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

Hoskins was moved to smile at the prospect. ‘It was well done, my lord.’

‘Yes. And I have to thank you for your timely support.’

He left the lawyer’s rooms with a lightening of the heart, but he could not dislodge a persistent worry that kept him on edge. He could not quite banish Edward Baxendale’s final accusations from his mind. A sour note that spoilt his sense of completion. Baxendale had been mischief-making, of course. Eleanor would never stoop to such devious means. Surely she would never deliberately use the conception of a child to force his brother into a marriage—simply to ensure a glittering title and untold wealth. He would never believe it of her. And yet the malicious words, delivered in Baxendale’s smooth, sly voice would not quite go away.

The Faringdon family chose to gather once more in the intimate family parlour in Park Lane. Sarah Russell, returning earlier with Eleanor, had retired to a guest bedchamber with her son and one of the maids who would look to their needs and act a nursemaid for the distraught but determined lady. Exhaustion had finally taken its toll. Although she had recovered from her bout of tears, she did not feel capable of sitting down with all the members of the family whom her brother had so ruthlessly pursued and exploited in his desire for wealth and revenge.

Exhaustion also laid its hand on the other individuals who came together to discuss and marvel at the recent development. There was a strange sense of emptiness, of anticlimax, Eleanor thought as she sank onto the sofa. She felt tired, but could not rest, could not quite accept that Sir Edward and Octavia no longer had any right to oust her from her home and rob her son of his birthright and herself of her widow’s jointure. And there was a tension here, particularly in Henry, that she could not quite pinpoint. Perhaps she was simply tired, as were they all. Perhaps it was all imagination. The morning would bring calm and a sense of rightness and completion.

‘What do you suppose Baxendale will do now?’ Nicholas lounged in a chair to the detriment of his coat and yawned.

‘Go back to the Great House in Whitchurch and live out his days in disillusioned reflection of what might have been, I presume.’ Henry frowned as he leafed through a handful of letters that had been delivered that morning and were so far unopened. ‘And his wife with him. And I expect he will find an excellent excuse to terminate the Reverend Julius’s tenure of the living of St Michael and All Angels. I find that I cannot feel sorry.’ His stern face was made no more approachable by the sardonic smile that touched his mouth. ‘The wages of sin for our devious vicar could be homelessness and poverty.’

‘And quite right, too. It is a disgrace that such a man should have a care of souls. I can find no Christian charity for him in my heart.’ Mrs Stamford cast a sharp look at her companions, daring anyone to disagree with her.

No one did.

‘I wonder what Octavia is thinking?’ Eleanor picked up a forgotten piece of embroidery and instantly put it down again with nervous fingers. ‘Nothing seemed to move or disturb her very much. Perhaps she does not care very deeply about the outcome. I doubt that she will miss John.’

‘Her brother Julius suggested that she simply did whatever Edward told her to do, and was not unhappy with the situation,’ Nicholas remembered with a twist of distaste to his mouth.

‘I think they will not return to London any time in the near future,’ Mrs Stamford gave her opinion. She was the only one of the little group with any energy about her. It burned in her face, in her eyes, a vindictive sense of triumph that flushed her narrow features with bright colour. ‘Octavia will be able to return to her beloved rose arbours and trellises. I think that polite society would not make them welcome again if they knew the full story.’

‘Perhaps. I think I do feel a little sorry for Octavia. Her life seemed to be so empty.’

‘You should not, Eleanor.’ Mrs Stamford’s voice was sharp, her fixed gaze condemning. ‘You were the victim. The Baxendales deserve no sympathy, no compassion whatsoever. How can you even think it? What thought did they give for your comfort? None! They would have stripped you of your name, your title and your home.’ She drew in a breath as she sought to control her damning words. ‘But you are now vindicated, my love. And the dear child. What a terrible few weeks we have had, to be sure. I am quite worn to the bone.’

‘I valued your support, Mama. It was not inconsiderable.’

‘Of course. When would any mother not do all in her power to safeguard the future of her daughter?’ Then, on a thought, ‘Should we inform Lady Beatrice of the outcome? And the Countess of Painscastle? And perhaps some of our closest friends? Such as the Carstairses. We should not risk you being snubbed again, Eleanor, by those who are still motivated by ignorance or cruel inaccuracies.’

‘No,’ three voices answered in unison.

‘I will not gossip about such private, family matters, Mama. It is not good ton. ‘ Eleanor shuddered at the prospect, but her tone was decisive, all dignity. ‘Let us simply leave it and forget it ever happened. I forbid you to be the source of any further scandal.’

Mrs Stamford flushed. ‘Very well. If that is your wish. But I—’ She caught her daughter’s eye. ‘Very well. But you should give thanks for your release from Sir Edward’s clutches.’

Nicholas yawned again. ‘We do—we do indeed.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘I feel as tired as if I have experienced a week of bad hunting, all hard runs, heavy going, a poor scent and nothing to show for it in the end.’ He stretched his shoulders. ‘But at least I need never darken the doors of a gaming hell again.’

‘You have all my thanks, Nick.’ Henry stood to grasp his brother’s shoulder in gratitude.

‘My pleasure.’ He yawned once more and shook his head. ‘I am going down to the stables—I need a ride, fresh air, easy conversation. Care to accompany me?’

‘Later, perhaps.’

‘I shall go and check on dear Tom.’ Mrs Stamford, still a little put out, followed Nicholas to the door. ‘At least he is too young to realise the dangers and be affected by them.’

Eleanor and Henry were left alone. She wanted more than anything to thank him, to express her gratitude for his strength and active support over the past days, but he seemed edgy and distant, fraught with an energy that made no sense to Eleanor. It was not her imagination. She did not know what to do or what to say.

‘I would thank you—’

‘I do not want your gratitude. We have had this conversation before.’

Eleanor flushed, remembering the occasion far too well, yet persisted. ‘You have it anyway.’

Impatience lent his tongue an edge that startled her. ‘Forget the whole episode, Eleanor. You have what you wanted. The title for your son. The estate is secure with the entail. The income from it will allow you to live in luxury. One day you may feel able to marry again. There is no more to be said—let that be an end to it.’

‘Hal…’

She could think of no suitable reply, her mind a blank. This was not what she had expected or wanted. Why was he so brusque? What had she done? Silence lengthened between them as, with an intolerant shrug, Lord Henry put distance between them to stare unseeingly down into the remains of a fire. He tried to block out Edward’s words. What the hell should he say to her? If Baxendale had intended to cause dissension between them, he was succeeding beyond his wildest dreams! Henry cursed himself silently. What a fool he was. Turning his head, he looked across at her, acutely aware of her troubled expression and confusion. And he grimaced at his own lack of finesse in handling her. He stood upright, his back to the marble fire surround and tried to put matters right between them.