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

‘But now I hold the whip hand.’ The curve of Henry’s lips was not pleasant. ‘So which is it to be? Sir Edward or myself?’

Broughton shrugged again. ‘It seems to me that I am damned if I do, and damned if I don’t. An interesting position for a priest to find himself in, I think! But I know that you will carry out your threat.’ He read the determination in his lordship’s face and gave a brief nod. ‘I will sign to repudiate my actions.’

‘Then do it.’

He did, with a final flamboyant sweep of the pen across the white surface, flinging the quill down at the end as if it burned his fingers.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Henry stood, bowed with heavy mockery and retrieved the copy of the marriage document and Broughton’s written confession, folding them carefully and stowing them in his inner pocket. ‘I doubt that we will need to meet again. I fervently hope that it will not be necessary. I will leave you to work out your own salvation with Sir Edward, and wish you well of each other.’

He walked to the door. Then hesitated and looked back.

‘Why did you do it?’ He frowned his incomprehension and his bitter disdain. ‘How could you allow your sister to be used in this plot by Sir Edward? A young girl, easily manipulated by a stronger will. How could you allow it, even with the promise of money to pay your debts and a roof over your head? In effect, you sold your sister into Baxendale’s hands to be used for his own purposes. It is despicable for a man to stoop so low.’

‘I had little choice in it. How could you possibly understand?’ Broughton was also standing, still the epitome of the cultured, educated cleric. He laughed bitterly. ‘It is true that Octavia is my sister—but that is not all. She is also Sir Edward’s wife!’

‘His wife!’

‘His wife. And has been for some little time.’ The sneer on the priest’s face was heavily marked. ‘Which left me with no power whatsoever over his dealings with her.’

Henry looked at Nicholas, his gaze inscrutable, then back at the priest. ‘So you told us the truth! You said that you officiated at a marriage at which Sir Edward was present. He was, of course. But not as witness.’

‘Edward married her. Octavia’s name truly is Baxendale. And, whatever your presumption, there was no force involved in her relationship with her husband. Octavia is a biddable girl and quite content with her lot. I do not believe that obeying her husband in this affair has been difficult for her.’

Henry weighed the words carefully. They had the ring of truth. It was easy for the priest to shift the blame.

‘Then God forgive you, for I cannot.’ He bit out the words. ‘You have no remorse and deserve to be cast into the fires of hell. You do not know the pain you have caused to an innocent woman.’ He turned his back and walked out of the Reverend Broughton’s library.

‘H is wife?’

Eleanor was incredulous, her voice rising, brows arched in amazement. Whatever she had expected from the visit to Whitchurch, it was not that.

‘Octavia is Edward’s wife,’ Lord Henry confirmed. ‘She was never married to Thomas. Your marriage is recognised in the eyes of the church and the law. You are, without any doubt, Marchioness of Burford.’

Eleanor and Henry faced each other across the morning room in Park Lane. The hour was nearing midnight, the ladies had already been retired for the night, the house quiet with only one branch of candles left by a conscientious Marcle to illuminate the hallway for the late arrivals. But on their return from Whitchurch, Henry knew that Eleanor would need to know the truth, no matter how late the hour. It would be cruelty indeed to withhold it. So, lingering only to strip off his greatcoat and gloves, whilst Nicholas returned the curricle and horses to their stabling at Faringdon House, Henry sought what promised to be an emotional audience with his brother’s widow.

She now stood before him. It was clear that she had been awaiting their return, unable to rest, unable to sleep. He had not even needed to knock on her door. Now she waited, frozen into immobility, the heavy lace robe falling from throat to floor as she steeled her mind to hear and accept her fate. Her hair curled in a rich bronze mantle onto her breast, ends tipped with gold by the subdued candlelight, drawing his eyes to her soft curves. He could imagine that hair, as he had seen it, and saw in his dreams, pooling on his pillow, the sensuous silk of it curling onto his chest as she bent over him to lower her lips to his. He would have given the world at that moment to have the right to take her to his bed, to tell her the result of his journey as she lay in his arms, replete from the demands of his body, but pushed the thought away. Instead he stood at a little distance, watching her carefully as she took in the import of his words. Her eyes were huge, glazed with shock at first, but now the flicker of hope gave them an inner glow. She stood motionless, her mind focused somewhere far beyond him, weighing the repercussions.

‘I thought you would wish to know tonight. You might rest easier for the knowledge. You can sleep again, knowing that your son cannot be disinherited.’ He took a step back, away from the candlelight, so that she could not read his expression.

‘Yes. Oh, yes. Thank God!’ Without thought beyond the deluge of relief and gratitude that threatened to overturn her delicate control, she covered the stretch of Aubusson carpet between them and stretched out her hands to him. He simply had to take them in his own clasp. How could he possibly reject her? Drawing her closer so that their joined hands rested against his chest, even though his instinct warned him to keep his distance. But he could not.

‘How can I ever thank you?’ She tightened her grip, oblivious to their closeness, to his own struggle for mastery of his desires, and smiled up into his face. ‘And my child? Is Tom truly safe?’

Henry took a deep breath in an attempt to restore some semblance of order to his thundering heart, without any noticeable effect. Surely she would feel the harsh rhythm that shook him to the core? But he kept his voice calm and unemotional in the eye of the whirlwind that prompted him to sweep her into his arms, to kiss her until all the sadness and heartbreak was finally obliterated. ‘The child’s inheritance is secure since you were Thomas’s legitimate and only wife. The Reverend Broughton was persuaded to put his signature to his own confession, repudiating the documents presented to Hoskins by Sir Edward Baxendale.’

‘Tell me why. How did it happen? How were you able to make Julius Broughton admit to such treachery?’

Henry drew her to the little couch, pushing her gently to sit and taking his own place beside her. He might resist taking her in his arms, but he would not willingly forgo his possession of her hands, which still clung to him as if he were indeed a lifeline in a storm. Her hands were trembling with the force of the relief, but she did not let go.

Henry explained, simply and lucidly, the content of the audience with Octavia’s brother, the Reverend Julius Broughton, detailing all that he had revealed.

‘So there we have it.’ He smiled a little as relief and triumph chased each other across her lovely face.

‘So. Sir Edward blackmailed him into forging the documents.’ Eleanor frowned at the news, looking down at their joined hands. ‘I did not like him. But I would never have thought him guilty of that. All the pain and turmoil he has caused. I know that he has admitted his fault—but I do not think I could ever forgive him. Or Sir Edward. Or those who turned their backs on me and wished me ill.’ She glanced up, a bitter little smile twisting her lips, which touched his heart. ‘You have no idea how vindictive I can feel when I think of the willingness of those friends to listen to poisonous unsubstantiated gossip. It shames me—but I cannot resist it.’