Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue. Mary Nichols
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but it is unavoidable. My sister must take on her rightful title. She is very keen to be settled, as you might imagine.’
‘Of course.’ She continued to smile. She knew that Henry would bear down on them if she appeared in any way distressed—but her eyes were empty of emotion rather than unladylike, and rigidly contained, fury.
‘And we must then discuss your moving to your own accommodation, of course. I believe that Octavia would wish to take up residence as soon as possible at Burford Hall. Life in town does not suit her. She enjoys country air.’
‘I will inform Hoskins of my arrangements, Sir Edward. They are all in hand.’ But I will not discuss them with you!
Still keeping a tight hold on the anger that seemed to be directed equally at Sir Edward, at Thomas and at fate in general, Eleanor moved through the rest of the evening like a child’s puppet, automatically fulfilling her role. It seemed to be a success. She was complimented more times than she could count. She did not care.
After supper, at which she ate nothing but an asparagus tartlet without even tasting its succulent and delicate flavour, Eleanor made it her policy to find her aunt by marriage in a quiet corner where they would be undisturbed. Lady Beatrice had been able to watch and speak with Sir Edward and Miss Baxendale for a whole evening. She must have some recollection of any past meeting, if any such meeting had occurred. Eleanor had to know. Had Thomas cared for Octavia? Enough to have married her against family opinion and have a child by her? One more tiny nail in the coffin that was threatening to enclose her entire life. As cold as death itself, Eleanor faced the lady. Sensing her purpose from across the room, and not wishing her to be alone when his aunt delivered in typically forthright manner any bad news, Henry moved, silent as a ghost, to appear at her shoulder, to take up the initiative.
‘Well, Aunt. You said you remembered Thomas flirting with a fair girl. You have had the opportunity to see the lady and her brother. Do you remember her?’
‘Oh, yes.’ The Dowager, remarkable in puce satin and lace with garnets, which did nothing to compliment her fading red hair, turned her critical gaze on the innocent object of their discussion. ‘I remember her. She was a pretty little thing. Still is, of course but a trifle pale—understandable in the circumstances, whatever the truth of the matter. Thomas certainly had a tendre for her. Showed her a great deal of attention, in fact. Dancing with her on more than one occasion…more than I thought was appropriate. It does not do to raise pretensions and it was clear that the girl saw the glitter of a title within her reach. Judith was perfectly right. Thomas and the girl were infatuated—such a very unfortunate emotion, don’t you think.’
‘Oh.’ Eleanor forced her mind to hold the dreaded words.
‘I actually warned him off on one occasion—the child was far too provincial for my taste. Not suited to be Marchioness of Burford. Not like you, my dear.’ She patted Eleanor’s unresponsive hand with superior condescension. ‘You have a touch of class, as I was quick to tell Thomas when some of the family expressed their disappointment at his choice of bride.’ Realising what she had said, she coughed and spread her fan. ‘Your paternal uncle is, after all, a baronet. Most acceptable, my dear. But that is all in the past.’
‘So it is true…’ Eleanor sighed ‘…Thomas did marry Octavia.’ Henry took Eleanor’s cold hand into his keeping and refused to let her pull away. At that moment he did not care who might see or pass judgement.
He simply needed to touch her.
‘It may well be. He certainly did not take my advice, if rumours do indeed run true.’
Eleanor looked up at Henry, eyes over-bright. ‘It is hopeless, then, as we thought.’ But she tried to keep the smile. She would not weep. She would not shout her despair to the world. ‘At least we know—it is better perhaps than all the uncertainty. False hope is almost impossible to live with.’
‘There is one thing.’ Aunt Beatrice reclaimed their attention with narrowed eyes. ‘I do not quite recollect her name—Octavia, certainly—but I did not think that it was Baxendale.’
Henry sighed. What use to dredge up any more hope on such a flimsy point of order? He did not think Eleanor could take much more. ‘It was a long time ago, ma’am. Even your prodigious memory might play tricks. I cannot think that it is strong enough to cast doubt on the whole question of the legality of their claim. We have to accept that Octavia is Thomas’s legitimate widow.’
‘Now don’t be hasty, young man. Just like your father! Too impatient for your own good.’ Lady Beatrice fixed him with a withering glance which he remembered uncomfortably from his youth, and she drew her stout figure up to its full height before delivering her final opinion. ‘About the name. As I said, Baxendale I am not at all sure about. But there is one thing I can state for certain. And my memory is excellent when remembering faces! That man, Sir Edward Baxendale, is not Octavia’s brother! He is without doubt not the young man who was introduced to me as her brother four years ago.’
‘Are you sure?’ Henry frowned. Whatever they had hoped for, this was most unexpected.
‘Sure! Of course I am! I would wager my emeralds on it.’
‘But she may have more than one brother.’ Eleanor refused to believe that at the eleventh hour there might be the slightest chink of light, of hope, in the dark walls which hemmed her in. ‘You may have met—’
‘Don’t be foolish, my girl. That is not the man who squired Octavia to parties in her London Season.’
‘And I distinctly remember the occasion when Sir Edward said that he had been with Octavia when she had made her curtsy to the polite world!’ Henry allowed the fact to filter slowly through his brain with all its possibilities. ‘Why are you so sure, ma’am?’
‘I remember the brother very well—because I took him in instant dislike. Octavia was charming enough, but no family would wish to acquire her brother around the dining table, take my word for it. He had the appearance of a gentleman and the manners were well-bred enough—but there was an unpleasantness about him. You would not trust him with a purseful of gold. Or with the reputation of any pretty young woman—he had quite an eye for them, I am afraid. Or so my husband informed me. I understand he frequented some of the more unsavoury gaming establishments in town. Also I was led to understand that he had an arrangement with a lower class of woman—if you take my meaning. Not that you would be acquainted with any such shady dealings of course, Henry.’ She dared Henry to contradict her, but he recognised the glint of humour in her face.
‘Definitely not, Aunt. Can you describe him—the gentleman introduced as Octavia’s brother?’
‘Rather like Octavia, I suppose. Taller than Sir Edward. Slighter. A thin face. Hair not quite as fair, perhaps. And cunning eyes, my boy. Not quite the thing at all.’ Lady Beatrice furrowed her brow. ‘I cannot remember his name—I wish I could. Thomas did not like him either,’ she added inconsequentially.
‘It is not much to go on, but perhaps enough.’ Henry gripped his aunt’s hand in gratitude. ‘It may be that the whole family will owe you their thanks tonight for your part in overturning this cruel and malevolent plot.’
‘Family is important, Henry, as you very well know! It delights me that you are giving your support to Eleanor in a time of trial. Why you should wish to take yourself off to some Godforsaken wasteland on the far side of the world, I shall never know. Much better to settle here, take my word for it!’ Lady Beatrice, her mission completed, prepared to return to a cosy chat with one of her intimates. ‘But there is one thing I think you should do.’
‘And that is?’
‘Come, my boy! Use your wits! Ask Octavia how many brothers she has, of course.’
They held a post-mortem in the early hours of the morning when the guests had gone, Aunt Beatrice’s words heavy in their minds. Hope, so long dashed, began to run high, despite the essentially trivial nature of the information, and no one thought to claim exhaustion after so successful an evening.