Читать книгу A Dangerous Man - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 7

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.”