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

‘She did not wish to come.’

‘She seemed very calm about the whole affair at breakfast.’ So Nicholas had sensed nothing untoward. ‘You did not then have to lock her in her room.’

‘No.’

Nicholas thought about it. ‘You can’t blame her. This will not be a pleasant interview and she would learn nothing that we cannot report back, after all.’

‘No.’

But it worried him. Did she dislike him so much, a renewal of the hatred and contempt that had flashed in her eyes when he had first returned to Burford Hall? And if so, what had precipitated it? Had their night together, however unwise it might have been, not been what he had thought? She had quite deliberately refused to meet his eyes when he had told her of Nick’s discovery, deliberately turning her back against him, when only the night after the Sefton soirée she had shivered in his arms. Arched her body against his and cried out his name with a fierce passion that had matched his own. And yet when she had returned to the parlour to take her son from his arms her response to him had been cold and aloof. He might as well have been a stranger to her. Women! How could a man ever be expected to follow their train of thought? He snapped his thoughts back to the present, tightening the reins, as one of the lively bays took it into its head to shy at a passing pheasant.

The minor skirmish and battle of wills over, his thoughts turned back to Eleanor whether he wished it or not. It was for the best. He could leave for New York with nothing to pull him back to England. No unfinished business, no untied ends, no tangled emotions. The bitterness might have dissipated from their relationship but, whatever Nick had intimated—and he was not perfectly sure that he understood his brother’s comments—Eleanor was more than willing to turn her back on him as if there had never been any passion between them. So be it. It would be better so. There were no alternatives open to them under the law and it would be irresponsible of him to even contemplate anything other than a distance between them. Time and space would allow them to forget. To heal. Memories would fade. He would settle in New York, marry, produce an heir—and think of Eleanor merely as a pleasant if complicated interlude in his past, with no power to hurt or move him to unbearable need.

Not that time and space had worked any such miracle in the past two years! But it would. It must!

What could he possibly hope for in a future with Eleanor? The law and the church forbade any relationship between them, other than that of brother and sister. He set his teeth and concentrated on his horses.

They approached the pretty village of Whitchurch once more with its Norman church and cluster of tidy cottages. Past the Great House, still shuttered, where Sir Edward Baxendale lived with a sister and a baby—a sister who was not Octavia Baxendale. Or Octavia Broughton. And on to the Red Lion where Jem Abbott welcomed them, remembered his lordship and his openhandedness, stabled their horses and offered them tankards of ale. Henry refused and they walked the village street to where the vicarage was tucked behind the church in its leafy glade. No funeral occupied the churchyard this day to take up the Reverend Julius Broughton’s time. It could be presumed that he would be at home to receive them.

The door to the vicarage was opened at their knock by the same village girl who had been present on Henry’s previous visit. Young and comely, dark haired and dark eyed, with a flash of vivacious spirit and interest as she cast a less than servant-like glance over the two visitors. Her lips curled in welcome, her eyes sparkled with a sly flirtatious intent. She was very young, as Henry remembered, an unlikely choice for a housekeeper—but the house was undoubtedly well kept. Perhaps the Reverend had discovered a jewel. And yet, Henry admitted cynically, in the light of their knowledge from Kingstone, and Jem Abbot’s knowing comments, perhaps housewifely duties had not been uppermost in the priest’s motives when employing her.

‘Come in, my lord.’ The girl stepped back. ‘The master is in the library.’

‘Molly, is it not?’

‘Yes, my lord. I remember you.’ She gave him an appraising stare again at odds with her apparent role in the household. ‘And could this be your brother? He has the look.’ She dropped a pert curtsy and then with a swing of her hips she preceded them down the corridor and into the front parlour. ‘I will see if the master is available to see you.’ And left them, closing the door quietly behind her.

Nick raised his brows. ‘I see what you mean.’ He grinned. ‘Not my first image of housekeeper in a vicarage. She is certainly nothing like Mrs Calke at Burford Hall.’

‘Nothing at all! Don’t let yourself be distracted, Nick!’

‘No. I would not dare! But I wager that the Reverend Julius is, between writing sermons and burying the dead. She must be a great solace to him. Especially on a cold night.’

Henry snorted in appreciation and agreement, when Molly returned to usher them into the library with the sweetest and most innocent of smiles for the two gentlemen.

The room was as Henry recalled it. Bright with sunshine, polished with the faint aroma of beeswax and lavender lingering in the air, the books arranged with neat precision on their shelves. What had he thought when he had first entered it? The room of a scholar and academic? How wrong he had been. The gentleman in question sat behind his desk, light falling on his fair hair and finely chiselled features. Appearances were deceptive—they had been well deceived by the Reverend Broughton! Lord Henry controlled the surge of bitterness that threatened to choke him when he considered the results of this man’s immoral meddling.

‘My lord.’ The priest rose from his chair, a faint but not unfriendly enquiry on his handsome face. ‘How can I be of assistance?’

‘Reverend.’ Henry inclined his head in a cool acknowledgement. ‘Can I present to you my brother, Lord Nicholas Faringdon? Nick, this is the Reverend Julius Broughton.’

They bowed, manners impeccable.

‘I believed our business to be complete, my lord. I think I can give you no further information about the affairs of your late brother and Octavia Baxendale.’ The priest’s forehead creased in a slight frown, but the smile remained on his lips. He looked from one brother to the other for enlightenment, causing Henry to marvel at the man’s ability to pursue the charade. How could anyone suspect a gentleman of such well-bred appearance and deportment—and a priest—of deceit and trickery?

‘But I believe that you can.’ Lord Henry’s voice was cool and flat, revealing nothing.

‘Very well. I will do what I can. Please sit. Perhaps I can offer you a glass of wine?’ He stretched out his hand towards the bellpull to summon Molly.

‘No. This is by no mean a social call, sir.’ But they took the offered chairs.

‘So, my lords.’ The Reverend Broughton lowered himself carefully to his own armed chair, his pale eyes moved between the two, but with no hint of discomfort or apprehension. No premonition of what was to come.

He is very sure of himself! Will he be willing to admit the truth, when we have no firm evidence? Only gossip and supposition that will prove nothing? Henry smothered the doubts, refusing to believe that they would fail in their mission. Too much hung on their success.

‘It would appear that you have something of a reputation in town, sir.’ Nicholas opened the conversation.

‘I don’t follow…’ For the first time there were the faintest shadows of strain at the corners of the priest’s mouth. His lips thinned marginally.

‘I should tell you that after my brother’s recent visit, I made it my business to ask questions in London.’ Nicholas crossed one leg nonchalantly over the other. He might have been discussing the weather. ‘Your name is well known, but perhaps not in the best of circles for the most altruistic of reasons.’ He allowed his lips to curve in a faint but humourless smile. ‘Some of my acquaintances were very ready to gossip about you, despite your position in the Establishment.’