by Anne O'Brien
‘Then there is no problem, is there, Edward.’ Sarah came to stand quietly beside her brother, to meet his supercilious stare with her own of sorrowful but calm acceptance. ‘Since I am not your servant, the discussion can continue.’
‘What is this?’ he repeated, a tinge of colour now creeping into his face. ‘You are my sister’s companion and nursemaid for the boy. Why are you here?’
‘You cannot continue with this masquerade, Edward. I have told Mr Hoskins the truth and my own shameful part in it.’
‘No. It is not true.’ He looked round, now uneasy, to assess the reaction of the other players in the game.
‘Will you deny your relationship to me, Edward?’ Sarah persisted, quietly but not to be intimidated. ‘Do you deny that you are my brother and that I am no servant of yours?’
‘No…no, of course not.’ He looked across at Lord Henry and then at Hoskins, searching for a way out of the abyss that had suddenly opened up, dark and deadly and totally unexpected, before his feet. ‘Yes, Sarah is my sister, fallen on hard times as a penniless widow. I have given her a home, as companion to my sister Octavia and nurse to the child.’
‘And the child?’ Sarah had no intention of allowing him to escape from the web of deceit that he had so carefully woven to catch the bright prize of the Faringdon inheritance. The web that had entrapped so many innocent people. ‘Do you dare to deny that John is my son, not Octavia’s?’
‘You must understand.’ Sir Edward grasped his sister’s arm, fingers white, as if to silence her, and appealed to Hoskins. ‘Sarah was overcome by grief at her husband’s death. It overset her mind and she has never recovered. She came to believe that Octavia’s son is her own, because she was never blessed with her own child. She needs sympathy…time to recover. The doctors tell me that there is no medical cure, only time and rest will ease her mind.’ He tightened his grip so that Sarah was seen to wince. ‘You should go home, Sarah. Octavia will care for you there. Let me arrange—’
‘Let me go, Edward.’ Sarah pulled ineffectually against the restraint, but Edward shook his head.
‘Come now, Sarah. I will arrange for a cab to take you back to Faringdon House.’ He would have pulled her towards the door.
‘I suggest that you release the lady.’ It was the first time that Lord Henry had spoken since Sir Edward entered the room. When Sir Edward hesitated, his lordship stepped forward with clear intent in his grim expression. Sir Edward allowed his hand to fall from his sister’s arm.
‘You do not appreciate, my lord—’
‘We cannot accept this explanation, Sir Edward.’ Eleanor’s clear voice broke the tension between the two men as she stood to move between them. ‘If Mrs Russell is indeed your sister, why should you imply that she is merely a nursemaid for the child, and treat her as such? When you first visited us at Burford Hall, you certainly gave the impression that she was a paid retainer, not a close member of the family. Besides, I have seen her with the boy. To me there is no doubt that he is her son. It could not escape my notice that Octavia appeared to have little interest in him.’
‘You must not misread the situation, my lady—’ Sir Edward tried to regain his composure, but his skin was waxy and sweat had begun to gleam on his brow.
‘Enough!’ Lord Henry intervened. ‘The game is at an end, Baxendale.’ He leaned forward, picked up two of the documents from the desk and tore them deliberately in half. ‘These, sir, are your witnessed papers, proof of Octavia’s marriage and John’s birth.’ Then he cast the pieces into the fire where they disintegrated in a shower of ash. ‘This is what they deserve.’
‘What have you done? They are legal documents.’ Sir Edward looked on aghast, still unwilling to accept that all was indeed at an end.
‘No, Baxendale.’ His lordship held him, eyes resolute and pitiless. ‘They are worth nothing. I know their true value because the Reverend Broughton admitted as much. In writing, so there would be no doubt, when he acknowledged that Octavia was his sister.’ He lifted and held out the third document for Edward to read. ‘I am certain that you will recognise the hand as that of your wife’s brother. No more lies, Baxendale. I think we know the truth.’
Sir Edward’s face was ashen as he stared at the incriminating admission in Broughton’s recognisable hand. His lips twisted into a snarl as he witnessed the destruction of his plans and he turned on his sister. ‘This is all your doing. How could you betray me? How could you show such ingratitude after I saved you from penury after your unfortunate marriage? I warned you of the consequences—’
‘The lady no longer needs your support.’ Lord Henry stepped forward to take Broughton’s confession from Sir Edward’s clenched hand. ‘I believe that she would no longer choose to live under your roof. I shall make it possible for her to live with a degree of independence. Her duty to you is at an end as, I suggest, is yours to her.’
‘Ha! You have come out of this very well, my dear sister. I should congratulate you.’ Whipping round with a snarl, he lifted his hand and would have struck her if Henry had not intervened. With lightning reflexes he seized Baxendale’s wrist and bore down, forcing him away from his sister, who had stood her ground, stricken at the unexpected attack.
‘Don’t give me an excuse to strike you down.’ His lordship’s words were low but none the less deadly. ‘There is nothing I would like better, for the anguish that you have inflicted on my family as well as on your own sister.’
‘Take your hand off me!’ Sir Edward wrenched himself away, but made no further attempt to approach Sarah.
Shocked beyond words by the threat of violence, Sarah covered her face with trembling hands and began to sob. With a soft murmur of compassion, Eleanor moved to put comforting arms around her and to lead her to the door.
‘I will take Mrs Russell to Faringdon House to collect John and then on to Park Lane. It would be better, I think. Will you…will you follow soon?’ She looked anxiously from Henry to Sir Edward, caught up in the bitter mood between the two men, uncertain of the outcome.
Lord Henry nodded his agreement and smiled thinly. ‘Soon. There is no need for your concern, my lady.’ He strode to open the door for them, bowing with all courtesy as if he had not threatened physical violence a moment ago. ‘All will be well.’ So they left, accompanied by Hoskins, who would arrange a carriage for them, leaving Lord Henry and Sir Edward alone.
They faced each other across the room with its weight of law books and legal documents, the air still and heavy between them. As heavy as the unfinished business.
‘Tell me one thing before we finish this.’ Henry took up a stance behind Hoskins’s desk. ‘Why? Why Thomas? I presume your motive was money. But why choose to discredit him?’
‘Of course it was money.’ Baxendale had no hesitation in confession, a certain pride shining in his eyes as he expressed his illogical hatred for the family whose fortune he would have acquired without compunction. ‘And Thomas Faringdon provided the perfect candidate. His unexpected death was most opportune. I knew about his liaison with Octavia when she was presented to Society. How he sought her out, and flattered her. He obviously thought her birth good enough for a light flirtation! He would have married her, Octavia believed, but he was warned off by interfering members of your arrogant family. So he rejected her because she was not good enough for him, her family not sufficiently well bred for a Marquis! He should have been whipped for his casual treatment of her! But, of course, that is not the way of the world.’
‘But…’ Lord Henry’s brows drew together into a forbidding line. ‘You would base this whole campaign, to discredit a reputation and destroy the security of my brother’s wife and child, on something so tenuous as a flirtation that occurred four years ago? I find it difficult to believe any man of honour capable of such vindictive manipulation of a series of events that never even happened—that had not the slightest foundation of truth.’
‘Why not? Your brother’s death provided the perfect occasion for revenge. Octavi
a should have been Marchioness of Burford. Doubtless would have been if Lady Beatrice Faringdon had not stirred the mud in the bottom of the pool. So I would see to it that she achieved the recognition that was her due.’
‘And benefit from her newly acquired status by association.’
‘Of course.’
‘And, had you been successful, Octavia would have had the whole Faringdon fortune fall sweetly into her lap.’
Sir Edward made no reply, eyes focused on some distant unpleasant vista, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he saw the destruction of all his hopes and intricate planning.
‘With the financial reins in your capable hands, of course.’ Lord Henry pursued the matter with the inexorable intensity of a knife edge.
‘Yes!’ It was a hiss of despair, of abject failure. ‘Octavia should have had what she deserved.’
‘So it was money. As simple as that. A desire to line your pockets with gold.’
‘Oh, no.’ The shrug, the sneer were unmistakable. Baxendale’s eyes snapped back to his tormentor, filled with a cold hatred. ‘There was nothing simple about it. Don’t patronise me, my lord, with facile explanations. What do you know of genteel poverty, which grinds you under its unforgiving heel? When every coin has to be counted, but your status demands that you keep up a gracious lifestyle. Cushioned in wealth as you have been all your life, even though a younger son—what do you know of a father who drank and gambled away the family inheritance before dying in debt over a losing hand of cards and a glass of brandy in a gaming hell? A weak mother who frittered away what was left in meaningless luxuries. You have not the slightest idea!’ His lips curled back from his teeth in a vicious parody of a smile. ‘The house at Whitchurch will fall around our ears without an input of hard cash. The only way in which we could fund our stay in London now was through a small bequest from a distant cousin. And that is now spent to no purpose. There might be money in my mother’s family, but there is no hope—’ Becoming aware of the rising tone in his own voice, the uncontrolled outpouring of despair, Sir Edward snapped his teeth together to cut off the flow of bitter words.
‘So you would cast the blame for your sins elsewhere. I should have expected it.’
‘No. I will shoulder the blame, my lord. But necessity can drive a man to extremes.’
Henry turned his face from the harsh lines of naked greed and desperate failure. There could be no room for sympathy here. Edward Baxendale’s glory would have cost Eleanor far too high a price.
‘But the risk you were prepared to take was nothing short of fantastic. Did you think that no one would remember Octavia and her brother? Were you so sure that you could conduct yourselves so as to blind everyone to the truth?’
‘Why not?’ A gleam of sly cunning lit his face for a moment, displacing the bitter failure. ‘After all, we nearly did it! If it were not for your interfering aunt, we would have carried the whole matter off in good style. People have short memories and mostly accept what they are told and what they see. No one other than your aunt thought to question my role as Octavia’s brother. Scandal is the breath of life to many who would call themselves your friends. Like the vultures they are, they were more than willing to pick over the bones of the Faringdon family with gleeful enjoyment. If our luck had held, Octavia would have claimed the Faringdon inheritance and would be made welcome into society.’
And, although it sat awkwardly with him, Lord Henry had to admit to the truth of it. ‘But after your confession, I can hardly believe that you were so idealistic as to do it all for your wife, can I?’ He made no effort to hide the repugnance in his voice.
‘Believe what you like. It no longer matters, does it? I think this conversation is at an end.’ Sir Edward lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug. ‘It was worth the risk. And what do you intend to do? Drag the case through the courts? I doubt it! Think of the entertainment it would provide for the ton!’
‘You disgust me. Get out of these rooms. And it would please me if you would remove yourself and your wife from Faringdon House at the earliest opportunity. No, I shall not take the matter further. You are not worthy of my consideration!’ His lordship strode to open the door.
‘Don’t dare preach morality to me, my lord.’ Baxendale did not move. The sneer on his face was heavily marked as he realised the depth of his failure. ‘Your precious sister-in-law made sure that she ensnared your brother, did she not? She has been no better in her dealings with the Faringdons than the sins that you are prepared to heap at my door.’
‘What?’ Henry’s hand closed on the door knob and was still.
‘Don’t tell me you did not know!’
‘There is nothing to know.’ But his eyes were watchful.
‘So she has not told you? Well, I don’t suppose she would. Females are always more devious than you would expect. And more mercenary, as exhibited by my dear sister Sarah, who has sold me for the price of her independence.’
‘Tell me.’ It took all Henry’s control not to seize Sir Edward by the throat and shake him as a terrier would shake a rat, to wipe the contempt for Eleanor from his thin lips.
‘Miss Eleanor Stamford was carrying your brother’s child before their marriage,’ Baxendale informed him, teeth glinting in vindictive pleasure. ‘Of course he would have to marry her, as a man of honour, whether he wished it or not. Her birth is no more distinguished than Octavia’s. A respectable gentry family, but with no claim to aristocratic supremacy. But Miss Stamford won the prize. You did not know?’ He sneered again as he read correctly the tightening of muscles in Lord Henry’s jaw. ‘Ask her how long after the bridal nuptials the child was born, my lord. You were in New York and so would not see the clever scheme being unfolded. She and her ambitiously devious mother were determined to get the Marquis before the altar. Your dear brother was well and truly trapped by a beautiful face and the promise of a bastard if he did not act quickly. So he married her.’ Sir Edward shrugged again. ‘So don’t talk to me about plotting and intrigue!’
‘Your unsubstantiated opinions do you no credit.’ There was barely a hesitation before Henry collected his scattered wits and replied, ‘The Marchioness is a lady of unquestionable integrity and principle. If I discover that you have spread such gossip around town, I shall have no hesitation in making it a matter of law. Believe it, sir, before you choose to meddle further in the concerns of my family.’
He flung open the door and bowed, coldly and formally, the merest inclination of his head. But his thoughts were in a turmoil.
Hoskins returned, having delivered the ladies to a waiting cab. As he approached the open doorway, Sir Edward pushed his way past to storm out of the room.
‘Get out of my way!’
They watched as he stalked to the door leading on to the street, flinging it back so that it hammered against the wall. Hoskins glanced at Lord Henry with raised brows.
‘Let him go,’ Lord Henry answered the silent question. ‘He has no more demands on my family.’ His voice was firm but a little weary as he eased his shoulders against the strain.
‘What do you wish, my lord? To pursue the matter through the courts? To obtain recompense? I have to say that I don’t advise it.’
‘No. Let the matter die a natural death. I don’t wish to provide the scandalmongers with any more salacious detail to discuss. I will make provision for Mrs Russell. The Baxendales will doubtless retire from town—I doubt that we shall see them again in the near future. They would not wish to draw further attention to themselves. And I believe that the Reverend Broughton’s membership of White’s will also lapse!’ Lord Henry showed his teeth, more of a snarl than a smile. ‘It will give me considerable pleasure to ensure that a man capable of such immoral dealings is no longer received at a gentleman’s club.’
Hoskins was moved to smile at the prospect. ‘It was well done, my lord.’
‘Yes. And I have to thank you for your timely support.’
He left the lawyer’s rooms with a lightening of the heart
, but he could not dislodge a persistent worry that kept him on edge. He could not quite banish Edward Baxendale’s final accusations from his mind. A sour note that spoilt his sense of completion. Baxendale had been mischief-making, of course. Eleanor would never stoop to such devious means. Surely she would never deliberately use the conception of a child to force his brother into a marriage—simply to ensure a glittering title and untold wealth. He would never believe it of her. And yet the malicious words, delivered in Baxendale’s smooth, sly voice would not quite go away.
The Faringdon family chose to gather once more in the intimate family parlour in Park Lane. Sarah Russell, returning earlier with Eleanor, had retired to a guest bedchamber with her son and one of the maids who would look to their needs and act a nursemaid for the distraught but determined lady. Exhaustion had finally taken its toll. Although she had recovered from her bout of tears, she did not feel capable of sitting down with all the members of the family whom her brother had so ruthlessly pursued and exploited in his desire for wealth and revenge.
Exhaustion also laid its hand on the other individuals who came together to discuss and marvel at the recent development. There was a strange sense of emptiness, of anticlimax, Eleanor thought as she sank onto the sofa. She felt tired, but could not rest, could not quite accept that Sir Edward and Octavia no longer had any right to oust her from her home and rob her son of his birthright and herself of her widow’s jointure. And there was a tension here, particularly in Henry, that she could not quite pinpoint. Perhaps she was simply tired, as were they all. Perhaps it was all imagination. The morning would bring calm and a sense of rightness and completion.
‘What do you suppose Baxendale will do now?’ Nicholas lounged in a chair to the detriment of his coat and yawned.
‘Go back to the Great House in Whitchurch and live out his days in disillusioned reflection of what might have been, I presume.’ Henry frowned as he leafed through a handful of letters that had been delivered that morning and were so far unopened. ‘And his wife with him. And I expect he will find an excellent excuse to terminate the Reverend Julius’s tenure of the living of St Michael and All Angels. I find that I cannot feel sorry.’ His stern face was made no more approachable by the sardonic smile that touched his mouth. ‘The wages of sin for our devious vicar could be homelessness and poverty.’
