‘I believe that it is time we left.’ In desperation Eleanor was about to rise to her feet. ‘My own son will be missing me by now, I expect.’ Then the door opened to admit Sir Edward Baxendale. He greeted his guests with great charm and a warm smile, sat with them and accepted a hand-painted porcelain cup of tea from his sister. The talk encompassed the weather and Judith’s new barouche, which awaited them at the door, but it was noticed that Octavia said no more.
‘Well?’ Eleanor and Judith were once again ensconced in the comfort of Judith’s barouche after what could only be described as a frustrating and disappointing afternoon.
‘That child is no Faringdon!’ Judith pulled on her gloves with conviction.
‘But he is very fair like his mother.’
‘Faringdons breed true!’ Judith insisted. ‘Look at your own son. He might have your eyes, but his father’s hair, his nose and mouth are very pronounced. There is no denying his parentage. I swear there is no trace of Thomas in that child!’
Eleanor flushed and hesitated at Judith’s observations. ‘But that is not proof. You inherited your mother’s red hair and green eyes rather than your father’s features.’
‘Very true. But I have the Faringdon nose. And eyebrows. There is no mistaking them. The golden-haired child we have just seen bears no resemblance at all.’
‘No. Perhaps not.’ It had to be admitted. ‘She is no doting mother, is she?’ Eleanor commented. ‘That surprised me a little.’
‘Ha! Just because you are!’ Judith smiled in understanding. ‘We are not all born to lavish unbounded love and affection on our offspring. He is certainly a healthy child and well cared for.’
‘I suppose.’ Eleanor frowned at her recollection of the child’s tears. She would not have been able to ignore them—to allow his nurse to lift and comfort him! ‘I presume that Octavia’s reminiscences of her coming-out were correct?’
‘Yes…’ Judith wrinkled her nose ‘…but she does not have much to say, does she?’
‘No. And even less when Sir Edward arrived home.’
They were silent in thoughtful communion as the barouche made its steady way towards Park Lane.
‘You know…’ Judith ventured, brow furrowed in thought, ‘Simon would make himself scarce if he knew a party of ladies were gossiping in his withdrawing-room. Wouldn’t Thomas have done the same?’
‘Why, yes…I hadn’t thought. Thomas would have gone to the stables until they had all gone! Sir Edward joined us straight away. Why do you think that was?’
Green eyes met amethyst, their thoughts clear between them.
‘But it does not add up to much, does it?’ Eleanor queried. ‘Merely that Sir Edward would prefer his sister not to be alone with visitors.’
‘Or is it that he did not wish Octavia be alone with you!’ responded Judith.
There was no answer to it.
The two ladies prepared to part company on Eleanor’s doorstep. Judith leaned down from her carriage to where Eleanor stood on the pavement and clasped her hand in firm support.
‘Have we proved anything?’ Judith asked.
‘No.’
‘Except that Octavia was definitely not Thomas’s usual flirt!’ Judith tightened her hold to enforce her point. ‘It is very difficult to believe, after spending such a tedious half-hour in her company, that he fell in love with her and married her. Whereas I can quite believe that he loved and married you, dear Nell!’
Eleanor took a breath. ‘Sir Edward said that—’
‘Tell me, Nell.’
‘When they first came to Burford Hall—when they told us of the whole dreadful complication—Sir Edward said that Thomas forced Octavia to keep their marriage secret because of her lack of rank. That his family would disapprove.’ A line deepened between her fine brows as her mind worried at the problem. ‘But my birth, Judith, is no better than Octavia’s, and I know that the Faringdons would never have chosen someone of so little consequence as myself for Thomas’s bride, however supportive you and Aunt Beatrice might be now that we are faced with this scandal. Yet Thomas followed his own wishes in the face of family opposition and married me with as much public display as he could achieve.’ She smiled a little sadly as she remembered the festivity and ceremonial of her marriage. ‘All I am trying to say is that social standing does not seem to me to be a good enough reason for Thomas to hide Octavia away in the country—if he truly loved her and wished to marry her.’
Judith had flushed uncomfortably at her companion’s devastatingly accurate reading of family opinion on her marriage to Thomas, but patted Eleanor’s hand, for once all the careless flippancy quite gone from her face. ‘Of course Thomas never married Octavia, dearest Nell. You must never allow yourself to think that. And as for your lack of rank—all I can say is that marrying you was one of the best decisions Thomas made in his whole life.’
‘Thank you, Judith.’ A faint smile touched Eleanor’s pale lips. ‘At least that is something for me to hold on to!’
In the entrance hall Eleanor’s path crossed that of Henry and Nicholas as the two gentlemen prepared to leave the house and look in at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy in New Bond Street before repairing to Brooks’s for a hand or two of whist.
‘Any fortune with your visit to the fair Octavia?’
‘None. But tell me. If I were entertaining a group of ladies to tea and you arrived home, what would you do?’
‘Head for the library and take a glass of port until they have gone.’ Henry’s response took no thought.
Neither did Nicholas’s. ‘Turn around and go back out to the stables.’
‘Thank you. I would expect as much.’ Eleanor nodded her head and proceeded to climb the stairs.
‘Did we say the right thing?’ Nicholas asked.
‘I have no idea. Women can be very uncommunicative—and devious! But I am sure that Eleanor will let us know in her own good time. And since we have no library here in this house…’ Henry turned on his heel towards the door of the morning room ‘.I think I need a glass of port before we depart!’
Later that evening Henry and Nicholas prepared to visit some of the discreet gaming establishments that opened their doors to those who had bottomless pockets and sought more excitement than the play offered at Brooks’s and White’s. There were any number of them with unmarked doors, opened by black-clad individuals who were careful whom they admitted. Some were more legitimate than others, some more honest, but the stakes were high and the play keen in them all. Some were the haunts of card-sharps, quick to lure young men newly arrived in London into the dubious delights of hazard and macao, where disgrace and ruin waited for the unwary flat. And if point non Plus was reached, it was always possible to patronise the fashionable establishment of Messieurs Howard and Gibbs, who were more than willing to lend at extortionate rates of interest. It might be that Sir Edward passed his evenings in such company. It might be that he had lost heavily and so was now in debt, sufficient that he would be prepared to risk an outrageous plan to get his hands on a vast fortune. It might provide them with a reason why he should put forward such a preposterous claim of marriage on behalf of his sister.
It proved to be a long evening.
By the end of it, after numerous hands of whist, reacquaintance with French hazard and roulette and too many glasses of inferior brandy, they had nothing to show for it other than lighter pockets and the lurking prospect of a hangover.
Sir Edward Baxendale did not spend his evenings or his money in any of the gaming hells they visited.
‘So