‘No. There is no need.’ The response was soft but quite clear. ‘The document is not genuine.’
‘Then the marriage never took place? You admit it?’
‘The marriage never took place.’ Broughton stared at his hands as if seeking an answer that would release him from the repercussions of his actions, but found none. His lips barely moved but he spoke the words. ‘It never happened.’
‘And are you willing to sign a declaration to that effect, sir?’
That brought the priest’s head up, his eyes narrowed, a faint wash of panic.
‘And if I do not?’
‘If you do not, I would make it my business to spread the details of your dubious and scandalous affairs and your lack of integrity. I doubt that your position in the Church would remain secure in the light of such damning revelations.’
‘Have I an alternative?’
‘No.’
‘Then I must.’
He pulled a clean sheet of paper towards him, picked up the pen, dipped it and began to write. For the next several minutes, the only sound in the room was the scratching of the quill on paper. When it was done, apart from the signature, Broughton looked up to find Faringdon’s eyes on him. Questioning. Stark with contempt.
‘Well?’
‘Why did you do it?’ Henry asked.
‘Think about it.’ Broughton laughed, a harsh sound in the sunwashed room. ‘A fool could work it out—and you are no fool, Lord Henry. I am in debt to a sum far beyond my income. As your brother intimated, there is a shadow of scandal over my life. I am not proud of it, but neither will I grovel.’ He shrugged his careless acceptance, without compunction. ‘But it means that I am open to blackmail.’
‘Sir Edward?’
‘Of course. I am not the villain in this piece, much as you might wish to believe it. Sir Edward owns this living, which brings me a meagre income. Thus he holds me in the palm of his hand. To crush or to give freedom. If I agreed to support his claim to your family inheritance, he promised me security of tenure and money to pay off my debts and keep the style of life that I enjoy. If I did not…I would be destitute. He had the whip hand and I merely bowed to the stronger force. I would do the same again tomorrow given similar circumstances.’
‘But now I hold the whip hand.’ The curve of Henry’s lips was not pleasant. ‘So which is it to be? Sir Edward or myself?’
Broughton shrugged again. ‘It seems to me that I am damned if I do, and damned if I don’t. An interesting position for a priest to find himself in, I think! But I know that you will carry out your threat.’ He read the determination in his lordship’s face and gave a brief nod. ‘I will sign to repudiate my actions.’
‘Then do it.’
He did, with a final flamboyant sweep of the pen across the white surface, flinging the quill down at the end as if it burned his fingers.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Henry stood, bowed with heavy mockery and retrieved the copy of the marriage document and Broughton’s written confession, folding them carefully and stowing them in his inner pocket. ‘I doubt that we will need to meet again. I fervently hope that it will not be necessary. I will leave you to work out your own salvation with Sir Edward, and wish you well of each other.’
He walked to the door. Then hesitated and looked back.
‘Why did you do it?’ He frowned his incomprehension and his bitter disdain. ‘How could you allow your sister to be used in this plot by Sir Edward? A young girl, easily manipulated by a stronger will. How could you allow it, even with the promise of money to pay your debts and a roof over your head? In effect, you sold your sister into Baxendale’s hands to be used for his own purposes. It is despicable for a man to stoop so low.’
‘I had little choice in it. How could you possibly understand?’ Broughton was also standing, still the epitome of the cultured, educated cleric. He laughed bitterly. ‘It is true that Octavia is my sister—but that is not all. She is also Sir Edward’s wife!’
‘His wife!’
‘His wife. And has been for some little time.’ The sneer on the priest’s face was heavily marked. ‘Which left me with no power whatsoever over his dealings with her.’
Henry looked at Nicholas, his gaze inscrutable, then back at the priest. ‘So you told us the truth! You said that you officiated at a marriage at which Sir Edward was present. He was, of course. But not as witness.’
‘Edward married her. Octavia’s name truly is Baxendale. And, whatever your presumption, there was no force involved in her relationship with her husband. Octavia is a biddable girl and quite content with her lot. I do not believe that obeying her husband in this affair has been difficult for her.’
Henry weighed the words carefully. They had the ring of truth. It was easy for the priest to shift the blame.
‘Then God forgive you, for I cannot.’ He bit out the words. ‘You have no remorse and deserve to be cast into the fires of hell. You do not know the pain you have caused to an innocent woman.’ He turned his back and walked out of the Reverend Broughton’s library.
Chapter Nine
‘H is wife?’
Eleanor was incredulous, her voice rising, brows arched in amazement. Whatever she had expected from the visit to Whitchurch, it was not that.
‘Octavia is Edward’s wife,’ Lord Henry confirmed. ‘She was never married to Thomas. Your marriage is recognised in the eyes of the church and the law. You are, without any doubt, Marchioness of Burford.’
Eleanor and Henry faced each other across the morning room in Park Lane. The hour was nearing midnight, the ladies had already been retired for the night, the house quiet with only one branch of candles left by a conscientious Marcle to illuminate the hallway for the late arrivals. But on their return from Whitchurch, Henry knew that Eleanor would need to know the truth, no matter how late the hour. It would be cruelty indeed to withhold it. So, lingering only to strip off his greatcoat and gloves, whilst Nicholas returned the curricle and horses to their stabling at Faringdon House, Henry sought what promised to be an emotional audience with his brother’s widow.
She now stood before him. It was clear that she had been awaiting their return, unable to rest, unable to sleep. He had not even needed to knock on her door. Now she waited, frozen into immobility, the heavy lace robe falling from throat to floor as she steeled her mind to hear and accept her fate. Her hair curled in a rich bronze mantle onto her breast, ends tipped with gold by the subdued candlelight, drawing his eyes to her soft curves. He could imagine that hair, as he had seen it, and saw in his dreams, pooling on his pillow, the sensuous silk of it curling onto his chest as she bent over him to lower her lips to his. He would have given the world at that moment to have the right to take her to his bed, to tell her the result of his journey as she lay in his arms, replete from the demands of his body, but pushed the thought away. Instead he stood at a little distance, watching her carefully as she took in the import of his words. Her eyes were huge, glazed with shock at first, but now the flicker of hope gave them an inner glow. She stood motionless, her mind focused somewhere far beyond him, weighing the repercussions.
‘I thought you would wish to know tonight. You might rest easier for the knowledge. You can sleep again, knowing that your son cannot be disinherited.’ He took a step back, away from the candlelight, so that she could not read his expression.
‘Yes. Oh, yes. Thank God!’ Without thought beyond the deluge of relief and gratitude that threatened to overturn her delicate control, she covered the stretch of Aubusson carpet between them and stretched out her hands to him. He simply had to take