Mary Nichols - Regency High Society Vol 5 - The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue

‘You were magnificent. You should feel nothing but pride.’ Henry’s quick glance at Eleanor confirmed his suspicion that the morning had begun to take its toll. If she would admit to it, a headache had begun to build behind her eyes from the strain of smiling and denying the effect of sharp, critical glances.

He would take her home. He would have liked nothing better than to take her away from London, from the whole sorry mess. To remove the hurt and the humiliation. But he could not. They must face it and defeat it if they were to restore Eleanor to her rightful place in society—and in her own eyes, a matter of even greater importance. Her spirit had been superb, carrying off the morning’s exercise in full public gaze with considerable panache, but the threat of society’s condemnation loomed on the horizon, as threatening as a thunder cloud.

They turned out of the gates, once more below the imposing façade of Apsley House.

‘You did not stop to speak to Melissa Charlesworth,’ Eleanor noted as a landaulet bearing the lady, now the Countess of Saltmarshe and once the object of Henry’s gallantry, passed them with no change in speed.

‘I did not see her.’ His voice was surprisingly harsh.

Eleanor’s brows arched. ‘No?’

‘No. She is not important.’

With which caustic comment Eleanor had to be content.

Eleanor and Judith arrived, as arranged, at Faringdon House to pay an afternoon call on Octavia Baxendale. The door was opened by Eaton, the Faringdon butler, momentarily lost for words when faced with the mistress of the house come as a visitor on a social call.

‘My lady…’ he stammered. ‘It is not fitting that you should remain standing on your own doorstep.’

Before embarrassment could fall and smother both parties, Judith took the matter in hand, manipulating the situation in a highhanded and confident manner worthy of her mama, Lady Beatrice Faringdon, a lady of considerable presence and force of character, indicating that the Marchioness was staying with Lord Henry who had hired a town house in Park Lane, but only until he returned to America later in the month.

‘It is more convenient, you understand!’ But for whom and for what purpose the Countess of Painscastle made no attempt to explain.

And how was Eaton? As well as ever? And was Sir Edward Baxendale at home? No? How unfortunate. But perhaps Miss Baxendale was receiving visitors? She would no doubt welcome some company, knowing so few people in town! Perhaps Eaton could discover if.

Eleanor caught Judith’s eye in deep gratitude—and then they were being shown into the familiar red-and-gold-striped withdrawing-room where Miss Baxendale sat alone beside the fireplace, a piece of needlework lying abandoned on the table beside her. The lady sprang to her feet as Eaton introduced the guests with a flourish. He did not know the full background to this development, and although common gossip was rife…he would dearly have loved to listen at the door, except that it was below his dignity. A pleasant enough young lady, Miss Baxendale, but not to compare with the Marchioness, of course. But the word in the town suggested deep doings. He shook his head as he departed for the kitchens to organise tea and inform the members of the servants’ hall that things were afoot upstairs.

‘Edward is not at home I am afraid.’ Octavia looked rather nervously from one lady to the other. ‘But if you would care to sit. And take some tea?’

The faint look of unease that hung about her black-gowned figure suggested that she would rather they did not, but Eleanor came forward in friendly mode with hand outstretched and a smile on her face. There was nothing for Octavia to do but participate in the gentle social occasion with the lady whose social position, it appeared, she had every intention of appropriating for herself.

‘We have come to see you, Miss Baxendale, to find how you are settling in,’ Eleanor explained. ‘I trust that we are not disturbing you. And my cousin Judith has come, with whom you might be acquainted.’

Octavia looked at the lively redhead as they made a polite curtsy. ‘Perhaps… You were Miss Faringdon, were you not? And now the Countess of Painscastle? Pray take a seat.’

They did so.

‘How uncomfortable this is…’ Octavia picked up her embroidery and promptly put it down again, lost for words, unable to raise her eyes above her restless hands.

‘But it will not stop us drinking tea together and having a cosy exchange of news.’ Eleanor tried to put the lady at her ease, not for the first time wondering how Thomas could have possibly married this pretty but insipid creature.

‘We came out in the same Season, Miss Baxendale.’ Judith smiled encouragingly. ‘I believe that we met at any number of balls and soirées.’

‘Yes. I met so many people. But I think…I am sure that I remember you. I came to your coming-out ball in this very house. My aunt and uncle—and my brother, of course—chaperoned me. I remember thinking what a beautiful house it was. I never thought that I should be living here…’ With which ingenuous comment she flushed and turned her head with relief when Eaton and an interested footman brought in the tea.

The ceremony was performed with nervous competence by Miss Baxendale, the tea was served, and the ladies chatted about a range of inconsequences of fashion and the events offered by London to ladies with a degree of leisure and affluence. Then Judith returned to her reminiscing over the glories of her Seasonal debut, Octavia agreeing and nodding but adding few of her own impressions.

‘And how are you spending your time in London now?’ Judith tried for another approach as the conversation dried.

‘Sir Edward has been very busy,’ Octavia explained. ‘I have rarely been out.’

‘And of course, you are still in mourning.’ Eleanor sympathised with a sad smile, eyes keen and watchful.

‘Why, yes…it would not be seemly for me to go about in public to any great degree. I see that you, my lady, have laid aside your black gloves.’ She took in the glory of silver grey with some surprise.

‘Indeed I have.’ Eleanor did not elaborate. ‘Have you perhaps driven in the park yet, Miss Baxendale? The days have been very pleasant. And I am sure Sir Edward would drive you to take the air. It would be quite acceptable for you in your situation.’

‘No. I have not been beyond the garden.’

‘Do you enjoy music or painting? To help to pass the time a little when your brother is from home?’ Judith arched her brows.

‘No. I do a little embroidery, as you see.’

‘Perhaps you miss your garden in the country. Where is it that you lived?’

‘In Whitchurch. And, yes, I miss it so much. The roses will just be coming into bloom. I shall not be there to tend them and wish I was…’ It was the first animation that Octavia Baxendale had shown since her guests had arrived, her whole countenance blooming as did her roses, but only to be stemmed as if she feared an indiscretion. ‘But, of course, it is necessary for me to be here.’

‘You must miss it indeed. Now I have no interest at all in gardens, but I understand that it can be a great solace in times of grief.’ Judith put down her teacup and leaned across the little table to pat Octavia’s hand. ‘Eleanor has been telling me about your little son. What a splendid boy he is. Could we perhaps see him? My lord and I are hoping for a child very soon…’ She lowered her lashes in coy anticipation.

Eleanor hid a smile. Cousin Judith had a remarkable range of skills of which she had been unaware until now.

‘Of course.’ Octavia appeared a little surprised that her guests would wish to see her son, but rose to her feet to pull the bell hang beside the fireplace.