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

With Eleanor’s hand drawn through his arm, held firmly, Lord Henry stepped out of the Red Lion and strolled down the village street in the direction of the church. The village itself was small, not much more than a score of stone cottages at most, the village street merely hard-packed earth with grassy verges, but the church was impressive with solid walls and zigzag carving on the round-headed arches of door and window. When they came to the gabled lych-gate into the churchyard, they discovered that the innkeeper had been accurate in his information. A funeral was in progress with a small knot of mourners in the far corner of the churchyard where the coffin was being lowered into a grave. They could make out the black and white vestments of the Reverend Julius Broughton amongst them, his white surplice and ministerial bands fluttering in the light breeze.

‘We must wait on Samuel Potter for the final time, it seems.’ Henry led Eleanor to a sun-warmed seat beside the church door to wait. It was a tranquil spot, sunlit and restful, only the distant murmur of voices to disturb the silence and the nearer chirp of sparrows which were nesting in the roof above their heads. A tranquil place indeed. But one, Eleanor feared, where she might discover the indisputable evidence that she was not Thomas’s wife, never had been. In this church Thomas could have been joined with Octavia Baxendale in the sight of God. His son named within those sun-warmed arches. She bit down on the panic that swelled beneath her breast bone. Her life would be shattered beyond redemption.

At last the mourners departed.

‘Sam Potter returned to his Maker.’ Henry took one of her hands in his, noting her calm outward composure. Perhaps too calm. ‘Are you well enough to face the Reverend? I will speak to him alone if you prefer it.’ On impulse he pressed his lips to her fingers. ‘I do not doubt your courage. I never could. You have nothing to prove to me, Nell.’

‘I know. And I know that you would take on this burden.’ She smiled her thanks, but rose to her feet, smoothing the skirts of her coat with nervous hands as the clerical figure approached them along the path. ‘We will see him together. He cannot tell us anything worse than the knowledge which we already have.’

Introductions were made, the cleric expressing polite interest. Henry, after a glance at Eleanor, opened the point at issue.

‘We wish to speak with you, sir, concerning a marriage and a birth in this parish. It concerns a member of our own family.’

Julius Broughton raised his brows at the request, but smiled his compliance. ‘Very well. Perhaps you would come to the vicarage where we can sit in comfort and I will see if I can help you.’ No hint of unease here.

They followed him to the spacious vicarage, built in the previous century and tucked away behind the elms, to be shown into a library at the front of the house, overlooking the churchyard and the church itself. A pleasant room. Wood panelled, lined with books, a fire offering welcome from the hearth, the retreat of an educated and scholarly man. It was also spotlessly clean, the furniture polished with the books properly on their shelves and the papers on the desk in neat order. It gave the impression of care and order and efficiency, suitable to a conscientious man of the cloth.

The appearance of the man who faced Henry and Eleanor also confirmed this impression. Shorter than Henry, he had a spare figure, fair hair with a touch of bronze when the sun caught it, and pale blue eyes. His narrow face was also that of a scholar with fine, aesthetic features. He had an easy smile that made them welcome as he offered refreshments. Yet Eleanor felt uneasy in his company. She thought there was a slyness in his gaze, which did not sit and linger on anything for long. And his lips, which smiled so readily, were too thin.

The priest rang the bell beside the fireplace and the door was immediately opened by a young girl, as if she had been close at hand and awaiting the summons.

‘Molly.’ Julius Broughton addressed the girl. ‘We have, as you see, visitors. Be so good as to bring brandy for his lordship and ratafia for the lady.’

She bobbed a curtsy, casting a sharp eye over the guests. A village girl, Henry presumed by her simply cut blouse and skirt, very pretty with dark curls under her white cap and attractive curves not in any way disguised by the white apron that enveloped her. Her smile revealed a dimple and she was not averse to a flirtatious glance from beneath long dark lashes. She had an air of smugness and her smile a hint of sly. Henry would wager that Mistress Molly was a most competent housekeeper, if surprisingly young for the position. He suppressed a sardonic gleam as he found himself remembering the innkeeper’s enigmatic comments on their priest’s interests. They were not difficult to understand,

The refreshments were dispensed, with graceful skill and concern for their comfort, and then as Molly departed with a final swing of shapely hips the visitors were free to turn to business.

‘We are looking for information, sir,’ Henry repeated, wondering fleetingly if Mistress Molly was listening at the door.

‘So I understand.’ The Reverend indicated that they should make themselves comfortable in the charming room. ‘I will try to help. Is it something that occurred within my holding of the living here?’

‘Yes. The first event less than four years ago.’ From his pocket, Henry took a number of gold coins, which he placed, without a word, on the desk beside him.

The Reverend’s eyes fixed on them for more than a second, a flush mantling his cheeks. He pressed his lips together. It was, Henry knew, a gamble, based purely on first impressions. It crossed his mind that the priest could see it as an insult to his pride and standing in the community, and so refuse all co-operation with sharp words. Justifiably so if he were an honest man. But he did not. He answered, his eyes still on the money being offered so blatantly, ‘Of course, my lord. As I said, I will do what I can.’

Lord Henry had read his man well.

‘A marriage. At which you officiated. Between Octavia Baxendale and one Thomas Faringdon. Can you remember such a marriage?’

‘Dear Octavia.’ The clergyman took his seat behind his desk, resting his hands before him on the polished oak, fingers spread. His lips curled in a smile—or perhaps it was not. ‘She is well known to me. A most beautiful girl. Indeed I officiated at her marriage. I remember it. A handsome couple.’

‘Were you aware,’ Henry asked carefully, ‘that the groom was the Marquis of Burford?’

‘No, I was not. Before God, a man’s title has no relevance. And the law merely requires his name. You hinted, sir, that the matter concerned a member of your family.’

‘I did. Thomas Faringdon was my brother.’

‘Was he now?’ A strange little smile again flirted with the cleric’s lips. ‘Now I begin to understand. Can I help you further in your search for truth, my lord?’

Henry frowned, but continued. ‘I understand that Lady Mary Baxendale, who was a witness to the marriage, has since died.’

‘She has. She is buried in the Baxendale tomb here in the crypt. I myself conducted the service.’

And Sir Edward Baxendale. He, too, was present at the marriage ceremony?’

‘He was present.’ Julius Broughton bowed his head in acknowledgement. Eleanor’s brows arched a little. Was it her imagination, or were those clerical fingers suddenly clenched together?

But the Reverend was in no manner disturbed by the questions. His voice remained calm and assured. ‘Why do you ask? There was nothing illegal or unseemly about the marriage of Octavia. I have known her, as I said, for many years.’

‘And the birth of her son?’