of her daughter.
Chapter Three
Lady Beatrice finally gave up on appearances, closed Miss Austen’s Emma, which she had been assured was most refined and enjoyable, but over which she had been yawning, and allowed her eyes to close. After an exhausting morning spent choosing a new pair of evening gloves to wear at Lady Aston’s drum, Lady Beatrice desired nothing more than to settle on to a comfortable sofa in a quiet parlour with the shades drawn and rest her eyes. She certainly had no intention of being at home to visitors. Instead, within minutes, she found herself playing hostess to Judith, who arrived in a flurry of energy to discuss with her mama their new friends. And then, following quickly on her heels, Lord Nicholas Faringdon.
‘Nicholas. I had quite given up hope of seeing you this week. When did you arrive?’ Lady Beatrice stretched out her hands in sincere pleasure, but did not bother to struggle to her feet. ‘Ring the bell, Judith, for tea.’
‘Would I dare ignore your summons, Aunt? I came yesterday evening.’ Nicholas strode across the room to where his aunt was seated, raised her hands and kissed her fingers with rare grace. ‘You look in excellent health, as ever.’
‘Never mind my health! Let me look at you.’ But she smiled almost girlishly at her nephew’s elegant gesture as she surveyed him from head to foot. It was a relief to see him in town rig. For although he was no dandy and might have rusticated at Burford for over a year, there was nothing of the unfashionable country squire in the gentleman who graced her withdrawing room. The close-fitting coat of dark blue superfine, with all the hallmark of Weston’s exquisite tailoring, was unexceptional. As were the pale biscuit pantaloons, polished Hessians and the sober but tasteful waistcoat. His neckcloth had been arranged with meticulous attention to detail. Altogether, a Man of Fashion.
‘Very fine!’ was the only comment she made. ‘My letter was not in any way a summons. Merely a request. And, yes, you have been ignoring my advice for any number of years. Ever since you attained your majority, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘I was not aware that I was so disobliging.’ Nicholas turned to drop a light kiss on his cousin’s cheek. ‘Judith—and how is the heir to the Painscastle acres?’
‘Giles is in excellent form. You must come to visit us, of course.’ She patted the seat next to her. ‘It is good to have you here Nick. We had thought you were becoming buried alive at Burford. Don’t tell me that you have a young lady there who lures you into rural seclusion.’
‘I shall tell you no such thing.’ He showed his teeth in a quick smile, refusing to be baited.
‘So you don’t have a lady who is the object of your gallantry to while away the winter evenings?’ She laughed, slanted him an arch look, glinting with mischief. ‘I cannot believe that the ladies of Herefordshire are so blind to your charms. No cosy armful tucked away in the depths of Aymestry?’
‘Judith! Such levity! It does not become you.’ Beatrice frowned, rescued Nicholas and steered the conversation into the area of her own choosing. An area no less full of subtle—or not so subtle—suggestion.
‘Now, tell us—how is Henry? And Eleanor. We have not heard for some months.’
‘Hal is very well.’ Nicholas leaned back and prepared to do his bit for family news and deflect any personal comments from either his aunt or his cousin. ‘And he is now in possession of a thriving business, it seems. They have moved into the house. Eleanor said she was delighted to have her own front door at last. Her letter was full of furnishings and decorations as I recall. Hal’s pockets will have to be bottomless if she is to have her way.’
‘Eleanor is in an interesting condition, I believe.’
‘Yes. She is. They are very happy.’
‘As they deserve to be.’ Beatrice nodded. ‘What a blessing it was that they escaped the toils of that truly appalling man Edward Baxendale.’
Baxendale!
The name would have twisted Lord Nicholas’s lips into a snarl if he had not been sitting in the civilised surroundings of Lady Beatrice’s withdrawing room. Even now, after two years or more, it had the power to heat his blood and fill him with immoderate fury.
Sir Edward Baxendale had claimed that the marriage of Eleanor to Nicholas’s eldest brother Thomas was illegal, and thus her baby son not, as all believed, the Marquis of Burford, but stained with the stigma of illegitimacy. He’d presented his own wife Octavia, with diabolical cunning, as Thomas’s true wife, the true Marchioness of Burford. Since Thomas had died in a tragic accident, the shocking tale had cast the family into instant scandal, only salvaged by the efforts of Nicholas and his brother Hal proving that Eleanor’s marriage to Thomas had indeed been valid and Baxendale nothing but a malevolent trickster. Hal had then declared his love for Eleanor and, with typical highhandedness, taken her and the baby off to New York. But all could so easily have been a disaster if Baxendale had triumphed. So much pain deliberately inflicted by the greed of one man. No wonder Nicholas detested Sir Edward with every sinew in his body, every drop of blood.
By sheer effort of will, Nicholas forced his muscles to relax, his hands to unclench, as Lady Beatrice continued with her social catechism, unaware of the impact of her chance comment.
‘And Tom. He will be more than three years old now.’
‘Four more like. Time passes. Eleanor said that Hal was teaching him to ride.’
‘Do you think they will ever return?’ Judith asked a little wistfully.
‘No. I do not. I think Hal’s life is there in America.’
‘And the estate?’ Disapproval was clear in Beatrice’s tight-lipped mouth. She simply could not accept that the young Marquis of Burford should be allowed to live in America, far from his family, his land and his responsibilities. It was beyond anything. ‘What will happen to it? It is all very well—’
‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas broke in before she could get into full flow. This was not a new situation over which they disagreed. ‘That is for the future. For the present it is carefully administered. I shall not permit anything other. What Hal will choose to do is entirely his own concern. And nothing to do with me—or, with respect, with you, Aunt Beatrice!’
Which statement, Lady Beatrice decided with something akin to shock, was certainly guaranteed to put her in her place!
‘No. And of course you will act in the best interests of the family. I would expect no less and I intended no criticism of your trusteeship.’ Beatrice controlled her concerns, leaned over to pat his arm. ‘There is no point in discussing it further. Forgive me, Nicholas.’ With respect, indeed! Now here was a novelty! ‘Now, since you are here at last, perhaps you can escort us to Almack’s one evening.’ She hesitated only momentarily before launching in. ‘There are some very pretty débutantes this Season.’
‘I am sure there are.’
‘One or two are quite exceptional. Sir John Carver’s daughter, for instance.’
Nicholas raised his hand, turning a stern gaze on his aunt. His eyes, often so friendly and full of laughter, had the quality of ice. As had his voice. He may as well, he decided, nip this in the bud immediately. ‘Aunt Beatrice, I wish that you would not. I am perfectly capable of selecting a wife for myself without any help from
