The Disgraced Marchioness

by Anne O'Brien

  Hoskins sighed. It would not be good news. ‘There is nothing that I can tell you that you do not already know, my lord. The estate is entailed on the eldest son. A jointure is established for the widow to ensure her comfort for the rest of her life. The Marquis your husband, my lady, made no further will other than to give the trusteeship, if necessary on his death, into the hands of Lord Henry and Lord Nicholas and myself. He would not expect his untimely death at such an early age and so felt no compulsion to outline his wishes in more detail. If Miss Baxendale is proved to be the legal wife of the Marquis, then there is no legal recognition or provision for yourself, my lady, or your son.’ He gave her the title, although now so clearly in doubt, through courtesy and compassion, his heart going out to the innocent woman who sat before him as if engraved in stone. ‘The recipient of the widow’s jointure will be Miss Baxendale,’ he concluded, ‘the Marchioness of Burford, I should say, not yourself. And the heir to the estate is the legitimate child of that marriage, John.’

  ‘I see.’ Eleanor felt as if the walls were closing in on her. She fought to stave off the blackness that threatened to encroach and rob her of all sense. Then, through the mists, she became aware of a warm hand on her shoulder, a firm pressure. The heat spread through the black silk of her spencer to reassure and comfort. As she turned her head to look up, there could be no doubting the depth of understanding in Lord Henry’s face as he willed her to be strong. For one moment she covered his hand with her own and struggled to smile in reassurance.

  It almost broke his heart.

  His voice was harsh as he spoke again to the lawyer. ‘Do you truly believe that my brother married Octavia Baxendale some three years ago, sir?’

  ‘I do not like it, my lord. But on the face of it, yes. I am unable to argue against the evidence.’

  So there it was. Eleanor covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Forgive me, my lord, my lady. I would never willingly cause you such pain. If there is anything I can do…’

  Lord Henry took Eleanor’s arm in a firm hold, encouraging her to rise to her feet, then tucked her hand within his arm. She obeyed as if in a trance, all her hopes and dreams for the future destroyed. He fixed Hoskins with a flat stare. ‘Will you be so kind as to do one thing for us, sir? Sir Edward claimed that an annual sum was paid to Miss Baxendale from the date of her marriage. A substantial amount, it would seem, to ensure her complicity in keeping the marriage secret. Is there any trace of such a sum being paid from the estate finances? I have asked the agent to look at the estate accounts at Burford Hall. It would be interesting to know if and when any large amounts of money were paid out and apparently unaccounted for.’

  ‘I will certainly do that, my lord. But if there is no evidence of such, it may not prove that they were not made, of course.’

  ‘I know. But it is a start and the best we can do.’

  They returned home in pensive and uncomfortable silence, in a hackney that Lord Henry hailed outside the lawyer’s rooms, to relay the depressing results of their morning’s endeavours to Mrs Stamford and Nicholas who awaited their return.

  ‘It is as we feared.’ Lord Henry stripped off his greatcoat and strode into the front parlour to pour glasses of port. ‘The documents would appear to be legally binding.’

  Eleanor handed her spencer, gloves and bonnet to Marcle and followed, determined to hold herself together. Henry cast one glance in her direction and stalked to her side to take her hand in a firm hold. ‘It would be better if you sat before you fall to the floor.’ His tone was harsh to cover the depth of his feelings for her. She looked so fragile, the impression enhanced by her black gown. Lost and vulnerable. He suppressed the fury that surged within him as he saw the result of their morning’s work and felt the uncontrollable trembling in the hand that, for a brief moment, clung to his. ‘Here.’ He held out the glass of port. ‘Drink this. Don’t argue with me, just do it. You have had a most distressing morning, perhaps the worst hour of your life. It is not weakness to admit it and take a little stimulation!’

  Eleanor looked up into his face, her eyes betraying her inner fears. She looked stricken—he realised that she must indeed be so, if she was willing to lay her emotions bare before him. All he wished to do was sit beside her and pull her into his arms to shield her from the cruelties of the world. Anything to smooth away the look of helpless desolation.

  ‘Don’t give up yet. This is only the first hurdle. We shall come about.’

  Tears threatened at his gentle words but she would not, determined to keep her voice calm and composure intact. She sat at the pressure of his hand and obediently took the glass. ‘But what hope is there? You heard what Mr Hoskins had to say. Thomas was in all probability wedded to Octavia Baxendale at least a year before I even knew him.’

  ‘I am not convinced, in spite of the evidence to the contrary.’ Lord Henry tossed back the port as if he needed it and poured another glass. ‘Let us start from the opposite premise. That the claim is false. Consider this. If the whole venture is nothing but a deliberate trickery, a charade, why would they embark on such a risky enterprise in the full view of the haut ton? If they fail, and so are unmasked as frauds, the result will be a disaster for them. So what motives would they have to risk all on the turn of a card?’

  ‘Money!’ Nicholas stated without hesitation.

  ‘Social consequence?’ Eleanor suggested.

  ‘The title!’ Mrs Stamford added in flat tones.

  ‘Money would seem to me to be the strongest motivation.’ Henry cast himself into the chair opposite his brother. ‘I wonder about the financial circumstances of the Baxendales.’

  ‘An easy enough matter to discover, surely?’ Nicholas lifted his brows.

  ‘Do you believe,’ Eleanor asked, considering a matter that had worried her since the first meeting at Burford Hall, ‘that Miss Baxendale is strong enough to have stood against her brother if he wanted her to reveal her marriage to the world? Sir Edward said that she refused to do so when Thomas contracted to marry me, in spite of his persuasion to the contrary. Do you really believe it? She seems so biddable.’

  ‘She might. If she loved my brother enough.’ Henry acknowledged the point. ‘But she is certainly not made of stern stuff. I think that we should get to know Miss Baxendale a little better. And perhaps without the presence of her more forceful brother. There is a role for you, Eleanor! You will not like it, I dare say, but I think you should further your acquaintance with Octavia.’

  ‘But she is in black gloves.’ Mrs Stamford pushed herself to the edge of her seat in horror. ‘It is not yet six months since dear Thomas died. It is not fitting that Eleanor start going about in society. What will people say? I cannot condone a plan of action which would result in the Marchioness of Burford being considered fast. How can you suggest it?’ Her eyes locked with Lord Henry’s in accusation. ‘I suppose that such casual ways are acceptable in New York…’ she sniffed ‘…but they are not considered respectable in London!’

  Henry turned his glittering gaze on Mrs Stamford without compunction. ‘I both can and will suggest it. And I will suggest even more outrageous action. I think that you, Eleanor, should put off your full mourning and begin to go about a little. There is no hint of scandal yet, but there will be, and without doubt it will take the Polite World by storm. It is too salacious a story to keep quiet.’ His lips thinned at the disagreeable prospect. ‘We shall soon find that we are living our lives under full public scrutiny and, however unpleasant, I think we must not be seen to be in hiding over this matter. We should go about as normal, make no comment, presume that Eleanor is without question the Marchioness of Burford, and I think that you should try for an intimate relationship with the fair Octavia. If she wishes to confide her troubles, you should be available with a sympathetic ear! I am not asking your daughter to attend a full dress ball!’ he informed Eleanor’s outraged parent. ‘Merely to show herself and the child in public a little and pay some private visits.’


  ‘That should be an interesting development!’ For the first time that day, Eleanor managed a faint smile, appreciative of the plan. ‘It is better to be active than afraid. I will do it.’ Sipping the port, which restored colour to her ashen cheeks, she signalled her agreement. ‘We should go about as if nothing were amiss. And I will put off my mourning.’ She frowned as her mama prepared to interrupt. ‘Better to be fast than a pawn at the whim of Sir Edward Baxendale.’

  ‘Good.’ Lord Henry had to admit to some relief. And a quiet satisfaction at the success of his scheming, which had effectively removed the stricken look from Eleanor’s eyes. Action, as she had observed, would take her mind from the anguish of her situation. Besides, Eleanor’s involvement would be all-important to the ultimate success of their campaign. ‘And it will give the interested something to consider when the gossips turn their attention to the Faringdon Scandal.’

  ‘What do we say if we are asked why we are not putting up at Faringdon House?’ Mrs Stamford enquired, still unwilling to capitulate. ‘It will be sure to cause comment.’

  ‘Say that it is no one’s affair but our own!’ Exasperation cloaked his lordship, a heavy cloud. ‘Say that redecoration is being undertaken—if anyone has the temerity to question a Faringdon on so personal an issue. That the noise and dust is too much for a young child. And since I am returned to London and have hired a house for the Season, I have put it at your disposal. Leave the Baxendales to make their own comments on the situation. If we remain calm and confident, the speculators will not know what to believe.’

  Which, Eleanor thought, appeared to be his answer to every difficulty that arose. She could not help but be impressed, and terrified, as she found herself suddenly embroiled in little less than a form of war strategy. She felt a twinge of sympathy for Napoleon when faced with the determination of the Duke of Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo. Lord Henry appeared to have a very similar approach to such matters. Arrogance and a gift for detailed strategy.

  ‘Meanwhile—’ Henry had not finished but directed his keen gaze on his brother ‘—you, Nick, can visit the gentleman’s clubs, starting with St James’s Street. Find out where, if any, Sir Edward is a member. See if you can discover whether he gambles heavily. And, most particularly, if he is in debt.’

  ‘Thank you, Hal! And how do you suggest that I discover such sensitive information?’ Nicholas finished off the rest of the port in his glass and rose to his feet.

  ‘Use your initiative, Nick. I am sure you can encourage the gossips.’

  ‘Very well.’ He walked to the door. ‘I had better change into something suitable for such esteemed company as the Bow Window Set at White’s. Not how I would have chosen to spend the day, but I will do my poor best. Perhaps I will look up Kingstone—he usually has his fingers on the pulse and is not beyond a heavy wager himself. And is never at a loss for the on dit of the moment.’

  ‘I wish you well. Let us hope that our own situation does not reach his ears any time soon!’ Henry grimaced at the prospect as Nicholas raised his hand in acknowledgement of the comment and made his exit with reluctant intent. ‘Meanwhile you and I, Eleanor, and you too if you wish it, ma’am…’ he glanced towards Mrs Stamford ‘…are going to pay an afternoon visit on Cousin Judith.’

  ‘Lady Painscastle? What has she to do with this fiasco? The fewer people to know, the better, I would have thought!’ Once again, Mrs Stamford frowned her objections.

  ‘You must know Judith well enough to appreciate the advantage of having her as a member of this family,’ his lordship replied again with commendable but hard-won patience. ‘Her social life is hectic, I remember, and little passes her keen eye or ear, unless she has changed beyond recognition since I saw her last. It seems to me that Octavia must have come out in the spring of 1812. If my memory serves me well, so did Judith. I have no recollection of Octavia at any of the Season’s main events, but Judith might. Thomas and I squired her to any number of incredibly tedious parties, balls and soirées when she was intent on fixing her interest with Simon Painscastle. Perhaps she will remember Miss Baxendale making her formal curtsy to society. And, more to the point, if there was any obvious close relationship developing between Thomas and the lady. Judith, I believe, is quite our best source of gossip.’

  ‘An excellent idea.’ Mrs Stamford’s face brightened as she saw the value of the connection and so allowed a complete volte-face. ‘Lady Painscastle is a lively and eminently sensible young woman. She might indeed have noticed something between the pair—which you did not.’ Thus Mrs Stamford damning the inadequacy of the whole male race.

  ‘Do you agree, my lady?’ Henry took the empty glass from Eleanor’s hand, noting the return of colour to her face. ‘It might be a painful encounter.’

  ‘It might.’ She stood and raised her chin. He nodded at the air of determination and the bright sparkle in her eyes. She did not lack for courage, no matter the odds. ‘I shall be ready immediately after luncheon.’

  Judith Faringdon, now Countess of Painscastle and most eligibly married to her beloved Simon, was in residence in the family home in Grosvenor Square. She had made an excellent match, with love and affection on both sides, and was now enjoying life as a wealthy and fashionable young woman with all the freedom allowed to a married lady. She was a true redhead with green eyes, both characteristics inherited from her mother, and an abundance of energy all, on this occasion, attractively packaged in an afternoon gown of cream and white muslin. With a pretty face and a lively manner, coupled with an appreciation of the fashions that suited her and a wealthy, well-born husband who adored her and pandered to her every whim, she had entrée into the Polite World. Her love of the pleasures of London was immeasurable. As was her ear for gossip.

  ‘Hal! I did not know of your return. You look wonderfully well. Life in the colonies suits you. I cannot imagine its attraction but…’ She allowed him to kiss her hand and then opened her arms to clasp him in a warm embrace.

  ‘And Nell. Mrs Stamford. A family party, no less. I did not expect…’ She hesitated as she recalled the circumstances. ‘I am so sorry, Nell. Forgive me. I did not mean to be so insensitive or unfeeling. Indeed I did not! I too miss Thomas dreadfully—but life must go on, you know.’ She rambled on. All good humour and welcome, if a little shallow. All in all, it was difficult not to like Lady Painscastle.

  ‘And who have we here?’ She lifted Tom from his mother’s arms and spun him round to his obvious delight, tickling his neck until he chuckled. ‘What a charmer he will be. Another Faringdon, if I am not mistaken, to break our poor female hearts.’ She kissed him enthusiastically. ‘Just look at those dark curls and those eyebrows.’ She frowned at Hal over the baby’s head. ‘And have you broken many hearts in America? I expect so.’

  He flushed, the faintest of colours on his lean cheeks, but otherwise ignored her comment.

  ‘He has your eyes, dear Nell,’ Judith continued. ‘How delightful. Perhaps it is time that I pleased my lord and presented him with a son and heir. You almost tempt me to do so!’

  Out of which artless comment, it was clear that the Faringdon Scandal had not yet reached the Polite World!

  The visitors seated themselves in a cream-and-gold withdrawing-room, stylishly and expensively furnished, tea was served with due ceremony and Tom returned to his mother’s lap, where he proceeded to gnaw the carved ivory head of her parasol with serious intensity.

  ‘You all look very grave.’ Lady Painscastle disposed her embroidered and flounced skirts with casual grace as she surveyed her family.

  ‘Yes. It is a delicate matter, Judith. And not one that we wish to spread around.’ Henry frowned discouragingly at his cousin. ‘I believe that you can help us.’

  ‘You can trust me, dear Henry!’ She smiled winningly. ‘Of course I will help. And I am always discreet.’

  ‘Judith! You are the most incorrigible gossip of my acquaintance.’ Lord Henry could not help but smile at his cousin’s naïvety.

  ‘
But not if it will hurt one of my family.’ And however shallow she might be, they knew Judith was right. It made the forthcoming conversation more bearable.

  ‘Think back to your coming-out, Judith,’ Henry prompted. ‘Four years ago, I think, in the spring of 1812.’

  ‘Yes.’ Judith nodded, lifting up her bone china teacup with an elegant hand. ‘I have been married to dear Simon for three years now.’

  ‘Can you recall a young girl—about your own age. Octavia Baxendale. Fair hair. Blue eyes. A little shorter than you, perhaps. A neat figure. A quiet and unassuming girl, not one to take the town by storm, but pretty enough. She would have been accompanied by her brother and perhaps her mother. I have no recollection of such a female, but you might.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t, Hal! Melissa Charlesworth came out in that year. You were besotted, I remember. I doubt you noticed anyone else!’

  ‘Never!’ His frown was definitely more pronounced.

  ‘You even went to Almack’s, drank tea and lemonade, danced country dances and allowed yourself to be sneered at by the Princess Esterhazy for making a comment about the war or some such taboo subject! You were in love! Until Melissa threw you over—a mere younger son as you were!—and married the Earl of Saltmarshe. She always did have an eye to a fortune, no matter how ugly and old the husband.’

  ‘Never mind that.’ He rose to his feet to pace the room with impatience and perhaps a little unease. Eleanor hid a smile in spite of herself. ‘What about Octavia Baxendale. Do you have any recollection of her?’

  ‘Well, now. Let me think. Perhaps I do recall… But it is so long ago—and Thomas flirted with any number of ladies. I particularly remember one débutante—but she had curls as black and lustrous as a crow’s wing. I believe I envied her, admired her colouring more than my own—foolishly, as Painscastle was quick to reassure me…’