Eleanor watched the outcome, her interest caught.
Octavia did not divert for one moment from her discussion of herbs suitable for a kitchen garden, despite her son’s loud expression of fury. Sarah immediately, without excuse or apology, leapt to her feet and abandoned the Marchioness. All her composure was gone in that moment of animation. She swooped on the child with expressions of concern, picked him up, wiped the tears away and promised a treat for little boys who were good and did not cry. The child’s tears instantly receded, replaced by a bright smile of anticipation. Sarah nuzzled his neck, kissed his damp cheeks, John returning her embrace enthusiastically and beginning to giggle when she tickled him.
Eleanor’s gaze became suddenly intent. Then she dropped her focus to her own child, who was attempting to crawl into her lap, taking in his dark hair and the promise of the striking Faringdon features. The differences were remarkable—there could be no denying it. So she stood, determined to seize the moment, smoothed down her skirts and approached the nursemaid who had set the child on his feet again, straightening his collar with loving fingers.
‘Sarah. Tell me…who is the father of this child?’ Eleanor bent to stretch out her hand, to touch the silky fair curls, to cup the soft curve of his cheek.
There was a flash of panic as the laughter in the nursemaid’s eyes vanished. Sarah cast a glance towards Octavia, who remained unaware of any development. Then she gathered John up again into her arms, held close despite his sudden squawk of protest, as if she would shield him from some unseen physical attack.
‘Sarah. I mean you no harm. Indeed…’ Eleanor would have taken her hand, but Sarah stepped back out of reach.
‘Excuse me, my lady. I must take him inside. He will be hungry…’
She fled, almost at a run, with a mumbled apology to Octavia in passing, and vanished through the doors of Faringdon House.
Eleanor picked up Tom, smoothing his hair reflectively. Sarah was afraid.
‘I have spent so dull a morning! You cannot imagine.’ The ladies were once more seated in the barouche, Mrs Stamford holding forth. ‘She appears to know little and will say even less! Her head is stuffed with nothing but pergolas and French marigolds!’
‘Sarah was even less communicative,’ Eleanor admitted. ‘I found out nothing other than an old wives’ cure for an infant colic, which I would certainly never try on any child of mine! A poultice of common groundsel, applied to the stomach of the poor little mite—I shudder at the thought. But Sarah swears by it.’
‘Which does not mean there is nothing to find out, of course.’ Alicia Stamford turned her severe stare on her daughter, choosing to ignore the diversion into country remedies. ‘Surely you could persuade her to drop some gossip about her employer?’
‘No! I could not! What do you suggest? There is no point in scowling at me, Mama. Short of asking her if Baxendale is her mistress’s real name, I could see no way of doing so.’ She turned her face away, holding her son close for a long moment. ‘But one thing is certain. There is some secret there that surrounds the child. And Sarah is not at ease.’
* * *
‘Hal! You were right! I have found it!’
Nicholas erupted into Henry’s bedchamber as the latter was putting finishing touches to his cravat.
‘Come in, Nick!’ His lordship continued to concentrate on his image in the mirror. He was no dandy, as he would be the first to admit, and was very ready to dispense with the services of a valet, but he knew that it was important to keep up some standards in London.
‘A Waterfall, unless I am much mistaken.’ Nicholas laughed and flung himself into a chair by the window to watch the operation. He was still in shirt sleeves and, although the morning was somewhat advanced, gave the appearance of not being long from his own bed.
‘I like the coat—very Weston—and the sartorial elegance of the cravat is amazing for someone wedded to the undeveloped backwoods and social equalities of the New World. A pink of the ton, no less.’ Nicholas smiled in friendly mockery. ‘But that’s not important! I would have come last night—this morning…it was only a few hours ago—but I presumed you would be asleep.’
‘I was.’ Their eyes met in the mirror. ‘And don’t sneer too loudly, little brother. New York may not yet be a centre of sartorial elegance as you put it, but neither it is the backwoods of anywhere. I can still cut a pretty figure.’
‘So I see. And do the ladies of New York appreciate this jewel in their midst?’
‘Rosalind has no complaints.’
‘Ah. Rosalind. Is she a serious matter or in the form of entertainment?’ There was more than a casual question in the voice that caused Henry to glance across from his task.
‘None of your business, Nick.’ Henry took a final glance at his reflection.
‘Of course not.’ He shrugged and grinned with easy acceptance of the rebuff from his brother. They knew each other very well. ‘I only wondered if you had marriage in mind—to set up your own dynasty to inherit the vast fortune you are intent on making.’
‘You will be the first to know when I do,’ was the only dry comment he received in reply. ‘Do I presume from your good humour that your efforts in the dens of iniquity paid off?’
‘More than you could ever guess.’ Nick settled himself more comfortably, one leg hooked over the arm of the chair, to regale his brother with the details. ‘I managed to run him to ground. Our sly fox is a frequenter of White’s, would you believe. And also the new establishment in Pall Mall—Whittaker’s, I think. The place where the major-domo looks you up and down as if you might be up to no good and about to steal the silver.’
‘So.’ Henry anchored his cravat with a sapphire pin, smiling down at his brother’s face, flushed with triumph. ‘We have tracked him to earth.’ His smile was not pleasant as he thought of the effect on Nell over the past weeks of fraudulent scheming. ‘So what has our friend been doing recently?’
‘He is not a frequent visitor to the clubs, but then puts in an appearance for a few nights in one week—as you would expect—when he escapes from his duties. He plays deep. Vingt-etun is his poison. It does not need much skill—just a steady nerve, and our friend, it would seem, has neither. So he is in debt, I gather, to Spalding to the tune of 2,000 guineas. And perhaps to Robert Mallory—you remember him? You once bought a hunter from him—but I am not certain. But he owes something near to 5,000 guineas all told.’
‘And where would he find money like that to pay off the debt?’
‘Exactly. Shall I tell you more? I had a very busy night.’
‘Please do.’ Henry’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of progress at last.
‘It gets better. When I mentioned the name to Kingstone, he was an amazing source of information. It cost me a bottle of brandy, but it was well worth it. There was a scandal recently. We did not hear of it because I was at Burford and you were in New York. It involved a new young actress called Elizabeth Weldon. She was taken up by an admirer and had a child. Both actress and child were found dead in her lodging, their cause of death uncertain. Rumour connected our quarry’s name with the girl, but there was no proof and his status would speak against it so the case was not pursued. But even so, Kingstone tells me that he is not liked. Hers was not the only name he has been linked with. It would seem that his appetite for pretty young girls is…shall we say, extreme.’
‘Better and better.’ Hal thought for a moment, toying with a silver-backed hairbrush. ‘What you say does not surprise me. Aunt Beatrice hinted as much. He has a very attractive young housekeeper, I remember, with a pronounced invitation in her smile. Our esteemed aunt would definitely not approve.’