‘And you do not want me there.’ She nodded once in quick understanding, but still disappointment.
Henry walked to the other side of the room, to put as much distance between them as was possible. He did not want to see the wild hope in her eyes. It was difficult enough to hear traces of it in her voice without surrendering to a need to hold and comfort her—in case their investigation came to nought.
‘It would serve no purpose, Nell.’ His words sounded cold, unfeeling.
‘I understand. Whatever you wish, of course.’
‘You amaze me, Eleanor.’ Those well-marked Faringdon brows arched.
‘Did you expect me to demand that I accompany you?’
‘Yes. Nick and I thought we would have to lock you in your room.’
‘I see. So you have already discussed the possibility!’ And clearly not something that he wished for. Against her will, she was touched by amusement and decided to be charitable. ‘No, I shall not be so difficult and uncooperative.’
‘We could have the key to the whole secret by tomorrow night.’ He tried to be encouraging.
‘Yes. It will be a relief.’ Her voice was colourless, disguising the thoughts that jostled in her mind, destroying the hope that should have been ignited by his words. It will all be over. I should be overjoyed. My son’s inheritance is safe. She looked at the handsome man standing by the door. Noting the distance between them. Recognising his deliberate intent. And then he can go back. Back to Rosalind. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about anything but the benefit for your son. Don’t hope for the impossible. He did not want you before. He will not want you now. It is finished.
Henry was shattered by the stricken look on her face, a fleeting expression of despair, seemingly incongruous with the news he had just brought her. Perhaps he misread it. Perhaps she was simply tired. But he doubted it.
He bowed and left. There was nothing he could do for her but unmask Edward Baxendale and Julius Broughton as the villains that they undoubtedly were.
He would do that, if he could do nothing else.
Lord Henry made the journey once more by curricle to the tranquil village where a malicious plot had been conceived and put into motion, accompanied as planned by his brother. It had to be admitted that he was not sorry; it was a more relaxed journey without the tensions and enticements of Eleanor’s presence. But he had been more than a little surprised by her compliant willingness to remain in London, her uncharacteristically placid acceptance of his decision. Or perhaps it had not been placid but edgy, withdrawn, an unwillingness to be in his company, and he said as much to Nicholas as the miles sped past.
‘She did not wish to come.’
‘She seemed very calm about the whole affair at breakfast.’ So Nicholas had sensed nothing untoward. ‘You did not then have to lock her in her room.’
‘No.’
Nicholas thought about it. ‘You can’t blame her. This will not be a pleasant interview and she would learn nothing that we cannot report back, after all.’
‘No.’
But it worried him. Did she dislike him so much, a renewal of the hatred and contempt that had flashed in her eyes when he had first returned to Burford Hall? And if so, what had precipitated it? Had their night together, however unwise it might have been, not been what he had thought? She had quite deliberately refused to meet his eyes when he had told her of Nick’s discovery, deliberately turning her back against him, when only the night after the Sefton soirée she had shivered in his arms. Arched her body against his and cried out his name with a fierce passion that had matched his own. And yet when she had returned to the parlour to take her son from his arms her response to him had been cold and aloof. He might as well have been a stranger to her. Women! How could a man ever be expected to follow their train of thought? He snapped his thoughts back to the present, tightening the reins, as one of the lively bays took it into its head to shy at a passing pheasant.
The minor skirmish and battle of wills over, his thoughts turned back to Eleanor whether he wished it or not. It was for the best. He could leave for New York with nothing to pull him back to England. No unfinished business, no untied ends, no tangled emotions. The bitterness might have dissipated from their relationship but, whatever Nick had intimated—and he was not perfectly sure that he understood his brother’s comments—Eleanor was more than willing to turn her back on him as if there had never been any passion between them. So be it. It would be better so. There were no alternatives open to them under the law and it would be irresponsible of him to even contemplate anything other than a distance between them. Time and space would allow them to forget. To heal. Memories would fade. He would settle in New York, marry, produce an heir—and think of Eleanor merely as a pleasant if complicated interlude in his past, with no power to hurt or move him to unbearable need.
Not that time and space had worked any such miracle in the past two years! But it would. It must!
What could he possibly hope for in a future with Eleanor? The law and the church forbade any relationship between them, other than that of brother and sister. He set his teeth and concentrated on his horses.
They approached the pretty village of Whitchurch once more with its Norman church and cluster of tidy cottages. Past the Great House, still shuttered, where Sir Edward Baxendale lived with a sister and a baby—a sister who was not Octavia Baxendale. Or Octavia Broughton. And on to the Red Lion where Jem Abbott welcomed them, remembered his lordship and his openhandedness, stabled their horses and offered them tankards of ale. Henry refused and they walked the village street to where the vicarage was tucked behind the church in its leafy glade. No funeral occupied the churchyard this day to take up the Reverend Julius Broughton’s time. It could be presumed that he would be at home to receive them.
The door to the vicarage was opened at their knock by the same village girl who had been present on Henry’s previous visit. Young and comely, dark haired and dark eyed, with a flash of vivacious spirit and interest as she cast a less than servant-like glance over the two visitors. Her lips curled in welcome, her eyes sparkled with a sly flirtatious intent. She was very young, as Henry remembered, an unlikely choice for a housekeeper—but the house was undoubtedly well kept. Perhaps the Reverend had discovered a jewel. And yet, Henry admitted cynically, in the light of their knowledge from Kingstone, and Jem Abbot’s knowing comments, perhaps housewifely duties had not been uppermost in the priest’s motives when employing her.
‘Come in, my lord.’ The girl stepped back. ‘The master is in the library.’
‘Molly, is it not?’
‘Yes, my lord. I remember you.’ She gave him an appraising stare again at odds with her apparent role in the household. ‘And could this be your brother? He has the look.’ She dropped a pert curtsy and then with a swing of her hips she preceded them down the corridor and into the front parlour. ‘I will see if the master is available to see you.’ And left them, closing the door quietly behind her.
Nick raised his brows. ‘I see what you mean.’ He grinned. ‘Not my first image of housekeeper in a vicarage. She is certainly nothing like Mrs Calke at Burford Hall.’
‘Nothing at all! Don’t let yourself be distracted, Nick!’
‘No. I would not dare! But I wager that the Reverend Julius is, between writing sermons and burying the dead. She must be a great solace to him. Especially on a cold night.’
Henry snorted in appreciation and agreement, when Molly returned to usher them into the library with the sweetest and most innocent of smiles for the two gentlemen.
The room was as Henry recalled it. Bright with sunshine, polished with the faint aroma