by Anne O'Brien
‘No.’ His brother’s uncompromising reply did not surprise him.
‘Neither do I. But there is all that proof, with the power of Church and State behind it. Legal documents and such…’ He frowned at Bess, who had placed one confiding and optimistic paw on his boot. ‘Tell me why you don’t believe it. The Baxendales certainly did not appear to be—’
‘Rogues? Tricksters? No, they did not.’ Henry steepled his fingers thoughtfully, elbows resting on the table. ‘Thomas was always ripe for a flirtation with a pretty girl. And Octavia Baxendale certainly qualifies for his interest. I admit, I was surprised to know that he had married Eleanor so soon after I had left. But two wives? One of them in secret when we were all still living here under this roof? Unlikely, anyone who knew him must accept.’ He pushed back from the table, and rose to his feet to pace to the windows, emotion suddenly raw in his voice as he stood with his back to his brother. ‘Why did you have to die, Thomas? And in such a uselessly tragic fashion!’ He leaned his hands on the window ledge and looked out at glorious nature with unseeing eyes. Then, on a deep breath with senses governed once more, he walked slowly back. ‘Apart from anything else, as you very well know, Thomas never could keep a secret to save his life! The number of times he fell foul of our heavy-handed parent because he could not keep a still tongue in his head—he probably totted up one beating a week for one sin or another, whether it was mine or his own was irrelevant.’ His smile was a mere twisting of lips. ‘You were probably too young to remember.’
‘So what do we do?’ Nicholas prompted. ‘Accept the proof and have Sir Edward Baxendale and the lady resident at Burford Hall?’
Henry eyed him with silent, brooding intensity.
‘Perhaps I should sail to America with you,’ Nicholas continued, ‘if he asks me to move out. Which he undoubtedly will. I wager he would not want a Faringdon living under the same roof.’
‘And you would be welcome,’ was the prompt reply. ‘The hunting is excellent—you would enjoy it.’
‘That might tempt me. Is it the land of opportunity that you had hoped for, Hal? You have said very little of your life there—but then we have been taken up with other matters, have we not!’
‘Very true—Baxendale has driven business from my mind somewhat,’ Hal admitted. ‘But, yes—the peace between Britain and America two years ago has ended American isolation, so commerce is free to develop and fortunes to be made. It is still an infant society, but progress is very rapid. New York is growing at a furious rate. Banks and businesses opening every day it seems. So, yes, the opportunity is there for those who are willing to throw the dice and bet confidently on the outcome.’
‘As Faringdon and Bridges will do?’
Hal smiled, a hint of pride evident in his face, his present problems for the moment overlaid by the bright promise of the future. ‘Yes…Faringdon and Bridges. It sounds good, does it not? Even if all we possess is tied up in investment, leaving us on a very uncomfortable precipice of poverty.’
‘I have every confidence and shall come to you for a loan when you have made your first fortune.’ Nicholas returned the smile. ‘And the women of New York?’ He slanted a sly glance at his brother. ‘Are they pretty?’
‘I believe they would compare with London. I have found so.’
‘So tell me, Hal. Is she a prime article?’
‘Of course.’ Hal’s answer was as smooth as watered silk.
‘And the name of this fair Cyprian?’
‘Rosalind—and the rest is none of your affair, little brother, although she would box your ears for you if you dared impugn her morality with such a title.’
Nicholas laughed and Henry broke into a reluctant grin at the exchange but then became deadly serious again and returned to the Baxendale claim. ‘But, no,. I don’t think it would be politic to simply accept the story that we have been fed so far. I think—’
The door opened. The Marchioness of Burford swept into the room, carrying her son, her mother in close pursuit.
‘I do not think, my dear Eleanor, that—’
‘Forgive me, Mama, but I have made up my mind.’
Eleanor came to a halt before Lord Henry, mood confrontational. She had no difficulty at all in meeting his surprised scrutiny this morning, meeting it with a bright gaze that issued a challenge to anyone who might be sufficiently ill advised as to stand in her way. A sleepless night with much time for reflection had achieved a very positive effect on the lady. Yesterday, she acknowledged, she had been weak. Spineless, even. She shivered in humiliation at the memory of her tears and her outpouring of grief and disillusion in Lord Henry’s presence. She must have been out of her mind to do so—to show such weakness. She had no excuse. Today she would grasp the nettle with both hands, crushing the stinging stems and leaves at whatever cost to herself. She would not meekly accept this hideous development. She would fight for her position, and, more importantly, the inheritance of her son!
Letting his gaze rest on her, Lord Henry had to appreciate that the lady had dressed for battle. The arrangement of her burnished ringlets à la Sappho could not be faulted, nor the quiet elegance of her high-waisted, narrow gown, long sleeved with only one row of discreet ruffles around the hem. The black silk creation, rich and costly, gleamed in the morning sunlight, undoubtedly created by the hand of an expert. Probably Eugenie in Bond Street, he thought, unless this most fashionable of modistes had changed in his absence.
Eleanor certainly had, he was forced to admit. Composed and sophisticated, her presence reinforced the impression that he had absorbed since his return. She had grown into her role as Marchioness of Burford and he could not fault her in it, although he felt a strange sense of loss that the young girl he had known had changed for ever.
‘I have decided,’ the Marchioness now announced to the room at large. ‘It is my intention to go to London to confront this problem. I cannot sit here, buried in the country, waiting for decisions on my future to be made without my knowledge. I need to speak with Mr Hoskins. I cannot believe that Thomas had married Octavia Baxendale, visited her and had a son by her without my being aware! Certainly not for the whole span of our marriage! Such deceit is completely unacceptable.’
‘But where will you stay?’ Mrs Stamford broke in, continuing her earlier objections, but for once unsure of her ground. She could not but agree with her daughter’s basic premise that the whole matter could not simply be ignored. ‘Surely not at Faringdon House, with the Baxendales in residence. Think of the mortification of having to meet them every day, of sitting down to breakfast with them. Do think, Eleanor…’
‘I have thought, Mama. I have done nothing else but think all night long! I shall not, of course, go to Faringdon House. It would not be at all suitable. I shall put up at an hotel until I can make more acceptable arrangements. But go to London I will!’
She glared at Henry as if she expected him to join her mother in condemnation of her scheme. Would he dare to thwart her? She did not care! Her mind was made up!
Henry watched her with none of the indifference he would have preferred. The anger that now drove her rendered her magnificent. She might be dressed in deepest unrelieved mourning, there might be light shadows beneath her eyes from her sleepless night, but her face was vivid and alive. Her skin glowed with delicate colour, her soft lips firm and uncompromising in her decision. The deep amethyst of her eyes was dark and turbulent, rich as glowing jewels. He was held by them, a slow enchantment which barred him from damning her hopes of success in her cause.
‘Of course you must go.’
Eleanor blinked, momentarily lost for words as she marshalled an impassioned argument to use against him when he denied the validity of her plan. Lord Henry’s lips curled a little at her obvious discomfort, but he had the wisdom to suppress too obvious a smile.
‘But there is no need for you to consider an hotel. Nor, as you say, would it be proper for you to stay at Faringdon House in the present climate—it is not fitting. I sha
ll myself go to London and I shall rent a house. I make you free of it. Rather than the Baxendales, you may sit down to breakfast with me instead!’
‘You?’ Her brows rose in sharp disbelief. ‘But you are returning to America!’
‘No. I think not. I cannot leave you with this situation unresolved. My departure for America can wait.’
‘I do not need your help!’ Temper flared again in the sun-drenched room. She would not be beholden to this man who had kissed her into desire and then rejected her! She would not come to depend on him again!
‘So you informed me yesterday. You appear to have a very low opinion of my abilities and my priorities, my lady!’ Henry noted her guilty flush with some satisfaction and drove the point home. ‘But this is not merely for you. My brother’s good name is in the balance. And my nephew’s legal recognition.’ For some elusive reason, as he looked at Eleanor and the child before him, recognising her utter determination to discover the truth, he suddenly had no doubts about his own convictions. The Baxendales, for some devious reason known only to themselves, had concocted a series of lies and deceits. He lifted a hand to stroke one gentle finger down the baby’s satin cheek.
The result both surprised and unsettled him. Tom ignored the gesture and continued to grasp the black satin ribbon on his mother’s dress with fierce and destructive concentration. The Marchioness took the smallest of steps back, a subtle movement and yet very obvious to Lord Henry. As was the fleeting emotion that clouded her eyes. He thought it was fear—yet could not imagine why. He was no threat to her or to her son. Stifling a sigh, he accepted that it was simply another mystery in the complicated weave but must be put aside until the more immediate concern with Octavia Baxendale had been dealt with. Henry deliberately lowered his hand, but not his eyes from Eleanor’s face, which was now flushed with rose.
‘I need to know that the inheritance of this family is in the correct hands, you see, even if those hands are still very small and as yet incapable of handling the reins,’ he stated quietly. ‘And I think the matter deserves some investigation. I cannot leave.’
‘But I cannot agree.’ Mrs Stamford stood her ground. ‘I have told my daughter that hers is a foolish idea. She could stay in residence here. To be turned out of her own home is insupportable. Besides, it is not seemly that she should put up in your rented property in London, my lord.’
‘And why in God’s name not?’ Lord Henry’s brows snapped into a dark bar of extreme exasperation, temper finally escaping his control. He had had enough of his family for one day and it was hardly mid-morning. ‘I presume you will accompany her ladyship to London, ma’am? Does she need more of a chaperon than her own mother? And what the devil do you expect for her at my hands? That living under my protection will sully her reputation? The Marchioness is under no danger from me! Your comment, ma’am, is as uninformed as it is insulting, to me and to your daughter.’
The brutal statement was met with stunned silence. Nicholas turned away to hide a smile. Eleanor looked as startled as her mother. Lord Henry was not normally given to such a show of emotion.
‘Well… I never intended to suggest… I did not think that… But how can you have agreed to the Baxendales taking possession of Faringdon House?’ Mrs Stamford was flustered, but reluctant to admit defeat and pursued her quarry with more energy than sensitivity.
‘What do you suggest?’ The reply was immediate, biting. ‘That we get to haggling over property at a time like this? As if we were in the market place? I think not!’
‘Of course not. I never—’
‘No. Perhaps you did not. But your thoughts were not complimentary to a lady who already has enough to contend with, without her mother casting doubts on the morals and motives of members of the Faringdon family!’ Then, before anyone could recover from so direct an attack, Lord Henry addressed his next words to Eleanor in quite a different voice. ‘I think it is an excellent idea. See to your luggage, ma’am. We leave early tomorrow morning. You, too, Nicholas,’ which effectively wiped the smile from Nick’s face.
‘But I thought it might be better if…’
‘No, it wouldn’t.’ His lordship’s voice was now clipped. ‘You are not going to escape a short visit to town, so save your breath. I have need of you in London, little brother. We have a campaign to wage!’
Eleanor looked from one to the other of the Faringdon brothers. Their determination, their confident air of authority, the implacable manner in which they undertook whatever they set their mind on, touched her heart after all. Yes. She would join her efforts to theirs. They gave her more hope than she could have dreamed of. And Hal was not going back to America. Not yet! She hugged the thought to herself as she hugged her precious son, even as she reprimanded herself for her foolishness. Henry had defended her before her mother. Perhaps he would not abandon her, whatever the outcome of the case. ‘I will not go without Tom, you understand,’ she informed Henry, looking again for disagreement, perversely unwilling to appear too compliant. ‘He comes with me.’
Henry sighed and ran a hand through his hair at the prospect of arranging transport for a large party. The unnerving experience of being regarded by two identical pairs of deep lavender eyes, one openly critical, the other innocently curious, decided the matter for him. ‘I suppose you must. Very well. I will arrange for the cleaning of the chaise. Be so good as to inform the stables, Nick. Be ready tomorrow morning, ladies.’
The Faringdon family was rapidly ensconced in a smart and stylish town house in Park Lane in the most fashionable part of London. By no means as spacious or as elegantly furnished as Faringdon House in Grosvenor Square, and lacking all personal touches, of course, yet it was proclaimed sufficient for their needs, even by Mrs Stamford, who was initially prepared to dislike it on sight. The proportions and furnishings of the main withdrawing-room, smaller parlours and reception rooms were declared adequate, the bedrooms comfortable, the furnishings suitably tasteful if a little bland. The address, of course, could not be bettered. The matter of staff was ably dealt with by Marcle, who had accompanied them, despite the state of his arthritic joints, and took charge of the lower regions with seamless competence. Eleanor did not bother to marvel at the speed or the smooth efficiency of the whole operation. If she did, she would have to allow considerable credit to Lord Henry who, she considered, carried it off with typical high-handed arrogance—and faultless style. But she was grateful. It was easier to take the comfort and concern for her well-being for granted and simply accept it when more momentous issues were to be faced.
The following morning, after persuading Mrs Stamford with a tact and a remarkable patience, which surprised everyone, that her presence was not essential to the success of the operation, Lord Henry escorted the Marchioness to the chambers of Hoskins and Bennett. Mr Edward Hoskins, a gentleman of advanced years and wide experience, had enjoyed the confidence and management of the legal affairs of the Faringdon family for many years, but his welcome on this chilly morning did not hold much pleasure for his noble employers. The low clouds, Eleanor surmised, accurately reflected the mood of everyone in the dusty, book-lined, wood-panelled room off Fleet Street.
‘My lord. My lady.’ The lawyer ushered them in with every consideration and saw to their comfort, pouring a glass of canary for Lord Henry and ratafia for the Marchioness, even though no one had the heart for refreshment. ‘What can I say? I could never have believed that such an occasion as this would arise in my lifetime. And certainly not with respect to your family, my lord, so correct and respectable as they have always been in my lengthy experience.’
He took Eleanor’s black-gloved hand and pressed it in fatherly concern before taking his position behind his document-strewn desk. Such a lovely lady to be faced with the possibility of so much future heartache! And the Marquis of Burford had always struck him as a most conscientious young man. Mr Hoskins frowned down at the pages before him, hoping that Lord Henry could be relied upon to deal with the situation in a fitting manner. He
knew little of the gentleman other than that he had left the country to seek his fortune—but this was sure to be a true test of his character. He glanced up under heavy brows at Lord Henry who stood behind the Marchioness’s chair, a hint of the protective in his stance despite the lack of physical connection, noting the stern lines of his handsome face, the implacable will expressed in the cold grey eyes. Mr Hoskins suppressed a shudder. He would not care to make an enemy of this man. He trusted that the absent Sir Edward knew what he was undertaking.
‘Sir Edward Baxendale and Miss Baxendale have been to see you, I surmise.’ Lord Henry lost no time in broaching the delicate subject, meeting the crux of the matter head on.
‘Indeed they have, my lord. Yesterday afternoon. A most personable pair, I might add, in spite of the reason for their appointment. I have heard their story and I have seen the documents. In fact, I have them here in my possession.’ He laid his hand on them on his desk, as if with a degree of distaste for their content. ‘Sir Edward left them so that I might check their authenticity.’
‘And your opinion, sir? No dissimulation, I beg.’ Lord Henry cast a quick glance at Eleanor’s impassive features. ‘I fear that they bear the mark of validity.’
Mr Hoskins noted again the strained but composed features of the Marchioness. She sat perfectly still to hear her fate, but her fingers, closed around the strings of the reticule on her lap, were bone white from the pressure.
‘I believe that the documents are legal.’ Mr Hoskins stated the matter without inflection. ‘The marriage and the birth are recorded, as you are aware. It is simple enough to check the existence of the church and the priest concerned, and thus the signatures—which I am in process of doing. The marriage would appear to have existed.’
‘And the witnesses?’
‘Sir Edward himself, and Lady Mary Baxendale, their mother, were witnesses of the marriage. Lady Mary is now unfortunately deceased.’
Lord Henry nodded, keeping Eleanor under his close surveillance. ‘So tell me, Mr Hoskins, in your legal opinion, where does her ladyship stand?’
