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

Lord Henry halted the curricle before the wrought-iron gates.

‘What do you think?’ Eleanor sat and looked at the house where her husband might have spent time of which she knew nothing.

‘It could be. An attractive little estate.’ He studied the mellow stonework with a critical and knowledgeable eye. ‘Well cared for. Prosperous enough.’ A gardener was engaged in clipping a neat box hedge. ‘There is someone who can furnish us with a little information.’ Henry hailed him. ‘Tell me. Does Sir Edward Baxendale live here?’

The gardener, a man of advanced years, opened the gate to come and stand beside the curricle, pulling off his hat and squinting up at his lordship.

‘Aye, y’r honour. But not at home—none of the family is. In London, so they says.’

‘And his sister?’

‘Gone with him, I expect. There’s no one ‘ere at any event—and not likely to be for the near future, so they says.’

‘My thanks.’ Henry tossed him a coin and watched him amble back to his box clipping. They sat for a moment and took stock.

‘It does not suggest an immediate need for money, does it?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘Do you suppose…?’ She hesitated, a deep groove forming between her brows. ‘Do you think that Thomas came here to visit Octavia? Did he walk in this garden with her? Beneath those roses? Or sit with her in the arbour in the dusk of a summer’s night? Octavia is very fond of gardens…’

‘Enough, Eleanor. You must not torture yourself like this! Did I not warn you that it would have been better for you not to come here?’ His voice was harsh and when she glanced up in some surprise, she saw no softness in his face. ‘What is the point,’ he continued, ignoring her distress, ‘of perhaps and what if? It will only lower your spirits and drain your courage. It may be that Thomas did all of those things.’ He looked away from the pain that filled her beautiful eyes and swore silently. ‘But we still do not know the truth of it.’

She looked away from him and swallowed against the knot of fear and desolation in her throat, unable to find an adequate response. She had not expected such sharpness from him and yet had to admit that his words were justified. He had indeed warned her.

‘So what do we do first?’ Her voice was admirably controlled.

‘We find the inn. It is after noon and you need food. And it might be to our advantage to talk with mine host before we tackle the servant of God.’

They left the curricle and horses in the charge of the ostler at the Red Lion Inn, which overlooked the village green. They were shown into a dark, dusty parlour where the innkeeper fussed over having the gentry call at his establishment. Not many people travelled through the village, the main post road passing to the east as it did. He could not remember the last time that a lady and gentleman of Quality made use of his inn, other than the people at the Great House, of course. But he hoped they would not find the Red Lion wanting. Certainly he could provide refreshment for his lordship and the lady. If they would care to be seated. He whisked ineffectually with a grubby cloth at the dust on table and chairs as his wife bustled in with bread, meat and cheese and a jug of local ale.

Lord Henry pulled out a chair for Eleanor to sit at the table and silently frowned at her so that she began to eat, or at least crumble a piece of bread on her plate.

‘You are too pale. And I wager you did not break your fast before we left.’ He took a seat opposite, cut a wedge of cheese and added it to the crumbs on her plate, ignoring her objections. ‘I would prefer to deliver you back to your son in one piece and in good health.’ She had lost weight, he thought. Of course she would in the circumstances, food would be her last consideration, but he had to try to do something to help her. When she had looked at the comfortable manor house and the pretty gardens, when she had envisioned Thomas living out a dream there with another woman, it had taken all his will-power not to drag her into his arms and blot out the cruel vision with his own kisses. He tightened his lips in a wave of disgust. So what had he done? Only snarled at her and increased the pain by his vicious words. He lifted his shoulders a little, discomfited by the thought that his command of his emotions when dealing with Eleanor was not as firm as he would like.

He took a mouthful of ale and then, tankard in hand, engaged the hovering landlord, who had returned to the room with a platter of fruit, in casual conversation.

‘We had hoped to visit an acquaintance of ours in the village. Sir Edward Baxendale. We understand that he is from home.’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘We do not know him very well. Have his family lived here long?’

‘Generations of them, my lord. There’s always been a Baxendale in Whitchurch, at the Great House.’ Mine host, to Lord Henry’s relief, was not reluctant to demonstrate his local knowledge and did not object to their interest in the local gentry.

‘Do you see much of the family?’

‘Quite a bit. With the hunting. And church. And the ladies walk in the village.’

‘Are they well thought of locally?’

‘Aye, my lord. Sir Edward’s open-handed enough and a fair lord of the manor.’

‘I am more acquainted with his sister,’ Eleanor prompted, hoping for enlightenment on Octavia.

‘Aye. Poor girl.’ The innkeeper shook his head in ready sympathy. ‘Not that we see much of her, o’ course. But it can’t be easy for her.’

‘Oh?’ Eleanor looked up enquiringly, hoping to encourage a more detailed comment.

Mine host nodded. ‘What with a baby—growing up he is now—and a husband not long dead. Poor girl. And so pretty. But Sir Edward will ensure that she lacks for nothing—there’ll always be a roof over her head. He’s always been caring of his family.’

‘Of course.’ Eleanor smiled and nodded despite the tight band around her heart. ‘Did you…did you ever meet the lady’s husband before he died?’

‘Don’t know that I did.’ The innkeeper scratched his head. ‘Away from home a lot, as I remember, but the lady had made her home here with her brother.’

‘Has she…has she gone to London with Sir Edward now?’

‘Aye, ma’am. All of them. Saw them myself. And the baby as well. Not to mention the mountain of luggage. Seems like they intend to stay for the Season and the Great House all shut up. Pity you missed them.’

As the innkeeper prepared to return to the public room and leave his guests to eat their luncheon in peace, Lord Henry stopped him.

‘One more matter, sir, if you would be so kind. The Reverend Julius Broughton—is he vicar here?’

‘Aye, my lord. He is. If you wish to speak with him, the vicarage is the house next to the church, set back behind the stand of elms. But you’ll likely find him in the church. They’re burying old Sam Potter from down by the forge. So the Reverend Broughton will be doing the Lord’s work today at least—you can’t turn your back on a funeral if the body’s coffined and waiting at the church door! He’ll be there—at least for today.’

An interesting comment, Henry thought, not sure what to make of it. Or the slight undercurrent in mine host’s voice. Was it dislike? Contempt?

‘Do you know the Reverend well?’

‘Some.’ The innkeeper’s smile was sly as he turned for the door. ‘Some would say more than an innkeeper should! Likes his ale does the Reverend, and fine brandy. And he has a mind to other things many would say as he should not, being a man of the cloth. Some days he’s in the Red Lion more than he’s in the church! Not to mention his comforts at home!’

On which he left them.