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

Eleanor delivered her with some relief into the safe keeping of Aunt Beatrice and found herself drawn into a few unsettling words with Sir Edward. It was an embarrassing, anger-provoking conversation, despite being quite private. Even though she was aware of Henry’s hawk-like eyes on her in case he sensed her distress. She was angry, she thought, on any number of occasions recently, but put on her best sociable manner as hostess.

Sir Edward was as kind and compassionate, as sensitive to her situation as he had been throughout the painful developments. His fair countenance, with all the gravity of deep concern, should have comforted her. It did not. She took a step back when he would have touched her hand in sympathy. She found herself being complimented on her appearance and her fortitude under adverse conditions, which promptly set her teeth on edge. Henry might do so—but not Sir Edward. And her courage was remarkable in holding a social occasion—however informal—when the whole town was so obviously talking and smiling in derision behind its collective and judgmental hand. Eleanor held her breath until the urge to express her true sentiments in less than flattering terms had calmed.

Sir Edward bent his kind and understanding smile on her. ‘I believe that Hoskins will have confirmed the legality of all documents by next week, my dear lady.’ How dare you address me with such familiarity! I am not your dear lady and never will be! ‘I have discussed the ultimate outcome with him, of course.’

How dare you!

‘We must end this unsatisfactory situation soon. For your sake and for my dear sister’s. To postpone the final settlement would be unwise.’

How dare you choose my social event for such a sensitive matter!

How dare you and your sister even exist!

‘You are too considerate, sir.’ Eleanor’s clenched jaw ached.

‘I have instructed Hoskins to offer an annuity for yourself and the unfortunate child. Will you take it?’

‘I am considering it.’ She marvelled at her even tones. At the smile which remained in place.

‘There will be scandal, but it is unavoidable. My sister must take on her rightful title. She is very keen to be settled, as you might imagine.’

‘Of course.’ She continued to smile. She knew that Henry would bear down on them if she appeared in any way distressed—but her eyes were empty of emotion rather than unladylike, and rigidly contained, fury.

‘And we must then discuss your moving to your own accommodation, of course. I believe that Octavia would wish to take up residence as soon as possible at Burford Hall. Life in town does not suit her. She enjoys country air.’

‘I will inform Hoskins of my arrangements, Sir Edward. They are all in hand.’ But I will not discuss them with you!

Still keeping a tight hold on the anger that seemed to be directed equally at Sir Edward, at Thomas and at fate in general, Eleanor moved through the rest of the evening like a child’s puppet, automatically fulfilling her role. It seemed to be a success. She was complimented more times than she could count. She did not care.

After supper, at which she ate nothing but an asparagus tartlet without even tasting its succulent and delicate flavour, Eleanor made it her policy to find her aunt by marriage in a quiet corner where they would be undisturbed. Lady Beatrice had been able to watch and speak with Sir Edward and Miss Baxendale for a whole evening. She must have some recollection of any past meeting, if any such meeting had occurred. Eleanor had to know. Had Thomas cared for Octavia? Enough to have married her against family opinion and have a child by her? One more tiny nail in the coffin that was threatening to enclose her entire life. As cold as death itself, Eleanor faced the lady. Sensing her purpose from across the room, and not wishing her to be alone when his aunt delivered in typically forthright manner any bad news, Henry moved, silent as a ghost, to appear at her shoulder, to take up the initiative.

‘Well, Aunt. You said you remembered Thomas flirting with a fair girl. You have had the opportunity to see the lady and her brother. Do you remember her?’

‘Oh, yes.’ The Dowager, remarkable in puce satin and lace with garnets, which did nothing to compliment her fading red hair, turned her critical gaze on the innocent object of their discussion. ‘I remember her. She was a pretty little thing. Still is, of course but a trifle pale—understandable in the circumstances, whatever the truth of the matter. Thomas certainly had a tendre for her. Showed her a great deal of attention, in fact. Dancing with her on more than one occasion…more than I thought was appropriate. It does not do to raise pretensions and it was clear that the girl saw the glitter of a title within her reach. Judith was perfectly right. Thomas and the girl were infatuated—such a very unfortunate emotion, don’t you think.’

‘Oh.’ Eleanor forced her mind to hold the dreaded words.

‘I actually warned him off on one occasion—the child was far too provincial for my taste. Not suited to be Marchioness of Burford. Not like you, my dear.’ She patted Eleanor’s unresponsive hand with superior condescension. ‘You have a touch of class, as I was quick to tell Thomas when some of the family expressed their disappointment at his choice of bride.’ Realising what she had said, she coughed and spread her fan. ‘Your paternal uncle is, after all, a baronet. Most acceptable, my dear. But that is all in the past.’

‘So it is true…’ Eleanor sighed ‘…Thomas did marry Octavia.’ Henry took Eleanor’s cold hand into his keeping and refused to let her pull away. At that moment he did not care who might see or pass judgement.

He simply needed to touch her.

‘It may well be. He certainly did not take my advice, if rumours do indeed run true.’

Eleanor looked up at Henry, eyes over-bright. ‘It is hopeless, then, as we thought.’ But she tried to keep the smile. She would not weep. She would not shout her despair to the world. ‘At least we know—it is better perhaps than all the uncertainty. False hope is almost impossible to live with.’

‘There is one thing.’ Aunt Beatrice reclaimed their attention with narrowed eyes. ‘I do not quite recollect her name—Octavia, certainly—but I did not think that it was Baxendale.’

Henry sighed. What use to dredge up any more hope on such a flimsy point of order? He did not think Eleanor could take much more. ‘It was a long time ago, ma’am. Even your prodigious memory might play tricks. I cannot think that it is strong enough to cast doubt on the whole question of the legality of their claim. We have to accept that Octavia is Thomas’s legitimate widow.’

‘Now don’t be hasty, young man. Just like your father! Too impatient for your own good.’ Lady Beatrice fixed him with a withering glance which he remembered uncomfortably from his youth, and she drew her stout figure up to its full height before delivering her final opinion. ‘About the name. As I said, Baxendale I am not at all sure about. But there is one thing I can state for certain. And my memory is excellent when remembering faces! That man, Sir Edward Baxendale, is not Octavia’s brother! He is without doubt not the young man who was introduced to me as her brother four years ago.’

‘Are you sure?’ Henry frowned. Whatever they had hoped for, this was most unexpected.

‘Sure! Of course I am! I would wager my emeralds on it.’

‘But she may have more than one brother.’ Eleanor refused to believe that at the eleventh hour there might be the slightest chink of light, of hope, in the dark walls which hemmed her in. ‘You may have met—’

‘Don’t be foolish, my girl. That is not the man who squired Octavia to parties in her London Season.’