The Disgraced Marchioness

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘You were magnificent. You should feel nothing but pride.’ Henry’s quick glance at Eleanor confirmed his suspicion that the morning had begun to take its toll. If she would admit to it, a headache had begun to build behind her eyes from the strain of smiling and denying the effect of sharp, critical glances.

  He would take her home. He would have liked nothing better than to take her away from London, from the whole sorry mess. To remove the hurt and the humiliation. But he could not. They must face it and defeat it if they were to restore Eleanor to her rightful place in society—and in her own eyes, a matter of even greater importance. Her spirit had been superb, carrying off the morning’s exercise in full public gaze with considerable panache, but the threat of society’s condemnation loomed on the horizon, as threatening as a thunder cloud.

  They turned out of the gates, once more below the imposing façade of Apsley House.

  ‘You did not stop to speak to Melissa Charlesworth,’ Eleanor noted as a landaulet bearing the lady, now the Countess of Saltmarshe and once the object of Henry’s gallantry, passed them with no change in speed.

  ‘I did not see her.’ His voice was surprisingly harsh.

  Eleanor’s brows arched. ‘No?’

  ‘No. She is not important.’

  With which caustic comment Eleanor had to be content.

  Eleanor and Judith arrived, as arranged, at Faringdon House to pay an afternoon call on Octavia Baxendale. The door was opened by Eaton, the Faringdon butler, momentarily lost for words when faced with the mistress of the house come as a visitor on a social call.

  ‘My lady…’ he stammered. ‘It is not fitting that you should remain standing on your own doorstep…’

  Before embarrassment could fall and smother both parties, Judith took the matter in hand, manipulating the situation in a high-handed and confident manner worthy of her mama, Lady Beatrice Faringdon, a lady of considerable presence and force of character, indicating that the Marchioness was staying with Lord Henry who had hired a town house in Park Lane, but only until he returned to America later in the month.

  ‘It is more convenient, you understand!’ But for whom and for what purpose the Countess of Painscastle made no attempt to explain.

  And how was Eaton? As well as ever? And was Sir Edward Baxendale at home? No? How unfortunate… But perhaps Miss Baxendale was receiving visitors? She would no doubt welcome some company, knowing so few people in town! Perhaps Eaton could discover if…

  Eleanor caught Judith’s eye in deep gratitude—and then they were being shown into the familiar red-and-gold-striped withdrawing-room where Miss Baxendale sat alone beside the fireplace, a piece of needlework lying abandoned on the table beside her. The lady sprang to her feet as Eaton introduced the guests with a flourish. He did not know the full background to this development, and although common gossip was rife…he would dearly have loved to listen at the door, except that it was below his dignity. A pleasant enough young lady, Miss Baxendale, but not to compare with the Marchioness, of course. But the word in the town suggested deep doings. He shook his head as he departed for the kitchens to organise tea and inform the members of the servants’ hall that things were afoot upstairs.

  ‘Edward is not at home I am afraid.’ Octavia looked rather nervously from one lady to the other. ‘But if you would care to sit. And take some tea?’

  The faint look of unease that hung about her black-gowned figure suggested that she would rather they did not, but Eleanor came forward in friendly mode with hand outstretched and a smile on her face. There was nothing for Octavia to do but participate in the gentle social occasion with the lady whose social position, it appeared, she had every intention of appropriating for herself.

  ‘We have come to see you, Miss Baxendale, to find how you are settling in,’ Eleanor explained. ‘I trust that we are not disturbing you. And my cousin Judith has come, with whom you might be acquainted.’

  Octavia looked at the lively redhead as they made a polite curtsy. ‘Perhaps… You were Miss Faringdon, were you not? And now the Countess of Painscastle? Pray take a seat.’

  They did so.

  ‘How uncomfortable this is…’ Octavia picked up her embroidery and promptly put it down again, lost for words, unable to raise her eyes above her restless hands.

  ‘But it will not stop us drinking tea together and having a cosy exchange of news.’ Eleanor tried to put the lady at her ease, not for the first time wondering how Thomas could have possibly married this pretty but insipid creature.

  ‘We came out in the same Season, Miss Baxendale.’ Judith smiled encouragingly. ‘I believe that we met at any number of balls and soirées.’

  ‘Yes. I met so many people. But I think…I am sure that I remember you. I came to your coming-out ball in this very house. My aunt and uncle—and my brother, of course—chaperoned me. I remember thinking what a beautiful house it was. I never thought that I should be living here…’ With which ingenuous comment she flushed and turned her head with relief when Eaton and an interested footman brought in the tea.

  The ceremony was performed with nervous competence by Miss Baxendale, the tea was served, and the ladies chatted about a range of inconsequences of fashion and the events offered by London to ladies with a degree of leisure and affluence. Then Judith returned to her reminiscing over the glories of her Seasonal debut, Octavia agreeing and nodding but adding few of her own impressions.

  ‘And how are you spending your time in London now?’ Judith tried for another approach as the conversation dried.

  ‘Sir Edward has been very busy,’ Octavia explained. ‘I have rarely been out.’

  ‘And of course, you are still in mourning.’ Eleanor sympathised with a sad smile, eyes keen and watchful.

  ‘Why, yes…it would not be seemly for me to go about in public to any great degree. I see that you, my lady, have laid aside your black gloves.’ She took in the glory of silver grey with some surprise.

  ‘Indeed I have.’ Eleanor did not elaborate. ‘Have you perhaps driven in the park yet, Miss Baxendale? The days have been very pleasant. And I am sure Sir Edward would drive you to take the air. It would be quite acceptable for you in your situation.’

  ‘No. I have not been beyond the garden.’

  ‘Do you enjoy music or painting? To help to pass the time a little when your brother is from home?’ Judith arched her brows.

  ‘No. I do a little embroidery, as you see.’

  ‘Perhaps you miss your garden in the country. Where is it that you lived?’

  ‘In Whitchurch. And, yes, I miss it so much. The roses will just be coming into bloom. I shall not be there to tend them and wish I was…’ It was the first animation that Octavia Baxendale had shown since her guests had arrived, her whole countenance blooming as did her roses, but only to be stemmed as if she feared an indiscretion. ‘But, of course, it is necessary for me to be here.’

  ‘You must miss it indeed. Now I have no interest at all in gardens, but I understand that it can be a great solace in times of grief.’ Judith put down her teacup and leaned across the little table to pat Octavia’s hand. ‘Eleanor has been telling me about your little son. What a splendid boy he is. Could we perhaps see him? My lord and I are hoping for a child very soon…’ She lowered her lashes in coy anticipation.

  Eleanor hid a smile. Cousin Judith had a remarkable range of skills of which she had been unaware until now.

  ‘Of course.’ Octavia appeared a little surprised that her guests would wish to see her son, but rose to her feet to pull the bell hang beside the fireplace.

  ‘Would you ask Sarah to bring the child down?’ The footman bowed and departed.

  Within minutes the door opened. In came the young woman whom Eleanor had last seen in Burford Hall. Fair and neat with a ladylike composure. Fair enough, perhaps, to be one of the family. A dependent of good birth, Eleanor decided, but most likely fallen on hard times, now holding the hand of the child, John. John Faringdon, if the documents were correct.
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  ‘This is Sarah,’ Octavia said, confirming Eleanor’s impression. ‘She has been my companion and now acts as nurse to John.’ The lady curtsied and released the little boy, who immediately ran to show his mama a wooden boat that he had clasped in his hand. Miss Baxendale patted his head. John thrust the precious possession into her hands, announcing ‘Boat!’ with a disarming smile.

  ‘What a beautiful child.’ Judith held out her hands. ‘Come here, John. Let me see your boat.’

  The child, aware of the possibility of a wider audience, walked shyly to Judith and then gurgled with shocked pleasure when she snatched him up and sat him on her knee. ‘What a handsome boat. And so are you very handsome. All those golden curls and such blue eyes.’ She pinched the end of his nose to make him laugh.

  ‘He is a good child.’ Octavia nodded and smiled as Judith stood him back on his feet when he struggled for freedom and restored his boat to his grasp. With a crow John launched himself back towards Sarah where she had remained beside the door, but, with uncoordinated enthusiasm, fell on the wide expanse of deep turkey carpet. For a second he crouched motionless. Then tears came to his eyes and a sob to his chest.

  ‘There, now,’ Octavia said. ‘You are not very hurt.’ Sarah swooped, picked up the child, kissing his cheek, smoothing away his tears with her hand, crooning to him in a soft voice.

  ‘Is he well?’ Octavia watched the little scene with a graceful turn of her head. So did Eleanor and Judith.

  ‘John took no hurt, ma’am.’

  ‘Perhaps you could take him back to the nursery, Sarah. He tends to get a little excited in company’ she explained to the visitors. ‘It is not good for a child.’

  With a curtsy to the assembled company, Sarah walked to the door, holding the boy close, and left.

  What else should they talk about? Judith tried fashions and the opening of a number of new modistes where the most ravishing hats and gowns could be purchased, but although Octavia was pleasant and smiling, she had little to say and shared little interest in what might or might not be considered de rigueur.

  ‘I believe that it is time we left.’ In desperation Eleanor was about to rise to her feet. ‘My own son will be missing me by now, I expect.’ Then the door opened to admit Sir Edward Baxendale. He greeted his guests with great charm and a warm smile, sat with them and accepted a hand-painted porcelain cup of tea from his sister. The talk encompassed the weather and Judith’s new barouche, which awaited them at the door, but it was noticed that Octavia said no more.

  ‘Well?’ Eleanor and Judith were once again ensconced in the comfort of Judith’s barouche after what could only be described as a frustrating and disappointing afternoon.

  ‘That child is no Faringdon!’ Judith pulled on her gloves with conviction.

  ‘But he is very fair like his mother.’

  ‘Faringdons breed true!’ Judith insisted. ‘Look at your own son. He might have your eyes, but his father’s hair, his nose and mouth are very pronounced. There is no denying his parentage. I swear there is no trace of Thomas in that child!’

  Eleanor flushed and hesitated at Judith’s observations. ‘But that is not proof. You inherited your mother’s red hair and green eyes rather than your father’s features.’

  ‘Very true. But I have the Faringdon nose. And eyebrows. There is no mistaking them. The golden-haired child we have just seen bears no resemblance at all.’

  ‘No. Perhaps not.’ It had to be admitted. ‘She is no doting mother, is she?’ Eleanor commented. ‘That surprised me a little.’

  ‘Ha! Just because you are!’ Judith smiled in understanding. ‘We are not all born to lavish unbounded love and affection on our offspring. He is certainly a healthy child and well cared for.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Eleanor frowned at her recollection of the child’s tears. She would not have been able to ignore them—to allow his nurse to lift and comfort him! ‘I presume that Octavia’s reminiscences of her coming-out were correct?’

  ‘Yes…’ Judith wrinkled her nose ‘…but she does not have much to say, does she?’

  ‘No. And even less when Sir Edward arrived home.’

  They were silent in thoughtful communion as the barouche made its steady way towards Park Lane.

  ‘You know…’ Judith ventured, brow furrowed in thought, ‘Simon would make himself scarce if he knew a party of ladies were gossiping in his withdrawing-room. Wouldn’t Thomas have done the same?’

  ‘Why, yes…I hadn’t thought. Thomas would have gone to the stables until they had all gone! Sir Edward joined us straight away. Why do you think that was?’

  Green eyes met amethyst, their thoughts clear between them.

  ‘But it does not add up to much, does it?’ Eleanor queried. ‘Merely that Sir Edward would prefer his sister not to be alone with visitors.’

  ‘Or is it that he did not wish Octavia be alone with you!’ responded Judith.

  There was no answer to it.

  The two ladies prepared to part company on Eleanor’s doorstep. Judith leaned down from her carriage to where Eleanor stood on the pavement and clasped her hand in firm support.

  ‘Have we proved anything?’ Judith asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Except that Octavia was definitely not Thomas’s usual flirt!’ Judith tightened her hold to enforce her point. ‘It is very difficult to believe, after spending such a tedious half-hour in her company, that he fell in love with her and married her. Whereas I can quite believe that he loved and married you, dear Nell!’

  Eleanor took a breath. ‘Sir Edward said that—’

  ‘Tell me, Nell.’

  ‘When they first came to Burford Hall—when they told us of the whole dreadful complication—Sir Edward said that Thomas forced Octavia to keep their marriage secret because of her lack of rank. That his family would disapprove.’ A line deepened between her fine brows as her mind worried at the problem. ‘But my birth, Judith, is no better than Octavia’s, and I know that the Faringdons would never have chosen someone of so little consequence as myself for Thomas’s bride, however supportive you and Aunt Beatrice might be now that we are faced with this scandal. Yet Thomas followed his own wishes in the face of family opposition and married me with as much public display as he could achieve.’ She smiled a little sadly as she remembered the festivity and ceremonial of her marriage. ‘All I am trying to say is that social standing does not seem to me to be a good enough reason for Thomas to hide Octavia away in the country—if he truly loved her and wished to marry her.’

  Judith had flushed uncomfortably at her companion’s devastatingly accurate reading of family opinion on her marriage to Thomas, but patted Eleanor’s hand, for once all the careless flippancy quite gone from her face. ‘Of course Thomas never married Octavia, dearest Nell. You must never allow yourself to think that. And as for your lack of rank—all I can say is that marrying you was one of the best decisions Thomas made in his whole life.’

  ‘Thank you, Judith.’ A faint smile touched Eleanor’s pale lips. ‘At least that is something for me to hold on to!’

  In the entrance hall Eleanor’s path crossed that of Henry and Nicholas as the two gentlemen prepared to leave the house and look in at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy in New Bond Street before repairing to Brooks’s for a hand or two of whist.

  ‘Any fortune with your visit to the fair Octavia?’

  ‘None. But tell me. If I were entertaining a group of ladies to tea and you arrived home, what would you do?’

  ‘Head for the library and take a glass of port until they have gone.’ Henry’s response took no thought.

  Neither did Nicholas’s. ‘Turn around and go back out to the stables.’

  ‘Thank you. I would expect as much.’ Eleanor nodded her head and proceeded to climb the stairs.

  ‘Did we say the right thing?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘I have no idea. Women can be very uncommunicative—and devious! But I am sure that Eleanor will let us know in her own good tim
e. And since we have no library here in this house…’ Henry turned on his heel towards the door of the morning room ‘…I think I need a glass of port before we depart!’

  Later that evening Henry and Nicholas prepared to visit some of the discreet gaming establishments that opened their doors to those who had bottomless pockets and sought more excitement than the play offered at Brooks’s and White’s. There were any number of them with unmarked doors, opened by black-clad individuals who were careful whom they admitted. Some were more legitimate than others, some more honest, but the stakes were high and the play keen in them all. Some were the haunts of card-sharps, quick to lure young men newly arrived in London into the dubious delights of hazard and macao, where disgrace and ruin waited for the unwary flat. And if point non Plus was reached, it was always possible to patronise the fashionable establishment of Messieurs Howard and Gibbs, who were more than willing to lend at extortionate rates of interest. It might be that Sir Edward passed his evenings in such company. It might be that he had lost heavily and so was now in debt, sufficient that he would be prepared to risk an outrageous plan to get his hands on a vast fortune. It might provide them with a reason why he should put forward such a preposterous claim of marriage on behalf of his sister.

  It proved to be a long evening.

  By the end of it, after numerous hands of whist, reacquaintance with French hazard and roulette and too many glasses of inferior brandy, they had nothing to show for it other than lighter pockets and the lurking prospect of a hangover.

  Sir Edward Baxendale did not spend his evenings or his money in any of the gaming hells they visited.

  ‘So what does Sir Edward do with his time when he is in London?’

  They strolled back to Park Lane in the early hours of the morning.

  ‘Horses?’ Nick suggested. ‘But how we are to discover if he squanders his money on the Turf, I know not. I suppose we could look in at Tattersalls and see if he is known for betting on the horses. We do not know even if he is in debt.’