He firmly quashed his feelings of sympathy and asked, “Why did you burn his body?”
“It certainly was not to hide anything!” Eleanor snapped, her eyes flashing with anger and resentment.
“Then why? It goes against all decent behavior. What about his poor mother, grieving for him, with no grave to go to for comfort?”
“We were in Italy. She would have had no grave to go to, if I had buried him there, either. At least now she can put his ashes in the family vault. I would think she would prefer to have some reminder of him,” Eleanor retorted. She shook her head, holding out her hands as if to stave off any further dispute. “It does not matter, in any case. I had no say in the matter. The Italian authorities are responsible for that decision, not I.”
“What?” Anthony asked skeptically. “It was they who burned his body?”
Eleanor nodded. “It is some archaic Italian law, a holdover from the days when plague ran rampant throughout Europe. Any body washed in from the sea must be burned immediately, right there on the beach. It is the way Percy Shelley died, and his body, too, was burned on a funeral pyre on the beach. They say his chest split open, exposing his heart, and one of his friends snatched it out and gave it to Mary Shelley to keep. They say she put it in a box and brought it back home.”
“Bloody hell,” Anthony murmured.
Eleanor smiled faintly. “Yes, I found it rather odd when Edmund told me about it. But, then, there is much about the Shelleys that was odd—even to me, as peculiar as most hold me to be.”
Anthony wanted to believe her. It would not be surprising to have some medieval law still hanging about on the books, and doubtless during the time of the plague it had made sense to burn any body washed up on shore. Doubtless there was nothing to Honoria’s fears and suspicions.
Still, merely the fact that he wanted so much to believe Eleanor, that as he looked into her clear blue eyes, he could not believe that they would hold deceit, made him hold back. He set his jaw, firmly ignoring the heat that burned deep in his loins and the subtle tingling in his fingertips that made him itch to touch her again.
“What about the inheritance?” he asked abruptly, his tone rough with the effort of suppressing his instinctive desire for her.
Eleanor’s face tightened. “Ah, yes, the inheritance. It always comes back to that, does it not?”
“Yes, I am afraid so.”
“I cannot see how you can think that I would have murdered Edmund to get his money since, as you must know, I inherited none of his wealth. The entailed estate went to his cousin, Malcolm Scarbrough, and the bulk of his personal fortune was left to his sister.”
“It strikes me as odd that a man would cut his wife out of his will,” Anthony countered.
Eleanor’s eyebrows rose skeptically. “You wish me to believe that you are concerned for me?”
“I am merely saying that it would seem to me to indicate that such a man was estranged from his wife, that he had reason to feel she did not deserve to be left his fortune.”
“Or that she had no need of it,” Eleanor countered. “Even you must see the folly of that argument, my lord. If my husband intended to leave me no money and it was money I sought, it would make much more sense for me to keep him alive.”
“You are the trustee for his sister’s fortune. Even though you were left nothing, you would have ample opportunity to take what you want from her funds.”
Eleanor smiled thinly. “And that is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Managing the money that was left to Edmund’s sister. I would think that any man of reason would clearly see that if Edmund had distrusted me or been estranged from me, he would never have appointed me as the guardian of his sister’s fortune. But you are not interested in reason. You and Lady Scarbrough are interested only in the fortune. Why do you think Edmund left it in my care? Because he knew that I would administer it fairly and well. He knew that I would see to it that his sister’s money was invested wisely, and that it was not all spent on his mother’s extravagances. Edmund had little head for business, but he was quite aware of how his mother would have mishandled the trust if he had left it in her hands—and how much of those funds would have been used for Lady Honoria’s expenses, not Samantha’s.”
It was infuriating, but Anthony could scarcely dispute Eleanor’s words. What money his sister did not bungle away with bad investments, she would use for her own benefit, arguing that she was, after all, Samantha’s mother and in charge of her upbringing. He would personally never have recommended putting Honoria in charge of Samantha’s funds.
“Did you think I did not know that was what this whole charade was about?” Eleanor went on bitingly. “That you and Edmund’s mother want to get your hands on Samantha’s money? That is the reason for this ‘suspicion’ regarding Edmund’s death—you hope to spread enough rumors that I killed him that my reputation will be ruined and my life made miserable. No doubt you hope that I would then flee the country to escape the vicious rumors and turn the money over to you and Lady Honoria to manage.”
“What?” Anthony gaped at her, stunned. “How dare you—”
“Oh, I dare anything, Lord Neale,” Eleanor said, leaning forward and placing her hands on the desk in front of her. Her blue eyes were bright and challenging, her very stance pugnacious. “Didn’t you know? I am that odd American woman who pays no attention to conventions, who cares naught for the ‘proper’ way to do things. I go out unescorted. I manage my life and my funds without the guidance of a man. I travel where and when I please, without answering to anyone. You will not break me with rumors, my lord. I shan’t run weeping because I am not received at some foolish aristocrat’s house. You will not get your hands on Edmund’s money!”
Much to Eleanor’s surprise, her adversary let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “You must be mad. As if I am interested in Edmund’s money! Obviously you do not know me.”
“Oh, I know you, my lord,” Eleanor retorted. “I know you very well. All you are interested in is money. The only times you have ever been to this house, it has been because of money. The first time it was to keep Edmund from marrying me and turning his fortune over to me instead of giving it to his mother and you. You never considered whether marrying me would make Edmund happier or healthier. All you cared about was that it might lighten his pocketbook. You never expressed any concern or affection for him. And now you come to see me because you hate my control of his sister’s money. I see no sorrow in you over his death.”
“You know nothing about how I feel,” Anthony responded tightly.
“Why did you never call on Edmund before we left for Italy? It would have pleased him, I am sure. For some odd reason, Edmund liked you. He trusted you. He even told me once that if I ever needed anything, I should turn to you.” Eleanor’s mouth curled bitterly as she added, “I never told him that you would be the last man I would call on for help if I ever needed it.”
Her words struck Anthony like a blow. It was unreasonable, of course; he was quite aware of the woman’s dislike of him. It should not surprise or hurt him. The feeling, after all, was mutual. He might have this strange feeling of physical attraction to her, but he had only disdain for her as a person.
“I did not call on Edmund here because I did not care to see the two of you together,” he told her honestly, his voice clipped. “I talked to Edmund at his club.”
“Oh. I see. You avoided only me. Of course.” Eleanor turned away, surprised by the slash of hurt that had cut through her. It was no surprise, after all, she told herself. She knew how much the man despised her.
“My only concern was for Edmund’s well-being,” Anthony went on stiffly. He had seen the hurt in Eleanor’s face, but he steeled himself against it. “However much you think you know about me, I can tell you that you know me not at all.”
“And you, sir, know as little about me,” Eleanor retorted, lifting her head proudly.
“I may not know you,” he said, his voice sharp as glass. “But
I know women like you. I know what a woman as beautiful as you are can do to a man. How you can turn him against the people who love him. How you can twist him inside out so that he does not care about anyone or anything but you.”
His eyes were intent upon her face as he spoke, and he moved toward her, as if drawn by the force of his words. His voice dropped, almost caressing the words as he went on. “I know what it does to a man when you smile at him…how he hungers so for the taste of you, the touch, that he will do almost any thing.”
Eleanor remained frozen where she was, unable to move or speak, held in place by the husky flow of words as surely as if he held her there physically. Her head tilted back as he came closer, looming over her now. Hunger burned in his eyes, and Eleanor felt an answering hunger rising in her, filling her with heat and yearning.
“Nothing else matters, then,” he went on, his eyes boring into hers. He leaned toward her, saying, “Nothing and no one. Only you and the sweet lure of your mouth, the satin feel of your skin…”
He lowered his head and kissed her. Eleanor instinctively went up on her toes to meet him. His lips were soft, a velvet heat, and desire shook her at their touch. She pressed her mouth against his, feeling a yearning she had never experienced before. Anthony wrapped his arms around her, pressing her up into him, hard bone and sinew against her feminine softness. The contrast stirred Eleanor more than she would have thought possible.
Her breasts were full and aching, her nipples tightening, and fire flooded her loins. No man had ever kissed her like this before, teeth and tongue and melting passion. No man would have dared. And Eleanor, who had always believed herself immune to desire, found herself locked in its hot grip. She trembled, clinging to him, and wanted more.
At last he released her, his arms falling away as he took a quick step backward. For a long moment they simply stared at each other, both of them too stunned to speak or act. Then his hands went out, taking her arms to pull her to him again. Eleanor saw the intent in his hot gaze. She did not move, pride and hurt rising in her to hold her back.
“Aren’t you afraid I will ruin you?” she asked bitterly.
“God help me, I don’t care,” he muttered, and pulled her close.
“No!” Eleanor jerked away from him, anger flooding in and wrapping around her heart. She held her head high, her cheeks flaming with color. She would not let desire carry her away as if she were some mindless thing, a slave to her passion. She refused to respond to a man who not only did not care for her but, indeed, despised her.
He looked at her, his jaw clenched, a struggle of his own playing across his face. “Eleanor…”
“Leave me,” she told him in a charged voice. When he hesitated, she snapped, “Go! Get out of my house.”
With a nod, he turned and walked out the door.
Eleanor realized that her legs were trembling so much that she could barely stand. She turned and sank down into the chair behind her desk. Her breath rasped in her throat.
Whatever had possessed her? She would have said that she disliked Lord Neale above all others. Yet when he had kissed her, she had melted in his arms.
She pressed her hand to her mouth. Her lips, she noted, were still warm and damp from his kiss. She had kissed him wantonly, she thought, and her cheeks flamed at the memory.
“Anthony,” she murmured, trying his name out on her tongue.
For the first time in her life, she had felt passion. And it was for the one man who was implacably her enemy.
CHAPTER FIVE
ELEANOR WAS READING through her correspondence the next morning when Zachary entered the room. He hesitated at the door, as though not wanting to disturb her, but Eleanor was glad for the interruption. She had spent a largely sleepless night, and this morning she was having a great deal of trouble concentrating on anything.
“Zachary. Come in,” she said, smiling.
“John said you wished to see me.”
“Yes. Sit down.” She gestured toward the chair on the other side of her desk, and he sat down, crossing his hands and looking at her expectantly.
“I have a task for you.”
He inclined his head. “Of course. I am working on the books. That can wait.”
“Good. I want you to find out what you can about Lord Neale.”
Zachary’s dark face registered surprise. “The man who was here last night? Sir Edmund’s uncle?”
“Yes. I—I do not entirely trust him.”
Zachary frowned. “You think he had something to do with the intruder?”
“What? Oh, no.” Eleanor paused, thinking. “At least, I had not thought about it. I don’t presume so. I—surely that was simply an ordinary thief.”
Zachary shrugged. “Perhaps. But I find his behavior odd. Why did he break into the house so early? While people were still up and about? And why did he start in your bedchamber? An ordinary thief, I would have thought, would wait until everyone was asleep and then he would sneak in downstairs and steal the valuables in the butler’s pantry and the safe.”
“That seems logical,” Eleanor agreed. “Do you have a theory why he acted as he did?”
“I wonder if he behaved so because he specifically wanted something from your room. And he knew that you were out of the house at the time, so he could search your room. Any later, and you might come home from your evening. He could have been watching the house and seen you leave in the carriage.”
Eleanor nodded thoughtfully, her stomach dropping in realization. “Or he could have known because he had a confederate with me.”
“Lord Neale?” Zachary clarified.
Eleanor nodded. It made her feel a little sick to think that Anthony might have orchestrated the attack on her room. “But what would Lord Neale—or anyone else, for that matter—hope to find in my room?”
“I do not know. If it wasn’t valuables, perhaps it was something that would be otherwise important. Some sort of document, perhaps?”
“I don’t keep anything like that in my bedroom.”
“He wouldn’t necessarily know that.”
Eleanor shook her head. “Still, I can think of nothing of that sort that would be of any interest to anyone.”
Could Lord Neale have wanted to take Edmund’s will? But that made no sense. He could have seen what was in it merely by asking. Eleanor was, after all, going to show Lady Scarbrough the document, and she would have showed him, as well. Perhaps he thought she would not, but it seemed an extreme measure just to look at the will. Of course, if he were able to find it and destroy it…
Well, Eleanor was not sure exactly what would happen. Without a will, Edmund’s money would be distributed as the law prescribed. Eleanor was not conversant with English law, but she assumed that surely Edmund’s widow would get some portion of that. But perhaps the rest would go to his mother or to his sister, in which case Honoria could easily get her hands on it. Without the trust that Edmund had set up, Samantha’s mother would certainly be appointed as the girl’s guardian.
She frowned, wondering if this was in fact the reason for the intruder last night.
“Perhaps they weren’t really wanting anything but to frighten you,” Zachary suggested.
“But why?” Eleanor asked, but even as she said it, she knew the answer. Like rumors and gossip, fear might drive her to leave the country and hand over the trust to Honoria or Anthony.
Her stomach tightened at the thought. Every path her thoughts took seemed to lead back to the idea that Anthony had engineered the break-in. It seemed less and less a matter of coincidence that he had been with her last night while the intrusion took place. It had given him a rock-solid alibi in case she suspected him.
“Or perhaps it was simply a thief,” Eleanor reiterated, turning her thoughts away from the path they had taken. After all, she had no proof of any of this, only the merest speculation. “In any case, I think we need to take precautions. I have already told Bartwell to check every window and door before bed, and we should have a cou
ple of footmen on watch, at least for the time being.”
Zachary’s jaw went rigid. “I agree. We are just lucky that Kerani was not more badly hurt last night.”
Eleanor cast a speculative glance at her man of business. “Does Kerani know how you feel about her?” she asked quietly.
He looked at her, startled. “No. What do you mean?”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “You know what I mean. You care for Kerani. I think you have from the moment you met her.”
He looked alarmed. “Blast it, Eleanor,” he began, dropping the carefully cultivated air of employee deference that he tried to maintain with her and reverted to the man who had played with her when they were both children. “You must not tell her. Promise me you will not.”
“If you do not wish it, I won’t. But I do not understand why you won’t let her in on the secret. How can you ever hope to win her hand if she has no idea how you feel?”
“There is little chance of that. I am not…someone she would ever consider.”
“I don’t know how you can know that,” Eleanor countered. “Since you never give her a chance. I think she is fond of you.”
“She is grateful to me, just as she is grateful to you, because we rescued her from suttee.”
He spoke of the custom in India of placing a dead man’s widow on his funeral pyre to burn with him, a practice that the British had not succeeded in stamping out. When they were in India, looking at a ruby mine that Eleanor was thinking of buying, Eleanor, Bartwell and Zachary had happened upon one such funeral pyre. Kerani had been tied beside her husband atop the stacked wood, waiting for the torch to be put to it. Bartwell and Eleanor had held off the irate members of the funeral party with a brace of pistols, while Zachary had climbed onto the pile of wood and cut the poor frightened woman free. Kerani had fled with them, knowing that she no longer had a home among her own people. She had insisted on making herself useful by looking after the children.
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