A Dangerous Man. Candace CampЧитать онлайн книгу.
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,