‘Eleanor …’

She turned her head. Slowly. As if it took all her effort of will to force her body to obey. To focus on the man who stood before her.

‘Eleanor. I presume that you had no suspicion of this terrible débâcle. Not the slightest hint that Thomas might have had a liaison elsewhere.’

‘No. How should I? I cannot believe it …’

‘Nor I. It does not sound like Thomas.’ Henry watched her carefully, aware of the white shade around her mouth as she skimmed the brink of control. Every instinct urged him to take her in his arms and let her cry out her frozen misery against his chest. But he could not, dared not, too unsure of her reaction to him if he made any intimate gesture. Too unsure of his feelings towards her. There was no place for pity here. And yet the bitter anger at her cold-hearted betrayal of his own love for her no longer seemed to weigh in the balance. A very masculine urge to protect took precedence.

‘That he should already have a wife and child when he … when he …’ Eleanor swallowed hard and pressed a hand to her lips to stop the words. Then, ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘I will do all I can to help you.’

Dear Reader

In The Disgraced Marchioness I have recounted the intense but dangerous love affair between Lord Henry Faringdon and Eleanor, Marchioness of Burford—the widow of Henry’s older brother. The possibilities in their relationship fascinated me. A tale of mistaken rejection and betrayal, but above all a family saga of searing passion and undying love.

The desire to write this first volume in The Faringdon Scandals mini-series was born out of an interest in marriage in Regency England—particularly in the circumstances that might prevent marriage between members of one family. Love decrees that Henry and Eleanor be together. The severe rulings of the law seem destined to keep the lovers apart.

Henry, with his dark good looks, must assuredly attract the interest and admiration of any woman, but he is strong-willed, with more than a hint of the Faringdon pride. Beautiful Eleanor, spirited and headstrong, finds it difficult to hide a fragility that would stir the protective instincts of a lesser man than Henry. And with an intimate history between them, from which neither has emerged unscathed, Henry cannot turn his back on her.

Just how will their relationship fare when scandal erupts, to threaten Eleanor with disgrace and cause the Faringdons to be snubbed by the contemptuous haut ton?

The history of the Faringdon brothers doesn’t stop with this book, but is continued with Nick’s story in The Outrageous Débutante, coming soon!

I hope that this dynamic, vivacious but remarkably devoted family will delight you as much as they did me!

About the Author

ANNE O’BRIEN was born and lived for most of her life in Yorkshire. Here she taught history, before deciding to fulfil a lifetime ambition to write romantic historical fiction. She won a number of short story competitions until published for the first time by Harlequin Mills & Boon®. As well as writing, she finds time to enjoy gardening, cooking and watercolour painting. She now lives with her husband in an eighteenth-century cottage in the depths of the Welsh Marches.

Recent titles by the same author:

RUNAWAY HEIRESS

PURITAN BRIDE

MARRIAGE UNDER SIEGE

Don’t miss the second instalment of THE FARINGDON SCANDALS

The Outrageous Débutante

Coming in December 2005

The Disgraced
Marchioness
Anne O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

The gentleman was apparently not expected by the inhabitants of Burford Hall. In no way discouraged by the silence, the lack of activity and the shuttered windows, he leapt down from the curricle with unhurried grace to stand on the gravel carriageway, as his groom ascended the shallow sweep of steps and rang the bell. With his back to the house, the visitor allowed his gaze to take in the familiar vista, noting little change over past months. Expertly and fashionably designed gardens with paved pathways and shaded walks. A rose terrace where fragrant blooms were just being tempted to open in the warm sunshine. Rolling parkland made enticing by groupings of trees, which had been planted at least a century ago for impact and perspective. All prosperous and well tended with the glaze of extreme wealth. The stables off to his left had been recently re-roofed and he could see the grazing herd of cattle, placid and fat, in one of the distant pastures beyond home farm.

He did not need to turn to face the house to appreciate every inch of the elegant façade in intimate and well-loved detail. Every pillar, portico and decorated frieze, from balustraded terrace to dominant central pediment, all constructed in glowing local stone or faced with more fashionable brick. It was a beautiful house and home, gracious and welcoming, mellow with the happy memories of a shared childhood.

Two years previously he had chosen to turn his back on it, to leave the guarantee of wealth and privilege, and social acceptance by the haut ton. Two years ago he had wanted to create for himself a quite different lifestyle. And nothing had given him cause to regret his choice. But now, by a mischievous and malicious quirk of fate, his life had been turned upside down.

He supposed it was all his now: house, land, title and all they could bring in terms of comfort and consequence. His brother’s untimely death had, overnight, created him Marquis of Burford.

The thought gave him no pleasure. I don’t want it. I would never have wanted it. Indeed, the deliberate rejection of his birthright screamed through his mind as he climbed the steps with outward calm to his ancestral home.

The door was flung open at the insistent ringing to allow entry to the unexpected guest. The footman, a young man in neat black, casting an envious and knowing eye over the stylish equipage and well-bred bays drawn up on the gravel, bowed the gentleman in without a flicker of recognition, but accepting of his quality and his right to be desiring entrance unannounced to Burford Hall.

‘If I could take your coat, sir, I will inform Lord Nicholas of your arrival.’

The guest looked at the young footman. A new acquisition to the staff since his last visit. He smiled in courteous recognition of the offered service. ‘Of course.’ He handed over his tall-crowned hat and shrugged out of an eye-catching caped greatcoat.

‘What name shall I give, sir?’

Before he could give a reply, hesitant footsteps echoed on the marble tiles of the entrance hall and an elderly man emerged from the servants’ quarters. He hesitated on an intake of breath, blinked as if he did not quite believe the evidence of his own eyes, and then immediately quickened his steps.

‘My lord, my lord. Thank God you are here. We were not expecting you.’ The old man shuffled forward, in spite of the infirmities of advanced age, to take the garment from the footman, and search the face of the gentleman with eyes suddenly moist with powerful emotion. ‘We did not know if the letters had reached you—perhaps you might not yet even be aware of the tragic events here.’

‘They did. About two months ago.’ The gentleman stripped off his leather driving gloves with brisk efficiency. ‘But there have been difficulties in travelling—chiefly the vagaries of the weather—so it took me longer than I expected.’

‘We are so glad to see you again, my lord. So relieved. If I may say, you have not changed in all the time you have been away.’

‘Only two years, Marcle. Not so very long.’ The accompanying smile was understanding but designed not to encourage further comment.

‘Long enough, my lord. You have been missed here.’

‘But what about you, Marcle?’ The gentleman began to walk in the direction of the library, sure of his direction. ‘You look well. I see that you still hold the reins, in spite of your threats to leave to live in retirement with your sister.’

‘Not so bad, sir. I would not wish to leave the Hall. And certainly not now … But what a terrible occasion this is. I cannot tell you … An accident that no one could have foreseen …’

‘I know.’ The guest, clearly a very close and knowledgeable one, intimate with the family circumstances, touched the old man’s arm in a brief gesture of comfort, at the same time hoping against hope to dam the flood of painful detail and the threat of overt sympathy. ‘So Mr Hoskins informed me. And my brother. Both letters eventually found me.’

‘What a terrible homecoming, my lord …’

His attempts, it appeared, had been futile. He really could not take any more.

‘I will deal with it, Marcle,’ his tone now a little brusque but not unkind. ‘I presume Lord Nicholas is here?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ The butler concentrated on the more practical direction given less than subtly to his thoughts. ‘He has spent some time in London, particularly with the lawyers, being a trustee, as you will be aware—but he returned last week. He is in the gun room, I believe. I will send a message that you have arrived.’ He motioned with a rheumatic hand to the young footman. ‘Silas …’

‘No. There is no need to trouble yourself, Marcle. I will go to the gun room.’

‘Of course, my lord. I would just wish to say that …’ But he was already bowing to an empty hall as the gentleman made good his escape.

Chapter Two

The door to the gunroom at Burford Hall, deep in the west wing, opened on to a familiar and industrious scene. A young man in shirt sleeves, corduroy breeches and high-topped boots, all well suited to country life, presented his back to the visitor. A black spaniel at his feet, Lord Nicholas Faringdon leaned with hip propped against a bench on which were all the accoutrements necessary for oiling and cleaning the impressive array of sporting firearms. Head bent, he was intent on freeing the firing mechanism on a particularly fine but unreliable duck gun. He whistled tunelessly between his teeth.

‘So this is how you are spending your time. I might have known it. Planning a day’s rough shooting when you should be overlooking the acres!’

The young man’s head snapped up and turned at the sound of the soft voice. He stopped whistling. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then he abandoned the gun on top of the rest of the detritus on the bench and pushed himself to his feet, a grin warming his features.

‘Hal! I had no idea.’ He approached the gentleman, hand outstretched in formal greeting, and then thought better of it and seized his brother in a warm hug, all the time firing questions. ‘How long it has been! When did you arrive? Have you been back in England long? How long will you stay?’

Returning the embrace with equal enthusiasm, Henry—Hal to those who knew him best—pushed back and the brothers, Lord Henry and Lord Nicholas Faringdon, stood at arm’s length to assess each other. The family resemblance was strong. Both were true Faringdons. Dark hair, almost black and dense with little reflected light. A straight nose, lean cheeks, a decided chin and well-marked brows, they were a handsome pair. But whereas Hal’s eyes were more grey than blue, stern and frequently on the edge of cynical, Nicholas, some three years younger, viewed the world through a bright optimistic gaze of intense blue. Their smiles on this occasion were also very similar, but Nicholas’s mouth lacked the lines of experience, of ambition and sardonic humour that were engraved on Hal’s features.

‘You look well, for all your travels.’ Nicholas gave his brother a friendly smack on his shoulder. ‘Have you made your fortune yet? Is that why you are here, to brag of your exploits?’

‘Not quite.’ Hal shook his head, well used to the ribbing.

‘Ha! I wager you are too fine to have anything to do with a mere landowner now. Faringdon and Bridges, is it not? Should I ask who is in charge of the business? Are you controlling New York yet?’

‘No—and, no, you should not ask! Nat Bridges and I have equal shares and investment in this company. I see you haven’t changed, Nick.’ Henry looked at his brother, noting the faint lines of strain beside his mouth, until his attention was demanded by a nudge against his boot. ‘And who is this?’ He bent to pull the ears of the spaniel who had come to sit at his feet in a friendly fashion.

‘Bess. She’s young, but she’s hopeful. As soon as she stops chasing and scattering the birds rather than collecting them.’

The dog sneezed as if knowing she was under discussion. The two men laughed.

‘Hal. I don’t know what to say to you about all this …’ Nicholas was suddenly sober, as a cloud covering the sun, the smile wiped from mouth and eyes by a depth of sorrow.

Hal shook his head and turned away to run his hand along the polished stocks and barrels of the guns in their racks. It was all so familiar. But now it was changed for ever and he could do nothing about it. ‘Any problems with the estate?’ He kept his back turned.

‘No.’ Nicholas was relieved to return to plain reporting of facts. Emotions at the Hall were still too stark to allow for casual airing. ‘All neatly tied up. The entail stands. There are no inheritance problems and Hoskins had finished his affairs when I was last in London. Thomas always was thorough, of course. He left everything as it should be.’

At that, Hal spun on his heel, his voice and expression harsh with pain. ‘How the hell did it happen, Nick? A riding accident? I have never seen anyone sit a horse better or more securely than Thomas. And he was not even out hunting, if the letters speak the truth.’

‘No.’ Nick frowned at the problem that had faced him for the past few months. ‘He went out across the estate to meet the new agent, Whitcliffe. He never arrived. His horse returned here riderless. Thomas was found later that morning on the edge of the east wood, no obvious injuries, but his neck broken. The horse was unharmed too. It must have shied—a loose pheasant, perhaps—and thrown him. His mind must have been preoccupied and … well, you know the rest.’

‘Yes. Such a tragic waste of a life.’

‘I still can’t believe that he will not walk through that door and ask me if I wish to go …’ Nick’s words dried in his throat as the memories became too intense.

Hal saw and understood. He grasped his brother’s shoulder, with a little shake. ‘I know. Come to the library and tell me about everything. And a brandy would not come amiss, I think.’

‘Yes—of course. And I would wish to know what you have been about.’ Once more in command, Nicholas shrugged into his jacket and followed his brother from the room. As he turned to lock the door to the gunroom, the spaniel fussing round his feet, a thought came to him

‘By the by … have you spoken with Lady Faringdon yet?’

Hal came to a halt and turned, brows arched.

‘Who?’

‘Lady Faringdon. The Marchioness.’

‘You mean Thomas married?’ Hal asked in amazement. ‘I did not know … I had no idea …’

‘Why, yes. And he has a son. Tom—a splendid child. Just a little more than a year old.’

‘Well, now!’ Hal leaned his shoulders back against the panelled wall of the passageway and let his breath seep slowly from his lungs as he felt a ridiculous sense of relief begin to surge through his body. ‘So the child will inherit. He will be Marquis of Burford.’

‘Of course. What else?’ Nicholas eyed his brother quizzically and then his face cleared, became touched with sardonic humour as he realised. ‘You didn’t know! The letters after Thomas’s marriage never reached you. You thought it had all come to you, the title and the inheritance, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Hal closed his eyes at the enormous sense of release from an existence that had taken on the weight of a life sentence. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘And are mightily relieved that it does not.’ Nicholas took Hal’s arm in a sympathetic grasp to urge him in the direction of the library and the brandy.

‘More than mightily. It is something I would never wish for. I will happily be a trustee for the infant, but Marquis of Burford? Not to my taste at all. In America I am now used to being Mr Faringdon. And I like it.’

‘Still the Republican, I see.’ Nick’s tone was dry, with more than a hint of amusement. ‘But you are safe from the inheritance. We sent to tell you of the marriage, of course, not so long after you left. The letters must have gone astray.’

‘Easy enough to do. They never reached me. I had no idea.’ Hal was still half-inclined not to believe this stroke of fortune. ‘Why did Thomas not tell me of his intentions before I left? I thought we were close enough. If he took a bride so soon after I took ship, surely he had already met the lady!’

Nick grinned. ‘I think not, from what I remember. It must have been love at first sight. Or at least a sufficiently strong attraction. Not that you would have noticed particularly—our brother was never one to wallow in sentiment, as you know—but Thomas would have a quick betrothal and carried it all off with high-handed determination.’

‘It must have been a shattering experience for him, to have fallen in love so completely.’ Hal frowned a little. The picture did not quite fit with his knowledge of Thomas, his brother’s overriding interest in sport and hunting to the exclusion of almost everything else.

‘I know it does not sound like the Thomas we knew.’ Nick shrugged in agreement, reading his brother’s thoughts with unnerving accuracy. ‘But come. We will postpone the brandy and I will introduce you to the Widow. I warn you, she is taking Thomas’s death hard, but she is very resilient and will come about. I expect that she will be in the blue withdrawing-room with her mother and the baby at this time of day.’

‘Then lead on.’

They walked through the house in close accord, Hal’s lightness of spirit, in spite of the untimely death of his brother, a shining bright strand woven through the dark skein of grief. He would not have to inherit the estates and the title. Thank God! He could return to his dealings in America with a clear conscience, leaving the care of the property with his fellow trustee Nicholas, who had no objection to rural life. The direction of his life had suddenly come back into clear focus, an enormous weight lifted from his mind. He was all set to be appreciative of and everlastingly thankful to his new sister-in-law who had produced so timely an heir.

‘What is she like?’ he asked Nick as they climbed the main staircase. ‘Is she pretty? Amenable?’

‘Not so. She is a Beauty. A Diamond of the First Water! Thomas showed far more taste than I would ever have given him credit for. But you will soon see for yourself.’

Nicholas opened the door into the blue withdrawing-room, a light attractive space with azure silk hangings that matched and complimented the fashionable blue-and-silver-striped wallpaper. The room had, Hal noted, been newly refurbished, remembering the previous drab greens and ochres of his mother’s occupancy. A fire in the hearth beckoned. Sun glinted on the delicate crystal chandelier and the polished surface of a small piano. It was undoubtedly a lady’s room, a lady of style and exquisite taste.

And the tableau within the room that met the critical gaze of the two men was equally attractive. A young woman was seated on the rug before the fire, her black silk skirts of deepest mourning spread around her. A baby in the experimental stage of crawling was in the act of reaching up to take a red ball from his mother’s hands, then tried to stuff the soft felt into his mouth. A grey kitten curled at their side. The lady laughed at her son, face alight with pride and delight in his achievements; she reached forwards to pick him up and cuddle him against her breast, pressing her lips against his dark curls. The baby chucked and grasped her fashionable ringlets with small but ruthless fingers.

It was a scene to entrance even the hardest of heart.

Then the lady looked round at the opening of the door.

‘Eleanor! I though we would find you here,’ Nicholas began. ‘Can I introduce you …’

The tension in the room was suddenly palpable. It tightened, brittle as wire, sharp as a duelling sword, in the space of a heartbeat. The kitten arched in miniature and silent fury at the appearance of the inquisitive spaniel. The newly widowed Marchioness of Burford, always pale of complexion, became paper white, expressive eyebrows arched, eyes widening with shock, as they fixed on the gentlemen at the door. Her smile of delight for her baby vanished, leaving her still and wary. Lord Henry Faringdon simply froze on the spot, every sense coated in ice, spine rigid. His breath backed up in his lungs.

Nicholas looked from Eleanor to Hal and back again. What in the Devil’s name was wrong here? He had no idea.

For an endless moment Nicholas stood uncertain between the two, his introduction brought to an abrupt and uncomfortable halt. He looked towards Eleanor where she still knelt on the rug for some illumination, brows raised. Once pale, her face was now flushed with bright colour, but he could not read the expression that flitted momentarily across her expressive features. Embarrassment? Perhaps. A flash of anger? But that seemed unlikely in the circumstances. It did not seem to Nicholas that it was grief. There was no enlightenment to be had here.

Meanwhile Hal, he noted, had no expression at all! His face was shuttered, unreadable, his eyes hooded, an expression Nicholas recognised with a touch of trepidation from their childhood and adolescence. His brother was a past master at disguising his thoughts and feelings if he chose to do so and could quickly retreat into icy hauteur. His lips were now firmly compressed. If he had been about to say something on his entrance, he had clearly changed his mind. He continued to stand, rooted to the spot, the open door at his back.

Nicholas gave up and, for better or worse, completed the formal introduction.

‘Eleanor. You must know that this is my brother, Henry. He received our sad news at last and is come to … Well, he is here, for which I am relieved.’ The bland stare from the Marchioness gave him no encouragement to continue. Hal’s enigmatic silence was no better. ‘Hal … this is Eleanor, Thomas’s wife.’

The silence stretched. The tension held.

Then good manners reasserted themselves as if an invisible curtain had been lifted. The lady placed the child back on the rug and rose to her feet with graceful composure, shaking out her ruffled skirts. Hal walked forward and bowed as the lady executed a neat curtsy and extended her hand in dignified welcome. He took it and raised it to his lips. All formal courtesy, appropriate to the occasion, all social graces smoothly applied. So why did Nicholas still feel that the banked emotion in the room could explode at any moment and shatter them to pieces?

‘My lady. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, but I regret the occasion. May I express my condolences. Your loss must be very great, as is mine.’

‘Thank you, my lord. Your good wishes are most acceptable. I miss your brother sorely. You must know that I have received all possible support and kindness from your family.’

All that was proper was expressed with cool, precise formality.

But it was all wrong.

At their feet the child, tired of the red ball and lack of attention, began to fret and whimper. The lady immediately stooped and lifted him.

‘This is Thomas’s son.’ The Marchioness turned the baby in her arms towards the visitors.

Against his will Henry was drawn to approach the child. The Faringdon line had bred true again. The infant had thick, dark curls, which would probably straighten with age. And one day when the chubbiness of babyhood had passed, he would have the fine straight nose and sharply defined cheekbones of his father. Already the dark brows were clear, arching with ridiculous elegance in the infant face. But the eyes. They were not true. They were hers, his mother’s. As clear as the finest glass, as luminous as costly amethysts. The baby smiled and crowed at the attention, stretching out a hand to the newcomer. He had a dimple, Hal noticed inconsequentially as he allowed the baby to grasp his own fingers, smiling against all his intentions as they were promptly gnawed by tender gums.

‘His name?’ Henry had his voice well in hand.

‘Thomas.’ Eleanor did not. Her voice broke a little. ‘He is named for his father.’

Henry stroked the baby’s soft hair, his grief for his dead brother swelling in his chest.

Eleanor immediately stepped back with the child, putting a subtle distance between them. ‘Forgive me—I am a little overwrought and the baby will be tired and hungry. If you will excuse me, I will take him to the nursery.’

She turned away abruptly, never once allowing her eyes to meet Lord Henry’s, and began to walk towards the door.

‘My lady.’ Henry’s words stopped her, but she did not turn to face them as if the open door was a much-desired means of escape. ‘I would request a meeting with you. A matter of business, you understand, as a trustee of the estate.’

‘Of course.’

‘In an hour, perhaps, if that is to your convenience. In the library.’

‘Of course,’ she repeated. ‘An hour.’

The Marchioness left the room, taking the child with her.

Lord Henry’s eyes never left her until her slim figure turned the corner round the sweep of the main staircase.

It was one of the longest hours of the Marchioness of Burford’s life.

After leaving her son with a doting nurserymaid, she paced the fine Aubusson carpet in the library, oblivious to the splendour and comfort around her. The richness of the tapestries that glowed against the panelled wood left her unmoved. The leather bindings of the books with their gold and red tooling might be sumptuous, but failed to catch her eye. The polished oak furniture, well loved by generations of the Faringdon family, went unnoticed. Nor could she sit, not even in a sunny window seat with its view of woods and distant hills and the parterre which she herself was in the process of planting. Nervous tension balled in her stomach. She felt cold, yet her hands were clammy with sweat, even as she wiped them surreptitiously down her black silken skirts.

She had dreaded this meeting, fully aware that it could happen—was almost inevitable to happen—at some time in the future. But she had hoped, prayed even, that it would never come about. Or be so far into the future distance that painful memories would have faded, emotions stilled. And she had deliberately closed her mind to the consequences. But when she had looked up to see him in the doorway, tall and dark and magnificent, it was as if all time had been obliterated. Her heart had leapt. Her pulse quickened and raced before she had sternly reminded herself of the events of the past.

And as she remembered again now, anger flared, all-consuming, raging through her veins so that she trembled with the force of it. He would receive no welcome here from her.

But what would she say to him? Or he to her? On a thought she realised that he was just as shocked as she, more so since he had apparently been unaware of her marriage. At least she had known of the possibility of this meeting and had been able to prepare. From the immediate tensing of his whole body on setting eyes on her, as if facing the barrels of a shotgun, he had been stunned.

She laughed with bitter eyes at her own predicament. You are a fool. You were not prepared at all. It took your breath away to see him again!

But now she had her own secrets to keep, whatever her personal inclination in the matter. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. There was no room for guilt here. She would keep those secrets until the day she died. The only one who had shared them with her, who had understood their significance, was now dead, and she would keep faith with the vows made.

Eleanor set her mind to rule her heart.

When he came to her she was ready, standing before the long window, composed, confident, a glossy layer of sophistication. She would hold this interview on her own terms as Marchioness of Burford.

He closed the door softly, advanced and stood for a moment. They might have been strangers, distant acquaintances at the most, except that at least then he might have put himself out to be sociable. As it was he looked at her with apparent indifference in his cold grey eyes and the stern set of his mouth.

And surveyed her in a detailed assessment from head to foot with an arrogance that chilled her blood.

How right Nicholas had been, he thought. The Marchioness was not pretty. He had forgotten how very beautiful she was. Heart-stoppingly so. All that glossy brown hair with its autumnal tints, caught up in fashionable ringlets. Any red-blooded man would dream of unpinning it, of allowing it to curl in his hands or against his lips. He remembered exactly how it had felt. Her perfect oval face with straight nose and sculpted lips was lovely indeed. Calm and translucent as a Renaissance Ma-donna—until he looked at her eyes. Amethyst fire, fringed with dark lashes, and at this moment blazing with temper and wilful determination. Here was no simpering miss, he acknowledged. The pretty and naïve debutante of his memory had vanished for ever. She was tall. Taller than he had remembered, the crown of her head reaching well past his shoulder. And the black gown, extravagantly fashionable, complimented her elegant figure and the natural cream of her complexion. Assured and polished, she had grown into her new status since he had known her as Miss Eleanor Stamford. His brother had indeed shown excellent taste in his choice of bride.

Eleanor found herself flushing under the sustained regard. It had the whip of an insult and she raised her chin against it but she would not retaliate. She would not!

The silence between them had lasted too long for social correctness. But when the lady almost felt compelled to break it, it was he who did so.

‘My Lady Burford. I believe that you deserve my congratulations as well as my condolences.’ He bowed with cold grace. Another calculated insult. ‘At least I now know the answer to one of the many unsolved mysteries of this world! I have clearly been lacking in my understanding of the driving ambition of some of the members of your sex. I realise that with any real understanding of human nature, I should have been able to work it out for myself.’

‘My lord?’

‘You look surprised, my dear Eleanor.’ Lord Henry’s smile was an essay in contempt. ‘It is simply that I now find it perfectly plain why you chose not to respond to my offer of marriage, in spite of your previous … shall I say, encouragement of my suit. You had your sights set on a far bigger and more important fish in your small pond. And a far richer one.’ The slick of disdain could not quite disguise the underlying pain, but the words had the bite of a lash. ‘I could obviously offer you nothing in comparison. I am sorry that my brother’s death has caused all your planning to go awry, my lady! As widow of the Marquis of Burford, your social position will be far less glamorous than you had plotted and planned for—if my brother had had the consideration to live.’

Eleanor found herself unexpectedly speechless.

Whatever she had expected him to say, whatever tone she had expected him to use towards her, it was certainly not this.

‘I do not understand. You will have to speak more plainly, my lord.’ Eleanor managed with an effort of will to keep her response cool, with none of the confused bewilderment that resulted from his words.

‘I admire your composure,’ he continued in the same conversational tone, ‘but of course you must have anticipated that we would meet again at some point, given the family connection. Unlike myself, who had no notion of what you had achieved in my absence. Did you perhaps expect me to have the supreme good manners not to mention our past dealings? To behave as if nothing untoward had occurred?’

Eleanor reconstructed her thoughts with a little shake of her head, trying to ignore the heavy sarcasm.

‘An offer of marriage, you say? You promised marriage, certainly. And I believed you. But I never received such an offer. It appeared that you had changed your mind.’ She held him in that clear gaze, willing him to deny her challenge. ‘I could wish that you had been sensitive enough to inform me of it. Instead you left me, left the country. No word, no explanation. Nothing. I was forced to learn of your departure from elsewhere. I admit, my lord, I had expected better treatment at your hands.’

‘You have a short memory, my lady.’ He was implacable in his response.

‘I have an excellent memory, my lord! I expected to hear from you. You promised that you would write when you had arranged your passage.’ Eleanor could hear her voice rising as the past flooded back and she fought hard to keep it controlled. ‘And then I was left to learn that you had sailed. To America. With no intention to return in the near future. You obviously had no thought for me at all.’

‘I sent you a letter. Telling you when I would sail. Asking you to join me as we had discussed. I gave you time and place.’ Lord Henry turned from her to stand before the fireplace, the distance between them a little greater. She was so lovely with the sun gilding her hair in an iconic halo. It would be so easy to believe her. And so disastrous if he allowed himself to do so. Besides, he knew that she lied. He clenched his jaw. ‘Don’t deny it. I know the message was delivered to your home. The groom I paid to do it confirmed the delivery.’

‘I received no such letter.’

‘It would certainly be more comfortable for you to hold to that fact, would it not, dear Eleanor?’ Lord Henry struggled to keep his tone flat, conversational even. ‘I would be the first to agree that such problems arise. It is quite possible for letters to go astray, as I discovered only a few hours ago. After all, I had absolutely no knowledge of Thomas’s marriage to you until Nicholas broke the news in the gun room. And yet Thomas had certainly written to inform me of the happy event.’ He picked up a fragile porcelain figure of a shepherdess and lamb from the mantelpiece, contemplated for the barest second smashing it on the hearth, replaced it gently with the utmost control in exactly the same spot. ‘But I know without any shadow of doubt that my letter was delivered to you, allowing you all the time you would need to join me at the vessel. My messenger was most reliable, as you could imagine for so important a delivery.’

‘Such a letter, if it ever existed, never reached my hands.’ She could find nothing other to say in her own defence.

Lord Henry shrugged, a gesture of cynical disbelief. ‘If you insist on holding to that, my lady … Tell me. Did you know my brother before I left, or did you wait until I had gone before you put yourself in his way?’

‘I …’ She could not believe that he had actually said that—that he could think so little of her!

‘It would not be very difficult to lure Thomas into marriage,’ he continued to taunt her. ‘You have a beautiful face, as I know to my cost. And my brother found it easy to trust those he liked.’

‘I never lured Thomas!’ How could the man whom she had once loved more than life itself be so deliberately vindictive?

‘No? But he offered you marriage.’

‘Yes. He did.’

‘I expect your lady mother was delighted. Your family might be respectable enough, but you had hardly been groomed for the role of Marchioness.’ He lifted a hand to sweep the room in an expansive gesture. ‘And here you are, mistress of Burford Hall, a town house in the most fashionable part of London and a hunting lodge in Leicestershire. Quite a killing, my lady.’

‘Of course. It was more than I could ever have dreamed of.’ A frown marred her forehead as she attempted to catch his meaning.

‘You must have been astounded at your good fortune. A Marquis as rich as Solomon in all his glory. Instead of a younger son with uncomfortably Republican leanings and an inclination to make his own way in the colonies.’

So! He thought she had callously rejected him in the interest of wealth and social position. She caught her breath at the injustice of the veiled accusation and stepped towards him with an unconcealed passion.

‘I would have risked everything to go with you if you had told me!’ Her hands curled into fists, at odds with her feminine appearance. ‘My home, my family. I would have followed you anywhere. How can you possibly doubt that?’

Lord Henry raised his brows in eloquent disbelief.

‘Are you possibly making a play for me again, my lady—now that my brother is dead? Is the role of mother of the heir insufficient for you?’ The bitter words were all that he could manage to hide the depth of hurt that still had the power to move him. He had truly thought that it had faded, that he had done with that episode of his life. Now, faced with the reality of her, knowing her rejection, it was as sharp and lethal as ever.

She could hardly comprehend his words. ‘How dare you! How dare you suggest something so degrading—so despicable!’

‘I dare! I dare do all manner of things!’ The past swept back in a submerging wave, allowing anger, frustration, desire, all long subdued, to take hold. A desire to possess her once more filled him and, if he were honest, not a little to punish her for her treachery. She was so beautiful, and she was not his! ‘Did you make a good bargain?’ His demands evaded his control, even when he saw the hurt in her eyes. ‘Could my brother give you pleasure to compare with that which you claimed to find in my arms? Or did you lie to me? And set your teeth when I kissed you or allowed my hands to touch your silken skin? Shall we rediscover what, if anything, was between us?’

He pounced with the lithe strength of a hunting cat on an unsuspecting mouse. His claws might be sheathed, but his dominance was lethal and dangerous none the less. His fine hands grasped her shoulders, holding her when she would have pulled away, but the initial contact startled them both, a tingle of reciprocating fire. He looked down at his hands where they grasped her shoulders. Surely he was over all that. This was not supposed to happen. Not now. Not when he had fought against it for so long, not when he believed her to be guilty of betrayal. He looked up to see her watching him with similar uncertainty, similar shock—but set his mind against it.

He would have taken her mouth with his, hot and demanding, more in punishment than passion, if his attention had not been caught by the jewel that she wore on her breast, a pendant on a fine gold chain. Small and delicate, of no great intrinsic value, yet it was beautiful and wrought by the hand of a craftsman. Its setting was gold filigree, leaves and flowers, the centre of each bloom set with a tiny diamond that glinted in the light with each erratic rise and fall of her breast. The central stone was an amethyst, clear and shining, of a depth of colour that reflected Eleanor’s eyes when she was radiantly happy.

But not at this moment, when her furious glare was the stormy intensity of indigo.

‘So you still wear it?’ Lord Henry’s tone was deceptively conversational.

‘Yes.’

‘It surprises me. Some would say that it was hypocritical not to consign it to the back of a drawer, since you turned your back with such ease on the one who gave it to you.’

‘Perhaps, after today, I will.’ She almost spat the words, shocked to the core by his accusations. ‘I thought the giver had some affection for me, love even. How wrong I was! I should be grateful to you, my lord, for pointing out the error of my ways.’ She angled her head, disdain writ large in her slanted glance. ‘Perhaps I should return it to you. You may find some other naïve lady of your acquaintance in New York to gift it to.’

His tenuous hold on his temper duly snapped.

And he lowered his head, his eyes all the time on hers, until his mouth, hard and angry, crushed her lips. When she murmured a protest, he immediately raised his head, eyes glittering. ‘Had you forgotten, dearest Nell? I thought you had enjoyed it. You did not refuse my kisses in the past.’

He slanted his head to take her mouth again, without kindness or thought for her own wishes, but forcing her lips to part against her teeth. Eleanor stood unresponsive in his hold, until on a breath, and a sob deep in her breast, her resistance melted away, her anger as insubstantial as morning mist. Instead of pushing against his chest to achieve her freedom, her fingers curled into the material of his coat and she clung to him. In response his arms tightened round her until her curves were moulded to his hard length from breast to thigh. Her mouth softened, lips parting of their own free will, to invite invasion. He groaned. And took what she was prepared to give, and more. The fire burned brightly, leaping through their veins with unexpected brilliance and heat, and seared them both.

When he finally released her, the anger had not been assuaged at all, but still surged through his blood, not even calmed when she swayed and would have fallen had she not grasped his forearms for support.

‘Well, my lady?’ For a brief moment he allowed her to see the temper that burned in his gut. ‘What do you think? A title and a fortune balanced against the pleasures of my hands and mouth? I wager that my brother was not lacking in skills of love. But did he satisfy you?’ But then the pain in her eyes, sharp and beyond her control, forced him to retreat. ‘Perhaps he was kinder than I,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps you were wise in your decision after all.’

Confusion swept Eleanor’s features as she pushed herself to stand alone. She could not think, could not accept what had just happened between them, what she had allowed to happen. Humiliation brought its warm colour to her throat and cheeks. She veiled her eyes from him with a downsweep of lashes. Perhaps there was the merest sparkle of a tear, but he could not be sure. But it brought him to his senses as assuredly as a deluge of cold water.

‘Forgive me. I should not have forced myself on you in that manner. It is unpardonable.’ He stepped back from her as disgust rose in his throat at his own temper. And that she should be able to rouse such longings in him again, revealing a weakness that he thought well and truly dead. Disgust at the betrayal of his body, which was hard and demanding for her. He now kept his voice low, but with no warmth in it, simply cold acceptance of the situation. ‘You would seem to have a talent for falling on your feet, my lady. I am not available to you. But I should warn you. Keep your clever velvet claws out of Nicholas.’

The lady flinched as if he had slapped her with the outrageous comment. ‘I will not continue this conversation.’ Eleanor choked on a sob. ‘I can only be grateful that fate spared me marriage with you, my lord. I could never have guessed at your capacity for inflicting such pain.’ She swept past him, but when she had reached the door his voice stopped her.

‘Eleanor?’

‘Well?’

‘I would be interested to know if you managed to persuade my brother that you were a virgin on your wedding night.’

Her whole body stiffened under the vile cruelty of the attack. She dare not face him again for fear that he would see the tears that had begun to track down her cheeks.

‘The matter is entirely none of your affair,’ she managed in a voice little more than a whisper.

‘Of course not, my dear. You are not my affair any longer. And I thank heaven for it. And by the by, there is no need for you to be concerned. I shall not divulge our sordid little secret to anyone. I believe it is not to the credit of either of us. We must preserve your spotless reputation at all cost, must we not?’

On which vicious parting shot, the composure of the Marchioness of Burford finally disintegrated. She wrenched open the library door to hurry from the room, slamming it forcefully in Lord Henry’s face.

His lordship merely stood, head bowed, eventually returning to stare blindly into the empty fire-grate, until moved to kick viciously against a half-charred log with his booted foot.

Well done indeed!

His intention had been to pursue the interview with icy and disinterested detachment. So how the Devil had he allowed himself to make such unwarrantable comments? To inflict such blatant intimacies on her, uncaring of her wishes in the matter? A despicable act, unworthy of his birth and upbringing. Conflicting emotions and images warred within his brain. Of course she deserved every accusation. Had she not rejected and humiliated him, casting his love into the gutter as so much worthless trash? Her promises of love, protestations of devotion and a willingness to throw in her lot with him, had been shallow and empty. Instead, she had chosen worldly ambition. How fickle women were! And yet … the horror in her face when he had accused her of perfidy demanded his attention. The hesitation in her voice. The tightening of the muscles along her jaw as she had striven, unsuccessfully in the end, to prevent tears gathering in those glorious eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She had not been unmoved by his words. Or by his demands on her body. He closed his eyes as he remembered the scent of her hair, the taste of her lips as they responded to his insistent possession. But then, women were skilled actresses after all.

But what did it matter? Lord Henry straightened, stretching, allowing the muscles in his shoulders to relax as his pulse slowed. He had not realised that he had been so tense. He walked slowly to follow the Marchioness from the library. It was all in the past. She had what she wanted. The inheritance was secure with an heir, albeit very young. Nicholas would more than willingly play the interested uncle and trustee. He was now free to return to America and wash his hands of the whole situation in England unless something unforeseen arose to demand his presence in the future. He need trouble himself no further over Eleanor Faringdon.

And in the short time remaining to him here at Burford Hall, he would treat her with all that damnable courtesy and good manners worthy of a gentleman. Whatever the cost!

Chapter Three

Lord Henry Faringdon settled back into life at Burford Hall in the following days with consummate ease. Casting an eye over the splendid horseflesh in the stables, he chose himself a handsome bay hunter and rode the familiar estate with Nicholas.

‘This is all very impressive, little brother. The livestock looks well. And you have drained the lower pastures at last, I see. Your doing or Thomas’s?’

Nicholas laughed, the shadows of bereavement lifting in response to the bright spring sunshine and physical exertion of a gallop across the open parkland. ‘Do I need to say it? I may be the little brother, but I have an eye to the future of the family. Thomas, as you are well aware, only had an eye to the next run of the fox in winter, or the next winner at Newmarket in summer. Or a flirtation with the prettiest girl in the room.’ His smile became tinged with sadness as the loss was driven home by the memories, and he changed the subject. ‘The stone quarry has been developed since your day, Hal. We have improved the surface on some of the roads. And we are beginning to manage the old woodland for timber.’

Hal snorted. ‘Very efficient! I will leave all such matters to you.’

Nicholas was silent for a moment as they reined in their horses to take in the fine view of the lower lake with its ornamental planting. Then he fixed his brother with a determined eye.

‘Hal. I know that you can tell me it is none of my affair—but is anything wrong?’

‘How do you mean?’ Henry betrayed nothing by glance or voice. ‘I am aware of nothing. Apart from having to share the breakfast table with Alicia Stamford and her interminable opinions on every topic under the sun. She is enough to make a saint swear—and I am no saint!’

Nick grimaced in sympathy, but refused to be put off.

‘I don’t know what it is, but between you and Eleanor I sense unease, some distance between you. More than that, in fact—a definite lack of … of tolerance.’

‘How so?’ Hal’s expression became even more bland.

‘I don’t know.’ Nicholas rubbed his chin with his gloved fist. ‘It is nothing that you say or do. Just that—you don’t seem to like each other very much. And you seem to have deliberately kept out of her way—and she out of yours.’

Henry kept his gaze fixed on the landscape, lifting his shoulders in the lightest of shrugs. ‘I was not aware. Perhaps Lady Burford is just wary of men, after Thomas’s death.’

‘There, you see. You are all cold formality, using her title. And I had not thought that she was wary. Nell is usually approachable and friendly enough.’

Henry shook his head, teeth clenched. Nicholas had called her Nell! A spark of jealousy gripped him before he could curse himself for a fool. Such suspicions were totally unfounded as he knew very well. And what was it to him? The Marchioness was free to give her affections where she chose.

He deliberately turned the conversation back to the engaging topic of the merits of growing beet for the overwintering of cattle, leaving Nicholas with a clear conviction that his question had been adroitly evaded.

Henry’s relationship with Mrs Alicia Stamford, Eleanor’s ever-present mama, edged to the glacial. They were scrupulously polite to each other with no direct reference made to the circumstances of their previous encounters, when he had been regarded by her as a most unsatisfactory suitor to her beautiful daughter. The rules were clearly laid down between them during their first meeting after Henry’s arrival.

‘Lord Henry. We are pleased to see you back in England.’ Mrs Stamford forced her lips into the semblance of a smile and inclined her head with condescending grace, as she smoothed her satin skirts and arranged the costly and delicate shawl round her shoulders in more becoming folds. She had been a beautiful woman in her youth, shadows of it still there in the rich auburn of her hair and her elegant figure. But advanced hypochondria and a fierce ambition dedicated to ensuring the social advancement of her daughter had taken its toll. Her once-porcelain skin was now finely lined, her complexion sallow. Her husband, a country gentleman of comfortable means but no social pretensions, had been dead some dozen years. The lady was now intent on enjoying her freedom and elevated status as mother to the Marchioness of Burford, secure in the knowledge that she lived at one of the best addresses in town and had the means to trick herself out in the latest fashions.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Lord Henry raised her cold fingers to his lips with impeccable finesse. ‘I see that you remember me.’

‘Of course, my lord.’ A flush stained her thin features. ‘I remember making your acquaintance in London during my daughter’s first Season.’

‘But our acquaintance, as I recall, was of very short duration.’ Since you did everything in your power to keep Eleanor out of my path!

‘You were very keen to seek your fortune in America, my lord, as I recall. I trust that matters went well for you.’

‘They did.’

‘And how long do you plan to remain here at Burford Hall?’ A matter of days, I sincerely trust!

‘I have not yet decided.’

‘I am sure the estate can manage well enough without your involvement, if business demands your presence elsewhere.’ Her lips curled unpleasantly that he might be engaged in something so common as business, no matter how lucrative. ‘Nicholas has proved himself an excellent trustee for my grandson. And Mr Hoskins, of course.’

‘I am sure he has. But it my inclination to remain here for a little while.’

Which was about as much as they could find to say to each other. Henry smiled and bowed. Mrs Stamford inclined her head once more. They understood each other very well.

And Nicholas, with half an ear to the exchange, was left with the uneasy impression that there was something here which he had missed, of which he was unaware. Conversation with Nell’s mama was always an adventure, bordering on the brittle. Opinionated, critical, frequently acerbic and intolerant, she took no prisoners. But here … Nick could not quite put his finger on it. The sneer on Mrs Stamford’s face, the edge to her voice as the exchange drew to a close could have cut through flesh and bone. And as for Hal … There was no love lost here, despite the exquisite politeness of the little episode. But short of asking either combatant outright … One glance at the closed expressions, the barely veiled hostility, convinced Nick that no man of sense or with an eye to self-preservation would risk such a foolhardy move.

In spite of Nell’s determination to keep her mind on more important issues, her thoughts betrayed her with cruel persistence. And her dreams. She relived again and again that magical Season when her mother and an aged uncle had launched her into society, the only season which was possible, given their financial circumstances. Her mother had been intent on a good match, as advantageous a marriage as could be achieved. Once she had met Lord Henry Faringdon, Eleanor had thoughts for no one else.

It was at a soirée, at the home of a distant cousin who mixed in the most fashionable of circles, an ideal opportunity for Eleanor to meet the privileged members of the haut ton. Her mother had managed to pull strings to achieve invitations. Eleanor could remember the occasion in perfect detail when she dared allow her mind free rein. Sitting in her bedroom with her son on her lap, she abandoned her attempts to discipline her memories and simply let them sweep back unhindered, layer upon layer. The decorations of hothouse flowers with the intense perfume of jasmine and heliotrope. The music and dancing. And the dress she wore for the occasion. White muslin as would become a débutante with a delicately embroidered hem and silver ribbons at waist and neckline. Her hair in high-pinned ringlets, falling to her shoulders, and a string of pearls, the only jewellery she possessed.

And she had seen him that night. He had entered the room with his brother, the Marquis, but Eleanor had eyes for no one but Lord Henry. The Marquis, for all his consequence and good looks, might not have existed. Lord Henry filled her vision and her senses. Tall, dark of hair, handsome of face, elegant of figure, impossibly attractive in the formal splendid of black satin evening clothes and white linen. They were introduced. They stood up for a country dance. And her heart was lost before she could take a breath, somewhere between the cotillion and a reel.

Her smile was wry, a little sad, as she recalled that heady moment. The merest touch of his hand had quickened her pulse and when his lips had brushed her fingers she knew that she was his for ever.

Disastrously, she was now forced to admit, Eleanor had believed that he was as captivated as she. What a fool she had been! Carried away by the romance of snatched meetings, the delicious duplicity of a few stolen moments of time when they could close out the world. She had listened to his dreams of a new life, fired by his ideas and ambitions. She had believed in him. Trusted. They would go together.

And then he had simply left her with not one word of explanation or farewell. Humiliated and heartbroken, she had hidden her grief, determined not to be an object of interest or pity. Her pride and her spirit had come to her aid when she might have been totally devastated, and she had survived. With the kindness and compassion of Thomas. Dear Thomas. But she had learned in those cold days after Lord Henry’s departure that there was a high price to pay for love and she would not willingly pay it again. To show emotion, to offer love, was to put yourself into the power of those to whom it was given. And when it was not returned …

Eleanor shuddered as she remembered the exact occasion of her open avowal of love and commitment to Hal, when a soft moon illuminated the summer house, casting deep and intimate shadows within, painting the leaves of the overhanging willow that enclosed them with silver hue.

When Thomas had offered marriage, her gratitude knew no bounds. She could not love him—he both knew and accepted that. She had never tried to dissemble or pretend to an emotion that was now beyond her capabilities. Deep affection, yes, without doubt. And trust. But love … that was not possible. And he in his turn had offered her friendship, kindness, respect, a marriage based on compassion and understanding. No promises of blazing passion. But she could—indeed, wished to—live without that, and had done so comfortably for two whole years. Why was love considered necessary to achieve a satisfying marriage? When Thomas had taken her to his bed and made her truly his wife he had possessed her with such grace and sensitivity, with a depth of care and tenderness that she still felt she did not deserve. He had quite determinedly allowed no room for either discomfort or embarrassment on her part, enfolding her in warmth and a gentle humour. Her heart swelled, tears threatened as she recalled those painful early days when Thomas had set himself to comfort and reassure. And she, in recognition of her debt to him, had set herself to be a good wife and mother, equally determined that Thomas should never fault her or regret the decision that he had made that desperate day when she had visited him at Faringdon House in London to cast herself on his mercy.

Eleanor, allowing her gaze to rest for a long moment on the miniature of Thomas which stood on her nightstand, believed in all honesty that she had kept her bargain and would mourn her husband’s death with genuine grief for the loss of the dearest of friends.

All passion in her life was dead.

If only Hal had not touched her beyond a formal gesture of greeting. If only he had not kissed her, held her in his arms. And she had responded, encouraged him. And wanted him. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks as her senses relived the moment.

Eleanor straightened her shoulders and lectured herself with stern words. Lord Henry must never be given the opportunity to reawaken the passion. It would—it must—remain dead and buried. He must never know what she had suffered for his rejection. For the future, she would tolerate her mother’s well-meaning interference and devote her life to raising her beloved son. She would find enjoyment and fulfilment in that. She dashed the tears from her cheeks with an impatient hand. Of course she would. She buried her face in her son’s dark curls.

On a parallel course, though both would have denied it, Henry, too, found his thoughts returning far too often for comfort to those days when he had met and loved Miss Eleanor Stamford. His courtship of her had been carried on under the most difficult of circumstances, not least the suspicious glare of her mother who desired a far better marriage for her beautiful daughter. Lord Henry, although his birth might be impeccable, was a loose cannon with a desire to make his own way in the world and an uncomfortable lack of consideration for social standing and protocol. Mrs Stamford had watched him like a mother hawk, intent on defending her chick. But he and Eleanor had found the means to meet and the memories were bittersweet.

By God, he had loved her! And believed beyond doubt that she had loved him. Enough to disobey her exacting parent and travel to the new world where they would marry and make a life not bound by rigid convention. He had sworn his undying love, sweeping her along with his dreams of the future. Made preparations. Sent to tell her of the time and place of their sailing. And waited in vain on the windswept dock as the Captain made ready to sail.

No message. No note. Nothing. The minutes had ticked by, his idealistic hopes fading with every beat of his heart, yet still trying to believe that she would arrive at the eleventh hour. And then he could pretend no more. They needed to catch the tide and he had sailed alone. He had risked one further letter when he had landed, but received nothing in return.

So Mr Henry Faringdon had set himself to building his future alone, finding the time to curse Eleanor and all women for their capricious and inconstant nature. Without doubt, she had enjoyed the romance and the excitement of his wooing, been flattered by his declaration of love, but had no intention of keeping her own promises.

Perhaps she had enjoyed the power of having him at her feet. Henry grimaced at his youthful naïvety, his black brows snapping into a firm line. Very well. He too had learnt a hard lesson and would not in his lifetime forget the painful wounds. And it would not be something that he would put himself in the way of repeating.

Thus in his dealings with women since, trust and loyalty were never an issue. Definitely not love! He kept a mistress in some comfort and enjoyed her many talents, but it was a casual arrangement, both sides enjoying the benefits but recognising the lack of commitment.

He now smiled at the thought of her accommodating bed and welcoming arms. Rosalind gave him the pleasures of light conversation, feminine company and the soft delights of her body, with no demands on his time or emotions other than those he was prepared to give. He gave her financial security—and presumably some passing pleasure. But on that windswept dock as the England’s Glory prepared to sail from Liverpool to New York, he had vowed that he would never again give his heart and soul to any woman.

He might marry in future, of course. But he saw it as a business transaction only to achieve an heir. He would never allow memories of Eleanor Stamford to cloud his judgement or unsettle his peace of mind.

Now, back at Burford Hall, where he must see his nemesis every day, Henry closed his mind against the image of the girl who had stolen his heart, against remembering the soft seductiveness of her lips against his, her delectable curves as he drew her close to imprint her body with his own. And he found a need to discover any excuse against spending time where she might be found in the house. But he could not prevent Nell from haunting him in his dreams with her shy smile and delicious perfume, her hair unbound in glorious disorder in his hands.

He should never have allowed himself to kiss her, to reawaken the desires and needs that now snapped at him with sharp teeth.

He set his teeth against the vivid intrusion and snarled at his valet after another restless night.

On a bright morning Lord Henry, this time alone, made a private and intensely painful visit to the church of St Mary the Virgin, which served the spiritual needs of the estate and the small village of Burford. There in the graveyard, dark head bowed, he stood beside a new grave, the turned earth still raw, although now softened with a faint sheen of spring grass. A simple plinth had been erected, its clean lines topped by a classical urn. The words and dates that recorded the life of his brother were sharply incised, all very proper and tasteful, but telling nothing of the vibrant life of the young man who lay beneath the earth in untimely death. Sorrow clawed at Henry’s heart, regrets flooded his mind. It felt, as the sun warmed his skin and the dappled shadows from the elm trees flirted playfully across the mown grass, that he had lost a part of himself, which it would never be possible to recover. With a gentle finger he traced the letters. The depths of the tearing grief that stopped his throat and stung his eyes shocked him as he damned the monstrous twist of fate that had robbed his brother of his life.

But at least Thomas had left a son, to carry on his blood line and the family name, so that there might always be a Faringdon living at Burford House. It was some comfort, Henry supposed, as he brushed the smooth curve of the urn. It must be.

As he would have turned away, his loss in no way assuaged, his attention was drawn to the fresh posy of primroses arranged at the foot of the plinth.

Eleanor’s work? Henry hoped so. His lips curved with a cynical edge as he remounted his horse, turned his back on the calm tranquillity of the dead. Whatever motives had driven Eleanor to reject his own love, to send her headlong into marriage with Thomas, he hoped that in the end she had cared for his brother more than a little.

At the beginning of the second week, the family gathered in the dining room for a late luncheon. During the first course of a range of cold cuts of meat, Lord Henry took the unusual opportunity to address himself directly to Lady Burford across the table.

‘You should know, ma’am, that I have arranged passage for America. I shall leave next week.’

‘So soon?’ Eleanor’s gaze moved from her plate to his eyes and she lifted her napkin to lips gone suddenly dry.

‘Why not?’ His face held no warmth, but perhaps a little surprise in the consternation that he read in Eleanor’s momentarily unguarded expression. ‘My business will not prosper in my absence, whereas you do not need my help here. Nick is more than capable and far more interested in developing the land than I. And Hoskins has his finger on all the legal niceties. The inheritance and your jointure are secure, ma’am. There is nothing to keep me here.’

‘Very well. I … we shall be sorry to see you go, of course.’ Her tone was low with no inflection but, to his disappointment, her gaze now quickly fell before his. She rarely allowed herself to look directly at him so that he had presumed her uninterest. And yet he realised, beyond any sort of logic, that he had been hoping that she would care. It seemed from her reply that she did not. He allowed himself a sardonic smile at his foolishness. If Eleanor had been prepared to reject his offer two years previously in the face of better prospects, she would hardly show any concern for his presence—or his absence—now.

But, on hearing Hal’s announcement, Nell’s heart had fallen to the region of her fine kid slippers, her nerves skittering like mice in an underdrawing. She did not want him to go. She was afraid of him, of her reactions to him, but she did not want him to leave Burford Hall.

Mrs Stamford took up the conversation, breaking in to her daughter’s distraught train of thought. ‘I am sure that life in America has much to entice you to return, my lord. And I expect there are friends who will be missing you.’

‘It has indeed. And, yes, there are some who will have missed me.’

Eleanor heard and came to her own conclusions. Of course. She should have realised. Her heart sank even lower, if that were possible. There was nothing to hold him in England. And there would be a lover waiting for him there, a woman who loved him and fretted for his return. A woman who was without doubt beautiful and who enjoyed the intimate attention of his mouth and hands. Her own hands clenched on her knife and fork. Of course he would wish to go back. How ridiculous to think that he would even consider her own needs. Not that she had any true idea of what they might be!

She put down the knife and fork, the slices of chicken un-tasted, her appetite suddenly gone. And began a detailed conversation with her mama with respect to a planned visit to a neighbouring family during the afternoon. Should they take the landaulet or the barouche? And what was the possibility of inclement weather?

And Hal bitterly accepted that, yes, there was nothing to keep him at Burford Hall.

The plates from the cold collation had hardly been cleared from the table and dishes of fresh fruit and cheese set out when Marcle entered to approach Lady Burford.

‘My lady. There are a lady and gentleman come here.’ He frowned his disapproval of such lax adherence to acceptable visiting hours.

Eleanor raised her brows a little in some surprise. ‘Now is not a very convenient time, Marcle. Perhaps you could show them to the red parlour and supply them with refreshment. We shall be finished here in half an hour.’

Marcle persisted, if reluctantly. ‘The gentleman apologises for the unwarranted interruption, but claims urgent business. Of a highly personal nature, which requires immediate attention from your ladyship.’

‘I see. Who is he? Do we know him?’

‘Sir Edward Baxendale, my lady.’ Marcle presented a neat visiting card on a silver salver. ‘And Miss Baxendale, his sister, I believe.’

Eleanor looked at the tasteful lettering on the card and then across the table to Nicholas, who was in deep and detailed conversation with Henry about the merits of a favourite hunter. ‘Do we know a Sir Edward Baxendale, Nicholas? Does he live locally? I think I have not heard that name, but he might be one of the hunting fraternity. In which case you will be acquainted at least.’

Nick shook his head. ‘There is no one of that name who lives in this part of the county, I am sure.’ He looked to his brother for confirmation. Henry shook his head, uninterested.

Eleanor decided. ‘Very well. Since it is an urgent matter …’ She nodded to her butler. ‘Show them in, if you please.’

Within minutes, Marcle ushered the visitors into the dining room.

‘Sir Edward Baxendale and Miss Baxendale, my lady.’

The gentleman was a man in his early thirties, perhaps a little older than Hal, of medium height and stocky build. Eleanor gained a general impression of quiet elegance and understated fashion in his clothing and appearance. He was without doubt a gentleman of some means. The lady who accompanied him was younger, slight of build, clothed in black as if recently bereaved, but again with a distinct air of fashion. Behind them came a young woman, clearly a companion or governess from her plain and serviceable dress, carrying a young child who squirmed to be set on his feet.

The gentlemen bowed. The ladies curtsied. Marcle hovered with interest in the background.

‘Well, Sir Edward. What is this personal business that cannot wait?’ Eleanor smiled to put the visitors at their ease. ‘Perhaps we can offer you a glass of wine. If you would care to sit—’

‘Forgive me, your ladyship, my lords.’ The gentleman bowed to the assembled company, face grave, politely deferential but firm. ‘I would not normally arrive on your doorstep without due notice. But this is not a social visit. Time is, I believe, of the essence. And what I have to say will certainly, I fear, be distasteful to you.’ He allowed his gaze to linger on the faces around the table, his own face and voice strained with compassion.

‘Then in what way can we be of help?’ Eleanor approached the little group, now with some concern, noting that the young woman was nervous and kept her eyes fixed on Sir Edward, as if for guidance or reassurance.

‘I fear that we are come here in some way under false pretences. This is my sister, Octavia.’ He took the hand of the young woman beside him to lead her forward. ‘She was Miss Baxendale. She is now, I must inform you, Octavia Faringdon, wife of the lately deceased Thomas Faringdon, and has been so for the past three years. She is the lawful Marchioness of Burford. And this child—’ he indicated with a glance behind him ‘—is their son, John. Heir to the title and Faringdon estates. I believe, madam, sirs, that we have much to discuss.’ Sir Edward bowed again and waited to see the impact of his declaration.

The silence that hung in the room was painful in its intensity, as enveloping as the cloud of dust motes that drifted around them in the sun’s rays.

Until Mrs Stamford grasped the edge of the table and pushed herself to her feet in outrage. ‘A marriage? Thomas’s wife? I have never heard such disgraceful nonsense in all my life!’ She glanced fiercely at her daughter. ‘If I were in your shoes, Lady Burford, I would have nothing to do with this scandalous claim. It is my belief that it is merely a charade on the part of these … these people, to get their hands on the Faringdon fortune.’ She paused to cast a look of pure disdain towards the pair, her lips curled in what, in a less well-bred lady, would have been seen as a sneer. ‘If I were you, I would have Marcle show these impostors the door, on the instant!’

The company, robbed of any desire for further social platitudes, or to sample the fine array of cheese and fruit set out on the dining table, repaired immediately to the blue withdrawing-room in stunned and uncomfortable silence.

‘Perhaps you would be so good as to explain your astounding claims, Sir Edward,’ Lord Henry requested with remarkable calm.

The gentleman was now seated on the silk-covered sofa, his sister beside him, palpably uncomfortable with hands clasped tightly in her lap. Their companion chose to take the child into the window embrasure, away from the heart of the crisis, to look out at the park and gardens and be entertained. Eleanor had lowered herself to an oval-backed chair as if she did not trust her legs to support her. Nicholas stood behind her, Mrs Stamford took a seat at her side. Lord Henry, either deliberately or through natural inclination, took a position of authority before the fireplace. When thoughts and impressions ran riot, spiking the air with nerve-jangling tension, he took command in a cool, unemotional fashion and broached the shattering development.

‘We would all be grateful if you would explain the circumstances of this supposed marriage. My family, as you must be aware, is ignorant of its very existence.’

‘Of course, my lord. I can understand why you might consider it all a matter of pretence and artifice. This is not an easy situation and not one that I would naturally seek. Forgive me, my lady.’ Sir Edward bowed his head to Eleanor, clear blue eyes guileless and full of compassion. She watched him with a mind frozen in disbelief, the fragile skin stretched over her cheekbones, tight with fear. It was as if his voice came from a great distance, but anguish gripped her heart at what he might say.

‘My sister came out four years ago with a Season in London,’ he began to explain. ‘She was very young, but my mother was alive then and wished to see her daughter well established. Octavia met Burford during the Season. And then later in the summer months when we spent a few short weeks at Brighton. It is very simple. They met and fell in love, as young people may do on such occasions.’ He smiled understandingly down at his sister, who continued to sit, head bent, fingers worrying at her reticule. ‘And they were married, quietly, in Whitchurch, the village where we have our small estate. Their child, John, was born there the following year.’

The information, clearly and lucidly delivered, dropped into the atmosphere as hollowly as pebbles into the depths of a well. Mrs Stamford found herself lost for words.

‘But why was it not made public at the time?’ Lord Henry frowned as he weighed the details. ‘Why did we not know of this marriage? Why did my brother not bring the lady home as his bride? I can think of no reason why he should need to keep this marriage a secret from his family and the world.’

‘I know not, my lord, but Burford spoke of family disapproval. We were not to know the truth of it.’ Sir Edward lifted his hands in acceptance of a difficult situation and the lowered them to cover those of his sister in warm comfort. ‘My sister presumed that your family would not accept his marriage to a lady of so little social consequence. Our family is respectable enough, of course, but we have never aimed to the heights of the haut ton. And to enter into marriage with the Marquis of Burford was beyond her dreams, even as a young girl who did not know the ways of society.’

Henry turned his attention to the lady who sat silently, eyes on her clasped fingers. ‘Is this so? Did Thomas indeed marry you, then hide you away in—where was it?—Whitchurch?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ She raised her eyes, not flinching as they met such stern questioning. ‘Thomas and I … we fell in love and he wished to marry me, in spite of his family, he said. So we should keep it secret, he said, and I agreed. I was very young, you see, and knew no better.’

‘Then why did you say nothing when my brother entered into a second marriage with … with Miss Stamford?’ Incredulity coloured Henry’s question. ‘Surely it is beyond belief that you should simply accept such a development.’ And why in heaven’s name would Thomas have done such a thing?

‘That was a mistake on my part, I confess.’ Sir Edward came to his sister’s rescue, taking her hand again and holding it in a warm clasp. ‘My sister was very foolish and, I do not hesitate to say, is easily led. She was given to understand that his marriage to Miss Stamford—’ he inclined his head towards Eleanor with grave respect ‘—was a matter of necessity, desired and encouraged by his family. Burford asked that Octavia keep the matter of her own marriage quiet in return for a substantial annuity settled on herself and the child. I could not persuade her otherwise. She insisted on doing what Burford wished. But now she has seen that much is due to her and wishes to make everything plain.’ He smiled down at the young woman who coloured prettily and returned his clasp, nodding her agreement.

‘But if he loved you and had married you, regardless of … of the differences in your social rank,’ Eleanor spoke at last to the fair lady, ‘and since you had presented him with a son and heir—why would my Lord Burford consider the complications of a second marriage to me? It does not make any sense! Most particularly as—’ She closed her lips into a thin line, unable to continue. Particularly as my birth and the social status of my own family is no better! It simply did not make any logical sense.

‘My lady …’Sir Edward hesitated, all deference and concern. ‘I cannot tell you … Perhaps you are the only one here who might know the reason for such an unfortunate decision.’

‘But why wait to make any claim until now?’ Mrs Stamford interrupted, impatient as she pinned the fair couple with an eagle stare, clearly not believing a word of Sir Edward’s explanation. ‘My lord has been dead for four months. Why did you not speak on hearing of his death? It has been no secret, after all.’

Sir Edward turned to face the lady with calm purpose. ‘We knew of Burford’s death, of course. A great shock to us all. We expected that Octavia would have been considered in the will. And that clear provision would have been made for the child—who, after all, is the heir. And so we waited in anticipation. But there was no word from the lawyers, there was no settlement for Octavia or for the child.’ His voice hardened and looked down at his sister’s face with concern. ‘As the will stands, she has been left with no income, no security … no recognition of her position as Burford’s wife. That is not right, as I am sure you will agree.’ His gaze swept his audience. ‘She deserves what is rightfully hers after three years of neglect, of being forced to live as if she had a guilty secret. I have persuaded her to come here today to lay the truth before you, knowing that you will not allow her to go unheard. She must receive what is due to her under the law.’

‘Is this indeed so?’ Eleanor appealed to the young woman who sat so blamelessly in her withdrawing-room and threatened to destroy her whole life.

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Did you love him?’ And what a ridiculously inconsequential question that is!

‘Yes. I did. And he loved me. He told me so.’

‘Did he … did he visit you often in Whitchurch?’

‘When he could. It was not always easy.’

Eleanor’s blood ran cold from her lips to the tips of her fingers. Was that why Thomas had been prepared to enter into a loveless marriage with her? Because it would have given her the protection she needed? And, more importantly, because he had already given his heart elsewhere so a union without love was of no consequence? It could be so. It could all be terribly true. The thought struck her with terrifying power. But why did he agree to marry her at all if he was already legally bound? The cool voice of common sense impressed itself on her mind, insisting that she listen to its reasoned tones. Surely Thomas, whom she had respected and married, could never have taken a decision so unworthy of a man of honour. Eleanor no longer knew what to think.

‘Forgive me, Sir Edward, if I put this bluntly.’ Henry broke into her thoughts. ‘Is there any reason we should believe this remarkable claim?’

‘Of course.’ Sir Edward released Octavia’s hand and stood, a deliberate confrontation now. ‘I am not so foolish as to believe that you would accept my sister’s claim without legal proof. I have it. I have with me the proof of the marriage of my sister and your brother. And the registration of the birth of the child. At the church of St Michael and All Angels in the parish of Whitchurch and both witnessed by the Reverend Julius Broughton who is resident there. It proves beyond doubt that the marriage predates any other agreement that Burford might have entered into and that the child was born in wedlock. Thus he is your brother’s legitimate heir.’

From his pocket he produced two documents and handed them over. Henry read them, noting places, dates and signatures. And passed them to Eleanor, who did likewise, holding them with fingers that were not quite steady. Yes. There it was before her eyes. She swallowed against the tight constriction in her throat as the truth sank home. The documents predated her own marriage and the birth of her own child. She was not Thomas’s wife. Her son was not Thomas’s heir.

‘It predates my marriage,’ she stated in toneless acceptance, as if her world and that of her son did not lay shattered at her feet.

‘It is as I said.’ Sir Edward rescued the papers from her nerveless fingers. ‘Octavia is Burford’s true wife. Your marriage, I am afraid, my lady, is invalid.’

At these gently spoken but brutal words, Lord Henry took a step forward, an automatic gesture, to put himself between Baxendale and Eleanor, discovering an overwhelming desire to shield her, to protect her from these destructive insinuations, as if his physical presence could rob the words of their veracity.

It was a futile attempt. Pride came to the rescue as, choking back a sob, Eleanor rose to her feet. She could sit no longer and so walked to the window where the child chattered unintelligibly and pointed excitedly at the circling rooks. She stretched out a hand to touch his hair. Pale gold like his mother, so different from her own dark son. A lively, attractive child who clutched at the coat of his nurse with fierce fists. Then, disturbed by Eleanor’s scrutiny, tears welled in the blue eyes and a wail broke the silence. Eleanor stroked his hair and the nurse shushed him, crooning to him in a soft voice until he hid his face against her shoulder.

Oh, God! How has all this come about?

Eleanor turned to look back over her shoulder at the tableau before the fireplace, with Sir Edward and Miss Baxendale—or was it the Marchioness of Burford?—at its centre. Both fair, well bred and respectable, Octavia appropriately clothed in black silk, a black satin-straw bonnet framing her lovely face—it was indeed difficult to suspect them of any degree of duplicity or trickery. And they had the documents with all the force of the law behind them …

‘This is a matter that needs our consideration, sir.’ Her attention was drawn back to Lord Henry, who had taken a hand in the discussion again. What were his thoughts on this untoward turn in family events? For a moment, his eyes caught hers and she thought that for that one second of contact he was not indifferent to her plight. And then he turned away. ‘What do you intend now, Sir Edward?’

‘It is my intention that we go to London and lay this evidence before your family’s legal man. A Mr Hoskins, I understand. I would presume, in the somewhat peculiar circumstances, that we can take up residence in Faringdon House? I believe that my sister should have that right as we do not possess our own establishment in London.’

‘What?’ Mrs Stamford could take no more. She surged to her feet, fury on behalf of her daughter writ large. ‘I think you presume too much, sir. You have no right whatsoever to take up residence in Faringdon House!’

A quick, startled glance passed between Nicholas and Henry, Nicholas astonished at the man’s effrontery in demanding the Faringdon London residence for his sister’s comfort, but Henry’s frown prevented any comment. His lordship placed a warning hand on Mrs Stamford’s rigid arm.

‘Do not distress yourself, ma’am.’ Turning to Sir Edward, Henry bowed his head in acknowledgement of the claim. ‘Very well, sir. I shall ensure that you are expected there and given every comfort. Although I would suggest that you do not spread word of this … this unfortunate and highly sensitive affair until the legality of your claim is proved.’

‘It is not our intention to provide food for the gossips, my lord.’ There was the merest hint of a reprimand in Baxendale’s quiet voice. He took his sister’s hand once more and drew her to her feet to stand beside him. ‘It would be of no benefit to my sister to be discussed in the streets and clubs more than is necessary. There will be enough scandal as it is. I shall present these documents—’ he replaced them in his inner pocket ‘—to Mr Hoskins. I think that they will hold up under due investigation by that gentleman—and then they will ensure the inheritance for my sister and her son. The entail on the estate should confirm it.’

‘Very well, Sir Edward. I must bow to your decision in this instance.’

‘I must thank you for your compliance, my lord. Now. If you will excuse us. We are intending to stay the night at the Crown in Tenbury Wells. I am sure that we will be in communication again very soon to straighten out this unfortunate matter.’

‘We shall.’ Lord Henry’s face was grim, every muscle in his body under powerful restraint. ‘We too shall be in London before the end of the week.’

Eleanor sank down onto the nearest chair as the visitors, accompanied by Nicholas and a furious Mrs Stamford, left the withdrawing-room to continue their journey. She was alone with Lord Henry but seemed oblivious to this. Her eyes were fixed on the window where afternoon sun cast patterns on the carpet and gilded the edge of the shutters. But she saw none of it.

‘Eleanor …’

She turned her head. Slowly, as if it took all her effort of will to force her body to obey, to focus on the man who stood before her. She studied his face with an intensity as if what she found there was of the utmost importance to her. But apparently she could read nothing to give her hope.

‘Eleanor. I presume that you had no suspicion of this terrible débâcle. Not the slightest hint that Thomas might have a liaison elsewhere.’ Henry’s voice held a harsh edge, almost as if, she thought, perhaps he considered that she herself was to some extent to blame.

‘No. How should I? I cannot believe it …’

‘Nor I. It does not sound like Thomas.’ He watched her carefully, aware of the white shade around her mouth as she skimmed the brink of control. Every instinct urged him to take her in his arms and let her cry out her frozen misery against his chest. To carry her off from this place so that she would never again have to face anything as shattering as the revelations of the past hour. But he could not, dare not, too unsure of her reactions to him if he made any intimate gesture. Too unsure of his feelings towards her. There was no place for pity here. And yet the bitter anger at her cold-hearted betrayal of his own love for her no longer seemed to weigh in the balance. A very masculine urge to protect took precedence.

‘That he should already have had a wife and child when he … when he …’ Eleanor swallowed hard and pressed a hand to her lips to stop the words. Then, ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘You do not have to do anything.’ Henry attempted to reassure her. ‘Now is not the time for hasty action. We need to speak with Hoskins before we accept the statements of Sir Edward Baxendale or the weight of his documents. We know nothing of him. We knew everything about Thomas.’ I pray that we did, for your sake!

She hardly listened, took in none of his soft words.

‘How can I do nothing! I have no right to the name I bear. I clearly have no right to live here or in any of the Faringdon properties, if what Miss Baxendale claims is true. And there is no evidence to suggest that it is false. Indeed, the proof for the marriage would appear to be unquestionable.’

She rose to her feet as if she would flee the room.

‘I will do all I can to help you.’ Henry moved to stand in her path. ‘You have only to ask.’

She really looked at him now. Contempt was clearly visible, swirled with the total despair in her eyes, their usual bright amethyst now as dark as bluebells in shaded woods.

‘Will you? Will you indeed, Hal?’

‘Of course. Nell …’ He stretched out his hand as if to touch her arm in compassion, moved by her dignity in spite of her grief.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed the words, taking him—and herself—by surprise at the sudden vehemence. ‘I do not want your pity!’

‘Nell, I understand that you—’

‘No, you don’t. You talked of humiliation when you believed that I had rejected you. You did not know the half of it. If Miss Baxendale’s marriage is indeed legal, imagine what a feast the gossip-mongers will have over that. I shall never be able to hold my head up in society again. And as for my son … I care not for myself. But what can you possibly do to save my child—an innocent victim—from the condemnation of a critical and judgmental society?’

‘You must not allow yourself to contemplate such a possibility. It may yet all come to nothing.’ What other could he say? He fought against self-disgust as he heard his own empty words in the face of her impossible position.

‘No? But if it does stand the test of law, Miss Baxendale’s document will proclaim me a whore and my son a bastard. And you tell me not to worry? You must be thanking God, Hal, for his divine retribution!’ She gave a little crow of hysterical laughter. ‘If I did indeed reject you in order to manipulate Thomas into marriage, as you so clearly suspect, then I have been punished for my sins beyond all belief.’ The laughter shattered and she covered her face with her hands to catch the tears that began to flow.

Ignoring her bitter accusation, answering his own need, he stepped forward, intending to take her in his arms. ‘Never that! Let me help you, Nell.’

‘Go away!’

Logic told him that he should do as she asked, should simply walk away. To hold her would be too dangerous, reawakening the feelings towards her that he did not want to experience ever again. But conscience, instinct perhaps—and something in the depth of his soul that he refused to acknowledge—insisted that he stay and comfort. Henry went with instinct and enclosed her in his arms.

Eleanor was immediately conscious of the warmth and power of his body, enfolding her, holding her against his strength. How strong he was. How easy it would be to simply rest her head on his shoulder and allow him to lift the burden from her, to solve the whole monstrous problem for her. How tempting to curl her fingers around his broad shoulders and simply hold on, until the nightmare dissipated as disturbing dreams must with the coming of daylight. And how foolish it would be to allow herself that luxury! What a terrible mistake to allow him to come too close, to know the thoughts and feelings that assailed her heart and mind, refusing to let her be.

She froze in his embrace as if she could not bear his touch, and almost immediately fought to be free, pushing with frantic hands against his chest, lifting her head proudly, defiantly, regardless of her tear-stained cheeks.

‘No. I do not think I will accept your help, my lord. I need nothing from you.’ Her voice was suddenly cold, derisive even. Although it hurt him immeasurably, he had never admired her courage as much as he did at that moment, but her words struck with deliberate venom, stinging him with their power to wound. ‘Go back to America, Hal. You are well out of it!’

Chapter Four

On the following morning Henry and Nicholas were the only two occupants of the breakfast table, although neither was showing much appetite. Desultory conversation occupied the first ten minutes about the value of breeding their own horseflesh. But finally Nicholas pushed the tankard of ale away across the table, leaned back in his chair and pinned his brother with an unusually stern expression.

‘Do you believe it, Hal?’

‘No.’ His brother’s uncompromising reply did not surprise him.

‘Neither do I. But there is all that proof, with the power of Church and State behind it. Legal documents and such …’ He frowned at Bess, who had placed one confiding and optimistic paw on his boot. ‘Tell me why you don’t believe it. The Baxendales certainly did not appear to be—’

‘Rogues? Tricksters? No, they did not.’ Henry steepled his fingers thoughtfully, elbows resting on the table. ‘Thomas was always ripe for a flirtation with a pretty girl. And Octavia Baxendale certainly qualifies for his interest. I admit, I was surprised to know that he had married Eleanor so soon after I had left. But two wives? One of them in secret when we were all still living here under this roof? Unlikely, anyone who knew him must accept.’ He pushed back from the table, and rose to his feet to pace to the windows, emotion suddenly raw in his voice as he stood with his back to his brother. ‘Why did you have to die, Thomas? And in such a uselessly tragic fashion!’ He leaned his hands on the window ledge and looked out at glorious nature with unseeing eyes. Then, on a deep breath with senses governed once more, he walked slowly back. ‘Apart from anything else, as you very well know, Thomas never could keep a secret to save his life! The number of times he fell foul of our heavy-handed parent because he could not keep a still tongue in his head—he probably totted up one beating a week for one sin or another, whether it was mine or his own was irrelevant.’ His smile was a mere twisting of lips. ‘You were probably too young to remember.’

‘So what do we do?’ Nicholas prompted. ‘Accept the proof and have Sir Edward Baxendale and the lady resident at Burford Hall?’

Henry eyed him with silent, brooding intensity.

‘Perhaps I should sail to America with you,’ Nicholas continued, ‘if he asks me to move out. Which he undoubtedly will. I wager he would not want a Faringdon living under the same roof.’

‘And you would be welcome,’ was the prompt reply. ‘The hunting is excellent—you would enjoy it.’

‘That might tempt me. Is it the land of opportunity that you had hoped for, Hal? You have said very little of your life there—but then we have been taken up with other matters, have we not!’

‘Very true—Baxendale has driven business from my mind somewhat,’ Hal admitted. ‘But, yes—the peace between Britain and America two years ago has ended American isolation, so commerce is free to develop and fortunes to be made. It is still an infant society, but progress is very rapid. New York is growing at a furious rate. Banks and businesses opening every day it seems. So, yes, the opportunity is there for those who are willing to throw the dice and bet confidently on the outcome.’

‘As Faringdon and Bridges will do?’

Hal smiled, a hint of pride evident in his face, his present problems for the moment overlaid by the bright promise of the future. ‘Yes … Faringdon and Bridges. It sounds good, does it not? Even if all we possess is tied up in investment, leaving us on a very uncomfortable precipice of poverty.’

‘I have every confidence and shall come to you for a loan when you have made your first fortune.’ Nicholas returned the smile. ‘And the women of New York?’ He slanted a sly glance at his brother. ‘Are they pretty?’

‘I believe they would compare with London. I have found so.’

‘So tell me, Hal. Is she a prime article?’

‘Of course.’ Hal’s answer was as smooth as watered silk.

‘And the name of this fair Cyprian?’

‘Rosalind—and the rest is none of your affair, little brother, although she would box your ears for you if you dared impugn her morality with such a title.’

Nicholas laughed and Henry broke into a reluctant grin at the exchange but then became deadly serious again and returned to the Baxendale claim. ‘But, no,. I don’t think it would be politic to simply accept the story that we have been fed so far. I think—’

The door opened. The Marchioness of Burford swept into the room, carrying her son, her mother in close pursuit.

‘I do not think, my dear Eleanor, that—’

‘Forgive me, Mama, but I have made up my mind.’

Eleanor came to a halt before Lord Henry, mood confrontational. She had no difficulty at all in meeting his surprised scrutiny this morning, meeting it with a bright gaze that issued a challenge to anyone who might be sufficiently ill advised as to stand in her way. A sleepless night with much time for reflection had achieved a very positive effect on the lady. Yesterday, she acknowledged, she had been weak. Spineless, even. She shivered in humiliation at the memory of her tears and her outpouring of grief and disillusion in Lord Henry’s presence. She must have been out of her mind to do so—to show such weakness. She had no excuse. Today she would grasp the nettle with both hands, crushing the stinging stems and leaves at whatever cost to herself. She would not meekly accept this hideous development. She would fight for her position, and, more importantly, the inheritance of her son!

Letting his gaze rest on her, Lord Henry had to appreciate that the lady had dressed for battle. The arrangement of her burnished ringlets à la Sappho could not be faulted, nor the quiet elegance of her high-waisted, narrow gown, long sleeved with only one row of discreet ruffles around the hem. The black silk creation, rich and costly, gleamed in the morning sunlight, undoubtedly created by the hand of an expert. Probably Eugenie in Bond Street, he thought, unless this most fashionable of modistes had changed in his absence.

Eleanor certainly had, he was forced to admit. Composed and sophisticated, her presence reinforced the impression that he had absorbed since his return. She had grown into her role as Marchioness of Burford and he could not fault her in it, although he felt a strange sense of loss that the young girl he had known had changed for ever.

‘I have decided,’ the Marchioness now announced to the room at large. ‘It is my intention to go to London to confront this problem. I cannot sit here, buried in the country, waiting for decisions on my future to be made without my knowledge. I need to speak with Mr Hoskins. I cannot believe that Thomas had married Octavia Baxendale, visited her and had a son by her without my being aware! Certainly not for the whole span of our marriage! Such deceit is completely unacceptable.’

‘But where will you stay?’ Mrs Stamford broke in, continuing her earlier objections, but for once unsure of her ground. She could not but agree with her daughter’s basic premise that the whole matter could not simply be ignored. ‘Surely not at Faringdon House, with the Baxendales in residence. Think of the mortification of having to meet them every day, of sitting down to breakfast with them. Do think, Eleanor …’

‘I have thought, Mama. I have done nothing else but think all night long! I shall not, of course, go to Faringdon House. It would not be at all suitable. I shall put up at an hotel until I can make more acceptable arrangements. But go to London I will!’

She glared at Henry as if she expected him to join her mother in condemnation of her scheme. Would he dare to thwart her? She did not care! Her mind was made up!

Henry watched her with none of the indifference he would have preferred. The anger that now drove her rendered her magnificent. She might be dressed in deepest unrelieved mourning, there might be light shadows beneath her eyes from her sleepless night, but her face was vivid and alive. Her skin glowed with delicate colour, her soft lips firm and uncompromising in her decision. The deep amethyst of her eyes was dark and turbulent, rich as glowing jewels. He was held by them, a slow enchantment which barred him from damning her hopes of success in her cause.

‘Of course you must go.’

Eleanor blinked, momentarily lost for words as she marshalled an impassioned argument to use against him when he denied the validity of her plan. Lord Henry’s lips curled a little at her obvious discomfort, but he had the wisdom to suppress too obvious a smile.

‘But there is no need for you to consider an hotel. Nor, as you say, would it be proper for you to stay at Faringdon House in the present climate—it is not fitting. I shall myself go to London and I shall rent a house. I make you free of it. Rather than the Baxendales, you may sit down to breakfast with me instead!’

‘You?’ Her brows rose in sharp disbelief. ‘But you are returning to America!’

‘No. I think not. I cannot leave you with this situation unresolved. My departure for America can wait.’

‘I do not need your help!’ Temper flared again in the sun-drenched room. She would not be beholden to this man who had kissed her into desire and then rejected her! She would not come to depend on him again!

‘So you informed me yesterday. You appear to have a very low opinion of my abilities and my priorities, my lady!’ Henry noted her guilty flush with some satisfaction and drove the point home. ‘But this is not merely for you. My brother’s good name is in the balance. And my nephew’s legal recognition.’ For some elusive reason, as he looked at Eleanor and the child before him, recognising her utter determination to discover the truth, he suddenly had no doubts about his own convictions. The Baxendales, for some devious reason known only to themselves, had concocted a series of lies and deceits. He lifted a hand to stroke one gentle finger down the baby’s satin cheek.

The result both surprised and unsettled him. Tom ignored the gesture and continued to grasp the black satin ribbon on his mother’s dress with fierce and destructive concentration. The Marchioness took the smallest of steps back, a subtle movement and yet very obvious to Lord Henry. As was the fleeting emotion that clouded her eyes. He thought it was fear—yet could not imagine why. He was no threat to her or to her son. Stifling a sigh, he accepted that it was simply another mystery in the complicated weave but must be put aside until the more immediate concern with Octavia Baxendale had been dealt with. Henry deliberately lowered his hand, but not his eyes from Eleanor’s face, which was now flushed with rose.

‘I need to know that the inheritance of this family is in the correct hands, you see, even if those hands are still very small and as yet incapable of handling the reins,’ he stated quietly. ‘And I think the matter deserves some investigation. I cannot leave.’

‘But I cannot agree.’ Mrs Stamford stood her ground. ‘I have told my daughter that hers is a foolish idea. She could stay in residence here. To be turned out of her own home is insupportable. Besides, it is not seemly that she should put up in your rented property in London, my lord.’

‘And why in God’s name not?’ Lord Henry’s brows snapped into a dark bar of extreme exasperation, temper finally escaping his control. He had had enough of his family for one day and it was hardly mid-morning. ‘I presume you will accompany her ladyship to London, ma’am? Does she need more of a chaperon than her own mother? And what the devil do you expect for her at my hands? That living under my protection will sully her reputation? The Marchioness is under no danger from me! Your comment, ma’am, is as uninformed as it is insulting, to me and to your daughter.’

The brutal statement was met with stunned silence. Nicholas turned away to hide a smile. Eleanor looked as startled as her mother. Lord Henry was not normally given to such a show of emotion.

‘Well … I never intended to suggest … I did not think that … But how can you have agreed to the Baxendales taking possession of Faringdon House?’ Mrs Stamford was flustered, but reluctant to admit defeat and pursued her quarry with more energy than sensitivity.

‘What do you suggest?’ The reply was immediate, biting. ‘That we get to haggling over property at a time like this? As if we were in the market place? I think not!’

‘Of course not. I never—’

‘No. Perhaps you did not. But your thoughts were not complimentary to a lady who already has enough to contend with, without her mother casting doubts on the morals and motives of members of the Faringdon family!’ Then, before anyone could recover from so direct an attack, Lord Henry addressed his next words to Eleanor in quite a different voice. ‘I think it is an excellent idea. See to your luggage, ma’am. We leave early tomorrow morning. You, too, Nicholas,’ which effectively wiped the smile from Nick’s face.

‘But I thought it might be better if …’

‘No, it wouldn’t.’ His lordship’s voice was now clipped. ‘You are not going to escape a short visit to town, so save your breath. I have need of you in London, little brother. We have a campaign to wage!’

Eleanor looked from one to the other of the Faringdon brothers. Their determination, their confident air of authority, the implacable manner in which they undertook whatever they set their mind on, touched her heart after all. Yes. She would join her efforts to theirs. They gave her more hope than she could have dreamed of. And Hal was not going back to America. Not yet! She hugged the thought to herself as she hugged her precious son, even as she reprimanded herself for her foolishness. Henry had defended her before her mother. Perhaps he would not abandon her, whatever the outcome of the case. ‘I will not go without Tom, you understand,’ she informed Henry, looking again for disagreement, perversely unwilling to appear too compliant. ‘He comes with me.’

Henry sighed and ran a hand through his hair at the prospect of arranging transport for a large party. The unnerving experience of being regarded by two identical pairs of deep lavender eyes, one openly critical, the other innocently curious, decided the matter for him. ‘I suppose you must. Very well. I will arrange for the cleaning of the chaise. Be so good as to inform the stables, Nick. Be ready tomorrow morning, ladies.’

The Faringdon family was rapidly ensconced in a smart and stylish town house in Park Lane in the most fashionable part of London. By no means as spacious or as elegantly furnished as Faringdon House in Grosvenor Square, and lacking all personal touches, of course, yet it was proclaimed sufficient for their needs, even by Mrs Stamford, who was initially prepared to dislike it on sight. The proportions and furnishings of the main withdrawing-room, smaller parlours and reception rooms were declared adequate, the bedrooms comfortable, the furnishings suitably tasteful if a little bland. The address, of course, could not be bettered. The matter of staff was ably dealt with by Marcle, who had accompanied them, despite the state of his arthritic joints, and took charge of the lower regions with seamless competence. Eleanor did not bother to marvel at the speed or the smooth efficiency of the whole operation. If she did, she would have to allow considerable credit to Lord Henry who, she considered, carried it off with typical high-handed arrogance—and faultless style. But she was grateful. It was easier to take the comfort and concern for her well-being for granted and simply accept it when more momentous issues were to be faced.

The following morning, after persuading Mrs Stamford with a tact and a remarkable patience, which surprised everyone, that her presence was not essential to the success of the operation, Lord Henry escorted the Marchioness to the chambers of Hoskins and Bennett. Mr Edward Hoskins, a gentleman of advanced years and wide experience, had enjoyed the confidence and management of the legal affairs of the Faringdon family for many years, but his welcome on this chilly morning did not hold much pleasure for his noble employers. The low clouds, Eleanor surmised, accurately reflected the mood of everyone in the dusty, book-lined, wood-panelled room off Fleet Street.

‘My lord. My lady.’ The lawyer ushered them in with every consideration and saw to their comfort, pouring a glass of canary for Lord Henry and ratafia for the Marchioness, even though no one had the heart for refreshment. ‘What can I say? I could never have believed that such an occasion as this would arise in my lifetime. And certainly not with respect to your family, my lord, so correct and respectable as they have always been in my lengthy experience.’

He took Eleanor’s black-gloved hand and pressed it in fatherly concern before taking his position behind his document-strewn desk. Such a lovely lady to be faced with the possibility of so much future heartache! And the Marquis of Burford had always struck him as a most conscientious young man. Mr Hoskins frowned down at the pages before him, hoping that Lord Henry could be relied upon to deal with the situation in a fitting manner. He knew little of the gentleman other than that he had left the country to seek his fortune—but this was sure to be a true test of his character. He glanced up under heavy brows at Lord Henry who stood behind the Marchioness’s chair, a hint of the protective in his stance despite the lack of physical connection, noting the stern lines of his handsome face, the implacable will expressed in the cold grey eyes. Mr Hoskins suppressed a shudder. He would not care to make an enemy of this man. He trusted that the absent Sir Edward knew what he was undertaking.

‘Sir Edward Baxendale and Miss Baxendale have been to see you, I surmise.’ Lord Henry lost no time in broaching the delicate subject, meeting the crux of the matter head on.

‘Indeed they have, my lord. Yesterday afternoon. A most personable pair, I might add, in spite of the reason for their appointment. I have heard their story and I have seen the documents. In fact, I have them here in my possession.’ He laid his hand on them on his desk, as if with a degree of distaste for their content. ‘Sir Edward left them so that I might check their authenticity.’

‘And your opinion, sir? No dissimulation, I beg.’ Lord Henry cast a quick glance at Eleanor’s impassive features. ‘I fear that they bear the mark of validity.’

Mr Hoskins noted again the strained but composed features of the Marchioness. She sat perfectly still to hear her fate, but her fingers, closed around the strings of the reticule on her lap, were bone white from the pressure.

‘I believe that the documents are legal.’ Mr Hoskins stated the matter without inflection. ‘The marriage and the birth are recorded, as you are aware. It is simple enough to check the existence of the church and the priest concerned, and thus the signatures—which I am in process of doing. The marriage would appear to have existed.’

‘And the witnesses?’

‘Sir Edward himself, and Lady Mary Baxendale, their mother, were witnesses of the marriage. Lady Mary is now unfortunately deceased.’

Lord Henry nodded, keeping Eleanor under his close surveillance. ‘So tell me, Mr Hoskins, in your legal opinion, where does her ladyship stand?’

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 …’

Lord Henry sighed. ‘Do try to concentrate Judith. Fair hair, blue eyes …’ He looked to the ceiling in despair.

‘Well!’ She folded her hands and thought, the effort palpable. ‘I think I might remember her at some of the occasions. With a brother, perhaps? The name Octavia seems familiar … But I am not at all certain. Why do you wish me to remember something so inconsequential?’

‘Can you recall—did Thomas flirt with her? He escorted you to enough balls and soirées—he must have come across her if you did.’ Henry ignored her demand for some clarification.

‘I don’t know … Well, yes, perhaps I do remember a fair girl, and perhaps he did. If it is the girl I am thinking of, she had a liking for pink. A colour I can never wear.’ She bared her teeth as Hal’s temper came close to boiling point. ‘I know … I am trying, Hal. If it is the girl in question, I remember thinking that he could not be serious about her as a bride—a respectable family only. As Marquis of Burford he could look so much higher than a mere country miss …’ She flushed with mortification as she heard her own words, the deep wash of rose clashing remarkably with her auburn colouring as she saw Eleanor blush with discomfort and Mrs Stamford’s eyes flash a warning.

‘Oh, Nell.’ Immediately remorseful, the lady put down her teacup and stretched out a hand to touch Eleanor’s cold fingers, ‘My tongue runs away with me, as you know. I meant no criticism. Indeed I did not. Anyone could see that you and Thomas were so well suited to each other.’

Henry sighed and tried manfully both to preserve his patience and steer the conversation back into its previous channel. Neither was easy. ‘Judith—did it ever occur to you that Thomas was more serious about the lady than a mild flirtation?’

‘Perhaps. He once rode with a fair lady in the park, I know. And escorted her to supper … He certainly stood up with a lady of such colouring at Almack’s. And I think at my own coming-out ball in Faringdon House. But there could have been any number of fair débutantes. I suppose if it was the same lady Thomas must have been taken with her to single her out, mustn’t he? Don’t you remember, Hal?’

‘No. Presumably I was still concentrating on Melissa Charlesworth! You are not a deal of help to us, Judith.’ Henry set his teeth and continued to probe his cousin’s erratic memory. ‘Did Thomas go down to Brighton that year?’

‘I have no idea.’ Judith frowned at the close questioning. ‘Why?’

‘No matter. What happened to Miss Baxendale after the Season? Did she marry? Did she have another Season?’

Judith shook her head. ‘If Octavia is indeed the girl I am thinking of, I believe that she might have left before the end of the Season, before my own engagement to Simon, I understand. Rumour said—I think!—that she had contracted a more than suitable marriage—with money. But more than that I know not. You should talk to my mother. She has an excellent memory. Too good, sometimes, when I wish she might forget some trifling indiscretion from my childhood.’ Judith looked from Henry to Eleanor and back again in frustration, green eyes sharp as she scented gossip. ‘But why all these questions about someone we do not know and events that happened so long ago? You must tell me! You are keeping me in suspense—which is unforgivable.’

She looked at the faces around her tea table. At the quick meeting of eyes between Lord Henry and Eleanor, Eleanor made the decision.

‘It appears,’ she informed Judith in a calm voice, ‘that Thomas may have been the suitable match you spoke of, contracted by Octavia in the spring of 1812. Thomas, it seems, may have married her and kept her in seclusion in the country. And had a son by her.’ She hesitated, touching her tongue to dry lips. ‘It appears—it is possible that—I am not, and never have been, the Marchioness of Burford.’

Judith’s eyes widened in horror.

‘And we would be more than grateful if you did not spread that story around town, however tempting it might be to do so!’ Mrs Stamford added with a fierceness not usually encountered over an afternoon tea-drinking.

Judith, eyebrows arched in incredulous disbelief, was reduced, for once, to amazed silence.

Lord Henry trod the stairs late that night.

He was tired. A headache, which he could no longer ignore, however unusual it might be for him to suffer such a trivial affliction, lurked somewhere behind his eyes. A long day with nothing to show for their combined efforts but confirmation of their worst fears. The documents appeared to be legal. Sir Edward was not a member of any of the gentleman’s clubs visited by Nicholas and, as far as they knew, did not gamble, whether lightly or heavily. There were the gaming hells next, of course … Henry sighed at the prospect. Nicholas would object, but he would do it with good grace. And Cousin Judith remembered a tender flirtation between Thomas and a pretty fair-haired girl who had retired from society at the end of her first Season with rumours of an advantageous marriage. A young girl whose name she thought was Octavia.

He groaned and silently cursed the cruel hand of fate.

It left Eleanor in an unspeakable position, any opportunities for optimism fast disappearing, as mist at the rising of the sun.

What the hell were you doing, Thomas?

Yet, curse as he might, Henry still found it difficult to see his brother in the role of treacherous, machiavellian husband to two wives at one and the same time, with a child by both. The subterfuge just did not fit. Far too complicated and devious for Thomas, far too insensitive to those involved.

Now for himself, Henry mused, well … A grim smile, a mere ghost, crossed his face. It would be more likely, at any event. But even he would draw the line at two wives!

The house settled into silence around him. Nick had gone out to join a party of friends to talk horseflesh and drink gin at Limmers in Conduit Street. Mrs Stamford—who knew? She had sufficient acquaintance in town to provide her with entertainment. Eleanor had retired early, probably worn out through trying to keep a brave face on the fact that she was fast becoming a bigamous wife and her child illegitimate, with no source of support, financial or otherwise. She had used harsher terms, he remembered, in a moment of anguish. Whore and bastard. He flinched at the deliberate brutality. It was certainly how the world would see it, and there was nothing he could say to make matters any better for her.

The lights on the first floor were low, one branch of candles left burning. And he was too tired to think any more. Tomorrow he would go to Whitchurch and find the Reverend Julius Broughton. He would verify that cleric’s role in the proceedings. It might achieve nothing, but at least he would feel that he was doing something. And he would know if the marriage of Thomas with Octavia Baxendale had actually existed.

He yawned. And came to a halt on the landing. Further along on the right a door was ajar. The baby’s room. A gentle light spilled out, very low. Probably the nursemaid come to check on her small charge.

Then a soft voice reached him, crooning a lullaby. A low voice, sweet and tender. He was immediately drawn to it and came to stand silently in the half-open doorway.

The child must have been restless. Rather than summon the nursemaid, Eleanor had come herself to comfort him. Of course she would, he acknowledged. The child was her only connection with Thomas, even more of an anchor in these stormy waters.

She sat in a low chair, a single candle on the little table casting its light from behind to rim her figure in gold. Apparently the infant now slept. Eleanor’s song had become a gentle humming, her hand on the edge of the crib, rocking gently, her eyes fixed on the sleeping face.

Henry could not take his eyes from her, his thoughts and feelings suspended in that one moment. She had risen from her bed, her hair unpinned from its fashionable style but yet unbraided so that it fell in a glory of waves over her breast. A peignoir lay in soft overlapping layers of cream silk and lace from a high neck to cover her feet. Her face was calm. Her eyes hooded. Her lips curved in a tender smile. A Madonna, indeed.

His heart thudded against his ribs as the scene imprinted itself on his mind. She was so beautiful. And he had lost her to his brother. For the first time in his life Henry cursed the dead Thomas, even knowing that the blame could not in any way be heaped at his brother’s feet. He had lost her. And yet for the past two years he had tried to persuade himself that his love for her was dead, destroyed when she had broken her promise to him. Wrong! Totally and utterly wrong! The voice in his mind and his heart would no longer allow him to pretend. His love for Eleanor was as strong as ever. And just as doomed. He must not allow it to be a burden on her—and so must bear it on his own shoulders, his emotions hidden.

A tingle of awareness touched Eleanor’s spine and she knew that he was there.

She could pretend that she did not know, of course, conscious of a ripple of embarrassment to be discovered like this. If she kept her face turned towards the crib, he might walk away as silently as he had come. But she felt the compulsion of his eyes, felt her pulse pick up its beat in response. What did it matter that he saw her watching over her child in the dark of the night? After all, there was no one else to care.

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