The Disgraced Marchioness. Anne O'Brien

      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.’