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

‘I fail to see… What do you imply, my lord?’ Broughton picked up the pen from the desk, turning it in his fingers, as he kept his enquiry calm. ‘My acquaintance in London is small. I cannot imagine that my infrequent visits make me an object of interest to anyone.’

‘The word, sir, is that you are in debt. That you have a name for gambling, for hard drinking. And for unsavoury relations with certain women. Not what one would expect from a man of the church, I venture to suggest.’

‘And you would give credence to such slanders? Accuse me without giving me a hearing?’ The man to whom they had so casually tossed their accusations remained cold, austere, a man of principle, with just a touch of arrogance. He raised his chin to look down his aristocratic nose, his lips thinned with displeasure. ‘There is no truth in it. And what possible bearing could this…this gossip have on your interest in the marriage at which I officiated?’ The Reverend Broughton appeared to be genuinely stunned and outraged—until it was noted that his hands had clenched around the quill, to its detriment. ‘It surprises me that you, my lord, would so willingly believe the gutter-sweepings of society gossip. Mere empty-headed nothings, without proof or conscience. And what business is it of yours? What right have you to interfere in my private affairs?’ Broughton suddenly rose to his feet as if he could sit no longer, throwing down the pen as he did so, regardless of the spray of black ink that spread across the sheet of paper before him. There were high spots of colour on his cheekbones now. Of illconcealed rage.

‘I am not sure what bearing the gossip has yet,’ Lord Henry chose to answer, his response as controlled as the priest’s was not. ‘But I think it will. You lied to me, sir.’

‘Lied? I think not.’

‘The marriage of Octavia to my brother.’ He produced a copy of the document and laid it on the desk between them. ‘It never happened, did it? This is a copy of your fraudulent document—bearing your signature—of an event that never happened.’

‘You have no proof of that. On what grounds do you claim that the marriage never took place?’ Cold anger burned in his eyes and he kept them fixed unwaveringly on the man who challenged his authority. ‘You can have no proof!’

‘No. I do not.’ Henry admitted the fact with bland and unnerving assurance. ‘But I do have proof that Sir Edward Baxendale is not Octavia’s brother. That her true name is not Baxendale but Broughton, so that her name as written in the document is a fraud. And that therefore, I suppose by pure exercise of logic, you are Octavia’s brother. If you are prepared to lie about that, then you would hardly balk at perjury over the matter of my brother’s supposed marriage.’

Broughton had not expected this. His face paled, his breathing becoming shallow as he weighed the words spoken against him in such unemotional terms, but yet his voice calmed, his selfcontrol remaining intact.

‘A ridiculous notion.’ He sat again and spread his hands. They had no proof! ‘You can see the family resemblance between Octavia and Sir Edward. It is very clear.’

‘No. I disagree. It is merely a matter of fair colouring. Indeed, it is the same as your own.’

‘You have no proof.’ Broughton fell back on denial.

‘Oh, but I have.’ Nick tried not to glance across at his brother at Henry’s unexpected statement. It must be a bluff! He hoped it would work. ‘Did I not tell you?’ There was now an unmistakable undercurrent of menace in Henry’s voice. His eyes were glacial and without mercy. ‘Another lady travelled here with me today. An older lady. I have left her at the Red Lion, recovering from the journey. She claims acquaintance with you, Reverend Broughton.’

‘Really?’ His lips curled in a sneer of disbelief. ‘And who might this ill-advised lady be?’

‘My aunt. Lady Beatrice Faringdon. She remembers the Season when Octavia was presented into society very well since her own daughter made her curtsy to the polite world at the same time. She remembers my brother’s flirtation with Octavia. And she remembers Octavia’s brother who accompanied her to London. It was not Sir Edward. It was yourself, sir.’

‘I deny it. How could she make such a false statement! It was four years ago!’

‘Lady Beatrice has an excellent memory. She recalls that Octavia’s name on that occasion was Broughton. If I escort her here, I am sure that she would instantly recognise you as Octavia’s brother. She certainly had no recollection of Sir Edward Baxendale. Would you care to wager against it? As much as the 2,000 guineas which you owe Spalding? It would be a far safer bet for me than any wager which you might risk on the turn of the cards in vingt-et-un.’

Broughton said nothing, but sank back into his seat as if he needed the support, his hands clasping the edge of the desk in a vice-like grip. He contemplated the ruin of his life, spelled out in Lady Beatrice Faringdon’s words of recognition.

‘I suggest that this whole sorry affair is a sham, a cunning trick to take control of the Faringdon title and the inheritance.’ Henry continued to hammer the nails into the priest’s coffin. ‘Thomas did not marry Octavia. You put your name to a false document.’

The statement was again met with silence. The Reverend Broughton took a deep and ragged breath as failure and social condemnation stared him in the face through the implacable eyes of Henry Faringdon.

‘So, do we agree? This is not a genuine document. Or do I need to escort Lady Beatrice here to convince you?’

‘No. There is no need.’ The response was soft but quite clear. ‘The document is not genuine.’

‘Then the marriage never took place? You admit it?’

‘The marriage never took place.’ Broughton stared at his hands as if seeking an answer that would release him from the repercussions of his actions, but found none. His lips barely moved but he spoke the words. ‘It never happened.’

‘And are you willing to sign a declaration to that effect, sir?’

That brought the priest’s head up, his eyes narrowed, a faint wash of panic.

‘And if I do not?’

‘If you do not, I would make it my business to spread the details of your dubious and scandalous affairs and your lack of integrity. I doubt that your position in the Church would remain secure in the light of such damning revelations.’

‘Have I an alternative?’

‘No.’

‘Then I must.’

He pulled a clean sheet of paper towards him, picked up the pen, dipped it and began to write. For the next several minutes, the only sound in the room was the scratching of the quill on paper. When it was done, apart from the signature, Broughton looked up to find Faringdon’s eyes on him. Questioning. Stark with contempt.

‘Well?’

‘Why did you do it?’ Henry asked.

‘Think about it.’ Broughton laughed, a harsh sound in the sunwashed room. ‘A fool could work it out—and you are no fool, Lord Henry. I am in debt to a sum far beyond my income. As your brother intimated, there is a shadow of scandal over my life. I am not proud of it, but neither will I grovel.’ He shrugged his careless acceptance, without compunction. ‘But it means that I am open to blackmail.’

‘Sir Edward?’

‘Of course. I am not the villain in this piece, much as you might wish to believe it. Sir Edward owns this living, which brings me a meagre income. Thus he holds me in the palm of his hand. To crush or to give freedom. If I agreed to support his claim to your family inheritance, he promised me security of tenure and money to pay off my debts and keep the style of life that I enjoy. If I did not…I would be destitute. He had the whip hand and I merely bowed to the stronger force. I would do the same again tomorrow given similar circumstances.’