Anne O'Brien – Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue (страница 21)
‘No.’
‘Mmm. Then I will suggest that Mrs Stamford pay a morning call. They can enjoy a comfortable dissection of the manners and morals of the younger generation—and perhaps Aunt Beatrice will remember something of import.’
Chapter Six
Henry leaped down from the curricle, winced at the headache, cursed all gaming hells, and walked back into the entrance hall as Eleanor emerged from the breakfast parlour on the following morning. She had dressed in a smart travelling costume of deep blue, the fine wool double-breasted coat with its long tight sleeves and high waist already buttoned. She was in the act of arranging the wide collar so that it draped elegantly into a cape effect. If his lordship noticed that she wore a particular jewel on her breast, whether deliberately to provoke or through custom, he chose to make no comment.
‘I am ready to leave.’
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ He frowned at her as she tied the bow of her neat straw bonnet beneath her chin to charming effect.
‘Yes. There is no need to scowl at me, my lord. We have already had this conversation and come to an agreement.’
‘I do not remember actually
She shook her head. ‘You do not understand. I want to see the village…and hear what he has to say.’
‘Do you not trust me to do the right thing?’ The demand was brusque, Henry’s mouth set in displeasure.
Did she? She looked at him consideringly, head a little on one side. All she knew for certain was that she must not rely on anyone, certainly not on Hal. She had trusted Thomas, had accepted his offer of marriage—which was more than she could ever have dreamed of and for which she would always be grateful to the depths of her soul—but look where that had got her. She must look to her own inner strength to weather this storm.
She turned her back on his lordship to pick up her tan leather gloves, thus evading the answer—which he was quick to notice with regret and a degree of hurt that jolted him. She did not trust him, not even to do all in his power to restore her good name.
‘I simply need to go there,’ was all that she would say.
The weather was set fair for travel. They made good time in the curricle on the main roads as they negotiated their way out of the growing sprawl of London. There was little conversation between them. Eleanor was too tense and could find nothing to say. Henry concentrated on his horses. When they took to the country lanes their progress was slower, but the pair of greys were excellent animals with strength and stamina and well up to the task. Henry drove them with patient skill to conserve their energies.
Eventually as the sun rose to the height of noon, they drove into the village of Whitchurch. They could see the cluster of stone houses nestling around a squat Norman church over to their left, calm and peaceful in the growing warmth, hardly the place where sordid schemes were in hand. Before reaching the village street, to their right, they drew level with a pretty stone manor house and Henry reined the greys to a walk. Jacobean in construction, behind its ornamental gates and stone wall with well-tended gardens on either side of the gravelled walk leaning up to the main entrance, it made an appealing picture. Behind the house were glimpses of a walled garden and an orchard with a rose-covered pergola leading to a sweep of open parkland.
Lord Henry halted the curricle before the wrought-iron gates.
‘What do you think?’ Eleanor sat and looked at the house where her husband might have spent time of which she knew nothing.
‘It could be. An attractive little estate.’ He studied the mellow stonework with a critical and knowledgeable eye. ‘Well cared for. Prosperous enough.’ A gardener was engaged in clipping a neat box hedge. ‘There is someone who can furnish us with a little information.’ Henry hailed him. ‘Tell me. Does Sir Edward Baxendale live here?’
The gardener, a man of advanced years, opened the gate to come and stand beside the curricle, pulling off his hat and squinting up at his lordship.
‘Aye, y’r honour. But not at home—none of the family is. In London, so they says.’
‘And his sister?’
‘Gone with him, I expect. There’s no one ‘ere at any event—and not likely to be for the near future, so they says.’
‘My thanks.’ Henry tossed him a coin and watched him amble back to his box clipping. They sat for a moment and took stock.
‘It does not suggest an immediate need for money, does it?’
Eleanor shook her head. ‘Do you suppose…?’ She hesitated, a deep groove forming between her brows. ‘Do you think that Thomas came here to visit Octavia? Did he walk in this garden with her? Beneath those roses? Or sit with her in the arbour in the dusk of a summer’s night? Octavia is very fond of gardens…’
‘Enough, Eleanor. You must not torture yourself like this! Did I not warn you that it would have been better for you not to come here?’ His voice was harsh and when she glanced up in some surprise, she saw no softness in his face. ‘What is the point,’ he continued, ignoring her distress, ‘of
She looked away from him and swallowed against the knot of fear and desolation in her throat, unable to find an adequate response. She had not expected such sharpness from him and yet had to admit that his words were justified. He had indeed warned her.
‘So what do we do first?’ Her voice was admirably controlled.
‘We find the inn. It is after noon and you need food. And it might be to our advantage to talk with mine host before we tackle the servant of God.’
They left the curricle and horses in the charge of the ostler at the Red Lion Inn, which overlooked the village green. They were shown into a dark, dusty parlour where the innkeeper fussed over having the gentry call at his establishment. Not many people travelled through the village, the main post road passing to the east as it did. He could not remember the last time that a lady and gentleman of Quality made use of his inn, other than the people at the Great House, of course. But he hoped they would not find the Red Lion wanting. Certainly he could provide refreshment for his lordship and the lady. If they would care to be seated. He whisked ineffectually with a grubby cloth at the dust on table and chairs as his wife bustled in with bread, meat and cheese and a jug of local ale.
Lord Henry pulled out a chair for Eleanor to sit at the table and silently frowned at her so that she began to eat, or at least crumble a piece of bread on her plate.
‘You are too pale. And I wager you did not break your fast before we left.’ He took a seat opposite, cut a wedge of cheese and added it to the crumbs on her plate, ignoring her objections. ‘I would prefer to deliver you back to your son in one piece and in good health.’ She had lost weight, he thought. Of course she would in the circumstances, food would be her last consideration, but he had to try to do something to help her. When she had looked at the comfortable manor house and the pretty gardens, when she had envisioned Thomas living out a dream there with another woman, it had taken all his will-power not to drag her into his arms and blot out the cruel vision with his own kisses. He tightened his lips in a wave of disgust. So what had he done? Only snarled at her and increased the pain by his vicious words. He lifted his shoulders a little, discomfited by the thought that his command of his emotions when dealing with Eleanor was not as firm as he would like.
He took a mouthful of ale and then, tankard in hand, engaged the hovering landlord, who had returned to the room with a platter of fruit, in casual conversation.
‘We had hoped to visit an acquaintance of ours in the village. Sir Edward Baxendale. We understand that he is from home.’
‘Aye, my lord.’
‘We do not know him very well. Have his family lived here long?’
‘Generations of them, my lord. There’s always been a Baxendale in Whitchurch, at the Great House.’ Mine host, to Lord Henry’s relief, was not reluctant to demonstrate his local knowledge and did not object to their interest in the local gentry.
‘Do you see much of the family?’
‘Quite a bit. With the hunting. And church. And the ladies walk in the village.’
‘Are they well thought of locally?’
‘Aye, my lord. Sir Edward’s open-handed enough and a fair lord of the manor.’
‘I am more acquainted with his sister,’ Eleanor prompted, hoping for enlightenment on Octavia.
‘Aye. Poor girl.’ The innkeeper shook his head in ready sympathy. ‘Not that we see much of her, o’ course. But it can’t be easy for her.’
‘Oh?’ Eleanor looked up enquiringly, hoping to encourage a more detailed comment.