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

‘You have not.’ What was he thinking? His expression was bleak, the flat planes of his face stark with an emotion held in check. She hid her own discomfort behind a polite exterior, but could not look at him.

‘Your mother seems to feel that there is urgent need for you below stairs. She accosted me in the hall. Some disagreement, I believe. She would not explain, but she is not happy.’

‘Oh. My mother tends to see household catastrophes where they do not exist.’ Eleanor managed a slight smile as she sighed.

‘I dare not suggest such a thing. I think you had better go.’ Henry’s appraising glance took in her discomfort, her lack of ease in his presence. He wished that he knew why.

‘It will be some trivial matter that Marcle will be able to solve without difficulty. My mama has a need to interfere!’

‘I am aware. But dare not say that either!’

Now she laughed, the atmosphere lightened, as had been his intent. ‘If you would ring the bell for Jennie to take Tom…’

‘No matter. I can watch my nephew for a few moments without danger to him or myself, I expect.’

‘Are you sure?’ He did not know whether he saw amusement or uncertainty on her face as her eyes finally lifted to his, but either was better than her previous withdrawal.

‘No. I can but try.’

She laughed again as she walked to the door, quickly turning her face away. How much had he heard of her foolish conversation with Tom? She was intensely aware of the hot colour that stained her cheeks, embarrassed by her vivid memories of a few moments before.

‘Eleanor.’ His voice stopped her. ‘Will you return when you have dealt with the crisis? There is a matter that I need to discuss with you.’

‘Of course.’ She frowned. ‘Should I be worried?’

‘No. Not a matter of concern—rather one of hope. But there is something you should know that Nicholas has discovered.’

‘Very well.’ Eleanor tucked the child securely into the corner of a chair, supported by a cushion and, with the brief instruction to watch her son, left in the direction of her mother’s raised voice.

‘So.’ Henry eyed the child with some disquiet. ‘What do we do? I know nothing of babes. I suppose I can talk to you. Or perhaps I simply leave you to sit there until your mother returns. And pray that it will not be long!’

A whimper at the loss of his mother was the only response.

‘Don’t cry. Not that. I shall have failed and have to face your mama’s wrath. Come here.’ He bent and lifted the child with definite lack of expertise, but carefully enough, to carry him to the window as Eleanor had done. ‘There—that is far more interesting.’ He looked at the child, noting the features, his heart suddenly clenching in his chest. ‘Oh, God! Thomas. I wish you had not died. You should see your son. So much like you.’ He smiled as the baby blinked owlishly at him. ‘Even to that innocent stare when there is mischief afoot. I predict he will be a handful as he grows—but with all the charm in the world.’ The smile faded, his features taking on an austere cast. ‘And his mother is exactly what you would have wished. I will care for your son—and Eleanor, if she will allow it. For both of them, as you would have done.’

Eleanor returned, the matter of responsibilities for ordering both household and kitchen candles quickly smoothed over, to see Henry in the window, holding the child. She came to an abrupt halt, much as Henry had done earlier. The breath caught in her throat at the unexpected scene. Both dark heads close together, some ridiculous conversation going on, which had caused the child to focus on Lord Faringdon with determined concentration and an instantly recognisable Faringdon frown. The object under discussion appeared to be Henry’s half-hunter repeater watch, which he had opened to chime the hours and the quarters. Tom’s frown suddenly replaced by a grin in which teeth were just beginning to emerge. He giggled at the bell-like tones.

She could weep for what might have been as Henry turned his head at her approaching footsteps.

‘Eleanor.’ The relief was palpable. ‘As you see, I am entertaining your son. Not a tear in sight.’

‘Thank you.’ She was unintentionally abrupt, to hide the emotion that threatened her composure.

‘You had better take him. I might drop him.’

‘You look very competent.’ She held out her arms, then turned her back, concentrating on the child, struggling to keep her voice light. Her heart ached. ‘You said you had something to tell me.’

‘Yes. It will interest you inordinately to know that Octavia’s name is not Baxendale. It is Broughton. Aunt Beatrice remembered.’

‘Broughton!’ Eleanor became very still as enlightenment came to her, her eyes widening. The unexpected news overrode her wayward emotions and her discomfort in Henry’s presence. She now turned to face him, features vivid with renewed hope, but still kept her gaze fixed on Tom’s face. ‘And so her brother? The Reverend Julius, I presume.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then…’ she shook her head ‘…why did Sir Edward claim to be her brother? Why did the Reverend Broughton lie to us?’

‘The details are not yet clear. But tomorrow Nick and I will go back to Whitchurch. The Reverend has an unsavoury reputation, it would appear. Nick has traced him to some of his London haunts. Debt is an issue. It might explain why he was willing to put his hand to documents so obviously fraudulent.’

‘And you do not want me there.’ She nodded once in quick understanding, but still disappointment.

Henry walked to the other side of the room, to put as much distance between them as was possible. He did not want to see the wild hope in her eyes. It was difficult enough to hear traces of it in her voice without surrendering to a need to hold and comfort her—in case their investigation came to nought.

‘It would serve no purpose, Nell.’ His words sounded cold, unfeeling.

‘I understand. Whatever you wish, of course.’

‘You amaze me, Eleanor.’ Those well-marked Faringdon brows arched.

‘Did you expect me to demand that I accompany you?’

‘Yes. Nick and I thought we would have to lock you in your room.’

‘I see. So you have already discussed the possibility!’ And clearly not something that he wished for. Against her will, she was touched by amusement and decided to be charitable. ‘No, I shall not be so difficult and uncooperative.’

‘We could have the key to the whole secret by tomorrow night.’ He tried to be encouraging.

‘Yes. It will be a relief.’ Her voice was colourless, disguising the thoughts that jostled in her mind, destroying the hope that should have been ignited by his words. It will all be over. I should be overjoyed. My son’s inheritance is safe. She looked at the handsome man standing by the door. Noting the distance between them. Recognising his deliberate intent. And then he can go back. Back to Rosalind. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about anything but the benefit for your son. Don’t hope for the impossible. He did not want you before. He will not want you now. It is finished.

Henry was shattered by the stricken look on her face, a fleeting expression of despair, seemingly incongruous with the news he had just brought her. Perhaps he misread it. Perhaps she was simply tired. But he doubted it.

He bowed and left. There was nothing he could do for her but unmask Edward Baxendale and Julius Broughton as the villains that they undoubtedly were.

He would do that, if he could do nothing else.

Lord Henry made the journey once more by curricle to the tranquil village where a malicious plot had been conceived and put into motion, accompanied as planned by his brother. It had to be admitted that he was not sorry; it was a more relaxed journey without the tensions and enticements of Eleanor’s presence. But he had been more than a little surprised by her compliant willingness to remain in London, her uncharacteristically placid acceptance of his decision. Or perhaps it had not been placid but edgy, withdrawn, an unwillingness to be in his company, and he said as much to Nicholas as the miles sped past.