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

‘Any fortune with your visit to the fair Octavia?’

‘None. But tell me. If I were entertaining a group of ladies to tea and you arrived home, what would you do?’

‘Head for the library and take a glass of port until they have gone.’ Henry’s response took no thought.

Neither did Nicholas’s. ‘Turn around and go back out to the stables.’

‘Thank you. I would expect as much.’ Eleanor nodded her head and proceeded to climb the stairs.

‘Did we say the right thing?’ Nicholas asked.

‘I have no idea. Women can be very uncommunicative—and devious! But I am sure that Eleanor will let us know in her own good time. And since we have no library here in this house…’ Henry turned on his heel towards the door of the morning room ‘.I think I need a glass of port before we depart!’

Later that evening Henry and Nicholas prepared to visit some of the discreet gaming establishments that opened their doors to those who had bottomless pockets and sought more excitement than the play offered at Brooks’s and White’s. There were any number of them with unmarked doors, opened by black-clad individuals who were careful whom they admitted. Some were more legitimate than others, some more honest, but the stakes were high and the play keen in them all. Some were the haunts of card-sharps, quick to lure young men newly arrived in London into the dubious delights of hazard and macao, where disgrace and ruin waited for the unwary flat. And if point non Plus was reached, it was always possible to patronise the fashionable establishment of Messieurs Howard and Gibbs, who were more than willing to lend at extortionate rates of interest. It might be that Sir Edward passed his evenings in such company. It might be that he had lost heavily and so was now in debt, sufficient that he would be prepared to risk an outrageous plan to get his hands on a vast fortune. It might provide them with a reason why he should put forward such a preposterous claim of marriage on behalf of his sister.

It proved to be a long evening.

By the end of it, after numerous hands of whist, reacquaintance with French hazard and roulette and too many glasses of inferior brandy, they had nothing to show for it other than lighter pockets and the lurking prospect of a hangover.

Sir Edward Baxendale did not spend his evenings or his money in any of the gaming hells they visited.

‘So what does Sir Edward do with his time when he is in London?’

They strolled back to Park Lane in the early hours of the morning.

‘Horses?’ Nick suggested. ‘But how we are to discover if he squanders his money on the Turf, I know not. I suppose we could look in at Tattersalls and see if he is known for betting on the horses. We do not know even if he is in debt.’

‘No.’ Henry fought off the looming sense of depression at the futility of the evening and the prospect of the long journey on the following day.

‘Do you think he has a mistress?’ Nicholas asked.

‘To demand vast sums of money and diamond necklaces? A possibility.’ Henry grinned at the prospect. ‘Mistresses can be very expensive.’

‘The voice of experience.’ Nicholas returned the grin. ‘And how would we discover that?’

‘Have him followed, I expect!’

‘That I will not do!’

‘Go and talk to Hoskins tomorrow. Suggest to him that he make discreet enquiries with Howard and Gibbs—unless you care to? No, I thought not.’ He laughed as he saw the expression on Nick’s face They had arrived on the steps to their front door. ‘But if Baxendale is short of the readies, and does not wish to advertise the matter, a moneylender would be his first port of call. Hoskins will know how to go about it, I expect.’ He thought for a moment before opening the door, all humour drained in the dark shadows. ‘But you might visit the other gaming houses. Meanwhile I will see what the Reverend Broughton has to say about our elusive gentleman.’ He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider visiting Aunt Beatrice to discover her thoughts on the Baxendales four years ago. Judith reminded me that she has a formidable memory.’

‘No.’

‘Mmm. Then I will suggest that Mrs Stamford pay a morning call. They can enjoy a comfortable dissection of the manners and morals of the younger generation—and perhaps Aunt Beatrice will remember something of import.’

Henry leaped down from the curricle, winced at the headache, cursed all gaming hells, and walked back into the entrance hall as Eleanor emerged from the breakfast parlour on the following morning. She had dressed in a smart travelling costume of deep blue, the fine wool double-breasted coat with its long tight sleeves and high waist already buttoned. She was in the act of arranging the wide collar so that it draped elegantly into a cape effect. If his lordship noticed that she wore a particular jewel on her breast, whether deliberately to provoke or through custom, he chose to make no comment.

‘I am ready to leave.’

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ He frowned at her as she tied the bow of her neat straw bonnet beneath her chin to charming effect.

‘Yes. There is no need to scowl at me, my lord. We have already had this conversation and come to an agreement.’

‘I do not remember actually agreeing to anything—simply bowing to a stronger force when you threatened to go on your own.’ The scowl did not lessen. ‘I hope that you realise that we may learn nothing. I could see the Reverend Broughton myself and be back here within the day…’

She shook her head. ‘You do not understand. I want to see the village…and hear what he has to say.’

‘Do you not trust me to do the right thing?’ The demand was brusque, Henry’s mouth set in displeasure.

Did she? She looked at him consideringly, head a little on one side. All she knew for certain was that she must not rely on anyone, certainly not on Hal. She had trusted Thomas, had accepted his offer of marriage—which was more than she could ever have dreamed of and for which she would always be grateful to the depths of her soul—but look where that had got her. She must look to her own inner strength to weather this storm.

She turned her back on his lordship to pick up her tan leather gloves, thus evading the answer—which he was quick to notice with regret and a degree of hurt that jolted him. She did not trust him, not even to do all in his power to restore her good name.

‘I simply need to go there,’ was all that she would say.

The weather was set fair for travel. They made good time in the curricle on the main roads as they negotiated their way out of the growing sprawl of London. There was little conversation between them. Eleanor was too tense and could find nothing to say. Henry concentrated on his horses. When they took to the country lanes their progress was slower, but the pair of greys were excellent animals with strength and stamina and well up to the task. Henry drove them with patient skill to conserve their energies.

Eventually as the sun rose to the height of noon, they drove into the village of Whitchurch. They could see the cluster of stone houses nestling around a squat Norman church over to their left, calm and peaceful in the growing warmth, hardly the place where sordid schemes were in hand. Before reaching the village street, to their right, they drew level with a pretty stone manor house and Henry reined the greys to a walk. Jacobean in construction, behind its ornamental gates and stone wall with well-tended gardens on either side of the gravelled walk leaning up to the main entrance, it made an appealing picture. Behind the house were glimpses of a walled garden and an orchard with a rose-covered pergola leading to a sweep of open parkland.