A Dangerous Man

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.