by Anne O'Brien
‘But I believe that you can.’ Lord Henry’s voice was cool and flat, revealing nothing.
‘Very well. I will do what I can. Please sit. Perhaps I can offer you a glass of wine?’ He stretched out his hand towards the bell-pull to summon Molly.
‘No. This is by no mean a social call, sir.’ But they took the offered chairs.
‘So, my lords.’ The Reverend Broughton lowered himself carefully to his own armed chair, his pale eyes moved between the two, but with no hint of discomfort or apprehension. No premonition of what was to come.
He is very sure of himself! Will he be willing to admit the truth, when we have no firm evidence? Only gossip and supposition that will prove nothing? Henry smothered the doubts, refusing to believe that they would fail in their mission. Too much hung on their success.
‘It would appear that you have something of a reputation in town, sir.’ Nicholas opened the conversation.
‘I don’t follow…’ For the first time there were the faintest shadows of strain at the corners of the priest’s mouth. His lips thinned marginally.
‘I should tell you that after my brother’s recent visit, I made it my business to ask questions in London.’ Nicholas crossed one leg nonchalantly over the other. He might have been discussing the weather. ‘Your name is well known, but perhaps not in the best of circles for the most altruistic of reasons.’ He allowed his lips to curve in a faint but humourless smile. ‘Some of my acquaintances were very ready to gossip about you, despite your position in the Establishment.’
‘I fail to see… What do you imply, my lord?’ Broughton picked up the pen from the desk, turning it in his fingers, as he kept his enquiry calm. ‘My acquaintance in London is small. I cannot imagine that my infrequent visits make me an object of interest to anyone.’
‘The word, sir, is that you are in debt. That you have a name for gambling, for hard drinking. And for unsavoury relations with certain women. Not what one would expect from a man of the church, I venture to suggest.’
‘And you would give credence to such slanders? Accuse me without giving me a hearing?’ The man to whom they had so casually tossed their accusations remained cold, austere, a man of principle, with just a touch of arrogance. He raised his chin to look down his aristocratic nose, his lips thinned with displeasure. ‘There is no truth in it. And what possible bearing could this…this gossip have on your interest in the marriage at which I officiated?’ The Reverend Broughton appeared to be genuinely stunned and outraged—until it was noted that his hands had clenched around the quill, to its detriment. ‘It surprises me that you, my lord, would so willingly believe the gutter-sweepings of society gossip. Mere empty-headed nothings, without proof or conscience. And what business is it of yours? What right have you to interfere in my private affairs?’ Broughton suddenly rose to his feet as if he could sit no longer, throwing down the pen as he did so, regardless of the spray of black ink that spread across the sheet of paper before him. There were high spots of colour on his cheekbones now. Of ill-concealed rage.
‘I am not sure what bearing the gossip has yet,’ Lord Henry chose to answer, his response as controlled as the priest’s was not. ‘But I think it will. You lied to me, sir.’
‘Lied? I think not.’
‘The marriage of Octavia to my brother.’ He produced a copy of the document and laid it on the desk between them. ‘It never happened, did it? This is a copy of your fraudulent document—bearing your signature—of an event that never happened.’
‘You have no proof of that. On what grounds do you claim that the marriage never took place?’ Cold anger burned in his eyes and he kept them fixed unwaveringly on the man who challenged his authority. ‘You can have no proof!’
‘No. I do not.’ Henry admitted the fact with bland and unnerving assurance. ‘But I do have proof that Sir Edward Baxendale is not Octavia’s brother. That her true name is not Baxendale but Broughton, so that her name as written in the document is a fraud. And that therefore, I suppose by pure exercise of logic, you are Octavia’s brother. If you are prepared to lie about that, then you would hardly balk at perjury over the matter of my brother’s supposed marriage.’
Broughton had not expected this. His face paled, his breathing becoming shallow as he weighed the words spoken against him in such unemotional terms, but yet his voice calmed, his self-control remaining intact.
‘A ridiculous notion.’ He sat again and spread his hands. They had no proof! ‘You can see the family resemblance between Octavia and Sir Edward. It is very clear.’
‘No. I disagree. It is merely a matter of fair colouring. Indeed, it is the same as your own.’
‘You have no proof.’ Broughton fell back on denial.
‘Oh, but I have.’ Nick tried not to glance across at his brother at Henry’s unexpected statement. It must be a bluff! He hoped it would work. ‘Did I not tell you?’ There was now an unmistakable undercurrent of menace in Henry’s voice. His eyes were glacial and without mercy. ‘Another lady travelled here with me today. An older lady. I have left her at the Red Lion, recovering from the journey. She claims acquaintance with you, Reverend Broughton.’
‘Really?’ His lips curled in a sneer of disbelief. ‘And who might this ill-advised lady be?’
‘My aunt. Lady Beatrice Faringdon. She remembers the Season when Octavia was presented into society very well since her own daughter made her curtsy to the polite world at the same time. She remembers my brother’s flirtation with Octavia. And she remembers Octavia’s brother who accompanied her to London. It was not Sir Edward. It was yourself, sir.’
‘I deny it. How could she make such a false statement! It was four years ago!’
‘Lady Beatrice has an excellent memory. She recalls that Octavia’s name on that occasion was Broughton. If I escort her here, I am sure that she would instantly recognise you as Octavia’s brother. She certainly had no recollection of Sir Edward Baxendale. Would you care to wager against it? As much as the 2,000 guineas which you owe Spalding? It would be a far safer bet for me than any wager which you might risk on the turn of the cards in vingt-et-un.’
Broughton said nothing, but sank back into his seat as if he needed the support, his hands clasping the edge of the desk in a vice-like grip. He contemplated the ruin of his life, spelled out in Lady Beatrice Faringdon’s words of recognition.
‘I suggest that this whole sorry affair is a sham, a cunning trick to take control of the Faringdon title and the inheritance.’ Henry continued to hammer the nails into the priest’s coffin. ‘Thomas did not marry Octavia. You put your name to a false document.’
The statement was again met with silence. The Reverend Broughton took a deep and ragged breath as failure and social condemnation stared him in the face through the implacable eyes of Henry Faringdon.
‘So, do we agree? This is not a genuine document. Or do I need to escort Lady Beatrice here to convince you?’
‘No. There is no need.’ The response was soft but quite clear. ‘The document is not genuine.’
‘Then the marriage never took place? You admit it?’
‘The marriage never took place.’ Broughton stared at his hands as if seeking an answer that would release him from the repercussions of his actions, but found none. His lips barely moved but he spoke the words. ‘It never happened.’
‘And are you willing to sign a declaration to that effect, sir?’
That brought the priest’s head up, his eyes narrowed, a faint wash of panic.
‘And if I do not?’
‘If you do not, I would make it my business to spread the details of your dubious and scandalous affairs and your lack of integrity. I doubt that your position in the Church would remain secure in the light of such damning revelations.’
‘Have I an alternative?’
‘No.’
‘Then I must.’
He pulled a clean sheet of paper towards him, picked up the pen, dipped it and began to write. For the next several minutes, the only s
ound in the room was the scratching of the quill on paper. When it was done, apart from the signature, Broughton looked up to find Faringdon’s eyes on him. Questioning. Stark with contempt.
‘Well?’
‘Why did you do it?’ Henry asked.
‘Think about it.’ Broughton laughed, a harsh sound in the sun-washed room. ‘A fool could work it out—and you are no fool, Lord Henry. I am in debt to a sum far beyond my income. As your brother intimated, there is a shadow of scandal over my life. I am not proud of it, but neither will I grovel.’ He shrugged his careless acceptance, without compunction. ‘But it means that I am open to blackmail.’
‘Sir Edward?’
‘Of course. I am not the villain in this piece, much as you might wish to believe it. Sir Edward owns this living, which brings me a meagre income. Thus he holds me in the palm of his hand. To crush or to give freedom. If I agreed to support his claim to your family inheritance, he promised me security of tenure and money to pay off my debts and keep the style of life that I enjoy. If I did not…I would be destitute. He had the whip hand and I merely bowed to the stronger force. I would do the same again tomorrow given similar circumstances.’
‘But now I hold the whip hand.’ The curve of Henry’s lips was not pleasant. ‘So which is it to be? Sir Edward or myself?’
Broughton shrugged again. ‘It seems to me that I am damned if I do, and damned if I don’t. An interesting position for a priest to find himself in, I think! But I know that you will carry out your threat.’ He read the determination in his lordship’s face and gave a brief nod. ‘I will sign to repudiate my actions.’
‘Then do it.’
He did, with a final flamboyant sweep of the pen across the white surface, flinging the quill down at the end as if it burned his fingers.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Henry stood, bowed with heavy mockery and retrieved the copy of the marriage document and Broughton’s written confession, folding them carefully and stowing them in his inner pocket. ‘I doubt that we will need to meet again. I fervently hope that it will not be necessary. I will leave you to work out your own salvation with Sir Edward, and wish you well of each other.’
He walked to the door. Then hesitated and looked back.
‘Why did you do it?’ He frowned his incomprehension and his bitter disdain. ‘How could you allow your sister to be used in this plot by Sir Edward? A young girl, easily manipulated by a stronger will. How could you allow it, even with the promise of money to pay your debts and a roof over your head? In effect, you sold your sister into Baxendale’s hands to be used for his own purposes. It is despicable for a man to stoop so low.’
‘I had little choice in it. How could you possibly understand?’ Broughton was also standing, still the epitome of the cultured, educated cleric. He laughed bitterly. ‘It is true that Octavia is my sister—but that is not all. She is also Sir Edward’s wife!’
‘His wife!’
‘His wife. And has been for some little time.’ The sneer on the priest’s face was heavily marked. ‘Which left me with no power whatsoever over his dealings with her.’
Henry looked at Nicholas, his gaze inscrutable, then back at the priest. ‘So you told us the truth! You said that you officiated at a marriage at which Sir Edward was present. He was, of course. But not as witness.’
‘Edward married her. Octavia’s name truly is Baxendale. And, whatever your presumption, there was no force involved in her relationship with her husband. Octavia is a biddable girl and quite content with her lot. I do not believe that obeying her husband in this affair has been difficult for her.’
Henry weighed the words carefully. They had the ring of truth. It was easy for the priest to shift the blame.
‘Then God forgive you, for I cannot.’ He bit out the words. ‘You have no remorse and deserve to be cast into the fires of hell. You do not know the pain you have caused to an innocent woman.’ He turned his back and walked out of the Reverend Broughton’s library.
Chapter Nine
‘His wife?’
Eleanor was incredulous, her voice rising, brows arched in amazement. Whatever she had expected from the visit to Whitchurch, it was not that.
‘Octavia is Edward’s wife,’ Lord Henry confirmed. ‘She was never married to Thomas. Your marriage is recognised in the eyes of the church and the law. You are, without any doubt, Marchioness of Burford.’
Eleanor and Henry faced each other across the morning room in Park Lane. The hour was nearing midnight, the ladies had already been retired for the night, the house quiet with only one branch of candles left by a conscientious Marcle to illuminate the hallway for the late arrivals. But on their return from Whitchurch, Henry knew that Eleanor would need to know the truth, no matter how late the hour. It would be cruelty indeed to withhold it. So, lingering only to strip off his greatcoat and gloves, whilst Nicholas returned the curricle and horses to their stabling at Faringdon House, Henry sought what promised to be an emotional audience with his brother’s widow.
She now stood before him. It was clear that she had been awaiting their return, unable to rest, unable to sleep. He had not even needed to knock on her door. Now she waited, frozen into immobility, the heavy lace robe falling from throat to floor as she steeled her mind to hear and accept her fate. Her hair curled in a rich bronze mantle onto her breast, ends tipped with gold by the subdued candlelight, drawing his eyes to her soft curves. He could imagine that hair, as he had seen it, and saw in his dreams, pooling on his pillow, the sensuous silk of it curling onto his chest as she bent over him to lower her lips to his. He would have given the world at that moment to have the right to take her to his bed, to tell her the result of his journey as she lay in his arms, replete from the demands of his body, but pushed the thought away. Instead he stood at a little distance, watching her carefully as she took in the import of his words. Her eyes were huge, glazed with shock at first, but now the flicker of hope gave them an inner glow. She stood motionless, her mind focused somewhere far beyond him, weighing the repercussions.
‘I thought you would wish to know tonight. You might rest easier for the knowledge. You can sleep again, knowing that your son cannot be disinherited.’ He took a step back, away from the candlelight, so that she could not read his expression.
‘Yes. Oh, yes. Thank God!’ Without thought beyond the deluge of relief and gratitude that threatened to overturn her delicate control, she covered the stretch of Aubusson carpet between them and stretched out her hands to him. He simply had to take them in his own clasp. How could he possibly reject her? Drawing her closer so that their joined hands rested against his chest, even though his instinct warned him to keep his distance. But he could not.
‘How can I ever thank you?’ She tightened her grip, oblivious to their closeness, to his own struggle for mastery of his desires, and smiled up into his face. ‘And my child? Is Tom truly safe?’
Henry took a deep breath in an attempt to restore some semblance of order to his thundering heart, without any noticeable effect. Surely she would feel the harsh rhythm that shook him to the core? But he kept his voice calm and unemotional in the eye of the whirlwind that prompted him to sweep her into his arms, to kiss her until all the sadness and heartbreak was finally obliterated. ‘The child’s inheritance is secure since you were Thomas’s legitimate and only wife. The Reverend Broughton was persuaded to put his signature to his own confession, repudiating the documents presented to Hoskins by Sir Edward Baxendale.’
‘Tell me why… How did it happen? How were you able to make Julius Broughton admit to such treachery?’
Henry drew her to the little couch, pushing her gently to sit and taking his own place beside her. He might resist taking her in his arms, but he would not willingly forgo his possession of her hands, which still clung to him as if he were indeed a life-line in a storm. Her hands were trembling with the force of the relief, but she did not let go.
Henry explained, simply and lucidly, the content of the audience with Octav
ia’s brother, the Reverend Julius Broughton, detailing all that he had revealed.
‘So there we have it.’ He smiled a little as relief and triumph chased each other across her lovely face.
‘So. Sir Edward blackmailed him into forging the documents.’ Eleanor frowned at the news, looking down at their joined hands. ‘I did not like him. But I would never have thought him guilty of that. All the pain and turmoil he has caused. I know that he has admitted his fault—but I do not think I could ever forgive him. Or Sir Edward. Or those who turned their backs on me and wished me ill.’ She glanced up, a bitter little smile twisting her lips, which touched his heart. ‘You have no idea how vindictive I can feel when I think of the willingness of those friends to listen to poisonous unsubstantiated gossip. It shames me—but I cannot resist it.’
‘It need not shame you, dear Eleanor.’ He encircled her wrists with strong fingers, caressing the soft inner skin where the blood pulsed against his gentle clasp. ‘A great wrong was committed against you. But it is over now. You must try to forget it and live out the rest of your life, secure in your social position, as if your status had never been questioned.’
‘I think it will be difficult. I feel as if my good name and my position within the Faringdon family has been called into question and I have been left feeling—ashamed and unworthy.’
‘I know it. But your family—those closest to you and those who knew my brother Thomas well—they never had any doubts.’
‘No. You did not, I know.’ She glanced up at him, a little shy, a little unsure.
‘No. How could I?’
‘Forgive me, Hal. I could weep.’ She loosened one of her hands to brush a tear from her cheek. ‘Even though the relief is great, I feel sad. Perhaps it is reaction. Perhaps I should be singing with joy!’ Her laugh was a little tremulous.
‘You need to sleep. You will feel better tomorrow. There is one thing, Eleanor.’ His words were very gentle. ‘It should not be a problem, but it would be as well if you were prepared.’
