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