‘My lord.’ The priest rose from his chair, a faint but not unfriendly enquiry on his handsome face. ‘How can I be of assistance?’
‘Reverend.’ Henry inclined his head in a cool acknowledgement. ‘Can I present to you my brother, Lord Nicholas Faringdon? Nick, this is the Reverend Julius Broughton.’
They bowed, manners impeccable.
‘I believed our business to be complete, my lord. I think I can give you no further information about the affairs of your late brother and Octavia Baxendale.’ The priest’s forehead creased in a slight frown, but the smile remained on his lips. He looked from one brother to the other for enlightenment, causing Henry to marvel at the man’s ability to pursue the charade. How could anyone suspect a gentleman of such well-bred appearance and deportment—and a priest—of deceit and trickery?
‘But I believe that you can.’ Lord Henry’s voice was cool and flat, revealing nothing.
‘Very well. I will do what I can. Please sit. Perhaps I can offer you a glass of wine?’ He stretched out his hand towards the bellpull to summon Molly.
‘No. This is by no mean a social call, sir.’ But they took the offered chairs.
‘So, my lords.’ The Reverend Broughton lowered himself carefully to his own armed chair, his pale eyes moved between the two, but with no hint of discomfort or apprehension. No premonition of what was to come.
He is very sure of himself! Will he be willing to admit the truth, when we have no firm evidence? Only gossip and supposition that will prove nothing? Henry smothered the doubts, refusing to believe that they would fail in their mission. Too much hung on their success.
‘It would appear that you have something of a reputation in town, sir.’ Nicholas opened the conversation.
‘I don’t follow…’ For the first time there were the faintest shadows of strain at the corners of the priest’s mouth. His lips thinned marginally.
‘I should tell you that after my brother’s recent visit, I made it my business to ask questions in London.’ Nicholas crossed one leg nonchalantly over the other. He might have been discussing the weather. ‘Your name is well known, but perhaps not in the best of circles for the most altruistic of reasons.’ He allowed his lips to curve in a faint but humourless smile. ‘Some of my acquaintances were very ready to gossip about you, despite your position in the Establishment.’
‘I fail to see… What do you imply, my lord?’ Broughton picked up the pen from the desk, turning it in his fingers, as he kept his enquiry calm. ‘My acquaintance in London is small. I cannot imagine that my infrequent visits make me an object of interest to anyone.’
‘The word, sir, is that you are in debt. That you have a name for gambling, for hard drinking. And for unsavoury relations with certain women. Not what one would expect from a man of the church, I venture to suggest.’
‘And you would give credence to such slanders? Accuse me without giving me a hearing?’ The man to whom they had so casually tossed their accusations remained cold, austere, a man of principle, with just a touch of arrogance. He raised his chin to look down his aristocratic nose, his lips thinned with displeasure. ‘There is no truth in it. And what possible bearing could this…this gossip have on your interest in the marriage at which I officiated?’ The Reverend Broughton appeared to be genuinely stunned and outraged—until it was noted that his hands had clenched around the quill, to its detriment. ‘It surprises me that you, my lord, would so willingly believe the gutter-sweepings of society gossip. Mere empty-headed nothings, without proof or conscience. And what business is it of yours? What right have you to interfere in my private affairs?’ Broughton suddenly rose to his feet as if he could sit no longer, throwing down the pen as he did so, regardless of the spray of black ink that spread across the sheet of paper before him. There were high spots of colour on his cheekbones now. Of illconcealed rage.
‘I am not sure what bearing the gossip has yet,’ Lord Henry chose to answer, his response as controlled as the priest’s was not. ‘But I think it will. You lied to me, sir.’
‘Lied? I think not.’
‘The marriage of Octavia to my brother.’ He produced a copy of the document and laid it on the desk between them. ‘It never happened, did it? This is a copy of your fraudulent document—bearing your signature—of an event that never happened.’
‘You have no proof of that. On what grounds do you claim that the marriage never took place?’ Cold anger burned in his eyes and he kept them fixed unwaveringly on the man who challenged his authority. ‘You can have no proof!’
‘No. I do not.’ Henry admitted the fact with bland and unnerving assurance. ‘But I do have proof that Sir Edward Baxendale is not Octavia’s brother. That her true name is not Baxendale but Broughton, so that her name as written in the document is a fraud. And that therefore, I suppose by pure exercise of logic, you are Octavia’s brother. If you are prepared to lie about that, then you would hardly balk at perjury over the matter of my brother’s supposed marriage.’
Broughton had not expected this. His face paled, his breathing becoming shallow as he weighed the words spoken against him in such unemotional terms, but yet his voice calmed, his selfcontrol remaining intact.
‘A ridiculous notion.’ He sat again and spread his hands. They had no proof! ‘You can see the family resemblance between Octavia and Sir Edward. It is very clear.’
‘No. I disagree. It is merely a matter of fair colouring. Indeed, it is the same as your own.’
‘You have no proof.’ Broughton fell back on denial.
‘Oh, but I have.’ Nick tried not to glance across at his brother at Henry’s unexpected statement. It must be a bluff! He hoped it would work. ‘Did I not tell you?’ There was now an unmistakable undercurrent of menace in Henry’s voice. His eyes were glacial and without mercy. ‘Another lady travelled here with me today. An older lady. I have left her at the Red Lion, recovering from the journey. She claims acquaintance with you, Reverend Broughton.’
‘Really?’ His lips curled in a sneer of disbelief. ‘And who might this ill-advised lady be?’
‘My aunt. Lady Beatrice Faringdon. She remembers the Season when Octavia was presented into society very well since her own daughter made her curtsy to the polite world at the same time. She remembers my brother’s flirtation with Octavia. And she remembers Octavia’s brother who accompanied her to London. It was not Sir Edward. It was yourself, sir.’
‘I deny it. How could she make such a false statement! It was four years ago!’
‘Lady Beatrice has an excellent memory. She recalls that Octavia’s name on that occasion was Broughton. If I escort her here, I am sure that she would instantly recognise you as Octavia’s brother. She certainly had no recollection of Sir Edward Baxendale. Would you care to wager against it? As much as the 2,000 guineas which you owe Spalding? It would be a far safer bet for me than any wager which you might risk on the turn of the cards in vingt-et-un.’
Broughton said nothing, but sank back into his seat as if he needed the support, his hands clasping the edge of the desk in a vice-like grip. He contemplated the ruin of his life, spelled out in Lady Beatrice Faringdon’s words of recognition.
‘I suggest that this whole sorry affair is a sham, a cunning trick to take control of the Faringdon title and the inheritance.’ Henry continued to hammer the nails into the priest’s coffin. ‘Thomas did not marry Octavia. You put your name to a false document.’
The statement was again met with silence. The Reverend Broughton took a deep and ragged breath as failure and social condemnation stared him in