She gasped as something moved beneath her fingers. “Look!”
She twisted again, and the back of the brooch rotated away from the front. She pushed it all the way apart.
There, nestled in a hollow in the back of the black stone, lay a tiny silver key.
CHAPTER TEN
“A KEY!” Anthony looked at Eleanor. “Do you know what it’s for?”
“I have a suspicion,” she told him, reaching in delicately and removing the small object. “Come. I will show you.”
She turned and led him down the stairs to her office, where she unlocked a cabinet and pulled out the rosewood box that she had placed inside it a few days earlier. She pressed and pulled at the side of the box, so that the wood slid aside, revealing the small keyhole.
“It’s a secret compartment,” she told him.
“To what? What is this box? Was it Edmund’s?”
Eleanor nodded. “It was his traveling writing desk. He took it with him almost everywhere he went.”
She bent down and carefully fitted the small key into the hole. It slid in easily, and when she turned it, there was a soft click, and a slender drawer opened in the side of the box. Eleanor slid it out until it caught.
Inside the drawer lay several sheets of music, all scored in Edmund’s familiar hand. Across the top, in English, were the words Neapolitan Sonata.
“Are you familiar with this?” Anthony asked, looking at Eleanor.
She shook her head, feeling a little breathless. “No. I have never seen it. It must have been a new piece of music he was writing. But why would he have hidden it?”
She reached in carefully and pulled out the sheets of music, holding them reverently in her hands. “This could be what the intruder was after. He must have known that the key to this lay in a piece of my jewelry. He probably took the locket thinking that the key might be inside it.”
“But why not just take the box?” Anthony asked. “Even though he didn’t have the key, he could just smash the box open, couldn’t he?”
“I suppose. But he may not have known all the details. He might not have known exactly what was hidden in the jewelry or that the key went to this box. I don’t know. But that must have been why he was searching through my necklaces and things.”
“For a piece of music?” Anthony said a little skeptically.
Eleanor’s eyes flashed. “Edmund was a genius! This is his last work, found after his death. It is priceless.”
“To you and other music lovers. But why would someone steal it? I find that theft is usually for the purpose of obtaining money.”
“He could pass Edmund’s work off as his own!” Eleanor exclaimed. “There are those who would do almost anything to receive the acclaim of the music world.”
“I suppose.”
Anthony was obviously not convinced, but Eleanor was too caught up in her elation to pay any attention to him. She swept out of the room and down the hallway, hurrying to the music room. There she lit the candelabra on the piano and sat down at the keys.
Setting the music on the piano before her, she began to pick out the notes. It was easy enough to follow…much too easy, she realized as she played. Edmund’s work was usually much more complicated than this. This music was simple and pedestrian, even discordant at times.
Her fingers slowed to a halt, and she looked up at Anthony, confused. “I don’t understand. This sounds nothing like Edmund’s music.”
Anthony frowned. “Perhaps it isn’t his.”
“I recognize his hand.”
“Something that he copied?”
“But why would he copy this? And why keep it in a secret drawer? It is the least of anything he ever wrote.”
“Perhaps that is why he hid it. It was an inferior work.”
“But why not tear it up and throw it away? I have seen him do that with work that dissatisfied him. And it was never as bad as this.”
She picked up the sheets of paper and stared down at them for a long moment. “Perhaps he…what if he thought that he was losing his talent?”
“Is that possible?”
“I’m not sure. This is so far below what he usually wrote that I cannot imagine him even putting the notes to paper.” Eleanor set the pages down on the piano. “If he was having trouble writing music, if this was the best that he was able to accomplish…”
Eleanor looked at Anthony, sorrow welling in her eyes. “If he thought that his talent had deserted him, I can imagine him ending his life.”
“No. That’s absurd. He couldn’t have believed that his talent would have left him so suddenly. Did he ever talk of it?”
“No, never. But it would have been a tragedy of such proportions that he might not have been able to speak of it to anyone, even to me. Music was what Edmund lived for. His improved health, the acclaim that would come to him when his opera was mounted, none of those things would have mattered to him if he thought that he had lost his ability.”
“Why are you so insistent on his suicide?” Anthony asked roughly. “It isn’t true.”
“Because of what he said to me about that brooch, the odd way he said it. It bothered me. And because he went sailing that day alone. He never went out alone. He always went with Dario or one of the others. I think one of the things he enjoyed the most about sailing was the companionship. But that day he told me that he was going alone. I offered to go with him, but he said no, that he had things to think about. He seemed…looking back on it, I thought that he had seemed troubled.”
“That is only because you are afraid that he took his own life. You are tingeing his words, his actions, with meanings that were not there.”
“But why did he have an accident? The sea was not rough. It was a calm, cloudless day. His boat was sound, and he was quite competent, even though he had not been sailing long. All those things bothered me. But I could not believe that he would choose to leave his life like that, not when he was doing so well. But this! If he thought his talent was gone, then life would have held no meaning for him.”
“None of this means that he killed himself. It is all supposition. Even though this is his hand, you cannot be certain that it is Edmund’s composition. Or perhaps he was trying some experiment. It seems absurd that he could lose his talent so abruptly, or even mistakenly think his talent was gone in an instant. Talent fades away, it doesn’t fly.”
Eleanor started to speak, but he held up a forefinger to silence her. “No, wait. Ask yourself this: why would Edmund have put this worthless piece of music into a secret drawer, then given you the key in the brooch and told you to treasure it for his sake? He wouldn’t want anyone, including you, to know that he had written this. As you said earlier, he would have torn it up and thrown it away.”
Eleanor paused. “That is odd.”
“It occurs to me that there is another explanation for the oddities surrounding Edmund’s boating accident besides suicide.” He paused, then added, “Murder.”
Eleanor stared at him. Her cheeks flamed with color. “You still suspect me of killing Edmund? How can you—”
“No. No. Don’t fly into a temper,” he said, smiling down at her. “I do not think that. I know you much better now.”
He lifted his hand, and with a forefinger brushed back a stray curl that had come loose from her hair and fallen beside her face. It was a tender gesture, but the gentleness of his touch did not disguise the desire that lay beneath it. And where his finger brushed against Eleanor’s cheek, her skin warmed, hunger sparking down through her body.
Everything about her felt suddenly looser, softer, warmer, and she was aware of a strong desire to move closer to him, to press her body into his and feel the strength of his flesh and bone.
Rattled and uncertain, Eleanor turned away. “Oh. Um…then, what did you mean about murder?”
Anthony moved up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and gently pulling her back against him.
“Nay. No more talk of murder. Let us just have this moment.
You and me.”
He nuzzled her neck, sending bright shivers of desire shooting through her. Eleanor melted against him, giving herself up momentarily to the feelings coursing through her. She was exquisitely aware of his long, hard body against her back, his arms wrapped around her, the velvety heat of his lips upon the tender flesh of her neck. Her breasts felt full and heavy, curiously aching. She remembered the touch of his hands on her breasts that night at his house, the taut response of her nipples. Just the thought of it made her breasts tighten again.
His teeth nipped lightly at the side of her neck, moving up the skin to tease at her jawline. He nibbled delicately at the lobe of her ear, taking the flesh lightly between his teeth and teasing it until a deep, throbbing ache started up in her loins.
Eleanor let out a soft sigh of desire and moved her hips against him. His hand smoothed down her front and spread out across her abdomen, pressing her hips back into the cup of his pelvis. She could feel the rigid length of him against her, even through their clothes, and somehow that mere touch made her flesh tingle all over her body.
He kissed her ear, his tongue gently circling and exploring, as his other hand moved languorously over her breasts, cupping and caressing them, stirring the nipples into hot, hard points. He slipped his fingers beneath the neckline of her dress, stroking her satin-smooth skin, delighting in the contrast of the pebbled flesh of her nipples. His body was like flame against her back, enveloping her in his heat.
His hand slipped lower down her stomach, sliding between her legs, seeking the center of her heat. Eleanor moaned softly, moving restlessly against him. His fingers moved over her through the cloth of her dress, the silk caressing her flesh. The ache grew in her, flowing between her legs, washing all through her body.
She moved her hips against him, anticipating the shudder that ran through him at her movement, her own hunger rising at this indication of her effect on him. Eleanor yearned to feel him against her, within her. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and encompass him, wanted to fill the ache inside her.
“Anthony…” She murmured his name in a dreamy haze, for a moment allowing herself to drift in the pleasure of his touch, his mouth.
Yet even as she floated, eager and humming with an unfulfilled hunger, deep down she knew that she could not allow herself to give in to the desires that washed through her. She was stronger than the sum of her needs, and gradually, steadily, her mind exerted its power, pulling her back from the brink of passion with a slow, inexorable motion.
“No,” she murmured at last, sighing as she said it. “No. We cannot.”
With an effort of will, Eleanor pulled away from Anthony’s embrace. She opened her eyes, taking in the room at a glance. It was Edmund’s place, the music room, with traces of him everywhere. And though she had never felt for him what she felt for this man, it seemed a violation of their marriage to be here this way with Anthony.
“Eleanor…” he grated out, taking a step after her.
“No.” She took a hasty step away, holding out a hand in a stopping gesture. “We must not.”
“Why not?” he argued. “Don’t deny that you feel the same desire that I do.”
“I do not deny it,” she retorted somewhat shakily.
The very unsteadiness of her voice betrayed her passion, and he knotted his fists at the sound of it, a low growl forming in his throat.
“But it’s not right. Not here. Not now. I am not the sort of woman who—”
“Do you think I do not know that?” he responded quickly. “I promise you, I do not regard you lightly.”
“Don’t.” She shook her head and uttered the one word that would have the most effect on him. “Please.”
He stopped, setting his jaw, and turned away from her, struggling to bring his raging desire under control.
“I think it would be best if we removed ourselves to my office,” she said after a long moment, during which she wrestled with her own strong emotions.
She swept from the room, leading the way down the hall to her plainly furnished, more comfortable office. “Would you like a drink?” she asked as she made her way to the liquor cabinet, pouring a liberal splash of whiskey into a glass for him even before he responded.
She poured a glass of sherry for herself, handed him his drink and sat down in the chair across from him. After taking a sip from her own glass, she looked at Anthony and asked evenly, “Why would anyone try to murder Edmund?”
“That I don’t know,” he acknowledged. He was having some difficulty sitting here calmly talking to Eleanor when his body was still thrumming from the desire that had raged through it only minutes before, and his mind was still filled with memories of how she had looked and felt beneath his hands.
“His death brought monetary benefit only to Sir Malcolm and Samantha,” Eleanor mused out loud. She, too, was highly aware of every feeling in every part of her body, but she spoke with all the calm she could muster, doing her best to drive away the feelings with a flood of words. “I think we can both agree that Samantha can be ruled out. I don’t know Sir Malcolm, but as far as I know, he was in England at the time of Edmund’s death, was he not? And I don’t think anyone doubted that he would be receiving Edmund’s estate before very long, in any case. Edmund’s health had improved, but Sir Malcolm did not know that, and even with the improvement, I think it unlikely that Edmund could have conquered his consumption.”
“I agree.” Anthony took a quick gulp of his drink and tried to keep his mind on the matter at hand. “It seems unlikely that Sir Malcolm did it. And I have no real reason to think that Edmund was killed, other than the oddities you mentioned earlier. But just because the reason is not obvious to us, it does not mean that it is not there. I would say that it’s absurd to think that his death was anything but an accident. But the things that have been happening here lately cannot but make me wonder. A sudden and violent death, even though it was seemingly an accident, looks more suspicious when it is followed by people burglarizing your house and trying to kidnap your children.”
“But what do they want?” Eleanor asked. “This key?” She held up the small silver-colored key. “Those pages of music? I cannot imagine why anyone would want either of those things, let alone kill for them.”
“I don’t know that anyone did kill for them. But he has obviously broken in here, and he has tried to steal Claire from you. And all the evidence points to the thing they want being in your jewelry. Do you think there could be another mysterious object in your jewel case?”
“Coincidence rears its ugly head again,” Eleanor murmured. She sighed. “What shall we do? I must find some way out of this. I cannot leave the children at your fishing lodge forever.”
Anthony rose and began to pace restlessly about the room as he spoke.
“Since we appear to have found what he is after, and it makes no sense, it seems to me that our best course of action is to try to lay our hands on the fellow who is after it. I want to hire a Bow Street Runner and install him secretly in your household. He can pretend to be a new servant. Then you need to go about your daily life as normally as possible and wait for him to make a move. Give him opportunities to enter the house again. Attend parties or the opera or plays. Whatever you choose. But let him have plenty of chances to try again.”
“But this time the Bow Street Runner will be waiting for him?” Eleanor interjected.
“Precisely.” He turned and looked at her. “I don’t like the idea of your staying here alone.”
Eleanor stood up, facing him. The glass of sherry had warmed her stomach, but she found that it had calmed her nerves only a little. She was still tinglingly aware of Anthony, even though he stood several feet from her. “I will scarcely be alone,” she told him. “There are the servants.”
“None of them are even on the same floor with you at night,” he pointed out.
“There will be a Bow Street Runner, as you said, and I will have a footman on guard on the first floor. No one will be abl
e to get in.”
“It’s not enough,” Anthony said flatly. “I think I should stay here until we catch whoever is doing this.”
Eleanor’s skin warmed, her pulse suddenly picking up. She imagined him sleeping only a few doors away from her, and the thought made her feel both hot and cold all at once.
“Anthony, you cannot,” she said quickly, aware of the curious breathless quality to her voice. “It—it wouldn’t do. What would people say?”
“I thought you didn’t care what people say,” he retorted.
“In general, I do not. But a bachelor staying here beneath my roof, alone with me? Especially with the children and Kerani gone? My reputation would be ruined. You know it.”
What she did not mention, though it was uppermost in her mind, was the fact that his staying there would be far too dangerous for her. Her body still tingled from his touch; she remembered vividly the pleasure of his kisses, the deep yearning she had felt. If Anthony was so near to her each night, she was not sure that she would be able to retain her control. She was unaccustomed to the sort of effect he had upon her, and Eleanor did not like feeling so vulnerable, so out of control.
Anthony ground his teeth, obviously aware of the truth of her words. “Dammit! It is too dangerous. Without even your butler and man of business here, you are too easy a target.”
“I will be fine. I sleep with a pistol by my bed,” she reminded him.
He scowled, swinging about and beginning to pace again. Finally he stopped, his face clearing, and exclaimed, “I have it! I shall send for Honoria and Samantha. They can come stay with you.”
“What?” Eleanor stared at him. “Believe me, I would far rather brave the dangers of an intruder than have your sister living with me. Besides, what good would it do to have them here? It isn’t as if they can protect me.”
“The point is that if they are here, I will have a ready excuse for being here a great deal of the time. It will not harm your reputation. No one would question the chaperonage of my own sister and niece.”
Eleanor dug her fists into her skirts. She found herself longing to agree, which was rather frightening in itself. Unpleasant as was the thought of Edmund’s mother in her home, she found the prospect of Anthony hanging about the house even more alluring.
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