Kitabı oku: «A Dangerous Man», sayfa 3
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.
