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A Dangerous Man
Candace Camp
Eleanor has always been looked on askance as "the bossy American" by London society, the very antithesis of British virtue and propriety. Now, at the death of her husband, she has been appointed trustee to his estate, and the proverbial fur is flying. Infuriated, her mother-in-law sends Lord Anthony Neale to put an end to Eleanor's nefarious gold-digging ways. Anthony and Eleanor clash immediately. He thinks she's a siren who uses beauty to entrap men. She thinks he's a haughty, cold English snob.Despite their initial misgivings, they are increasingly drawn to each other. But someone is threatening Eleanor, and as the break-ins and other malicious activities begin to pile up-it's Anthony who tops the list of probable suspects!



A Dangerous MAN
CANDACE CAMP



Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Coming Next Month

PROLOGUE
THE FUNERAL PYRE WAS arranged on the beach, a simple bier of wooden planks resting on two branches at either end, crossed and nailed into disproportionate X-shapes. Below the bier, the wood was stacked—a jumble of hewn logs, branches and smaller pieces of driftwood gathered from the beach itself, all soaked with kerosene to make them burn fast and hot. On the two wide planks rested a still figure, wrapped round with a sheet, the shape of a man but faceless, and all the more stark and lonely for that.
The widow stood at some distance, tall and statuesque, imposing in her severe black mourning. It was as close as they would let her stand. The authorities had tried to dissuade her, even sending a priest to counsel reason. It was too upsetting for delicate feminine sensibilities, they explained, too harsh a thing for her to witness.
“Rather more harsh for my husband, I imagine,” Eleanor, Lady Scarbrough, had answered in the flat way that would have warned anyone familiar with her that the lady’s mind was made up. “I will see him through to the end.”
The Italian authorities had had no experience with her, but eventually they, too, learned that Eleanor Townsend Scarbrough rarely lost an argument, and finally they had had to accede to her wishes—though they had not budged on the place where she must stand, finally dropping their delicate phrasings in exasperation and pointing out bluntly that the smell would be overpowering any closer up.
So she now stood on a hillock, still and straight, gazing across the sand to where Sir Edmund Scarbrough’s body lay in its final resting place. The wind molded the long black mantle to her body and whipped her veil, and she shivered, thinking bitterly that it should not be so cold on the sunny coast of the Kingdom of Naples.
The short, rotund man beside her glanced at Eleanor uneasily. In less somber circumstances, they would have looked comical side-by-side, she so tall and straight, he so round and short, especially given his ineffective efforts to play the role of male protector. He touched her arm, then dropped his hand, which hovered at her back, not quite daring to place it upon her unyielding form. Finally he glanced at her and then at the scene playing out below them, and his features contracted in dismay. He quickly glanced away.
“I do not think…you must be cold…Please, Lady Scarbrough…”
Eleanor spared him a brief glance. “It is all right, Signore Castellati, you need not stay. I will be perfectly fine.”
The man’s round face reflected his horror. “No, no, no.” He burst into impassioned Italian, too fast for Eleanor to follow entirely, but she understood enough to get the gist of his speech, which was that the opera impresario had no thought for himself but only for the lady’s discomfort and distress. He ended with a quick glance at the pile of wood, putting the lie to his own words.
“Thank you, Signore,” Eleanor said sincerely, reaching out and patting the short man’s arm. However silly the man might seem, he was standing fast in his determination to see her through this moment, despite his obvious dislike, even fear, and that, she thought, was very brave of him. “You have helped me a great deal.”
It was true. Castellati had been at her side throughout the last few days, ever since Sir Edmund had not returned from his afternoon of boating. While it was true that Castellati had a vested interest in Edmund’s welfare, as he was in the midst of producing Edmund’s opera, and while at times Eleanor had wished him elsewhere, he had been helpful in dealing with the Italian authorities.
Of course, Dario Paradella, Sir Edmund’s closest friend in Naples, had been by her side, as well, but he, caught up in his own grief, had been of little help. In any case, Dario, she well knew, was not on the best of terms with the Neapolitan government, as he had some rather liberal leanings that did not sit well with them.
“Ah, ma donna bella…” Dario, standing on the other side of Eleanor, turned toward her and took her hand, squeezing it tightly. “It is so sad…so sad…such a genius.”
“Yes.”
They lit the funeral pyre then, the flames licking to life along the kerosene-soaked logs, dancing and setting the smaller pieces of driftwood alight. The men who had set it afire moved back hastily, several of them crossing themselves.
It was a macabre scene—the lifeless, covered form, the flames crawling up the wood toward it. A shudder ran through Eleanor’s body.
How had it come to this? Edmund should not have died so soon. Guilt and regret welled up in her. Had she been wrong to bring him here?
She had been so certain that she could help him. Improve his life, his health. She could see now what utter gall it had been on her part, what false pride she had indulged in, to think she could cheat death of its intended victim.
She had brought Edmund to Naples for his health, hoping that the warm Italian climate would prove salubrious. There was no cure, of course, for consumption, but the doctors had agreed that the damp English weather could only make him worse. But here, she had thought, where Edmund would have warmth, gentle ocean breezes, freedom from the demands of his persistent family and all the time in the world to create his music, in the country where opera was most revered, he would thrive.
Instead, he had died.
The pyre was burning fiercely now, the long form atop the bier engulfed in flames. Despite the distance, the odor of burning flesh was unmistakable. Beside her, Signor Castellati raised one gloved hand to his face, pressing a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, and turned his head away from the sight. Even Dario lowered his gaze.
But Eleanor would not let herself look away. She would not excuse herself from this last duty. It was all she could do for her husband now.
She would watch the fire consume his earthly remains, and she would take his ashes from the fire. And then, once his work was brought to completion, his opera performed in Naples, she would take his ashes home to England.

CHAPTER ONE
ANTHONY, LORD NEALE, sliced through the seal on the note that the footman had just handed him and read through it quickly. He sighed. His older sister, Honoria, was informing him that she planned to visit him that afternoon. Knowing Honoria, he suspected that her carriage would arrive not long after the messenger.
He was aware of a cowardly impulse to send a note to the stables to saddle his horse and pretend that he had not been there to receive Honoria’s message. But he knew, with a sigh, that he could not. It had been only six months since Sir Edmund’s death. Annoying as his sister could be, he could not bring himself to be rude to a grieving mother.
Tossing the letter onto his desk, he rang for the footman and sent a message to the kitchen, informing the butler that his sister would be with them for tea…and perhaps supper.
He walked over to the window and stood looking out on the front drive. It was his favorite view, offering a sweeping expanse of the front yard, the drive and the trees beyond, but at the moment, he scarcely saw it. His thoughts were turned inward, to his nephew and the young man’s death six months ago. He had not been close, he supposed, to Edmund; he was not, he admitted, close to any of his relatives—a fault, no doubt Honoria would tell him, of his own nature. But he had been fond of Edmund, and had thought him a man of great talent and promise. Anthony had been saddened by the news of Edmund’s death, and he was certain that the world would be poorer for the music that it had lost.
It had been clear for years that Edmund would not have a long life. He had always been sickly. But to have lost him this way, in a sudden accident, seemed even more wrong. Anthony could not help but wonder if the young man would still have been alive if it had not been for that stubborn woman he had been foolish enough to marry.
At the time, despite his dislike for Eleanor Townsend, now Lady Scarbrough, he had approved of their moving to Italy, thinking that the warm, sunny clime would be better for Edmund’s consumption than the damp winters of England. Nor, he had thought, would it hurt the young man to be farther away from his mother’s frequent complaints and demands.
But ever since Edmund’s death, Anthony had been weighed down by the guilty thought that he had failed his nephew by not trying to persuade him to remain in England. Only Anthony knew how much of his decision not to talk to Sir Edmund about it had been due to his reluctance to go to Sir Edmund’s house, where he might once again run into Lady Eleanor.
Anthony felt the same uneasy sensations that he always did whenever he thought of Lady Eleanor—a volatile blend of annoyance and sharp physical hunger, as well as a fierce stab of anger at his seeming inability to control those emotions. The devil take the woman, he thought. She was impossible in every way, not the least of which was that she was impossible to forget.
It had been a year since he had first seen her, but he could remember every moment of it perfectly….

ANTHONY KNOCKED on the door of Eleanor Townsend’s house and waited, wishing he were somewhere else, anywhere else. He regretted telling his sister he would talk to the woman Sir Edmund intended to marry.
Anthony had not wanted to do as his older sister asked; everything within him rebelled at the idea of messing about in his relatives’ lives. He was a man who preferred to live his own life free of others’ interference, and he liked to return the favor.
But Honoria had pleaded with him, hands clasped dramatically to her heaving bosom. He must save her only son from the clutches of a money-hungry harpy, she had told him. Edmund was so young and inexperienced that he had asked an American adventuress to marry him. Eleanor Townsend, Honoria was convinced, had tricked her son into it. Anthony, she had decided, must call upon the American siren who had ensnared Edmund and convince her not to marry him. An offer of money, in Honoria’s opinion, would speak volumes with the adventuress.
Honoria, who was in fact his half sister, had, of course, reminded him of his duty as the head of the family and especially of his duty regarding her. She had been fourteen years old when his mother had died giving birth to him and had, at least according to Honoria herself, practically raised him. And, she pointed out, he of all people should know the harm that could be done by a beautiful adventuress who lured a rich man into marriage.
Anthony was well aware of his responsibilities to his family; it was a lesson that had been pounded into his head from childhood. However, he was also quite aware that for his sister, the earl’s duties usually coincided with her own wishes. And since he knew that Honoria had married and left the house when he was five years old, and that he had been primarily raised by his old nurse and a succession of governesses until he was old enough to be sent away to Eton, he was generally unmoved by Honoria’s claims to have been “almost a mother” to him.
Ordinarily, he would have turned down her request, disavowing that one of his responsibilities was meddling about in the private life of a grown man of twenty-four years of age.
But Sir Edmund was different. There was a childlike innocence to him that one rarely saw in an aristocratic young gentleman, and he was possessed of a talent that both awed and puzzled Anthony. He suspected that Edmund was a musical genius, but the young man’s experience with the world—and his ability to deal with it—were as small as his talent was large. Anthony, being fonder of the young man than he was of most of his relatives, had hated to see him crushed between his mother and his fiancée.
Besides, Honoria was right about one thing: He did have a wealth of personal experience in the area of the harm wrought by a beautiful, money-hungry woman. His father had married one when Anthony was sixteen, and she had managed to drive a wedge between Anthony and his father that had almost destroyed their relationship.
So, finally, Anthony had agreed to her request, and here he was, standing on Eleanor Townsend’s doorstep. He allowed himself a small, vain hope that no one would answer the door.
At that moment the door swung open, revealing a man who looked like no other servant Anthony had ever seen. He was short and squarely built, the muscles of his chest and arms straining against the cloth of his jacket. One ear was peculiarly misshapen; his nose appeared to have been broken at least once in the past, and there were two or three small scars on his face. He looked, Anthony thought, more like a pugilist or a ruffian than a servant.
“Lord Neale,” Anthony told him, extracting a calling card from his case and extending it to him.
Unlike a proper British footman or butler, the man did not hold out a small silver tray for him to place the card upon but simply took it from Anthony’s hand. He examined it somewhat suspiciously, then nodded to Anthony.
“I’ll tell her you’re here,” the man told him and strode away, leaving Anthony standing in the entry hall.
Anthony watched him leave, astonished. It was the first time he could remember ever being left to wait in the hall when he called upon someone. His title and wealth usually earned him a deferential bow, after which he was escorted to the best drawing room.
Another man might have been offended. Anthony found it rather amusing.
Well, Honoria had warned him that Miss Townsend and her household were decidedly “off.” She was, first of all, an American. Secondly, she was an unmarried woman living in London without any sort of proper chaperone—unless one could count a young Indian amah for the two children who traveled with her, which Honoria clearly did not. Thirdly, as Honoria had found out by setting one of her own servants to spy on the house from across the street, Miss Townsend’s household consisted of a hodgepodge of people from a variety of countries, including not only the two children whose parentage was decidedly unclear—one of them was American and the other apparently French—and the aforementioned Indian girl who cared for the children, but also an African man who wore not the livery of a servant but the suit of a gentleman and who was, according to the gossip Honoria’s spy had heard in a nearby pub, Miss Townsend’s man of business.
Anthony glanced around him as he waited, taking in the spare yet elegant décor. Whatever else could be said about Miss Townsend, her taste was impeccable.
He wondered if the woman was the grasping harpy his older sister had portrayed her as. Honoria was not only given to dramatic excess, she was, in Anthony’s opinion, far too protective and clinging where her son was concerned. Edmund had been frail from childhood, given to coughs and catarrh. More than once the doctor had assured Honoria that her beloved son would not last through the winter.
As a result of this—and her innate personality—Honoria had coddled Edmund all his life, keeping him at home with her until, as a grown man, he had finally insisted on moving to London and living on his own. Even then, Honoria had kept him running to her side for one reason or another, alternating her coddling with pleas for him to help her with this problem or that. She had, Anthony thought, ignored her daughter, Samantha, and her late husband in her obsession with her son—which was, he reasoned, probably a good thing as far as the daughter was concerned.
Honoria would not easily give up her son to another woman, and Anthony suspected that even a saint would not have earned the elder Lady Scarbrough’s approval.
However, he could not dismiss her suggestion out of hand, either. Edmund’s title and fortune, while not as great as Anthony’s own, were enough to lure any fortune-hunting female. Moreover, given Edmund’s frail constitution and the frequency with which he suffered from debilitating fevers and lung ailments—which Edmund privately feared was deadly consumption, not just the weak constitution that Honoria believed—the aforesaid fortune-hunting female could feel assured that she would not have to play the role of loving wife for long but would within a few years be a wealthy widow.
At the sound of footsteps, Anthony turned and went absolutely still. The woman walking toward him was stunning.
She was tall and statuesque, with thick jet-black hair and vivid blue eyes. Her firm jaw and prominent cheekbones were, perhaps, a trifle too strong, but those features were softened by a soft, full-lipped mouth and large, compelling eyes. She was dressed in peacock blue, too bold for a proper maiden, and she carried herself with confidence, head up and gaze straight.
A wave of pure physical desire swept through Anthony, so intense and hot that it stunned him. He was a man used to being in control of himself, and at thirty-five years of age, he considered himself long past the adolescent days of being swept this way or that by sheer lust. But this woman…
He took an unconscious step toward her, then stopped, realizing what he was doing. By sheer strength of will, he tamped down the surge of desire.
Clearly, he thought, this was the woman who had captured Sir Edmund’s heart. And, just as clearly, his sister had been correct in her assessment that Miss Eleanor Townsend was a fortune hunter. There was no way a woman like this would be marrying his inarticulate, inexperienced nephew out of love. Indeed, it was astonishing that she had not set her cap for a wealthier man or one of higher title.
She was a beauty of the kind who could inspire poets or start wars. And she had the confident carriage of a woman well aware of her power. Had she been some timid soul, a sweet girl fresh from the country, he could have believed that she had fallen in love with his nephew, dazzled, perhaps, by his genius, or filled with the maternal urge to take care of him.
But this was no naïve girl. This was a woman in the full flush of her beauty, strong and self-assured. It was ludicrous to think that she could have fallen in love with Edmund.
Anthony, much to his regret, was quite familiar with manipulative beauties and the ways in which they ensnared men too weak or lonely to see past their looks.
“Lord Neale?” Eleanor Townsend said, and there was a certain wariness in her eyes that made him feel even more certain that she was an adventuress. An innocent female, surely, would not be so guarded when meeting her fiancé’s relative. “You are Edmund’s uncle?”
He nodded shortly, irritated by the fact that her voice, low and throaty with just the trace of an American inflection, made his loins tighten. “Yes.”
Her eyebrows rose a fraction at his response, and he knew that he had sounded rude. He was not a man who was particularly at ease in social situations. While he enjoyed intelligent conversation, he had never mastered the art of polite small talk. Indeed, he had never tried, disdaining both trivial conversation and the social occasions at which it was employed. He was considered blunt and rather antisocial, and the only reason he continued to be invited to all the best parties, even though he rarely attended, was because of his title and his fortune. But on this occasion, he knew, he was even stiffer than usual, rattled by his body’s intense reaction to this woman.
“Why don’t we converse in the drawing room?” she suggested, gesturing down the hall, then turning and starting in the direction she had indicated. “I am sorry that Edmund is not here.”
“I didn’t expect him to be.” It was, after all, not yet noon, rather early for anyone to be visiting. “I came to see you, Miss Townsend.”
“Indeed? I am honored.”
Anthony did not miss the slightly ironic twist to her voice as she said the words. She sat down in a chair, motioning him to do likewise, and waited, watching him coolly.
Lord Neale shifted uncomfortably beneath her gaze and finally said abruptly, “Lady Scarbrough, my sister, asked me to speak with you.”
“Ah.” Eleanor said nothing else, giving him no encouragement.
“She—I—you cannot marry Edmund,” Anthony blurted out, realizing even as he said it that he had been even more maladroit than he usually was. He felt a flush starting in his cheeks. Damn the woman! She made him feel as awkward as a schoolboy.
“Indeed? Why not? Is there some impediment?” Eleanor responded, her voice cool and faintly sarcastic.
He had expected indignation, and he was aware of a curious disappointment at her lack of dismay. It was obvious that she had expected him to say something of the kind.
“Only common decency,” he snapped.
“I should think it would be more indecent if Edmund resided in my house without the benefit of marriage, don’t you?” Eleanor replied, her blue eyes challenging him.
The look in her eyes was like a spark to tinder, and anger flared to life in Anthony, quick and hot.
“You must have known his family would object to this marriage,” he retorted, nettled.
“Of course. No doubt it will be quite a loss to you,” Eleanor told him.
Her tone carried a sting. Anthony was not quite sure what she meant by her words, but her contempt for him was clear. It would be useless, he knew, to try to persuade or reason with her. So he went straight to the point.
“I am prepared to pay you.”
“Pay me?” Eleanor’s eyebrows soared, and her voice became almost a purr. “You are offering to pay me not to marry Edmund?” She crossed her arms, considering him. “Just how much are you prepared to offer?”
For an instant he thought she would accept. Hope surged up in him, mingled, strangely, with a kind of disappointment, and he named a figure far higher than he had originally intended.
Eleanor rose to her feet, her movement not quick but with a kind of regal grace and power that made him realize suddenly how mistaken he had been in thinking she might accept his offer. He had, he saw, gravely underestimated his opponent.
“It is interesting to learn,” she said bitingly, “that your concern for your nephew is solely monetary. I shall not tell Edmund about your offer, as he inexplicably admires you, and I do not like to see him hurt.”
She was fairly vibrating with fury, her blue eyes blazing at him, and, much to Anthony’s surprise and self-disgust, lust coiled in his loins in response.
“I am sorry,” Eleanor went on in a clipped voice that clearly said she was no such thing. “But I must decline your offer. Pray tell Lady Scarbrough that it is too late. Her son is out of her grasp now. Sir Edmund and I were married yesterday by special license.”
Anthony had not seen Eleanor, Lady Scarbrough, again. Two months later, she and Sir Edmund had sailed for Italy. A year later, Sir Edmund was dead.

THE SOUND OF WHEELS on the driveway outside roused Anthony from his reverie. His sister’s carriage had arrived. He watched as a footman hurried forward and let down the step of the carriage, opening the door to help his sister down.
Honoria, Anthony saw, was dressed all in black, her figure still slim, though she had reached middle age. She looked touchingly fragile. A heavy mourning veil was draped over her hat, but as she came up the steps, she reached up and turned it back, so that it fell down on either side of her face in a flattering manner. Honoria always wanted to make a statement, but not, of course, to the detriment of her looks.
Anthony repressed the cynical thought, reminding himself that his older sister had recently lost her only son and had every right to be in the depths of sorrow—even if she did mourn Sir Edmund to the utmost effect.
He strode out into the entryway to greet her, schooling the impatience out of his face and voice. “Honoria.”
“Oh, Anthony!” Tears filled her limpid blue eyes, and she held out both her hands to him, her body somehow bending a little in such a way as to hint that she might faint.
Anthony took her hands in his, and led her quickly into the drawing room and over to the sofa. He had had enough experience with his sister not to allow her to develop her scene to its fullest extent.
“What brings you here today?” he asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.
“Oh, Anthony,” the older woman repeated, one hand going to her heart. She looked up into his face. “That woman murdered my son!”

CHAPTER TWO
HIS SISTER’S WORDS LEFT Anthony speechless.
He did not have to ask what woman she meant. There was only one—at the moment—who earned the title of That Woman, always pronounced in the most scathing of accents. However, even for Honoria, the accusation of murder seemed excessive.
Anthony frowned. “What basis do you have for thinking that? You cannot go about accusing people without any reason.”
“She has written me. She is coming back here.”
“It would seem the natural thing to do, Honoria,” Anthony pointed out, wondering if this could possibly be all that had set his sister off.
“Natural? There is nothing natural about any of it,” Honoria snapped, in her annoyance casting aside the mantle of wilting sorrow. “She is bringing Edmund’s ashes. His ashes!”
“But, Honoria, isn’t this where you would want Edmund to—”
“Yes, of course, this is where I want my son.” She raised the handkerchief to her eyes again. “This is where I want him buried. But she has denied me even that solace. She burned him, Anthony!”
“Yes, Honoria, I know.”
“Do you understand the horror of that? There is not even the shell of him left to bury in the Scarbrough mausoleum. It was wicked of her. Wicked! First she took him to that awful country, so far from home. And she did it only to spite me. I know it. And now…now that he has been taken from me forever, she deprives me of even this comfort. It is outside the bounds of decency. It is sacrilegious!”
There was, Anthony knew, a good deal of religious feeling against the immolation of a body. However, it was the first time he had heard of his sister being in any way religious.
He said only, “Wouldn’t you rather have his ashes here than have his body buried in Naples?”
Honoria cast him an irritated look. “That is not the point. He should not have been there in the first place. He should have been here where I could look after him. That is why she took him to Italy—to keep him from me. She knew that if she separated him from me and his family, no one could protest anything that happened to him. If only he hadn’t gone to Italy, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t be dead now.”
She began to weep again. Anthony sighed.
“Edmund was a grown man, Honoria. She could not make him go. And we could not keep him here,” he pointed out.
“You could have made more of a push to stop him.”
“How was I to foresee that Edmund would be in a boating accident there?” he replied reasonably, his words as much for himself as for his sister. “I had never known him to show a preference for sailing.”
“That is just it!” Honoria said triumphantly, her eyes lighting now with fervor. “Edmund abhorred such activities. You know that. You remember how he was about riding. Or any sort of sport.”
“Yes.”
“Well? Don’t you see? How do we know that Edmund died in a sailing accident?” His sister went on. “All we have saying so is the letter that she wrote me!”
Anthony hesitated. His sister was often hysterical and given to dramatics, but he could not help but think that she had a point. It was very odd that Edmund would have taken up sailing. Edmund had found the desire for outdoor activities largely incomprehensible in others and absurd for himself. His lungs had always been too weak for him to engage in any strenuous physical activity, and the thought of perhaps injuring his hands and being unable to play his music had filled him with horror.
“Why else would she have had his body burned?” Honoria saw Anthony’s hesitation and pressed her advantage. “It is bizarre. Unnatural. Why would she do it—unless she had something to hide? A dead body can be dug up. Poison can be found in a person’s body even after they are dead. I have heard it.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“But if there is no body to exhume, no one could ever find the poison. Or a crack in his skull or some other injury. No one could prove that he did not die in a boating accident.”
“But why would she kill him?” Anthony found it hard to believe that Eleanor, however grasping she might be, was a murderer.
Honoria sent him a scathing look. “His money, of course.”
“She already had that. And I cannot imagine that Edmund was a demanding husband.”
“What reason does any woman have to do away with her husband?” his sister replied matter-of-factly. “Because she has found another? Because she no longer wants to have to ask him for money? Because he refuses to allow her to do exactly as she pleases? It would not surprise me that when she married him, she thought his weak lungs would carry him off within a few months, but then Edmund did not die. So she decided to help him along.”
“Honoria…”
“I am not being foolish, Anthony. Stop being a man, and look past her pretty face and elegant figure. Women are capable of killing to get what they want.”
“I am sure they are. But there is no reason to think that she did.”
“I believe Edmund had discovered what she was like. Anthony, he cut her out of his will. Why else would a man do that except that he knew she was a rapacious harpy who married him for his money? Or that she was having an affair with another man? Perhaps both.”
“Edmund cut her from the will?”
“Yes. He did not leave her a cent.”
Anthony scowled. It would take something very compelling to make a man like Edmund leave his wife nothing to live on. “Still, Honoria, that would argue against her killing him. She would get nothing.”
“Well, she may not have known that before she murdered him. She might not have realized he had changed his will. Besides, there is a way that she can get to his money. Edmund left everything to his sister—outside of his entailed estate, of course, which goes to Sir Malcolm. Why he would have done that, I do not know. I am his mother, after all, and—”
“He left you nothing?” Anthony asked skeptically.
“Oh, he left me a bit,” Honoria allowed, waving it away. “A mere pittance, really. However, that is a mother’s lot, I suppose.” She released the sigh of a martyr.
“But how does this help Lady Eleanor?” Anthony asked, dragging Honoria back to the subject at hand.
“He left control of the trust to her!” Honoria said indignantly. “Even though I am Samantha’s mother, he did not make me guardian of her money until she comes of age. He left That Woman as sole trustee!”
“Why would he cut Lady Eleanor out of his will, then put her in charge of Samantha’s money for the next six years?” Anthony asked.
“I don’t know. Edmund was never one who understood money.”
Anthony thought that her statement was a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, but he wisely refrained from pointing this out.
“You have to see what an opportunity this presents for her to siphon off money from the trust,” Honoria told him. “She wrote me saying she would ‘explain’ the trust to me when she brings poor Edmund’s ashes home. I do not need any ‘explanation.’ It is quite clear to me what she intends to do. My poor daughter and I will live in poverty, while she bleeds Samantha’s trust dry.”
“Honoria, calm yourself. I will not let that happen,” Anthony promised her grimly. Even allowing for Honoria’s usual gift of hyperbole, Anthony was troubled by what she had told him. It did not make sense, really, but neither could he ignore Honoria’s theories. If Lady Eleanor did indeed have control of Samantha’s money, she could easily take out a great deal of it without anyone’s noticing. And there were several suspicious things about Edmund’s death.
“But how can you stop her? She has gotten away with murder, and she has control over Samantha’s money.”
“I will go to see the woman,” he told Honoria. “And I will make sure she realizes that if anything is amiss, she will have to answer to me.”

ELEANOR STEPPED DOWN out of the carriage and simply stood for a moment, looking up at her house. It was an elegant white stone structure, with clean, symmetrical lines, and it warmed her heart to look at it again. It had been almost a year since she had been here, and it wasn’t until she saw it again that she realized how much she had missed it.
The children bounced out of the carriage after her, letting out a whoop at the freedom after being confined in the carriage all day. “Look! We’re home!”
Their amah, a small, quiet Indian woman named Kerani, followed them at a more sedate pace. “Wait, please,” she called after them softly, and it was a measure of their affection for her that they waited at the bottom of the stoop, bouncing up and down, as she walked over to join them.
The front door was opened by a grinning footman, who stood aside to let Bartwell exit the door first. “Miss Eleanor!”
Bartwell’s well-worn face was creased with a smile. One would have thought, Eleanor told herself affectionately, that it had been months since her old friend and butler had seen them, rather than the few days it had actually been. The servants had gone ahead to open the house and prepare it as soon as their ship had pulled into port, while she and the children had stayed behind for a few days. It had given the children a much-needed respite from traveling. The days cooped up on the ship they had taken from Italy had left them bored and full of pent-up energy. It had also served, much to Eleanor’s delight, as a means of breaking free of the smothering company of Mr. and Mrs. Colton-Smythe.
Hugo Colton-Smythe, a middle-aged cousin to a minor baron and a lifelong civil servant, and his wife, Adelaide, had been traveling on the same ship home from Naples to England as Eleanor, and they had taken it upon themselves to provide her with their respectable chaperonage. Only six months a widow, she was not, they were sure, up to dealing with all the exigencies of life, even the restricted sort of life aboard ship, and certainly she should be shielded from the importunate advances of the other passengers, many of whom were foreigners, and several of whom, they were sure, were adventurers seeking out a vulnerable wealthy widow.
Eleanor knew that kindness had been their main motive—and ignored the uncharitable thought that they were almost as interested in being able to drop into conversation little tidbits, such as, “When we were traveling with Lady Scarbrough…” However, she had found it an ever-increasing chore to put up with their mundane conversation and stultifying outlook on life.
She had been afraid that they would want to ride on with her to London, and for that reason, the thought of spending a few extra days in port while Bartwell saw to the house had seemed a godsend to her.
“Bartwell,” she greeted the butler with a happy smile and a quick hug. Most people, she knew, found her choice of butler strange. He was a retired pugilist who had worked for her father since Eleanor was a child, and he was as fond of her as if she had been his own daughter. He had accompanied her when her father had sent her to school in England when she was fifteen, and she had been grateful for his companionship as much as for his protection. “I trust everything is in order.”
“Oh, the usual, miss,” he told her with a grin. “That Frenchified cook of yours is throwing a fit. But we’ve got the house all tidy and ready for you and the little ones.”
He turned to the little ones in question, nodding his head in polite greeting to the shy, soft-spoken Indian woman before inviting Nathan to show him his boxing form, holding up his hands as targets, then admiring Claire’s new bonnet.
Eleanor reached back into the carriage and pulled out the teak box that had traveled on the seat beside her all the way from the coast. It was dark, made of the finest wood and beautifully carved, and its hinges and fastening were fashioned of gold.
Swallowing the lump that rose in her throat, Eleanor murmured, “You’re home at last, my dear.”
“Miss Elly,” a deep voice behind her said. “Welcome home. Here, let me take that for you.”
Eleanor turned, smiling. “Hello, Zachary. It is good to see you.”
Zachary was another of her employees whose presence in her household was the focus of much gossip, Eleanor knew. His skin was dark—not much lighter, in truth, than the box she held in her hands—and because of this, the ton found it scandalous that Zachary was not a liveried servant but Eleanor’s man of business. Zachary and his mother had been slaves, belonging to a Southern man whom Eleanor’s father had been visiting. Eleanor’s father had purchased both the boy and his mother, and had freed them when he returned home. Zachary’s mother had become the cook in her father’s home, but Mr. Townsend, seeing the young boy’s intelligence, had paid for Zachary to be educated. He had worked for Mr. Townsend after he had gotten out of school, and upon her father’s death a few years ago, he had come to work for her, handling the details of Eleanor’s business affairs.
She handed the box over to her business assistant without hesitation. Zachary and Bartwell were two of the people she trusted most in the world, the other one being her dear friend Juliana. Moreover, Zachary had admired her husband’s talent and had spent more than one evening discussing music with him. “Put this in the music room, please.”
“Of course.”
Eleanor went into the house, the others following her, and there she found the remainder of the servants lined up to greet her. She was tired, but she was not one to shirk her duty, so she spent time with each of them, greeting the ones who had returned with her from Italy by name and letting Bartwell introduce her to those whom she did not know.
The children ran off upstairs, and Eleanor, after handing her hat and light traveling cloak to a footman, went down the hall to the music room. She closed the door after her and stood for a moment, simply looking around. This was the room where Edmund had spent most of his time, and it was the one she most closely connected with him. She felt a pang of sadness, looking at the piano and not seeing him sitting there, as he had a hundred times in the past.
She walked over to the piano and sat down on the padded bench. The music stand was empty, the candelabras holding unburned candles. Clearly the room had been kept up—there wasn’t a trace of dust upon the instrument—but it had the empty feel of a place unoccupied.
Eleanor thought about the first time she had seen Sir Edmund. It had been at a musicale at Francis Buckminster’s home. Eleanor had long been a patron of the arts. Though she did not possess any sort of artistic talent herself, her soul thrilled to the works of those who were talented in those areas, and she had always used part of her fortune to patronize the arts. Wherever she had lived, New York or London or Paris, she had been well-known for her fashionable salon attended by other patrons of the arts, as well as by the writers, composers and others whom she admired. She did not move among the most aristocratic circles in London, for despite her years at a finishing school in England, her American background and the trade-based origins of her family’s wealth would forever make her socially inferior to the elite who ruled London society. But she had a broad circle of friends and acquaintances that consisted of artists and their patrons, so she enjoyed a lively social scene frequented by people from all strata of society.
Sir Edmund had performed one of his sonatas at the musicale, and Eleanor had been struck not only by his virtuosity on the piano but also by the beauty of the piece, which had brought her almost to tears. She had realized almost immediately that this pale, frail blond man was a musical genius.
Over the course of the next few weeks, the two of them had become friends. Unlike most of the artists she knew, he was not in need of financial help. But as she had gotten to know him better, she had realized that he was nevertheless in great need. His health was obviously precarious, for he was wracked by fits of coughing that left him weak and suggested to Eleanor that he was likely consumptive. The damp climate of England could not be good for his health, she thought, but when she had suggested that he travel to sunnier climes, he had only smiled wistfully and told her that he could not.
The reason he could not move, Eleanor soon learned, was his mother, a grasping, demanding, domineering woman who both leaned upon and dominated her only son. Whenever Sir Edmund left his home in the Kentish countryside to live on his own in London, he was soon bombarded with notes from his mother, all filled with problems that only he could solve or accounts of her loneliness without him. This servant or that was stealing from her; the estate manager would not give her enough money to run the house; his younger sister cried into her pillow at night, missing her dearest brother. The result was that Sir Edmund would go rushing home every week or two, abandoning the opera upon which he was working. Worse still, Lady Scarbrough would come to London to visit, and when she was there, she demanded that her son accompany her to balls and soirees, escort her to Almack’s and meet a number of marriageable women, all handpicked by Lady Scarbrough herself.
Sir Edmund invariably did as his mother bid, again neglecting his music to perform a number of chores that could have been done by any ninny, in Eleanor’s opinion. To make up for the lost time, once she left he would then work late into the night on his music, free at last of his mother’s presence. As often as not he forgot to eat, which did little to improve his health.
His servants were sloppy, his household poorly run, and he seemed to have only the vaguest idea about his income, whether from the estate that came with his title or from the money that had been left to him by his maternal grandfather. Such inattentiveness to the necessary details of his life did not surprise Eleanor; she was accustomed to artists and the way they often muddled through the practicalities of life.
She wished that she could simply take charge of his life. It was difficult for her to stand aside and watch people’s lives run off course, and taking hold of a situation and making it work right was something she was extraordinarily good at. There were those, she knew, who termed her bossy and difficult. But she was also quite aware that the people who called her these things were never the ones whom she had stepped in to help, but rather those who were benefiting from the muddle.
Eleanor had been certain that she could put Sir Edmund’s life in better order. The problem, of course, was that she had no right to do any such thing. Edmund was a grown man, not some poor orphan or servant at the mercy of others. She could advise him what to do, of course—and generally did, if the opportunity presented itself—but Sir Edmund’s abhorrence of any sort of conflict, along with his artist’s lack of concern over mundane matters, generally kept him going in his usual rut.
Finally, one afternoon Edmund had come to her, looking drawn and gaunt, wracked by coughs and worried because his mother had written him, describing her loneliness in heart-wrenching words and adding a long list of things she needed to have done for her. Eleanor, alarmed at the state of his health and furious at Lady Scarbrough’s selfishness, had been struck at last by the solution to the problem.
She had decided to marry Sir Edmund. As his wife, she could whip the household and his finances into shape, and see to it that he slept and ate properly. Most of all, she could shield him from his mother.
Of course, she did not love him in the way that a woman loved a man. Theirs would be, truly, a marriage of convenience. But Eleanor did not care about that. She had long ago decided that the sort of marriage other girls dreamed about was not for her. The men who had pursued her were generally only interested in her fortune, and she was too clever and realistic to be fooled by their honeyed words. And the sort of men who were not interested in her wealth did not court her. They might be drawn by her beauty, but she had found that they quickly abandoned the chase.
She was too headstrong, her stepmother Lydia had told her, too stubborn and too capable. A man wanted a more willing wife, a softer woman, the sort who turned to him to solve problems for her instead of charging in herself to solve not only her own problems, but those of everyone else, as well.
Eleanor, frankly, had had no interest in marrying the sort of man who wanted that sort of woman for a wife. She had found most of the men who pursued her to be foolish or greedy or entirely too domineering—sometimes all three. She had no desire to become a wife who was subject to her husband’s decisions, giving up control of her money and her life to him. At twenty-six, she considered herself a confirmed spinster and did not regard the prospect with dismay. She had come to believe that the romantic love other women swooned over was something they simply made up in their heads.
Marrying Sir Edmund had suited her perfectly. She would be able to take care of him and nurture his tremendous talent. She would make it possible for the world to be blessed by his music. And she would take great enjoyment in once again setting a life in order.
Edmund had been equally willing. He admired Eleanor’s strength and determination, and loved her as much as he was capable of loving anything besides his music. He was a passive creature, his strongest passions reserved for his art, and he was delighted to have Eleanor shoulder the burdens that had plagued him and kept him from his primary love.
Everything had worked out as she had planned. Edmund had moved into her well-ordered and smoothly-running household, and devoted himself to composing. Eleanor had seen to it that his finances and his health were both improved, and she had taken on his mother. The result, of course, was that Lady Scarbrough despised her, but Eleanor did not care for that. They had moved to Naples, and in the warm climate there, Sir Edmund had grown better daily. Eleanor had been quite pleased with what she had done.
And then Sir Edmund had died.
Tears sprang into Eleanor’s eyes, and she ran her hand lovingly over the shining wood of the piano. It seemed too cruel a twist of fate that she had made such strides with Edmund’s health, only to have him fall prey to a foolish boating accident.
She turned and went to the carved wooden box where her husband’s ashes lay. Unconsciously, she smoothed her forefinger over the intricately carved patterns. She had spent the past six months making sure that Edmund’s last work, the glorious opera he had written, had been produced with all the care and dignity it deserved. But now that it was over, now that she had made sure Edmund’s memory would be preserved in the music he had written, she felt empty and at loose ends.
The sadness she had helped to keep at bay with work had seeped in, and on the long voyage back to England, often alone in her cabin to avoid the company of the ubiquitous Colton-Smythes, she had had to face the fact that, despite the children and her friends and the people who worked for her, she was lonely. There was an emptiness in her life, she thought, one she had never even realized was there. And while she might have become aware of it since her husband’s death, she knew it had been there long before that.
Eleanor caught the direction of her thoughts and gave herself a mental shake. She was not going to dwell on such things. There were still things to be done for Edmund. She must take his ashes to his estate in the country and see that they were interred in his family’s mausoleum. And she must meet with his mother and sister, and explain in more detail the provisions of Sir Edmund’s will.
She could imagine how Honoria Scarbrough had reacted to the news that Eleanor would be the guardian of her daughter’s estate until she reached the age of twenty-one. It would be a difficult visit, followed by six more years of difficulty in dealing with the woman. It was not a duty she looked forward to, but she would do it. It was the last thing that Edmund had asked of her, and she would follow it through.
With a sigh, Eleanor turned and left the music room, going upstairs to her bedroom. The footmen were in the process of bringing in her trunks, and two maids were bustling around, putting her things away. She moved out of their way, going to the window and looking out at the street scene below.
Dusk had fallen. Down the way, she could see the lamplighter lighting the street lamp. The street was deserted except for him as he made his way toward her. He illuminated the light directly across from her house, and as it sprang into being, a form was revealed standing beside the tree across from her door. It was a man, motionless, staring straight up at her window.
With a startled gasp, Eleanor stepped back, away from his sight, her heart pounding. Quickly, she recovered her composure and stepped back up to the window. The dark form was gone.
She glanced up and down the street, staring intently into the darkness, but she could see no sign of him. Had he been watching her house? Or was it only happenstance that she had looked out just as hehad glanced up? Eleanor would have liked to believe the latter, but there had been something about the way he was standing, a stillness in his body, an intensity in his face, that hinted that he had been there some time. And he had left as soon as she saw him. That in itself indicated that he had not been there for a legitimate purpose.
Eleanor frowned. She was not usually the sort to worry. But she could not help but remember the odd incident a week or so before she had left Naples, when the house seemed to have been entered—things shoved out of place, a lock broken on one of the windows. Nothing had been taken, which in itself seemed strange. She had dismissed it, but now she could not help but wonder. Why would anyone be watching her house?
A little shiver ran down her spine. There was no reason to be afraid, she told herself. And yet, she realized, she was.

ELEANOR SPENT THE NEXT DAY settling in. She told Bartwell to make sure that the locks on all windows and doors were engaged, and that the house was secured at night. Then, having taken precautions in her customary way, she put the thought of the man watching her house out of her mind. Instead, she concentrated on the myriad details concerning her business that had sprung up in the days she had been out of reach on board the ship, as well as the small but necessary items that were involved in getting the household running again. She penned a note to her friend Juliana to let her know that she was once more in town.
Juliana had been her closest friend for over ten years, from the time they had met at school. Eleanor’s widowed father, with whom she had been very close throughout her childhood, had remarried when she was fourteen, and Eleanor’s stepmother, jealous of the bond between them, had convinced Eleanor’s father that only a finishing at a refined young women’s academy would turn Eleanor into a proper and marriageable young lady. The girl’s willful nature, she had assured him with a soft, dimpling smile, would doom her to a life of unhappy solitude if he did not make a push to change her. So Eleanor had been shipped off to the school in England, a desperately lonely girl in a foreign land.
Eleanor had found herself an outcast at school, ostracized for her American accent, odd ways and, most of all, lack of English lineage. Her loneliness had ended, however, when she found Juliana. Juliana, too, had been snubbed by the other girls, because it was well known that even though her birth was impeccable, her father had died when she was young, leaving her and her mother penniless. They had lived ever since on the generosity of their relatives, and Juliana was at the school only to look after her cousin Seraphina.
Eleanor and Juliana had quickly found in each other a similar streak of independence—even, at times, of rebellion—as well as a common sense of compassion and a lively sense of humor. They had become inseparable, and in the years since they had left school, they had maintained their friendship, despite periods of separation. Juliana had stayed with Eleanor now and then; Eleanor would have welcomed her to live in her household, but Juliana had been too proud to accept Eleanor’s generosity. Instead, she had worked as a paid companion for several years. Then, six months ago, just after Eleanor and Edmund had gone to Italy, Juliana had married Lord Barre. Eleanor had met Lord Barre, and though she did not know him well, she liked what she had seen of him. She was looking forward to seeing both of them again soon.
After she wrote to Juliana and sent the note off with a servant, Eleanor started on the mail that awaited her. As she was working, one of the footmen brought in a piece of paper, folded into a square and sealed with the wax imprint of some sort of heraldic device, just delivered, he explained, by a liveried servant.
Eleanor’s eyebrows went up. Her friends and acquaintances were generally less formal—and less monied—than the sort who sent liveried servants with missives. Moreover, it seemed strange that anyone could know that she was once again in residence. Juliana had known that she was returning at some point, but even she would not know that Eleanor had actually arrived until she received the note Eleanor had only just now sent her. It seemed unlikely, if not impossible, that her friend could have already received it and sent her a reply.
She took the envelope from the silver salver that the footman extended to her and broke the seal. Her eyes went immediately to the signature at the bottom, a bold scrawl that took her a moment to decipher. Anthony, Lord Neale.
Eleanor set down the piece of paper, startled. She felt suddenly flushed, and her pulse sped up. The reaction irritated her, and she grimaced. Just the sight of a person’s name should not affect her so, she told herself. Other people had been rude and condescending to her—she had, after all, dealt with the English ton since her days at school—and she had learned to shrug off their snobbish attitude. Besides, she was quite aware of the fact that the man’s dislike of her stemmed from his own self-interest. He was Edmund’s uncle, Lady Scarbrough’s brother, and Eleanor suspected that he had relied on Edmund’s generosity to supplement Lady Scarbrough, so he could maintain a hold on his own fortune for his own amusements, whatever they might be. Or perhaps, even worse, he, too, had lived off Edmund’s fortune and had intended to use Edmund’s own money to bribe her. It was little wonder that he had reacted poorly to the news that Edmund had married Eleanor.
When he had come to see her a year ago to forbid her to marry his nephew, she had been disappointed. Until that point, she had harbored some hope that Lord Neale would welcome her to the family. After all, Edmund obviously admired his uncle and had assured her that Anthony would like her. But when she saw Lord Neale waiting for her in the entryway, she had quickly relinquished all such illusions.
He was, she had been surprised to see, not the older gentleman she had expected, but a tall, virile-looking man no more than a few years older than she was. Obviously, he was the much younger brother of Sir Edmund’s mother. He was not what one would call handsome, exactly; his face was too square, his features too hard, for that. But there was a strength in him that drew her gaze and held it. His brows were straight, dark slashes across his forehead, and the eyes beneath them were cool and gray, defined by thick dark lashes.
In other circumstances, Eleanor would have labeled his face compelling, and she had felt a startling and distinct attraction to him, a reaction so unusual and so unwanted that she had come to a sudden halt, feeling oddly girlish and unsure. But then she had noticed the cold, polite set of his attractive face, and she had known that this man was her enemy. She had seen the expression on his face too many times before—the cool hauteur of an English gentleman, convinced of his own superiority over everyone else in the world. She had known that he would not be pleased at the idea of his nephew marrying an American who could not trace her ancestors back to the Norman conquerors, and even less pleased at the idea of her putting an end to Edmund’s easygoing habit of giving money to his relatives.
She had been right, of course. Lord Neale had told her bluntly that she must not marry Edmund, and she had been pleased to inform him that his was a lost cause, as she and Edmund had married the day before by special license. This last announcement had come after a sharp exchange of words during which Lord Neale had accused her of being a fortune-hunting harpy. By the time he left, Eleanor had been trembling with fury and filled with a deep, passionate dislike of Lord Neale.
Clearly, she thought, a year’s absence had not lessened that feeling. Just remembering their meeting filled her with a nerve-jangling irritation. Taking a calming breath, she began to read. His note was short and peremptory, a terse request to call upon her to discuss matters.
Eleanor’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile. She had a good idea what “matters” the man wanted to discuss. Edmund, despite his love for his mother, was well aware of her spendthrift qualities, and he had wanted to make sure that his sister had enough money to make her independent. His faith in Eleanor was as deep as his trust of his mother was not, so he had appointed Eleanor trustee of the money he left to Samantha.
No doubt Lady Honoria had kicked up a fuss when she had learned the terms of her son’s will, and that would be the reason for Lord Neale’s wish to speak to her. Eleanor took out a sheet of fine vellum and quickly wrote a note equal in length to the one Lord Neale had sent her, informing him that she was not receiving visitors. Her spirits somewhat lifted by this exercise, she signed and sealed the missive, and handed it to one of the footmen to take to Lord Neale. She sat back in her chair, a smile playing on her lips, envisioning the man’s face when he got the letter.
Her spirits were further raised an hour later when she received an answer from her friend Juliana, who, thrilled to have Eleanor in London again, invited her to dinner that evening. It would be, Juliana assured her, a private dinner, quite suitable even to one in mourning.
Eleanor immediately sent back her acceptance. Even if she had still been in full mourning, she would have gone to visit Juliana. As it was, after six months of wearing all black, she had gone into half-mourning. There were those who insisted on a full year of mourning after the death of a loved one, but neither Eleanor nor Sir Edmund had been sticklers for such traditions. Love and respect, as well as missing someone, were not, in her opinion, things that could be measured by the cloth one wore nor the length of time one wore it.

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, a little after tea, Eleanor’s butler stepped into the room, saying, “There’s a gentleman here to see you, miss.”
Eleanor raised her eyebrows, surprised. “Who?”
“Master Edmund’s uncle, miss.” Bartwell’s scowl left little doubt as to how he felt about the man, a fact that was confirmed by his ensuing words. “I left him waiting in the entry and said I’d see if you wanted to speak with him.”
Eleanor smothered a smile. She could imagine how well the proud Lord Neale would have taken that snub. She doubted if he was ever left to cool his heels in the hallway when he called on someone, much less was told bluntly that the butler would check to see if he would be received.
Of course, Lord Neale was no stranger to rudeness. He had shown quite a bit of it himself by calling on her only a few hours after she had sent him a note expressly telling him that she was not receiving visitors. Obviously he was not accustomed to people turning him down.
“Please remind Lord Neale that I am not receiving visitors, as I have already told him,” Eleanor said crisply.
Bartwell’s lips twitched with satisfaction, and he said, “He won’t like that much, I’ll warrant.”
“I daresay not.” Eleanor grinned. “But if he is rude to you, you have my full permission to throw him out of the house.”
Bartwell’s eyes lit up, and Eleanor knew he was hoping that the man would be recalcitrant. There were times when Bartwell considered his present life a trifle too dull.
After he left, Eleanor listened for sounds of an altercation, but she heard none, so she assumed that his lordship must have left peacefully enough. She wished she could have been there to see his face when Bartwell delivered her message. Indeed, she had been tempted to see Lord Neale just to tell him to his face that she did not care to talk to him. But, of course, that would have defeated the whole purpose of the message.
After that, Eleanor found it difficult to concentrate on anything. Her mind kept returning to Lord Neale and his unmitigated gall in coming to call on her this afternoon, wondering whether he would attempt to do so again and whether he would be with his sister when Eleanor met with Lady Honoria. Finally she gave up trying to work and went upstairs to dress for her dinner that night with Juliana and her husband.
After some consideration she chose a half-mourning white dress with a modest black train that fell from the shoulders in back. Her maid dressed her hair simply, winding a black velvet ribbon through her dark curls, and her only ornamentation was a black stone brooch that Edmund had given her not long before he died. Made in the Italian pietra dura style, the center was a cluster of white and pink flowers, each tiny piece inlaid into the dark stone. Though it was not precisely a mourning brooch, as it contained colors, Eleanor had worn it as such because Edmund had given it to her. After he died, she had remembered how he had put it in her palm, folding her fingers over it and saying earnestly that she must wear it for his sake. At the time she had found his solemn manner odd, but also rather sweet and touching. Afterwards, she had wondered if he had suffered some premonition of his death…or, even worse, if he had known that his death would come because he had planned it.
Eleanor pushed the dark thought away. She would not let it intrude on this happy evening, when she was going to see her friend again after a year’s separation.
Quickly she pinned the brooch onto her dress and took a last glance at herself in the mirror. She was, she knew, a statuesque woman, far from the ideal of the dainty pink-and-white, fair-haired English beauty. Though her eyes were fine and her skin creamy, her features were too large, her mouth too wide, her jaw too strong. But she looked, she thought, attractive tonight. Simple styles in dress and hair always suited her, and the prospect of an enjoyable evening ahead had put color in her cheeks and brightened her eyes—something that had been missing in her recently.
Eleanor picked up her fan from the dresser and allowed her maid to drape her light evening cloak about her shoulders, then went down to the carriage that waited outside. Her coachman tipped his hat to her as Bartwell helped her up into the carriage, a task he reserved to himself whenever possible.
Eleanor settled against the soft leather back of the seat as the carriage rattled away from the house. They stopped at the next corner, then turned onto the cross street, and as the carriage began to move, the door suddenly opened and a man swung inside.

CHAPTER THREE
ELEANOR SUCKED IN HER BREATH sharply, her heart pounding, every nerve standing on end. Her mind flew to the pistol that she carried concealed in a compartment beside the seat, but even as she thought of it, she recognized the man who had entered her carriage in such an unconventional manner. Her intruder was Lord Neale.
She had seen him only one time, but he was not an easy man to forget. Eleanor relaxed. She disliked Neale thoroughly, but at least she felt sure that he had not entered her coach to rob or attack her. The fear that had rushed through her at his intrusion turned in an instant to an anger just as intense. He was, she thought, a perfectly loathsome man. No doubt he had intended to frighten her and thus gain the upper hand.
Well, he would find out that Eleanor Townsend Scarbrough was made of rather sterner stuff, she thought grimly. Tamping down her anger, she kept her expression cool and unruffled, simply gazing at him with raised eyebrows for a long moment while she gave her heart a chance to stop racing.
“Lord Neale,” she greeted him calmly. “To what, may I ask, do I owe this unexpected visit?”
His lips twitched—she wasn’t sure if it was with a smile or in chagrin. Eleanor’s gaze was drawn to his mouth, and she noted the sensually full lower lip, the sharply cut upper lip. His was a very appealing mouth. Quickly, a trifle shocked at her own thought, she pulled her gaze back up to his cool gray eyes. He was a handsome man, she thought, in a hard sort of way, with fiercely jutting cheekbones and an unyielding jaw. She had told herself over the course of the last year that he had not been as attractive as she remembered. But she realized now that he was, if anything, more good-looking.
“Nothing surprises you, does it?” he asked.
“Is that what you hoped to do?” Eleanor countered. “Inspire terror in my poor maidenly heart? Is that the reason for your, shall we say, unorthodox entrance?”
“No,” he replied with some irritation. “The reason for my jumping into your carriage is that you refused me when I asked to call upon you earlier.”
“I notice that it did not stop you from coming to my house anyway,” Eleanor put in tartly.
“No,” he admitted without even the semblance of shame. “But it was of little help, since you still would not see me.” He shrugged. “I had to find some other way.”
“So you feel I haven’t the right to choose whom I will see and when?” she asked.
His fierce black slashes of eyebrows drew together in a scowl. “Of course you have the right. I, however, have the right to find a way to reach you.”
“By accosting me?”
“‘Accost’ is a rather harsh term,” he responded, something that was very close to a twinkle warming his eyes.
“And what would you call it?”
He smiled faintly. “I am merely bringing myself to your attention.”
Eleanor refused to respond to his smile. It was bad enough that he had forced his way into her vehicle. She certainly was not about to let him charm her out of her anger now. She crossed her arms and gazed back at him, keeping the aloof look firmly fixed on her face. “All right. Now that you have my attention, what is so urgent? I assume that you are once again acting as your sister’s messenger.”
She had not told her husband about the first time that Lord Neale had come to visit her; Edmund would have been upset about the insult offered her, and it would have been to no purpose. After all, she had married Edmund precisely to shield him from these sorts of worldly problems. Besides, Edmund had held an affection for his uncle. He had once told her that Lord Neale was a “bang-up fellow.” He was, Edmund had assured her, one who did not fuss and interfere, and he was the one to go to if one had a problem. Anthony, he said, always knew just what to do, and he would not run to Edmund’s mother about it, either. So, not wanting to cause her husband disappointment, Eleanor had refrained from telling him what manner of man she had found Lord Neale to be. But, privately, she was certain that he was either securely under Lady Honoria’s thumb or in league with her, even living, as she did, off Edmund’s generosity.
The brief hint of a smile disappeared from his face. “Lady Scarbrough is in great distress over the death of her son.”
Eleanor simply waited, saying nothing. It seemed to her the normal reaction of a mother to the death of her son—even though she cynically suspected that in this case it was the loss of her son’s largesse that Lady Honoria regretted the most.
Lord Neale paused, as though choosing his words carefully, then added, “Edmund was always rather frail, but none of us expected his death to come as it did.”
“Nor did I,” Eleanor agreed, still wondering why he should jump into her carriage to tell her such obvious things.
“I never knew him to go sailing,” he went on finally, his eyes intent on her face.
“He took it up in Italy,” Eleanor explained. “I was somewhat surprised myself. I suppose it was because it was so much warmer there…and his health had improved considerably.”
“Then he was doing better?” Lord Neale asked.
“Yes, certainly.” She refrained from adding that that was precisely what she had thought would happen and why she had insisted on going to Italy despite Lady Honoria’s objections. “His coughing was diminished, his color improved. He became more active. He made several friends and went out with them frequently. Actually, it was they who got him interested in sailing.”
“You did not go with him?”
Eleanor shook her head, still at a loss as to what Lord Neale’s interest in all this was. “He went with his friend Dario Paradella, usually.” She shrugged. “And others.”
“Was he with this Paradella fellow when he died?”
“No. He was alone.” Eleanor frowned. “Why are you asking these questions? What is it you want to know?”
“The name of someone who can confirm your story,” he replied bluntly.
Eleanor stared at him. “Confirm my—” She stopped, finally understanding the direction of his conversation. “My story?” she hissed. “You dare to imply that I—that I made it up?”
“Did you?” he responded, watching her coolly.
“Of course not! Why would I make up such a—” Fury swept through her, white-hot. Her eyes flashed. “You are accusing me of murdering Edmund?”
Lord Neale did not deny her words, simply continued to look at her levelly.
“How can you be so vile?” Eleanor was so consumed by anger that she could barely speak. “You are inhuman! A monster! A—” She could think of no word bad enough to describe him.
“I notice that you have not denied the charge,” he commented calmly.
“I have no obligation to answer to you!” Eleanor spat. “I don’t have to prove anything to you just because you have a low, suspicious mind. Edmund died exactly as I told his mother. Clearly the Italian authorities had no questions about his death.”
“Unless their heads were turned by beauty,” he murmured. “Or money…”
Enraged, Eleanor swung at him with all her might, no ladylike slap, but a doubled-up fist. Lord Neale, however, was faster than she, and his hand flew out and wrapped around her wrist, stopping her swing in midair. His hold was like iron, biting painfully into her flesh, and Eleanor could not move her hand. She glared at him, and he stared back at her with a gaze equally hard and bright. The very air between them seemed to vibrate.
They remained frozen in position, his hand hot on the bare flesh of her arm. His eyes bored into hers, then dropped fractionally to her mouth, and for a brief, crazy moment, Eleanor thought that he was about to kiss her.
Abruptly he released her arm and sat back in his seat. Her hand dropped numbly into her lap. “Get out of my carriage! Now!”
“Calm down and listen to me.”
“Calm down? You jump into my carriage and accuse me of killing my husband, and you tell me to calm down?” Eleanor exclaimed.
“I did not actually accuse you of anything.”
“You accused me of making up a story about how he died,” she shot back. “You implied that I—that I—”
“Got rid of an inconvenient husband?” Anthony finished for her, his eyes intent upon her face.
She was pale, except for the bright spots of color that rage had put in her cheeks. Her vivid eyes were huge, midnight blue in the dim light of the carriage. She was startlingly beautiful, he thought. Thinner than when he had last seen her—too thin, really. Her cheekbones were too prominent in her face; her wrist had felt impossibly small in his hand.
He shoved down the sympathy that rose involuntarily in him. If his sister was right, this lovely creature had cold-bloodedly murdered his nephew.
Anthony went on roughly. “You married a frail man, one obviously dying of consumption. But then you moved to Naples and his health improved. That was a miscalculation on your part, wasn’t it? Now you were faced with a husband who might live for several years or more. You would have to put up with his demands. Or perhaps there was another man, someone you wanted, and your husband had become an inconvenience. Whatever the reason, you decided to hurry his death along. You killed him, then made up the sailing story to tell his grieving mother. Then you burned his body so that if anyone became suspicious, they would not be able to tell how he died.”
Anthony watched her closely as he spoke, alert for any telltale sign of guilt.
Eleanor let her hand fall back into her lap. Her eyes were dark with disgust. “You and Lady Honoria certainly have vivid imaginations. What do you expect me to do now? Cry and confess my sins?” Her lip curled in contempt. “You are an even greater fool than I thought you were.”
Neale’s stomach tightened. She still had not denied his statements. “Why? Because I thought you might act honestly?”
“No. Because you are so hungry for Edmund’s money that you are willing to say anything to get rid of me.”
“I don’t give a damn about Edmund’s money,” he retorted. “But if he was killed, I will see his murderer punished. I can promise you that.”
His eyes were hard as stone. Eleanor gazed back at him with an equally obdurate gaze. Her dislike of this man was so intense that it was like a huge ball in her chest, fiery and hard, threatening to explode. She curled her gloved fingers tightly into her palms, struggling to retain her usual calm self-possession.
She wasn’t sure why Lord Neale’s accusation enraged her so. She knew that he and Edmund’s mother thoroughly disliked her. It shouldn’t surprise her that Lady Scarbrough and her brother would go to such an extent to discredit her. But his words had sliced through her like a knife.
“A very noble sentiment,” Eleanor said scornfully. “Since there is little likelihood of your having to follow through, as Edmund was not murdered. But no doubt it will sound good to the others at your club. And, of course, there is the added benefit of blackening my reputation. Everyone will repeat your vile rumors, even though there isn’t the slightest shred of evidence, merely the fevered imaginings of a pair of greedy relatives.”
His nostrils flared at her biting words, and he opened his mouth to refute her. But at that moment the carriage came to a stop, surprising them both. Eleanor glanced out the window and saw that they had halted in front of an elegant town house of pale yellow stone. Her driver jumped down and opened the door.
“Barre House, my lady,” he intoned. Then his gaze fell upon Anthony sitting in the carriage, and he goggled at him. “My lady! How—who—”
“Lord Neale joined me along the way, as you can see,” Eleanor said with heavy irony. She got up and stepped out of the carriage, saying, “Perhaps you will take him back to his house while I am visiting Lord and Lady Barre.”
“No need to go to the trouble,” Anthony said behind her, jumping lightly down to the ground beside Eleanor. “I will escort Lady Scarbrough inside.”
He offered her his arm, and when Eleanor gaped at him in astonishment, he picked up her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. “Come, my lady, I am sure our hosts are waiting.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Eleanor snapped, trying in vain to tug her hand from his grasp. “You cannot go in with me.”
“Ah, but I already am,” he responded with an irritating coolness. “You see, I intend to stay with you until you give me a satisfactory answer to my questions.”
“Questions? Accusations, rather! I have no intention of talking to you, now or at any other time. You know there is no truth to what you are saying, and I certainly would not lend any credence to your absurd accusations by trying to defend myself.”
He shrugged as he walked up the steps. “Then I fear you will have to suffer my company for some time.”
A liveried footman opened the door before they reached it and bowed to them. “Lady Scarbrough?”
“And Lord Neale,” Anthony added calmly, handing his hat to the man.
Eleanor, struck speechless by the man’s audacity, handed her wrap over to the footman. It was an unaccustomed position for her to be in, but, frankly, she was at a loss as to what to do. If she told the footman that Lord Neale was not supposed to be there and he should throw him out, she would be putting the poor footman in an untenable position. Her own servants would readily toss out anyone at her command, noble or ruffian, but the average London servant would be horrified at the idea of laying hands on a peer of the realm. Besides, it was such an absurd thing to say that, frankly, she was too embarrassed to utter the words.
As the servant turned to lead them down the hallway, Lord Neale offered his arm to her again, but Eleanor did not take it, clasping her hands together.
“Are you mad?” she whispered at him as they followed the servant. “You were not invited. You cannot simply barge in on someone.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Can I not? They might, perhaps, think it rude of you not to have informed them that I was escorting you, but…”
“Rude? You are the rudest man I have ever met, and I shall be happy to tell them that you forced your way into my carriage.”
“Really?” He looked at her quizzically. “You want to explain all this to them?”
Eleanor set her jaw in irritation. He was right, of course; she certainly did not want to embroil Juliana and her husband in this situation. However absurd Lord Neale’s accusations were, and however little Juliana would believe them, it would place her friend in a very uncomfortable position. And though Eleanor had met Lord Barre on a few occasions, she did not know him well, and she had no idea how he would take such accusations. What if he, like a true aristocrat, chose to believe Lord Neale? Eleanor had no desire to be the cause of any friction between the newlyweds.
“You know I do not,” she said in a low voice, charged with emotion. “You are an unfeeling—”
She cut off her words as the footman stopped at an open doorway and announced their names. He stepped aside to allow Eleanor and her companion to enter. Across the room, Juliana was seated on a blue velvet sofa, a tall, dark man beside her. At the footman’s announcement, Juliana bounded up from the sofa and hurried toward them. Her husband, Nicholas, followed somewhat more slowly.
“Eleanor!” Juliana threw her arms around her taller friend and hugged her. “Oh, I am so happy to see you. It has been so long.”
“Juliana!” Eleanor’s irritation with Lord Neale disappeared under the force of her affection for her friend, and she hugged her back. “I’ve missed you….”
Finally Eleanor released Juliana and stepped back a bit to stare at her. “You look very well.”
It was the truth. Juliana had always been attractive, but she positively glowed with happiness now, and it was this, more than the expensive dress or the fashionable hairstyle, that made her beautiful. Her large, gray eyes were alight, and her creamy skin was rosy with pleasure. Her face, Eleanor noted, was softer and rounder than before, and as Eleanor’s eyes dropped down her friend’s figure, she saw that Juliana’s formerly slender body was now roundly curved.
“Juliana!” Eleanor gasped, her eyes flying to the other woman’s questioningly.
Juliana nodded, with a happy laugh. “Yes, I am.”
“Why did you not write to me?” Eleanor cried, grinning, and enveloped the other woman in another hug. “I am so happy for you.”
“I started to, but when you wrote that you were returning, well, I wanted to surprise you.”
“You have indeed.”
Juliana could not seem to stop smiling, but her eyes flickered a little curiously to Lord Neale, standing a bit behind Eleanor, politely waiting.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Allow me to introduce you to Lord Neale.” Eleanor turned toward the man, her manner coolly polite. “Sir Edmund’s uncle. He was kind enough to offer to escort me here. I hope you will not mind.”
“Of course not,” Juliana responded quickly, flashing a smile at Anthony. “You are quite welcome, my lord. I know that Eleanor appreciates your help and support in her grief.”
“Neale,” Juliana’s husband said in greeting, nodding to Anthony.
“Lord Barre. Good to see you again.”
“Then you two know each other,” Juliana said, pleased.
“We have run into each other now and then at White’s,” Nicholas Barre answered. “Neither of us, I fear, is a terribly regular member.”
“No. In general, I prefer the comforts of my own home,” Anthony agreed with a smile.
One would have thought Lord Neale a perfectly amiable sort, Eleanor thought sourly, to hear him. It galled her to have to go along with his charade. Still, there was little she could do except return Lord Barre’s greeting politely.
They sat down, exchanging casual small talk until the meal was announced. Lord Neale, though polite and polished, offered little conversation except in response to others’ remarks. Eleanor was uncomfortably aware of his penetrating gaze upon her throughout the conversation. She felt sure he was judging her, looking for some chink in her armor, some remark or gesture that he could use against her. It was irritating to realize that she was watching her words, examining them for any way in which they could be misinterpreted, before she spoke, aware that any laugh or smile on her part would doubtless be evidence to him that she had not loved Edmund.
Damn his eyes, she thought, borrowing one of her father’s favorite curses. She had never cared what people thought, and she was not going to start now. She refused to let some arrogant British lord rattle her. Eleanor turned toward him, lifting her chin and giving him a long, cool look. And though there was no movement in his face, she saw a subtle change, and she knew that he had seen her defiant look and acknowledged it.
After that, she did her best to maintain a polite indifference to the man, ignoring him and concentrating on the pleasure of once again visiting with her best friend. Amazingly enough, the evening moved along easily. Eleanor and Juliana rarely lacked for topics of conversation, and after Eleanor’s long absence, there was much to catch up on. Juliana and Nicholas filled her in on all the major scandals and on-dits among the fashionable ton, as well as in the government, and the state of the theater and opera was thoroughly rehashed. Lord Neale, though he did not speak a great deal, kept his remarks on a light and lively plane. He was knowledgeable on a variety of topics, and his opinions, often tinged by sarcasm, were incisive and accurate. Eleanor had to acknowledge that had he been anyone else, she would have found his company enjoyable and invigorating. In fact, on more than one occasion, she had to remind herself why he was there.
Of course, she thought grimly, Lord Neale would not let her forget it. She knew that his steady regard throughout the evening was meant to keep her aware of his intent, as was the faintly ironic undertone to his words whenever he spoke to her. When the evening was over, she would have to face him alone again, and he would insist on answers to his questions. No doubt he hoped that threat would frighten her. Well, he would soon find out that she was made of sterner stuff.
After the meal, the two men retired to Lord Barre’s library, as was the custom, leaving Eleanor and Juliana alone together for a good long talk, which suited them both admirably.
“I am so happy for you,” Eleanor told her friend, her gaze going to Juliana’s gently swelling belly. “When are you due?”
Juliana smiled broadly. “A little more than three months. I wanted to have my lying-in at the family home in Cornwall, where Nicholas lived until his parents died. But he insisted that we remain in London, where I could have the care of the best doctors.” Her smile turned fond. “He worries far more about me than is necessary. I am healthy as a horse.”
“Of course he does,” Eleanor responded. “He obviously dotes on you. Which is just as it should be.”
Eleanor had met Nicholas Barre a year ago, just before she and Edmund had left for Naples. He had asked Juliana to marry him, and though Juliana assured her that his proposal was merely evidence of his kindness and fondness for a childhood companion, Eleanor had suspected that it was love for Juliana that lay at the base of his offer of marriage. He might have been hiding it from Juliana and even from himself, but Eleanor had seen the truth in the way he looked at Juliana. It was clear, watching them tonight, that she had been right.
Juliana and Nicholas clearly adored one another. It was, Eleanor thought, the sort of marriage that young girls dreamed of, the kind of love made famous by poets. Watching them through dinner, seeing the love that shone in their eyes when they looked at each other, that expressed itself in a brush of his fingers along her shoulder or the way her hand curled around his arm as he escorted her in to dinner, Eleanor had felt an unaccustomed pang. She had never known such love, and she was realistic enough to admit that she probably never would. The fond admiration and caring she had felt for Edmund had held none of the depth and passion that lay in Juliana and Nicholas’s love.
Eleanor did not normally wish for such a feeling in her life. She knew that she was simply too practical and levelheaded for such dramatic emotion, and, quite frankly, she liked the way she lived her life. But at a moment like this, she could not help but give a little inward sigh and wonder what it would be like to love as Juliana and Nicholas did.
Juliana let out a happy little laugh at her friend’s words. “Yes,” she admitted. “He does. And I love him just as much. Oh, Eleanor, sometimes I have to pinch myself, my life seems so much like a dream. A year and a half ago, when I was working for that odious Mrs. Thrall, I could not have imagined that I would be so happy today.”
“It is no more than you deserve,” Eleanor told her firmly.
“But enough about me,” Juliana said now, leaning in confidentially. “Tell me about you and Lord Neale.”
Eleanor looked at her friend. She had always confided in Juliana, and she wanted to tell her exactly what had transpired between her and Lord Neale. But it seemed even worse, now that she knew Juliana was pregnant, to drag her into the middle of Eleanor’s own problems.
“There is nothing to tell, really,” Eleanor said with a shrug. “I did not ask him to escort me here this evening. He more or less invited himself. And I did not want to create a scene. I apologize for thrusting him upon you uninvited.”
“It was no problem, I assure you. I am glad that you had someone to escort you, frankly. London is not a safe city. Perhaps he was simply concerned about you,” Juliana suggested. “He seemed terribly attentive to you.”
“Oh, yes, he is attentive—in the way an eagle is attentive to a rabbit.”
Juliana’s brows went up. “Whatever do you mean? Is something amiss?”
Eleanor firmly squelched her desire to pour out the whole story and said, “No, not really. It is just that I dislike dealing with the man. He has always been quite rude. He did not consider me an appropriate match for Edmund.”
“Then he was a fool. But perhaps now he realizes how wrong he was. Perhaps he is trying to make it up to you, and that is why he wanted to escort you.”
“Perhaps,” Eleanor responded noncommittally, looking down at her hands. She did not see the shrewd gaze that Juliana turned upon her.
“He is a terribly handsome man,” Juliana said after a moment.
“Is he?” Eleanor grimaced. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Juliana laughed. “Surely you don’t expect me to swallow that fib.”
“He is…handsome, in a harsh sort of way,” Eleanor admitted. “’Tis a pity that his nature does not match his appearance.”
“Yes.” Juliana sighed, looking disappointed. “I had hoped…”
“Now, Juliana, do not turn matchmaker on me, I pray. What is it that makes a woman want to marry off her friends as soon as she gets married herself?” Eleanor’s smile took the sting from her words.
Juliana chuckled. “I am guilty, I confess. It is just that I am so happy, I want you to have the same sort of happiness.”
“Well, I do not think I will find it with the odious Lord Neale—nor he with me. I do not need a husband. I am fine just as I am, I assure you.”
“I know. I have no doubts that you handle everything perfectly,” Juliana told her. “It is only love that I wish for you.”
“But I have love. I have Claire and Nathan and you.”
“That isn’t the sort of love I meant,” Juliana pointed out. “And you are well aware of that.”
“I do not think I am destined for the sort of love you are talking about. I do not think I am a woman who would be happy married. I am more accustomed to telling others what to do than to being told.”
“You think Nicholas tells me what to do?” Juliana asked indignantly.
“Does he not?”
Juliana started to answer, then stopped and let out a little laugh. “Well, yes, he does—but it is nearly always out of concern for me. He wants to protect me even when I haven’t the slightest need for it. However, that does not mean that I follow his orders or that he tries to force me to. I have even on occasion given him my opinion of what he should do. ’Tis a natural enough thing between husband and wife.” She looked at Eleanor a little quizzically. “Surely you know that. You were married.”
“Edmund and I had a…different sort of marriage. He needed my help. I do not think that Lord Neale does.”
“Perhaps he just does not know it.”
Eleanor cast her friend a sardonic glance, one eyebrow raised. “Why are you so set on Lord Neale?”
Juliana shrugged. “I am not set on him. It is just that there seemed to be…I don’t know. I cannot explain it, really. There was just something between the two of you this evening.”
“I think it is called mutual dislike,” Eleanor responded.
“You may call it that if you wish. But I have never noticed dislike putting such a glow on a woman’s face as I saw on yours tonight.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened in surprise, and she was suddenly at a loss for words. She was saved from having to respond to her friend by the arrival of Juliana’s husband and Lord Neale, who strolled into the drawing room and sat down with them.
Nicholas suggested that Juliana play for them, so she moved to the piano and played a few songs, insisting that Eleanor join her. Eleanor turned the pages for her and added her passable alto voice to Juliana’s melodious soprano. Eleanor was grateful for something to do. She would have been hard-pressed to carry on a decent conversation, the way her mind was whirling from Juliana’s words.
Her friend was wrong, of course, she told herself. If there was any special glow on her face this evening, it had sprung from anger, not any sort of interest in Lord Neale. Perhaps, she admitted, she had felt some small tug of attraction to the man when she first met him, but that had been before she talked to him, before she found out what a rude and thoroughly dislikeable man he was. And if her pulse had picked up tonight when he entered her carriage, it was only because he had startled her. It had nothing to do with his well-modeled lips or clear gray eyes.
She glanced at him as she sang. He was leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him and his arms crossed, watching her. She stumbled on the words and turned quickly back to the music, a blush rising in her cheeks. The devil take the man!
She was careful not to look at him again.
Not long after that, Eleanor took her leave, thanking Juliana and Nicholas for the evening and the meal. She had, despite Lord Neale’s presence, enjoyed it. Neale, of course, was quick to offer his escort.
“Thank you, but it is not necessary, my lord,” Eleanor told him without any real hope that he would agree. “I can manage quite well, I assure you.”
“No doubt. But I insist.” His gray eyes gazed into hers challengingly.
“Of course.” Eleanor thrust her hands into her gloves with a trifle more force than was necessary.
She took the arm he offered and, with another farewell to their hosts, walked with him out to the waiting carriage. She allowed him to assist her into the carriage and watched, resigned, as he settled onto the seat across from her.
“Well?” he asked, as the coach rattled over the cobblestone streets. “Are you ready to answer my questions?”
Eleanor set her jaw. Her pride made her want to refuse. His very questions were an insult, and to answer them seemed to admit that he had some sort of right to question her. She hated to give him the satisfaction of explaining anything to him.
However, she had been thinking about the problem all evening, and she knew that it would be foolish to let her pride dictate to her in this matter. If she did not quash this story of his right at the beginning, she knew that he and his sister would spread the rumor all over the city. While she cared little for the opinion of the ton, she knew that this sort of story would travel into the set among which she and Edmund had socialized. She did care what many of that group thought of her, and such a rumor, once started, was difficult to dispel. Moreover, it would embroil Juliana in exactly the sort of situation in which Eleanor did not want to involve her. Juliana would, of course, defend her friend; Eleanor knew how loyal she was. And that would put her at odds with the aristocratic society in which her marriage to Lord Barre had placed her.
Above all, she did not want Edmund’s memory to be touched in any way by a scandal. His death had been a tragedy for the world of music, and she refused to let that fact be submerged under a storm of gossip and innuendo.
“I will not be questioned by you like a criminal,” Eleanor told him coldly. “However, I have no intention of allowing you to drag Edmund’s name or mine through the mud of scandal. So I will show you exactly how wrong you are.”
“Very well.”
They continued their ride to Eleanor’s house in stony silence.
When they pulled up in front of the elegant white townhome some minutes later, Eleanor saw to her surprise that it was blazing with lights. A little prickle of unease ran through her, and she hurried down from the carriage, ignoring Lord Neale’s proffered hand. He followed her as she swept up the steps and through the front door.
Instead of the tranquility of a houseful of inhabitants retired for the night, as one would have expected at this late hour, the front hall was a hubbub of people and noise. Two children in their nightgowns sat on the stairs, interestedly watching the scene below them, where several servants in varying states of dress milled around, everyone seemingly talking at once. At the center of the activity was a dark, attractive young woman wrapped in a blue sari, her liquid dark eyes large and frightened, as she talked in a low voice to the two men before her. One of the men, a rough-looking sort whom Anthony remembered as Eleanor’s butler, handed the woman a small glass of an amber liquid. The other man, a tall African dressed in a suit, was on one knee before the woman, looking anxiously into her face.
Eleanor’s voice cut through the hum of talk. “What is going on here?”
Everyone turned and began to talk at once, their voices rising in a babble, until finally Lord Neale’s voice rang out, overpowering all the others. “Silence!”
In the ringing quiet that followed, Eleanor said, “Bartwell?”
The rough-looking man replied, “A thief got into the house, Miss Elly.”
The African man, who had risen and turned, but stayed protectively by the Indian woman’s side, added, “And he assaulted Kerani.”

CHAPTER FOUR
“WHAT!” Eleanor gasped, and swept forward toward the young woman. The servants parted quickly before her. She scarcely noticed that Lord Neale stayed at her side. “Kerani, are you all right?”
“No, no, it was not as it sounds,” the woman replied softly, standing up and inclining her head in a little bow to Eleanor. “He only pushed me aside as he ran away. I stumbled and fell.”
The man beside her snorted and said, “You would excuse the devil himself, ma’am. Pushing you down is an attack.”
“Yes, of course it is, Zachary, but you are scarcely helping the poor girl standing over her glowering like that,” Eleanor told him. “Now, Kerani…” She reached down and took the smaller woman’s hand in hers and looked into her face. “Tell me what happened.”
“I—” Kerani drew a shaky breath and straightened her shoulders, seeming to draw strength from Eleanor’s grasp. “I had just put the children to bed,” she went on in her soft, lilting accent. “I was going down to the library. I wanted to read a bit before I went to bed and—I walked by your room, my lady. I saw a man inside. I—he was standing in front of the dresser. He was turned away from me. But I gasped, I think, and he turned and saw me.”
The woman began to tremble, and Eleanor slid a comforting arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right, Kerani. He’s gone now. You are safe.”
“I know. I am sorry. It is just…he looked so—so frightening. His face—it was not human.”
“What?”
“He looked, um, it was all white, with holes, and his eyes behind them.”
“A mask?” Anthony suggested, and Kerani glanced at him, surprised.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “I think it was. But not just over his eyes, as I have seen before.”
“A full mask, then, and all white?” Anthony said, his voice so gentle and reassuring that Eleanor looked at him, surprised.
The Indian woman nodded. “Yes. It does not sound like much, but it scared me. It was as though he did not have a face at all.”
“I can imagine,” Eleanor commented. “It’s not at all surprising that he frightened you.”
“I screamed when he turned around. And he ran toward me. I could not get out of his way fast enough, and he shoved me hard. I stumbled and fell down. Then everyone came. But he had run down the stairs and out of the house.”
“Did no one else see him?” Anthony asked.
Zachary, after a questioning glance at Anthony, said, “No. I wish I had. I was in the office when I heard her scream, and I came up the back stairs, as they were closer. He went down the front.”
“I did,” one of the footmen admitted, lifting his hand somewhat shamefacedly. “I heard Miss Kerani scream, and I went running to the stairs. But that bloke was barreling down the stairs, and he ran straight into me. Knocked me halfway across the room, and by the time I got to me feet, he was out the front door. I went after him, but…” He shrugged. “I couldn’t see him.”
“No one else was about, Miss Eleanor,” Bartwell put in. “Everyone was back in the kitchens or already gone up to bed.”
“Well, at least no one was hurt,” Eleanor said. “Did he take anything?”
“I don’t know, miss. He made a mess in your room, but it was hard to tell if anything was gone.”
“Why don’t we go up and look?” Anthony suggested.
Eleanor thought about pointing out that this whole matter was none of his concern. But, frankly, it was strangely comforting to have his large, calm presence beside her, so she made no comment as he took her arm and went up the stairs beside her. The others followed them.
On the way up the stairs, they met the two children, who popped up to greet them. “Eleanor! Was it a thief? Did he take anything? Who do you think it was? The same as before?”
“The same as before?” Anthony turned to look at her. “This is a common occurrence?”
“No. I am sure it has nothing to do with this. It was when we were still in Naples. Someone broke into the house, but nothing was taken. That is all.”
“I see. You are doubtless right. It was not connected.”
Eleanor turned back to the children. “You two should be in bed. It is long past your bedtime.”
“How could we sleep?” the girl, Claire, asked reasonably.
“It’s far too exciting,” Nathan agreed. “We want to see if he took anything.”
“Very well. But then you will let Kerani take you straight back to bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Eleanor continued up the stairs and to the doorway of her bedroom. “Oh, my.” She stopped and looked in some dismay at her room.
The drawers of her vanity and dresser stood open, as did the doors of her wardrobe, and clothes were scattered about, spilling out of the drawers, as though someone had rifled through them hastily. A chair had been turned upside down, and the pillows of the bed had been tossed aside, the mattress shoved halfway off. A music box stood on its side and open on the dresser, as well as a small chest, its lid up, necklaces spilling down the side of it. Earrings, brooches and such lay tumbled across the top of her dresser.
Eleanor walked over to the dresser, and Anthony followed her, glancing around the room. Eleanor turned the small music box upright and closed it, then looked through her jewelry box, picking up all the pieces and putting them back where they belonged.
“Is anything missing?”
“I—I’m not sure. Offhand, I don’t think so. No, wait, there is a brooch gone. A silver one. Oh, and a cloisonné locket.” She frowned. “It’s very odd. They were not even the most valuable pieces in this box. My garnets are still here, and they are worth more. And this is just my everyday jewelry. All the really valuable pieces are downstairs in the safe.”
She turned to Bartwell, who was standing inside the door. “What about the safe? Was anything taken?”
“No, miss. Nothing happened to the safe. I was working in the butler’s room right next to it, so I’m certain of that. The silver plate is all still there in the butler’s pantry, as well. I looked around downstairs, and none of your pictures or doodads are missing.”
Anthony cast Eleanor a questioning look at the butler’s words, and a faint smile touched her lips. “My pieces of art, he means.”
“Anything of Edmund’s?” Anthony asked.
Eleanor looked faintly alarmed and turned to Bartwell. “Did you look in Sir Edmund’s room?”
“No, miss, I didn’t think about it.”
Eleanor hurried out of the room and across the hall, opening the door into a room the twin of hers in size and shape, where Edmund had briefly stayed before their move to Italy. The furniture was heavy and dark, richly carved. It was a tidy room, obviously kept dusted and ready, but there was an empty quality to its neatness that spoke of the lack of an occupant.
The light from the hallway revealed that this bedroom had not been ransacked, but Eleanor went to the desk in the corner and laid her hands on a rosewood box. She opened it, then closed the lid and turned away, seemingly satisfied. “I don’t think anything was disturbed in here.”
They left the room and stood for a moment in the hallway. Eleanor glanced around at the waiting faces, all watching her expectantly. “Bartwell, why don’t you set the maids to putting my room back in order? Kerani, take the children to bed. And perhaps we had better set up a watch for the night, just in case.”
“I will take first watch,” Zachary offered.
“And I’ll relieve you,” Bartwell added.
“Very well.” Eleanor nodded. They were the two whom she trusted most. “Thank you.” She turned to Anthony. “Now, Lord Neale, if you will join me in my office…”
She turned briskly and led the way down the stairs to her office. Anthony followed her, ignoring the curious looks of the household.
Once inside the office, Eleanor went to a small cabinet on which sat two cut glass decanters and an array of glasses. “Would you care for a whiskey?”
“Yes, thank you,” Anthony responded, somewhat surprised. He was even more astonished when he saw Eleanor pour another glass for herself.
She handed him one of the glasses, and, seeing the askance glance he sent toward the one she held, she smiled. “The best remedy for shock, my father always said.”
“What? Oh, yes. I suppose it is.” Anthony took a drink, watching as Eleanor sipped at the amber liquid, grimacing a little at its strong taste.
She shivered, and Anthony reached out to lay a hand upon her arm. “Are you all right?”
She looked up at him. The whiskey lay like fire in her stomach, sending its heat throughout her body. Though it was meant only as a comforting gesture, she was very aware of his hand on her bare skin. She remembered the moment in the carriage when she had thought he was about to kiss her. The air was once again charged between them, as it had been then, and her flesh tingled where his skin touched hers. Eleanor tilted her head back to look up at him. His eyes gazed down into hers, capturing and holding her as surely as if he had taken her in his hands.
Anthony took a half step closer, his hand sliding up her arm, sending prickles of sensation through her. Her breath caught in her throat, and she stared at him, unable to look away. This time he was going to kiss her, she thought, and unconsciously lifted her face toward him.
Footsteps hurried along the hall outside, cracking like shots on the wood floor, and the noise seemed to break the spell. Eleanor took a hasty step backward, a blush rising in her cheeks. She turned away and walked around her desk before she turned to face Anthony again, the large wooden expanse lying between them.
“Well. I am sorry that you happened upon such a scene. Our household is normally much quieter.”
“Thieves are not usually the routine in any household, I imagine,” he replied mildly. He glanced around the room, taking in its spaciousness and comfort, the glass-doored shelves and locked cabinets, the pile of ledgers upon the desk and its well-used look.
“This is, um, your office?” he asked. Certainly he could not imagine Edmund in a place such as this.
Eleanor nodded. “Yes, it is where I work.”
She looked down at the desk, somewhat distractedly arranging the pencils in a row. The discovery of her ransacked room had disturbed her more than she cared to admit. “Why did he tear apart my bedchamber that way? Nearly everything valuable is down here.”
“Doubtless he did not realize that. Perhaps he simply started in your room, expecting to find jewels, and then he planned to work his way downstairs. He wasn’t counting, I’m sure, on your, um, maid discovering him.”
“Amah,” Eleanor corrected. “Kerani looks after the children for me.” She looked up at him, her gaze hardening a little, offering him a challenge. “No doubt you find us a rather unusual household.”
He shrugged. “Somewhat.”
He found himself wanting to ask who were all the people whom he had seen—why her household contained an African man who spoke perfect English and wore a gentleman’s suit, as well as an Indian woman, two children, and a butler who looked as though he would be more at home in a dockside tavern than in a butler’s pantry. And what did a woman do in an office like this? Why had someone ransacked her bedroom—surely not the pattern of a common thief, no matter what he had told her?
But Anthony knew that such thoughts were entirely beside the point. There was no reason for him to be wondering about this woman and her life any more than there had been any reason a moment earlier for him to want to kiss her. So he said nothing, and silence stretched between them.
“Well, that is not why you came,” Eleanor said briskly, turning away and going to a cabinet and unlocking it. “You want to know about Edmund’s death.”
She picked up a piece of paper inside the cabinet and turned, bringing it back and laying it down on the desk close to where Anthony stood, turning it so that he could see it. It was an official-looking document, complete with stamps and seals, written in Italian.
“This is the death certificate the Italian authorities wrote for Edmund. Can you read Italian?”
“A little,” he replied, picking up the document and perusing it. He felt uncomfortable, almost embarrassed.
“It says that his death was due to drowning,” Eleanor told him flatly, pointing with the tip of a pencil to the appropriate line. “Of course, if one believes that the Italian officials are corrupt and lied on the death certificate, I suppose that is not proof enough. There was also an article in the Italian newspapers about his death, since it was an accident.” She handed over a folded piece of newsprint, again in Italian. “There.”
Anthony’s eyes ran down the story. His Italian, never fluent, was rather rusty, but he recalled enough to see that the article was indeed about Sir Edmund Scarbrough and his drowning.
“His health improved so much in Naples that Edmund was much more vigorous than he was here. I am not sure why he grew interested in sailing. I think it had more to do with his friends being interested in it than anything else. Usually he sailed with Dario Paradella or one of his other friends. Dario had been supposed to go, but he had to cancel, and Edmund went by himself. He said he needed to think. When he did not return by nightfall, I grew worried, and I sent a servant to the docks, but his boat was not there. I grew increasingly worried, of course, and I sent notes around to his friends. I sent servants to the various places that he might have stopped, but he was nowhere to be found. So, eventually, I contacted the authorities. Two days later, his…” Eleanor paused, her throat tightening. She swallowed hard and continued. “His body washed up on shore.”
Looking at her quietly pained face, Anthony found it difficult to disbelieve her grief. He wanted to tell her not to talk about it any longer. He wanted to put his arms around her and let her head rest against his chest, just as he had wanted earlier to protect her from the burglar who had ransacked her room. He felt sure that such a reaction was how most men felt about her. She was beautiful, and no doubt she was well used to using that beauty to manipulate men into doing whatever she wanted. Believing whatever she wanted.
He firmly quashed his feelings of sympathy and asked, “Why did you burn his body?”
“It certainly was not to hide anything!” Eleanor snapped, her eyes flashing with anger and resentment.
“Then why? It goes against all decent behavior. What about his poor mother, grieving for him, with no grave to go to for comfort?”
“We were in Italy. She would have had no grave to go to, if I had buried him there, either. At least now she can put his ashes in the family vault. I would think she would prefer to have some reminder of him,” Eleanor retorted. She shook her head, holding out her hands as if to stave off any further dispute. “It does not matter, in any case. I had no say in the matter. The Italian authorities are responsible for that decision, not I.”

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