family’s legal man. A Mr Hoskins, I understand. I would presume, in the somewhat peculiar circumstances, that we can take up residence in Faringdon House? I believe that my sister should have that right as we do not possess our own establishment in London.’
‘What?’ Mrs Stamford could take no more. She surged to her feet, fury on behalf of her daughter writ large. ‘I think you presume too much, sir. You have no right whatsoever to take up residence in Faringdon House!’
A quick, startled glance passed between Nicholas and Henry, Nicholas astonished at the man’s effrontery in demanding the Faringdon London residence for his sister’s comfort, but Henry’s frown prevented any comment. His lordship placed a warning hand on Mrs Stamford’s rigid arm.
‘Do not distress yourself, ma’am.’ Turning to Sir Edward, Henry bowed his head in acknowledgement of the claim. ‘Very well, sir. I shall ensure that you are expected there and given every comfort. Although I would suggest that you do not spread word of this…this unfortunate and highly sensitive affair until the legality of your claim is proved.’
‘It is not our intention to provide food for the gossips, my lord.’ There was the merest hint of a reprimand in Baxendale’s quiet voice. He took his sister’s hand once more and drew her to her feet to stand beside him. ‘It would be of no benefit to my sister to be discussed in the streets and clubs more than is necessary. There will be enough scandal as it is. I shall present these documents—’ he replaced them in his inner