Читать книгу A Dangerous Man - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 5

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!”