The Outrageous Debutante

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘You should call him Mr Bridges. Have you been a nuisance?’

  ‘He says to call him Nat. So I do. He does not mind if I help him. He says I talk a lot for someone my size. Are you sure you’ll not come now to see the new horse, Mama?’ Tom hopped from one foot to the other.

  Before she could reply, more footsteps approached the room. Eleanor turned her face to the door, her eyes alight with joy.

  Hal. Her adored Hal.

  He stepped into the room. ‘I see that you are being propositioned.’ And smiled. Devastatingly. Causing the colour in Eleanor’s cheeks to deepen at the realisation that he was here and that he was hers.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mama says that she will come later,’ Tom explained, hoping for a change of plan now that his father, who could achieve all things, was present.

  ‘I will bring her down to the stables when the temperature drops.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Of course.’ He grinned in understanding of the boy’s enthusiasms. ‘Now, why don’t you go and look at the pony again—and think of a name before your mama sees him. There is a new bridle for you to use, as well.’

  Tom opened his mouth as if to say more, but when Henry shook his head, his face broke into a replica grin before he clapped his hands over his mouth and giggled through his fingers.

  ‘I didn’t say, Papa. It’s a secret.’

  ‘I know. So go before you do.’

  At that, boy and dog left at speed.

  Which left them together.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Eleanor stretched out her hand in invitation.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’ He removed his riding coat, casting it carelessly over a chairback, and covered the ground between them in easy strides.

  ‘You can keep a secret better than your son! He’ll tell me, you know.’ Her eyes told him all the secrets of her heart.

  ‘I know it. It will not matter.’ Henry bent to kiss her, gently, little more than a brush of lips, but with the low heat of passion that was always there. ‘Nell. You look wonderful.’

  She sniffed. ‘You, my love, smell of wood and … spices?’

  ‘I have been in the warehouse. Do you object?’

  ‘No. Better than the stables! Come and sit with me.’

  He sat beside her, easing her body so that she could lay back comfortably against his shoulder and side, his arms supporting her. ‘I am pleased to see that you are following orders.’

  ‘Have I any choice?’ She tilted her chin to look up at him, her lips in a little pout of mock displeasure. ‘You threatened to lock me in my bedchamber and to tie my ankle to the bed if I came down to see what you and Tom were doing once more.’

  He laughed. ‘It will not be long.’ Was there perhaps a hint of anxiety in his reassurance? Eleanor thought there was and understood.

  ‘No. Not long.’ She lifted his hand and laid it on her belly where the child kicked.

  ‘Lively?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ She could feel his smile against her hair.

  ‘You are more beautiful now than the day I met you.’

  ‘I shall be even more so when I have something resembling a waist again.’

  He turned his face into her hair, kissing the elegant curve of her ear and then all the way to her temple, featherlight caresses where the curls lay damply.

  ‘I see that you have a letter from your dear mama.’ There was a dry edge to his voice. The relationship between Henry and Mrs Stamford had always had an edge. ‘Now, can I guess—gossip? Who is wearing what? Who is speaking to whom? She wishes you were not so far away—and for preference not with me?’ He lifted the weight of pages. ‘How can anyone write so much about so little?’

  ‘As ever, my love—you have it in a nutshell. Although she has forgiven you, I think. She wishes that she could see the new baby, of course. It is understandable that she regrets the distance. By the by, did any news come from Nicholas in the business packet?’

  ‘No. Why? Were we expecting some?’

  ‘Aha! Then I have news for you, Hal. Nicholas is in London. The social thing. Probably encouraged by Beatrice.’

  ‘Summoned more like, knowing my aunt. Very noble of him. I doubt he’ll stay the pace long. Almack’s was never his scene.’

  ‘Nor yours, I remember! But he might surprise you. Mama says that he is dancing attendance on a very handsome débutante.’

  Hal raised his brows. ‘Well, he has done that before. He is hardly immune to the fair sex.’

  ‘But this time he seems to be very taken. She is very handsome. With a fortune. Her father is one of our foreign ambassadors, so she is well connected. Although a trifle unconventional, according to my mama. Perhaps even a touch fast.’ Eleanor’s eyes twinkled at the prospect of such a lady engaging Nicholas’s affections.

  ‘That does not sound like Nicholas.’

  ‘Mama says that she reads. And dances the waltz even though it is her first Season. She rides a grey Arab in the Park with considerable dash and has been seen in a high-perch phaeton—driving alone without a groom or maid in attendance! She is quite sophisticated—has travelled somewhere in the deserts, although exactly where Mama is unsure. I do not think that she approves.’

  ‘Well, that is hardly surprising!’ Henry considered the news. ‘Apart from the grey Arab, it sounds even less like Nicholas. But perhaps he will marry at last. I wish him well if he has found a lady who can win his heart.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘Nicholas has kissed the pretty fingers of any number of débutantes to my knowledge. Why should this one be any different?’

  ‘Well, as long as he does not marry Amelia Hawkes!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sir William Hawkes’s daughter. Surely you recall—your neighbour’s daughter at Burford Hall. Although perhaps you don’t … Anyway, the poor girl has been sighing over Nicholas and his horses for as long as I can remember! And, in my opinion, without the least hope of success. I hope that I am not to be proved wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps you had better write and tell him so! But Nicholas will do just what he likes. As always.’

  ‘Just like you.’

  ‘Exactly. A Faringdon failing.’ He linked his fingers with hers, a symbol of unity. ‘I wanted you. And look what happened. Despite all the hurdles.’

  ‘And it took no persuasion on my part?’

  ‘A little,’ he had the grace to admit, remembering her determined occupation of his cabin on the Sea Emerald before he sailed back to America, her refusal to leave. Her sheer determination to ride roughshod over any principles he might have over the affair.

  ‘And look how grateful you are.’ Eleanor’s fingers tightened on his.

  ‘You do not know the half of it.’ Suddenly sober, he held her and their unborn child close, unbearably moved by the memory of how close they had come to losing each other and the possibility of a future together.

  Where Sarah found them some half an hour later.

  Life in New York suited Mrs Sarah Russell very well. Her restrained manner, her nervous pallor, which Eleanor and Henry remembered from those anxious days in London when she had been forced by her brother to pose against her will as nursemaid to her own child, had completely vanished. She was no longer permanently ridden by guilt and shame at the despicable actions of Sir Edward Baxendale, and also of herself by his manipulation of her. The unqualified love and acceptance from the Faringdons had done much to help her heal and regain some small degree of self-respect. Now twenty-five years old, widowed and mother to an overwhelming five-year-old, she was brisk, confident and capable, enjoying an independent life, far from the powerful influence of her brother. She never mentioned him. His sins, as far as she was concerned, were too great. Likewise her sister-in-law Octavia, so weak that she would obey Edward’s commands to the letter. Whatever the ease of Sarah’s relationship with Henry and Eleanor Faringdon, it was not appropriate to remind anyone in this household that her own name by bi
rth had been Baxendale.

  She had left her son John with Tom and Nathaniel Bridges in the warehouse and climbed the stairs to the newly furnished boudoir, knowing that she would find Eleanor there, and set herself to entertain in these final trying days. The door on to the wide corridor was open, to catch any passing current of air, so she simply entered. She did not stand on ceremony in this house.

  But the domestic scene, so relaxed and yet so intimate, made her hesitate and blush a little at her intrusion, until she saw and answered Eleanor’s smile of welcome and continued into the room.

  ‘You look comfortable.’

  ‘It is all relative,’ Eleanor muttered darkly.

  ‘And only until she shuffles and twitches again—in about ten seconds, I should imagine, on past experience.’ Henry winced a little and laughed as a sharp elbow found his ribs.

  ‘But I am so uncomfortable—the heat and the lack of air. When I carried Tom, it was England and in winter.’ Eleanor slanted a look up into Henry’s face. ‘I do not know why I am apologising to you, Hal! Some would say that it is all your fault!’

  ‘Then, my love, I must accept all the blame.’

  ‘Well, you look exceptionally content.’ Sarah took a seat and lowered the books of furnishings and patterns to the floor to hide the sharp stab of envy. The love between them was so tangible, so all-consuming, the glance between them exclusive, effectively shutting out all others. He might well have kissed her—as he was not averse to doing in public. As a sharp stab to her heart, it made Sarah regret her own widowed state, long for strong arms to hold her against her fears when the nights were dark, someone as intense and passionate as Henry Faringdon. She took a deep breath. Better not, she told herself quickly. Better that she should rejoice in her freedom to make her own decisions, determine her own lifestyle. She had had enough of domineering men, however attractive they might be.

  ‘Here is someone who will appreciate Mama’s news.’ Eleanor shuffled into a cooler spot, a mischievous smile for Sarah.

  ‘What’s that?’ Sarah untied the ribbons of her bonnet, dropped it on the floor at her side with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Nicholas and a débutante.’

  ‘Ah. Some London gossip.’ Her eyes shone. ‘Do tell. Is it serious?’

  ‘So Mama thinks.’ Eleanor searched the pages in her hand for the name. ‘A Miss Wooton-Devereux, indeed,’ she finally announced. ‘Rich and beautiful. What more could he want to bring him solace as he runs the Burford acres with such fiendish efficiency?’

  There was no corresponding humour in Sarah’s reply. ‘Oh … Oh, no.’ It was certainly not the response that Eleanor had expected. ‘What … what was the name again?’ Sarah had become quite still. Eleanor noticed that her hands had suddenly clenched into tight fists on the skirt of her gown.

  ‘Miss Wooton-Devereux,’ she repeated, a little frown between her brows. ‘Do you know of her?’

  Sarah passed her tongue over dry lips, conscious that the air seemed to press down on her with a great weight so that she felt a little dizzy. ‘Do you … do you know the lady’s first name?’

  ‘Mama said that it was something out of the common way. Let me see … Ah, yes—Theodora. Why … what is it, Sarah? Are you unwell?’

  Suddenly finding it difficult to breathe in the hot still air, the lady pressed her hands to her face. It seemed that the past, with all its burden of guilt and intrigue, had fallen once again at her feet, to harm and destroy. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she managed to say. ‘That a malicious fate should have brought her …’ Her words ended on something suspiciously like a sob.

  Eleanor tried to sit up, only to be restrained by Henry, who gently extricated himself from the sofa and went to pour a glass of brandy. He returned to the stricken lady and pressed it into her unresisting hand.

  ‘Sarah.’ She looked up into his face, her own blank with shock, her mind working furiously to remember all that she had been told of this particular débutante. ‘Listen to me. Drink this.’ He waited until she had complied, a few sips at least. ‘Now tell me. What is it? Do you know the lady? Is there a problem?’ He took the glass from her and crouched at her side, holding her hands comfortingly in his.

  ‘Yes … No … That is … I never thought to hear that name in this house—in connection with one of your family.’

  ‘Dear Sarah. Tell us,’ Eleanor encouraged. The shimmer of distress around her friend was almost visible. ‘It cannot surely be as bad as all that.’

  Sarah looked from one to the other. They had been so kind to her, so supportive, when she had aided and abetted her brother in bringing them such pain. And now she must tell them … Of course, she must. ‘Oh, yes,’ she stated, her soft voice surprisingly harsh. ‘There is a problem. And it may be as bad as we could ever imagine.’ She looked at Henry with frightened eyes. ‘Her name by birth is not Wooton-Devereux. It is Baxendale.’

  Baxendale! There was a shattering silence in the room. It seemed to echo from every corner. Even the distant hammering was silent as they absorbed that one name.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Eleanor instantly swung her feet to the floor. Sarah’s remarkable statement had effectively destroyed all her contentment.

  ‘She is Sophia Mary Baxendale and she is my sister.’ Sarah announced it in firmer accents. Whatever the outcome, she must face it. Her past had just come back to haunt her and, whatever she felt about the revelation, it had stunned her audience of two.

  ‘Your sister? I did not know you even had a sister.’

  ‘I have not thought of her for years.’ Sarah’s eyes were full of sympathy as she watched the emotions flit across Eleanor’s face. ‘How should I? But listen. I must tell you what I know.’

  Henry, reading his wife’s anxiety, went to sit beside her again and took her hands, soothing the soft skin on the inside of her wrists with his thumb. And Sarah, unearthing her family secrets, gleaned from her own reluctant mother and from Edward’s memories when she was a child and thus fascinated by such things, explained all. A disorganised household, increasing debts, the difficult birth. Then the arrival of Drusilla, her mother’s managing sister, followed by the removal of the baby to a new home, a new family.

  ‘So she is Sophia Mary Baxendale,’ Eleanor repeated.

  ‘Yes. But I have never met her. Only know of her from family records.’

  ‘But the crucial question now …’ Henry said slowly, considering the implications of this potentially explosive news, ‘is whether there is any recent connection, any communication, between your sister and Edward.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sarah understood the implications all too well.

  ‘What are you thinking, Hal?’ Eleanor also knew well what he was thinking, believed her thoughts ran in the same direction, but she needed him to say it aloud.

  ‘I am thinking—what do we have here? Another Baxendale plot? An attempt to strike once more at the Faringdon family—in a desire for revenge? Presumably a revenge made even more bitter by the past failures.’ There it was, laid out in stark terms as cold and flat as Henry’s eyes, dark with anger.

  ‘To lure Nicholas into marriage with a Baxendale,’ Sarah whispered.

  ‘Is the coincidence too great?’ Eleanor prayed that it was so.

  ‘Nothing is beyond Edward.’ Sarah fought to hide the shame as she outlined Edward Baxendale’s past sins. Something that Henry had deliberately refrained from doing, out of respect for Sarah’s unenviable position. ‘He was willing to use me and my child. He was willing to destroy the good name of you, Eleanor, and Thomas. He would have made your position in society untenable. What would he not be capable of? Would he not use a young sister? Even if she were innocent of his intentions, she could still be a weapon for his revenge. He cannot touch you now, however much he might wish it, but he could harm Nicholas. Simply through the humiliation of luring him into marriage with a Baxendale without his knowledge. And if my brother could get money out of it … Edward is not beyond blackmail.’

 
; ‘But would the girl agree to such a deception?’ Eleanor asked in disbelief. ‘To deliberately set out to fix Nicholas’s interest, a cruel charade for a brother she hardly knows?’

  ‘We don’t know, Nell.’ Henry’s fingers tightened round her wrists, forcing her to look at him and consider the weight of his words. ‘We know nothing about her. But what we do know is that Edward is quite capable of playing a role—of winning the lady’s compliance with a heart-rending tale of the need for justice. The evil Faringdons and the innocent Baxendales.’

  ‘Of course he would.’ Eleanor nodded her agreement. ‘So what do we do? Can we do anything?’

  ‘It could be a completely false alarm, of course.’ Henry frowned down at Eleanor’s hands where they still rested, enclosed in his. ‘Nick’s interest might have moved on to someone else, another débutante. Or your mama might have misread his gallantry. But better that he knows.’

  ‘I agree.’ Sarah sighed. ‘If nothing else, Lord Nicholas needs to know that Miss Theodora Wooton-Devereux is not who she seems.’

  Chapter Ten

  At Aymestry Manor, Nicholas and Theodora fell headlong and effortlessly into a love affair, watched closely but with indulgence and a wry acceptance by Agnes Drew and Mrs Grant. There was no doubting the happiness that wrapped the pair around, excluding all others, so that they might as well have been living on a deserted mountain top. It did a body good, Mrs Grant informed her interested guest, to see Lord Nicholas so taken up with a young lady who clearly returned his sentiments. It was high time he had something to occupy his mind, other than the state of the summer crop or the quality of wool from his prize Ryeland sheep! And a man as handsome and desirable as he in the marriage market—he should not be burying himself in the country. It was more than time he was wed and producing an heir for Aymestry. The Manor had been empty of children for far too long.

  Agnes Drew listened, but made little comment, attempting without success to ignore the concern that would not let her be. A relationship built on a lie at worst—a deliberate falsehood at best—was flawed from the very beginning. But Miss Thea was past taking advice, as held fast in love as Lord Nicholas. So she listened and watched. And hoped that fate would not manipulate events in so cruel a fashion as to bring loss and heartbreak to either of the lovers. When her conscience dictated that she should advise Thea that a return to London was both expected and eminently sensible, Agnes for once threw good sense to the winds, considered it—and kept her counsel.