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

‘I am more acquainted with his sister,’ Eleanor prompted, hoping for enlightenment on Octavia.

‘Aye. Poor girl.’ The innkeeper shook his head in ready sympathy. ‘Not that we see much of her, o’ course. But it can’t be easy for her.’

‘Oh?’ Eleanor looked up enquiringly, hoping to encourage a more detailed comment.

Mine host nodded. ‘What with a baby—growing up he is now—and a husband not long dead. Poor girl. And so pretty. But Sir Edward will ensure that she lacks for nothing—there’ll always be a roof over her head. He’s always been caring of his family.’

‘Of course.’ Eleanor smiled and nodded despite the tight band around her heart. ‘Did you…did you ever meet the lady’s husband before he died?’

‘Don’t know that I did.’ The innkeeper scratched his head. ‘Away from home a lot, as I remember, but the lady had made her home here with her brother.’

‘Has she…has she gone to London with Sir Edward now?’

‘Aye, ma’am. All of them. Saw them myself. And the baby as well. Not to mention the mountain of luggage. Seems like they intend to stay for the Season and the Great House all shut up. Pity you missed them.’

As the innkeeper prepared to return to the public room and leave his guests to eat their luncheon in peace, Lord Henry stopped him.

‘One more matter, sir, if you would be so kind. The Reverend Julius Broughton—is he vicar here?’

‘Aye, my lord. He is. If you wish to speak with him, the vicarage is the house next to the church, set back behind the stand of elms. But you’ll likely find him in the church. They’re burying old Sam Potter from down by the forge. So the Reverend Broughton will be doing the Lord’s work today at least—you can’t turn your back on a funeral if the body’s coffined and waiting at the church door! He’ll be there—at least for today.’

An interesting comment, Henry thought, not sure what to make of it. Or the slight undercurrent in mine host’s voice. Was it dislike? Contempt?

‘Do you know the Reverend well?’

‘Some.’ The innkeeper’s smile was sly as he turned for the door. ‘Some would say more than an innkeeper should! Likes his ale does the Reverend, and fine brandy. And he has a mind to other things many would say as he should not, being a man of the cloth. Some days he’s in the Red Lion more than he’s in the church! Not to mention his comforts at home!’

On which he left them.

With Eleanor’s hand drawn through his arm, held firmly, Lord Henry stepped out of the Red Lion and strolled down the village street in the direction of the church. The village itself was small, not much more than a score of stone cottages at most, the village street merely hard-packed earth with grassy verges, but the church was impressive with solid walls and zigzag carving on the round-headed arches of door and window. When they came to the gabled lych-gate into the churchyard, they discovered that the innkeeper had been accurate in his information. A funeral was in progress with a small knot of mourners in the far corner of the churchyard where the coffin was being lowered into a grave. They could make out the black and white vestments of the Reverend Julius Broughton amongst them, his white surplice and ministerial bands fluttering in the light breeze.

‘We must wait on Samuel Potter for the final time, it seems.’ Henry led Eleanor to a sun-warmed seat beside the church door to wait. It was a tranquil spot, sunlit and restful, only the distant murmur of voices to disturb the silence and the nearer chirp of sparrows which were nesting in the roof above their heads. A tranquil place indeed. But one, Eleanor feared, where she might discover the indisputable evidence that she was not Thomas’s wife, never had been. In this church Thomas could have been joined with Octavia Baxendale in the sight of God. His son named within those sun-warmed arches. She bit down on the panic that swelled beneath her breast bone. Her life would be shattered beyond redemption.

At last the mourners departed.

‘Sam Potter returned to his Maker.’ Henry took one of her hands in his, noting her calm outward composure. Perhaps too calm. ‘Are you well enough to face the Reverend? I will speak to him alone if you prefer it.’ On impulse he pressed his lips to her fingers. ‘I do not doubt your courage. I never could. You have nothing to prove to me, Nell.’

‘I know. And I know that you would take on this burden.’ She smiled her thanks, but rose to her feet, smoothing the skirts of her coat with nervous hands as the clerical figure approached them along the path. ‘We will see him together. He cannot tell us anything worse than the knowledge which we already have.’

Introductions were made, the cleric expressing polite interest. Henry, after a glance at Eleanor, opened the point at issue.

‘We wish to speak with you, sir, concerning a marriage and a birth in this parish. It concerns a member of our own family.’

Julius Broughton raised his brows at the request, but smiled his compliance. ‘Very well. Perhaps you would come to the vicarage where we can sit in comfort and I will see if I can help you.’ No hint of unease here.

They followed him to the spacious vicarage, built in the previous century and tucked away behind the elms, to be shown into a library at the front of the house, overlooking the churchyard and the church itself. A pleasant room. Wood panelled, lined with books, a fire offering welcome from the hearth, the retreat of an educated and scholarly man. It was also spotlessly clean, the furniture polished with the books properly on their shelves and the papers on the desk in neat order. It gave the impression of care and order and efficiency, suitable to a conscientious man of the cloth.

The appearance of the man who faced Henry and Eleanor also confirmed this impression. Shorter than Henry, he had a spare figure, fair hair with a touch of bronze when the sun caught it, and pale blue eyes. His narrow face was also that of a scholar with fine, aesthetic features. He had an easy smile that made them welcome as he offered refreshments. Yet Eleanor felt uneasy in his company. She thought there was a slyness in his gaze, which did not sit and linger on anything for long. And his lips, which smiled so readily, were too thin.

The priest rang the bell beside the fireplace and the door was immediately opened by a young girl, as if she had been close at hand and awaiting the summons.

‘Molly.’ Julius Broughton addressed the girl. ‘We have, as you see, visitors. Be so good as to bring brandy for his lordship and ratafia for the lady.’

She bobbed a curtsy, casting a sharp eye over the guests. A village girl, Henry presumed by her simply cut blouse and skirt, very pretty with dark curls under her white cap and attractive curves not in any way disguised by the white apron that enveloped her. Her smile revealed a dimple and she was not averse to a flirtatious glance from beneath long dark lashes. She had an air of smugness and her smile a hint of sly. Henry would wager that Mistress Molly was a most competent housekeeper, if surprisingly young for the position. He suppressed a sardonic gleam as he found himself remembering the innkeeper’s enigmatic comments on their priest’s interests. They were not difficult to understand,

The refreshments were dispensed, with graceful skill and concern for their comfort, and then as Molly departed with a final swing of shapely hips the visitors were free to turn to business.

‘We are looking for information, sir,’ Henry repeated, wondering fleetingly if Mistress Molly was listening at the door.

‘So I understand.’ The Reverend indicated that they should make themselves comfortable in the charming room. ‘I will try to help. Is it something that occurred within my holding of the living here?’

‘Yes. The first event less than four years ago.’ From his pocket, Henry took a number of gold coins, which he placed, without a word, on the desk beside him.

The Reverend’s eyes fixed on them for more than a second, a flush mantling his cheeks. He pressed his lips together. It was, Henry knew, a gamble, based purely on first impressions. It crossed his mind that the priest could see it as an insult to his pride and standing in the community, and so refuse all co-operation with sharp words. Justifiably so if he were an honest man. But he did not. He answered, his eyes still on the money being offered so blatantly, ‘Of course, my lord. As I said, I will do what I can.’

Lord Henry had read his man well.

‘A marriage. At which you officiated. Between Octavia Baxendale and one Thomas Faringdon. Can you remember such a marriage?’

‘Dear Octavia.’ The clergyman took his seat behind his desk, resting his hands before him on the polished oak, fingers spread. His lips curled in a smile—or perhaps it was not. ‘She is well known to me. A most beautiful girl. Indeed I officiated at her marriage. I remember it. A handsome couple.’

‘Were you aware,’ Henry asked carefully, ‘that the groom was the Marquis of Burford?’

‘No, I was not. Before God, a man’s title has no relevance. And the law merely requires his name. You hinted, sir, that the matter concerned a member of your family.’

‘I did. Thomas Faringdon was my brother.’

‘Was he now?’ A strange little smile again flirted with the cleric’s lips. ‘Now I begin to understand. Can I help you further in your search for truth, my lord?’

Henry frowned, but continued. ‘I understand that Lady Mary Baxendale, who was a witness to the marriage, has since died.’

‘She has. She is buried in the Baxendale tomb here in the crypt. I myself conducted the service.’

And Sir Edward Baxendale. He, too, was present at the marriage ceremony?’

‘He was present.’ Julius Broughton bowed his head in acknowledgement. Eleanor’s brows arched a little. Was it her imagination, or were those clerical fingers suddenly clenched together?

But the Reverend was in no manner disturbed by the questions. His voice remained calm and assured. ‘Why do you ask? There was nothing illegal or unseemly about the marriage of Octavia. I have known her, as I said, for many years.’

‘And the birth of her son?’

Now there was the slightest hesitation, but the answer was forthright enough.

‘You must mean John. I certainly baptised the child John in this church. He will be about two years old now, I surmise.’

‘Yes.’

‘And the image of his mother! I am sure she is very proud of him. He must be a great solace to her in her time of grief.’

Henry glanced again at Eleanor who shook her head. It was difficult to see where the conversation was leading.

‘I presume that you know the Baxendale family well.’

‘Indeed I do. You must know that the living here is in their gift. I have every reason to be grateful to Sir Edward for his Christian charity.’ The lips that smiled at them were now drawn tight against his teeth. ‘He has assured me of his continued benevolence, to the parish and to myself. I have always found him to be a man of his word.’

‘If you will forgive me, sir, I hesitate to push the point but—this is a difficult question to ask—have you ever found reason not to trust Sir Edward? To question his honesty?’

‘A strange question, if I may say so, my lord.’ The Reverend continued to smile, but there was no humour in his pale eyes. ‘Let me answer it like this. Octavia is as dear to me as any member of my own family. And I know nothing of Sir Edward that would make me question his integrity. Does that suffice, my lord?’

‘Yes.’ Henry stood and inclined his head. ‘I must thank you for your time and patience, sir.’

They left the room, leaving the little pile of coins on the edge of the desk, glinting brightly and enticingly in the sun.

‘I do not like him. I don’t know why, but I would not trust him, clergyman or no.’ Eleanor spoke her doubts as soon as they were out of sight and sound of the vicarage. ‘He smiled like a snake.’

‘I have never seen a snake smile, but I take your point. A wily character, I make no doubt. But equally without doubt, he confirms all we knew and feared.’ Henry’s expression was bleak as he replayed the conversation in his mind. ‘Thomas married Octavia. And a son, John, was born.’

Eleanor could make no reply. After all, it was the truth.

The sun still shone. The sparrows still chirruped in the churchyard. And Eleanor’s life, as she had feared, lay in pieces at her feet.

During their brief interview the heavy rain-clouds had begun to gather on the horizon and the evening drew close. Seeing the threat of poor travelling weather, Henry made a decision.

‘We stay here tonight. I have no mind to be drenched before we arrive home. Let us see if the Red Lion can provide us with some suitable accommodation.’

The landlord at the Red Lion, by the name Jem Abbott, welcomed the return of the lord and lady to his inn with a greedy eye to their generosity. Yes, he could provide them with accommodation. Perhaps not what they would be used to, but comfortable enough. There was a private parlour they could make use of and an adjoining bedroom. Would that be sufficient for their needs? They would not be disturbed. He surveyed them with mild interest. There did not appear to be the stuff of scandal here, but you never knew with the Quality. A law unto themselves, they were! No matter how confident and assured his lordship might be in the settling of his affairs, no matter how elegant and composed the lady. Whether the lady was his lordship’s wife was open to debate. But it was none of their concern, as Jem Abbott informed his critical wife, if his lordship had brought his mistress to their establishment. As long as their guests were prepared to pay with hard coin, who were they to judge!

So the landlord set himself to please. His wife could serve an adequate meal for them in the parlour—in an hour, if that would suit. They did not keep late hours in the country. If they would care to sit in the downstairs parlour until all was in readiness? And perhaps some refreshment for the lady, who looked a little tired after her long day? Lord Henry accepted. It was now far too late to return to London, having waited on the affairs of Sam Potter. And the burden of the Reverend Broughton’s information pressed heavily on Eleanor.

They were soon ensconced in the promised private parlour, dusted more adequately than the public room, probably by the lady of the house. A fire warmed the room which was low beamed and whitewashed, provided with an array of old country-made furniture, which had seen better days but was not uncomfortable. Mrs Abbott was able to produce a raised game pie and a roasted chicken with various side dishes, more than sufficient for their needs, as promised, and a platter of fruits stored from the previous season.

‘I hope it will be acceptable.’ Mrs Abbot added logs to the fire, then, stopping to wipe her grimy hands on her apron, ‘Not expecting your honour and the lady,’ she apologised. And won Eleanor’s heart by producing a dish of tea, albeit somewhat bitter, as well as the jug of ale. She smiled and thanked their hostess with real warmth. They would do very well.

Eleanor shed her coat and bonnet, determined to do justice to the simple meal provided for them and to banish the depressing outcome of their conversation with the priest until later. But there was no hope of her achieving either. In the event she picked at her food and Henry did not have the heart to remonstrate with her. Even so, by the time she had tried the pie and sampled the chicken, the food and the warmth from the fire had returned colour to her cheeks and her eyes were less bleak.

Henry disappeared through the door that led downstairs to the public rooms, returning with a dusty decanter of port. Without comment he poured two glasses and sat, beginning to pare one of the wizened pippins from the dish. He quartered it neatly and pushed the pieces to Eleanor. She thanked him with a smile and ate.

‘Tell me about your life in America,’ she asked suddenly, deliberately breaking the silence, pushing her chair back from the table. ‘What is it like? What are you doing with your life there? Is it what you could have wished for?’

And so he told her. Watching her eat the sweet apple. Not so much to tell her about the momentous changes in his life since leaving England, but to distract her mind from the developments of the day.

‘I live in New York. I rent rooms there, but it is in my mind to build a house for myself in the future. It is a thriving place and growing by the day. There is money there and it hums with energy. It is difficult to imagine unless you have experienced it for yourself.’ He frowned down at the rings of apple peel as he let his mind return to his new life. ‘One day New York will be as elegant as London. There are new people arriving every day. Different languages. Different customs. It has an excitement that stirs the blood.’

‘Are you making your fortune—as you planned?’

‘I am trying hard.’ His face was lit by a sudden sardonic smile as a thought struck home. ‘Your mother would sniff in disgust. I have become engaged in trade! She would certainly not approve! But there is money to be made, businesses to invest in, and I intend to make my mark. I would be a fool not to. Birth is less important than energy and initiative. I like it. It is novel to be addressed as Mr Faringdon.’

‘So you will be a big name there?’ She smiled a little at the subtle tension that gripped him, the shimmering ambition that she had not seen since he had left her two years ago.

‘With good fortune.’ His eyes now held hers, alive with subdued excitement. ‘I am in partnership with Nathaniel Bridges—Faringdon and Bridges, no less. He is another young man of ambition and useful contacts—and a little capital, which he is willing to sink into the business, like myself. Now that the war with England is over our trade will expand. The treaty was made just before I landed, and it made expansion possible. This year we have a tariff to protect our own manufactures from foreign imports. We aim at self-sufficiency, which can be nothing but good for those prepared to invest in the future.’

She noted his casual identification with the new world, even if he did not. There was no doubt that he would return to New York when the inheritance was settled one way or the other. London, even Burford Hall, held nothing for him now except for memories of the past. She tensed against the pain around the edges of her heart when she acknowledged that he would leave again. Not that it should matter to her, of course. She turned her face away so that she could not see Henry’s burning desire to be gone from England, away from her and the hideous complications left by his brother.

‘Roads and canals are being developed,’ he continued, unaware of her disquiet. ‘And we are looking to develop trade routes further with Iberia and southern Europe. There is certainly a demand for wheat and we can produce it in huge quantities.’

‘So you are making money, it seems.’ She brought her thoughts back into line.

‘It seems very possible—and we only pay a quarter of taxes compared to English tax payers. So it will leave us with more money to plough back into the business and into a comfortable lifestyle. But not yet! We are ploughing all our profits back until the company is more secure so there is little money to spare. Hence the rented rooms over a shop.’

‘And when there is money to spend? What will you do then?’

‘I intend to build a large house as befits my new status as successful entrepreneur and businessman!’ Henry stretched back in his chair as he envisioned the future. ‘There is plenty of timber and prime sites to be had. The Commissioners in New York have drawn up plans to rebuild the city on impressive lines. Nothing like London, all congestion with narrow streets and winding roads and dark alleys. It will be very splendid with wide avenues crossing each other into a grid. If fortune smiles on us—and a little business acumen—Faringdon and Bridges will be part of it.’

Eleanor watched him as he spoke, assessing the new Hal compared with the one she had known. All the old enthusiasm was still there, but now tempered with experience and knowledge and an edge to his maturity that had been missing when he was still enjoying a life of moneyed leisure in London. His eyes glowed, dark and vibrant, as he outlined the plans of Faringdon and Bridges, probably forgetting to whom he spoke. Her smile was a little sad as she realised that he might have been addressing Nicholas or the unknown Nathaniel Bridges. She had no doubt, no doubt at all, that he would be successful.

‘We think we might invest in our own shipping.’ His thoughts drifted through the endless possibilities for men with money and the willingness to take a calculated risk. ‘And then there is the prospect of the opening up of the west. A lot of migration is under way and new states being added every year. And where people settle, they need goods and commodities. So much opportunity for those prepared to supply them. Forgive me.’ His lips twisted in a grimace. ‘I did not intend to bore you for so long. If you are unwise enough to ask, I am afraid that you pay the penalty.’ The curl of his lips was apologetic.

‘You did not. I would not have asked if I was not interested.’ Eleanor looked at him consideringly. ‘Will you marry?’ Why she had felt the need to ask so personal a question, she did not know, but waited for his reply.

Henry regarded her with a quizzical look. ‘Do you mean have I a lady in mind? No, I do not. But one day I shall marry.’

‘Do you have a mistress?’

‘Yes.’ His brows arched at her question, perhaps a little amused at her directness.

‘Is she pretty?’

‘Rosalind. Yes. She has dark hair and green eyes.’

So now she knew. Eleanor reprimanded herself for initiating the subject. All she had achieved was a sore heart and a leap of jealousy that sank its claws into her flesh, even though she knew that she had no right or claim on him. But she envied the unknown but pretty Rosalind, with her dark hair and green eyes, with all her heart. He had smiled when he spoke her name. There would be no weight of guilt or betrayal from the past to hinder their love. Eleanor immediately knew that there was a harsh lesson here for her that she would do well to learn and act on without delay. Hal was not for her, and never could be.

She fell into silence, brooding a little, unaware of his watching her.

‘What are you thinking?’

She blinked and withdrew her gaze from the flames, brought back to the present. Her eyes were suddenly clear and cold as she pushed herself upright in her chair, spine braced against its curved back. Her voice was equally cool and measured.

‘Why, I was thinking about what I must do now. It is perfectly clear to me that my marriage did not exist. I can no longer deny it, even to myself. We have heard nothing today to undermine Sir Edward’s written evidence and I must accept it.’ She took a visible deep breath. ‘I need to consider my future—I can put it off no longer.’ Spreading her fingers, palm downwards, before her on the table, she contemplated them with a little frown. Then, without comment, she slid a gold ring set with a hoop of diamonds and sapphires from her finger and placed it carefully, deliberately, in front of her on the table between the empty plates and glasses. The sapphires gleamed balefully at their rejection, the diamonds glinted. She could not take her eyes from them, shocked at what she had just done, but she spoke firmly as if compelled by an unseen force. ‘I need to make some decisions and act on them. And I may as well start now! It would seem that I have no right to wear that ring. Thomas gave it to me on the day that we were wed. I know that it is one of the Faringdon jewels and that your mother wore it as a bride.’ She touched it with one finger, almost a caress, before drawing her hands away into her lap, fearing that in a moment of weakness she might snatch up the ring and replace it on her finger. ‘I cannot wear it.’ Her eyes, glassy with unshed tears, were no less bright than the stones that she had just discarded amongst the debris of the meal.