‘I am indebted to you, Nick.’ Henry put down the brush and shrugged into the dark superfine coat which had attracted Nick’s admiration. ‘I think another visit to Whitchurch is called for. Tedious, but it will be worth it. Do you care to join me? This time Eleanor will be remaining in London, if I have to lock her in her room.’
‘I will go to Whitchurch with you willingly. But restrain Eleanor? I will not volunteer to help—on your own head be it. Besides, she would forgive you quicker than she would forgive me.’ Nick watched his brother closely, to see his response.
‘I doubt it. The lady has not hidden the fact that she has a low opinion of both my involvement and my motives in staying to unravel this unholy mess!’
‘Then you should not doubt it! The problem is, Hal, that you do not see what is under your nose where Nell is concerned. I thought you did not like each other at first. I admit I was wrong. Totally wrong. I am still not quite sure what drives both of you—or perhaps I am. In fact, I am convinced! But I know that you would not thank me for my opinions or advice.’ With which set of blindingly enigmatic statements, Nicholas rose to his feet and made to depart.
Then Marcle knocked at the door and entered with a silver salver bearing a note.
‘From Lady Beatrice, my lord.’
Henry sighed and frowned. ‘Now what.’
He broke the seal, unfolded the single page and read the brief note of a few lines. And then re-read it.
‘Well?’
He passed it on to his brother. ‘I think that we have just discovered our pot of gold.’
My dear Henry,
I remember the name. It came to me at some inconvenient hour in the dead of night when I could not sleep, as is ever the case. Perhaps it came from seeing the girl and speaking with her at your evening on Saturday. Her name is—or certainly was—Octavia Broughton.
I hope this information is to your advantage. I would hate to see the title fall into the wrong hands.
Your loving aunt,
Beatrice
‘God Bless you, Beatrice!’ Henry took back the note and stowed it carefully in his pocket.
‘And the Devil take the Reverend Julius Broughton, Octavia’s loving and expensive brother!’ Nick added with some venom. ‘When do we set out for Whitchurch?’
After Nicholas’s departure, Lord Henry added a gold watch to his waistcoat and a signet ring to his hand, made to pick up gloves and hat, then simply stopped, standing to rub his hands over his face in frustration. Nicholas knew. It had become impossible to disguise it. He had tried not to look at Nell. To touch her. To keep his distance when in the public eye. He had hoped, fought hard to hold his feelings in check. Not well enough, it seemed. Nick knew him too well. At least he could rely on his brother to be discreet. They both knew that they could not afford one whiff of scandal. If any word of an association between Lord Henry Faringdon and the newly widowed Marchioness of Burford got out to become the latest on dit, they would be all but destroyed. The censure of the haut ton would be damning indeed, for which he would never forgive himself. So he must guard his actions in future. There must be not the smallest hint of love or desire or need. He gritted his teeth. Nothing beyond brotherly affection and concern. But it was sometimes impossible when Eleanor looked so lost and weighed down by uncontrollable events. Or when she sparkled with courage and determination to fight back against the odds. Or when she smiled at him, her eyes glowing and her lips curving in just that way she had. Lord Henry groaned. In fact, it was simply impossible.
The morning visit to Octavia Baxendale at Faringdon House and her difficult but inconclusive conversation with Sarah gave Eleanor much food for thought. Sarah’s protection of the child, her awareness of his needs, had been keen and instinctive. When he was in distress her response to him was immediate and loving. Quick to restore him to laughter. Whereas Octavia…she had continued her conversation after the briefest of glances towards the source of the youthful tantrum. Eleanor could not imagine being so uninterested in her son’s concerns. But she lifted her shoulders in the slightest of shrugs. As Judith had been quick to point out, not everyone was blessed—or cursed—with strong maternal feelings. And, without doubt, the child was healthy and well cared for. There was no cause for concern for the well-being of Octavia’s son.
The sunshine flooded the window embrasure of the little parlour at the front of the house where Eleanor stood, her own child in her arms, contemplating their uncertain future. She had been driven to rescue her son from his nursemaid in the nursery, to spend time with him, perhaps to reinforce her memories of Thomas and her marriage when the future had seemed so settled. So certain. She held the child close, enjoying the warmth of his small body, the grasp of his fingers at the neck of her gown. She rubbed her face against his, making him chuckle, so that those glorious eyes, not the dark blue with which he was born—indeed, they were now the most beautiful clear amethyst of her own—sparkled with innocent pleasure. Whatever the future would hold for him, she vowed that he would be safe. She could protect him and give him the best life that was in her power to give, what ever the outcome of Sir Edward Baxendale’s assertions. And she would love him with all the fierce maternal love that flowed through her veins. The infant whimpered a little, his mouth downturned as her possessive hold tightened inadvertently. Eleanor laughed a little as she loosened her grip and turned towards the view from the window for instant distraction from tears.
‘One day you will own a house as fine as this,’ she told Tom. ‘Finer, in fact. As fine as the King’s own palace, if you wish it.’ Her cheek pressed against his hair as he leaned to stretch out his hand to the world beyond the glass. ‘One day you will own a splendid bay stallion, just like that one.’ She pointed as a rider went past, the hollow sound of the hooves echoing on the hard surface. ‘You will ride as well as your father—all style and dash and elegance. And you will look like him. I know it, even though you are still so small. I see his dark hair and straight nose.’ She touched him with gentle fingers, savouring the curves of childhood that would disappear all too soon. ‘Not his eyes—they are mine—but those splendidly arched eyebrows. And the curve of your jaw just there.’ She ran her finger over the soft cheek. ‘You will be tall and handsome and when you smile the young ladies will all want you to look in their direction. Just as I did when I saw your father. You will break many hearts, I am sure—and you do not care about one word I have said to you!’ She laughed in delight as she swung him round in a circle.
Then her thoughts drifted to Thomas, her husband, as the baby dozed a little on her shoulder. The images rose before her mind, crystal clear, finely etched, a painful and difficult meshing of contentment and grief. The morning she had gathered all her courage to present herself at Faringdon House to enquire for Hal. She had expected to be turned away, but Thomas had seen her, invited her into the library to know the reason for her distress. Only to inform her that Henry had sailed two days before. She had not believed him. She remembered as if it were yesterday the icy finger of despair that had traced its path down her spine. She had felt almost faint with shock, disbelieving that he could have left her, without word, without even a formal farewell. He had simply gone, in spite of all his protestations of love, in spite of the promise implicit in his lips warm against her own. In spite of her giving him the proof of her own love. How empty his words must have been. How cold his heart—and she had never realised it until that moment when Thomas had said, ‘But he is gone. Did you not know?’
Dear Thomas. Her lips curled sadly at the memory. His compassion and kindness had been overwhelming as he led her to a seat, helping her mop up her tears with his own handkerchief. She could not have expected such concern for her broken heart, but he had been open in his generosity.
And Thomas had married her. He knew that she loved Hal. Yet he had still married her.