Candace Camp

by A Dangerous Man

  “It has been several years since then,” Eleanor pointed out. “She has come to like you as a person, not just as her rescuer.”

  “She is of a high caste. I do not think she would look upon me as an equal.”

  Eleanor grimaced. “I would not think that, after her experiences, she would cling to her people’s beliefs. Besides, you do not give yourself enough credit. You are a nice-looking man, well-employed, and if I know you, you have set aside a pleasant nest egg.”

  He offered a faint smile at her statement. “I have been saving my money, you are right. But it is not yet enough for me to be able to offer marriage.”

  Eleanor knew it was useless to argue with Zachary, so she mildly said, “You might consider what Kerani would think about it. It’s possible that she would value the time spent with you more than a house or the services of a maid.”

  Zachary shook his head, frowning a little. “’Tis not so easy for some of us as it is for you. You are always certain, whatever you decide. I am not so sure.”

  Eleanor knew that everyone thought this of her, and generally it was true. She acted with confidence. But for once, regarding Lord Neale, she was, in fact, quite undecided.

  “I will not press you,” she told Zachary. “Will you look into the matter of Lord Neale?”

  “Yes, of course. What exactly is it you wish to know? His financial circumstances? Personal information?”

  “Whatever you can find out that seems pertinent. Primarily his finances, I suppose. Anything that might show whether he could have been behind what happened last night.”

  “Of course. I will start right away.”

  After Zachary left, Eleanor sat for a moment, letting her mind drift. She was sitting there, head on her hand, staring off into space, when a footman arrived to announce a visitor.

  Anthony! Her stomach grew tight, and she rose to her feet. “Who is it, Arthur?”

  “Foreign sort, my lady.” He extended a calling card on a silver platter.

  Eleanor took it and read the name there. “Dario Paradella? Dario?” A smile broke across her face. “Show him to the drawing room, Arthur. I will be right there.”

  The man waiting for her in the drawing room was about Eleanor’s height, slender and handsome, his dark hair cut short—though it was not enough to entirely hide the curls. He was impeccably dressed and quite handsome, with large, liquid-brown eyes set into a smooth olive-skinned face. He smiled when Eleanor entered the room, and stood up, coming forward to bow in a courtly manner over her hand.

  “Lady Scarbrough. It is a delight to see you.”

  “Lady Scarbrough? How formal, Dario. You were wont to call me Eleanor.”

  He grinned, giving a little shrug. “I was not sure. Perhaps in England things are different.”

  “I am not different.” Eleanor smiled at him. It made her feel happy and a little sad all at once to see Dario. He had been Edmund’s best friend when they were in Italy, and it had been he who had gotten Edmund interested in sailing. A wealthy gentleman of leisure, he was a patron of the arts, and fond of long intellectual and artistic discussions. Seeing him brought to mind the many evenings she and Edmund had spent with Dario and others, talking and laughing until late into the night.

  “Come. Sit down. May I offer you some tea?” Eleanor gestured toward a chair. “Or coffee. You would prefer that, yes?”

  “I am fine. Go to no trouble. It is enough for me to see you. You look lovely. How are you?”

  “Thank you. I am well. I miss Edmund, of course.” She gave a little shrug. “But life goes on.” She smiled. “But tell me about you. What are you doing here in England?”

  “What can I tell you? Life in Naples was dreadfully dull once you left.”

  Eleanor chuckled. “Flatterer.”

  A white grin flashed in his tanned face. “I speak only the truth. I was bored. So I decided to travel. What better place to go than to England? My friend always spoke of it with such love. ‘I am better here, Dario,’ he would tell me. ‘But my heart will always be there.’”

  “A lovely sentiment,” Eleanor said. She did not add that she doubted Edmund’s words had been as sweet, but they probably had expressed what he had felt.

  “So here I am,” Dario finished.

  “For how long?”

  “A few weeks. A month. I am not sure.”

  “Until you are bored again?” Eleanor ventured.

  “You know me too well.”

  “Well, we shall have to make sure that you are well-entertained, then, so that you will not wish to leave,” Eleanor told him. “I am attending the opera tomorrow night. You will find it a poor substitute for the opera in Naples, of course, but if you would like to accompany me…?”

  “It is my dearest wish,” Dario assured her, one hand on his heart. “I will be honored to escort you.”

  IT WAS GOOD to be out in society again, Eleanor thought to herself as she swept into the opera house on Dario’s arm the following evening. It made her think a little wistfully of the operas that she and Sir Edmund had attended together, but there was more sweetness in the memory than pain. And she realized how much, during her semi-seclusion after Edmund’s death, she had missed the panoply and bustle of such an event. She paused for a moment, drinking in the noise and the movement of the throng, the glitter of jewels and the sumptuous richness of brocades, velvets, satins and silks, ranging in every color from the demure white of debutantes to the vibrant hues of fashionable matrons.

  Eleanor herself had opted for half-mourning again, an elegant satin evening gown in black with white accents, with a pendant necklace of diamonds as clear and sparkling as ice and a matching scatter of diamonds pinned in her dark hair. She knew, even before Dario’s exclamation, that she looked her best, and she could not help but wish that Lord Neale would be at the opera that night, just so he could witness her splendid entrance. He would see that she was not cowed by him or anyone else—and she could not help but think with smug satisfaction that the sight of her might have a deleterious effect on his pulse.

  Not, of course, she reminded herself, that that had influenced her decision to go. After all, Anthony might very well not even be there. And she was not, she added as she glanced all around the spacious lobby, looking for him.

  Eleanor could see heads turning toward them as they made their way up the marble steps and around to her box. They made, she knew, an arresting couple. Dario was a handsome man in his black evening suit and white shirt, with a snowy white cravat centered by a pigeon’s blood ruby the size of Eleanor’s thumb, and his obviously foreign air and looks would have made him stand out in any case.

  There would be gossip, of course. She had been given a grudging entrée into the ton by virtue of her marriage to Sir Edmund, but she knew that she was not considered one of them and never would be. There would doubtless be those here tonight who criticized her for forsaking full mourning after six months. She wondered how much Lord Neale and his sister would add to the rumor mill.

  When she and Dario had settled in their seats, Eleanor took out her opera glasses to peruse the rest of the audience, much as everyone else was doing. She saw the dreadfully dull Colton-Smythes, who had sailed from Italy to England with her. They were standing in a box across the way from her, talking to a middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar to her. He was handsome, with dark eyes and a rather ascetic face, his black hair silvering at the temples.

  Colton-Smythe was watching her, and when his eye caught Eleanor’s, he bowed to her in greeting. She inclined her head to the couple, knowing that at intermission they would doubtless make their way to her box.

  Eleanor turned toward Dario to tell him about the couple and found him watching them already, his eyes narrowed.

  “Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Colton-Smythe?” she asked, faintly surprised.

  “That woman in the unfortunate colored dress?” he asked. “What do you call that?”

  “Frightful,” Eleanor replied. “But I think the name of the c
olor is puce. It is not a color most people should wear. The woman is Mrs. Colton-Smythe, and the balding man beside her is her husband. You looked as though you recognized them.”

  “They are, perhaps, somewhat familiar, but I do not know them, really. It is the man with them I have the misfortune to know. Alessandro Moncari, Conte di Graffeo.”

  “Ah.” Eleanor recognized the name. Dario was one of the earnest, intellectual young men of Naples who desired a more democratic government for that city-state, as well as a unified country of Italy, rather than the collection of small states that now prevailed there. The Conte di Graffeo was one of the conservative aristocrats who strongly supported the king of Naples and the present government.

  “He is despicable,” Dario said with a bitter twist of his lips.

  Eleanor was a little surprised by the depth of Dario’s dislike. She had not realized, she supposed, how deeply committed he was to the movement of democracy and unification for Italy.

  Dario saw her glance and forced a smile. “We do not agree on many issues.”

  Eleanor, who had heard many a discussion among him and Edmund and their other friends regarding the many political ills of the Kingdom of Naples, smiled faintly. “Yes, I know. I remember that Edmund disliked the man also.”

  She had been sympathetic to the ideas of the liberally-minded young men of Naples. They had hoped, after Napoleon was defeated and driven from their country, that they would have a new, more democratic government. Much as they had disliked Napoleon’s conquest of their city, they had had little affection for the autocratic kingdom that had existed before Bonaparte. However, the Congress of Vienna had done its best to put everything back the way it was before Napoleon had taken over most of Europe, and as a result, the old Kingdom of Naples was reinstated. The king had continued an autocratic rule, quelling all hope of the blend of monarchy and democratic rule that existed in England.

  Eleanor had not felt the same sort of passion for the subject that Edmund had. And she did not particularly want to plunge into the matter right now. She felt in much too good a humor to talk about politics.

  So Eleanor returned to her opera glasses, leaving the matter of the Conte di Graffeo. And there, suddenly, looming up in her glasses, was Lord Neale.

  Eleanor let out a little gasp and lowered her glasses immediately. Her heart was suddenly pounding. Dario turned toward her curiously.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” he asked.

  “No. Oh no.” Eleanor gave a half laugh. “I just saw someone I know. I did not really expect him to be here tonight.”

  She looked back at Anthony. He was in a box down and across from them, sitting alone. He cast a glance around the opera house, his gaze disinterested. Then he saw Eleanor. He straightened, staring across at her. Eleanor inclined her head toward him, moving just the polite amount and no more. She could feel her cheeks flush under his regard, but she hoped he could not spy that clear across the theater from her.

  He nodded back to her; then his gaze flickered over to Dario, sitting beside her, and remained for a moment. He looked back at Eleanor, but she could not read his expression. Her hand tightened around her fan, and she made herself turn her attention toward the stage—anywhere, really, so long as it was not at Lord Neale. She waited for a moment, considering the heavy red velvet curtains across the stage-front with a great deal more interest than they warranted.

  After a long pause, she turned her head, letting her gaze wander across the boxes, moving over Anthony again. He was no longer looking at her but idly watching the seats below, in the center of the house. Eleanor looked at him for a moment, unnoticed, then firmly turned her gaze back to the orchestra, where the musicians were tuning up.

  Dario, thankfully, was quiet during the performance. Eleanor hated to sit with most fashionable opera-goers, who were more interested in carrying on conversations about clothes, furnishings and the other attendees—often in tones that far exceeded a whisper—than they were in watching the opera.

  At intermission, of course, the real purpose of the evening for most of the patrons began. Everyone began to get up and move. Some men went to fetch refreshments for the ladies with them. Others, both men and women, paraded up and down the hall outside the boxes, looking and being looked at. And still others strolled around to pay their respects to those who remained in their boxes, often hoping to be asked to sit with them for the rest of the show.

  It seemed to Eleanor that every guest whom she knew in the slightest came by her loge. It would have been more gratifying if she had not thought that the majority of them came more out of curiosity than out of any real liking for her. And most of the curiosity, she suspected, at least among the women, was for Dario.

  She dutifully introduced him to them, and watched with some amusement as they flirted and laughed with him. Dario, of course, reacted just as she expected, smiling in a way that was guaranteed to break a few hearts, flattering them outrageously and sending smoldering glances from under his thick black eyelashes.

  Mr. and Mrs. Colton-Smythe appeared, bringing with them Conte di Graffeo. Eleanor cast a quick glance over at Dario, unsure how he would respond to this man whom he obviously disliked. However, he was polite, if rather stiff and uncharacteristically taciturn.

  The count bowed over Eleanor’s hand with Latin charm and grace. “Lady Scarbrough. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.” His voice was warm and deep, somewhat at odds with his cool, restrained mien.

  “Conte,” Eleanor responded. “Perhaps you know Mr. Paradello, my late husband’s friend?”

  He spared a glance and a short nod for Dario. “Yes, of course. Buona sera, signore.”

  Dario made a terse reply, and the count turned back to Eleanor. “Allow me to offer my condolences on the death of your husband, my lady. The music here cannot compare to that of Sir Edmund Scar-brough. He was a genius. He will be much missed, not only here, but in Italy, as well.”

  His words were perfectly polite, but there was an odd, almost watchful, expression in his eyes as he talked to her that made Eleanor uncomfortable. It was almost as if he were studying her to see what her reaction to his words might be.

  “Thank you, Conte di Graffeo,” she replied formally. “We all miss him very much.”

  He bowed again, and there were formal goodbyes all around. Then the Colton-Smythes left with their obviously prized guest. Eleanor frowned, trying to figure out what had made her feel so uneasy about the count.

  “Do not let him worry you,” Dario told her in a low voice. “He is not worth it.”

  Eleanor glanced at him. Dario’s words seemed an odd thing to say. There had not been anything worrisome in the Italian count’s words, despite the unease she had felt. Had Dario sensed her mood, or had he heard something in the man’s condolences that bothered him, too?

  Before she could open her mouth to ask Dario what he had meant by his comment, there was a tap at the door and Anthony stepped in.

  Eleanor stiffened, her hand tightening on her fan, all thoughts of the Conte di Graffeo fleeing her head. “Lord Neale.”

  “My lady.” Anthony nodded at her, then turned to look at Dario. His glance was swift and encompassing, and when he turned back to Eleanor, there was a question in his eyes.

  It was obvious that he was waiting for an introduction to the man. So, with just a trace of wryness, Eleanor said, “Pray allow me to introduce you to Mr. Paradella, my lord. He was a friend of Sir Edmund’s.”

  “Ah, I see. And you have come to visit your friend’s widow, all the way from Naples. How kind.” Anthony’s tone and gaze were equally cool.

  Dario did not look offended, only faintly amused. “It is my pleasure, my lord, I assure you.”

  “Indeed. Will you be staying long?’

  “I had not decided quite yet,” Dario responded amiably. “It will depend, in part, on Lady Scarbrough.”

  Anthony made no response to this statement, merely turned toward Eleanor and said, “I understand you are planning to visit
Honoria to discuss Edmund’s will.”

  “Yes. And to bring his ashes home to the family vault,” Eleanor replied.

  “Honoria has asked me to attend, as well,” he told her.

  “Of course.” Eleanor kept her face and voice as bland as he.

  “Pray, allow me to escort you,” Dario put in, and both Eleanor and Anthony turned to look at him, surprised.

  “I would like to see my friend’s ancestral home,” Dario said by way of explanation, adding, his voice a little roughened by emotion, “It would be good to say goodbye to Edmund there.”

  “Yes, of course,” Eleanor replied immediately. “I am sorry I did not think to ask you earlier. I will be honored to have you escort me.”

  She glanced over at Anthony, who was looking at Dario now with a thinly-disguised dislike. She would have asked Dario to come in any case, for he had been good friends with Edmund, but she had to admit that Anthony’s obvious disapproval of the invitation sweetened the moment.

  “Then I will see you there,” Anthony told her tightly, sketching a bow in her direction. “My lady.”

  “My lord.”

  She watched as Anthony turned and left the box as abruptly as he had entered it.

  “Odd man,” Dario commented, gazing after Anthony.

  “Yes.” Eleanor shrugged. “Rudeness seems to be one of his chief characteristics.”

  “I do not think he liked me,” Dario said with a smile.

  Eleanor shrugged. “He feels the same way about me, I can assure you.”

  “About you?” Dario looked skeptical. “I cannot believe that. I would have said the man disliked me because he was jealous about you. My guess is that he is more attracted to you than he would like.”

  Eleanor thought about the kiss she and Anthony had shared the other night, and her face warmed at the memory. It had meant nothing, she told herself, just as she had many times since it had happened. It had been a brief impulse, just as quickly regretted—on both their parts. She was sure that Lord Neale wished to forget it just as much as she did.