“But what about the danger to them?” she pointed out a little desperately. “You cannot bring your sister and your niece into the path of harm.”
“I will be here to watch over them,” he told her. “Just as I can make sure that you are not hurt.”
He walked over to her, reaching out to take her hands, and looked earnestly into her eyes. “Please, Eleanor…let me do this. I cannot stand idly by and worry about you alone and vulnerable in this house. I want to be here, to protect you, and this is the only way.”
Eleanor’s hands trembled a little in his. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “All right,” she murmured.
He smiled, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her. His kiss was brief and hard, full of promise, and when he pulled back, Eleanor was left breathless, her cheeks flushed.
“Now lock your door and windows,” he told her.
“I will.” She smiled back at him, though she set her hands on her hips in a combative pose. “But don’t think that because I agreed on this that you can come in and start issuing orders.”
A long deep dimple popped into his cheek, making his grin difficult to resist. “My dear Eleanor, I would not think of issuing orders to you.”
She made a noise of disbelief. He looked at her for an instant longer, reaching up to run his finger down her cheek in a tender gesture; then he turned abruptly and walked away. Eleanor watched him leave the room. She felt foolish, standing there smiling at nothing, but she could not seem to stop smiling any more than she could halt the joy swelling in her chest.
It was ridiculous to feel this way, she told herself. Absurd, really. Anthony’s overprotectiveness should annoy her, not amuse and warm her. Yet somehow it did all three.
She picked up her candlestick and left the room, making her way upstairs to her bedchamber. She felt restless, not yet ready to go to bed, but uninterested in doing anything else, either. Strolling to the window, she moved aside the heavy drape and looked out into the quiet night street. Anthony was still standing there, his eyes slowly searching her yard.
Eleanor watched him as he turned away, apparently satisfied, spoke to his coachman, then climbed into his carriage. She continued to watch, but the carriage did not pull away. The side curtain was pulled back, and she caught a glimpse of Anthony’s face in the dim light. The coachman climbed down from his high seat and fussed about with the horses before he climbed back up and settled himself in his seat. It was then that she realized the carriage was not going anywhere.
Anthony was clearly settling in for the night, intending to keep watch on her house from outside. That, too, she thought, should have stirred up irritation. Instead, amazingly, it made her feel warm and safe.
She took out the silver key and looked at it. It looked so small and delicate, lying there in her hand. Could this really be the item that had caused someone to invade her bedchamber on two occasions? Could anyone really want those pages of music so much? Or did he think this key opened something much more valuable?
Eleanor shook her head. None of this made sense. There seemed no logic to it. What, she wondered, had Edmund done that had brought about this mess? And how was she to get out of it?
Most of all, she wondered, how was she to keep her heart whole and free, when every moment she spent with Anthony was sending her sliding closer and closer to loving him?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE BOW STREET RUNNER arrived late the next morning. He was a short, square, taciturn man whose presence was soon barely even noticed. Unfortunately, Eleanor thought, the same could not be said of Lady Honoria, who arrived with her daughter two days later.
From the moment Honoria stepped down from her carriage, she kept up a ceaseless barrage of complaints, beginning with the length of the journey, the travel sickness that had plagued her, as it always did, the lack of consideration on her brother’s part in hauling her up to London on such short notice, and continuing through her narrow-eyed inspection of Eleanor’s house, her questions about the size of the house and the number of rooms, as well as her gloomy regret over the fact that she had never been to visit the house—as though, Eleanor thought, she had never been asked to visit rather than consistently refusing to step foot in any abode occupied by “that creature Edmund married.”
Samantha looked embarrassed at her mother’s lack of manners and gamely sought to make her look less rude by earnestly explaining to Eleanor that her mother “traveled poorly.” Eleanor smiled at the girl and assured her that she understood, then sent a maid to bring Honoria lavender water for her headache and a cup of tea to revive her.
“Samantha, perhaps you will take tea with me,” she suggested as she steered Lady Honoria into her room, then whisked Samantha out before Lady Honoria, busy giving the maid instructions, even noticed that her daughter was no longer there.
“I would love to,” Samantha agreed gratefully.
As disagreeable as Edmund’s mother was—and she proved to be so at almost every opportunity—his sister was just as pleasant and winning a companion. Eleanor was glad of her company and even more grateful to her for the many times the girl swooped in to take her mother away just when Eleanor thought that she could not stand the woman’s presence any longer.
Anthony, true to his word, spent most of his time at Eleanor’s house after Honoria’s arrival, a fact that Eleanor heard Honoria marveling at to Samantha. Eleanor was not sure exactly how Anthony had managed to persuade his reluctant sister to come stay with the woman she detested most in the world. There were times when she suspected that he must have simply paid her. She could not imagine any sort of reasoning that would have worked. Or perhaps he had merely pointed out how much she could plague Eleanor if she were in the same house with her.
Two days passed in which nothing happened. When she mentioned this fact to Anthony, he responded that they needed to get out of the house.
“We are not giving him any opportunity to get in. Guards posted, people here all hours of the day and night. We need to leave for the evening. Haven’t you any invitations to parties?”
“I haven’t been attending parties,” Eleanor told him. “I am still in half-mourning.”
“Really, Anthony,” Lady Honoria put in admonishingly, having arrived in time to hear the last bit of the conversation. “You should not encourage a widow to be frivolous.”
“It’s hardly riotous living to attend a party,” Anthony rejoined. “One can go out in half-mourning.”
“Not every night. I would like to save my evenings out for something I enjoy,” Eleanor told him.
“Where are your invitations?” he asked.
“Anthony, really, you are being rude,” Honoria scolded. “No doubt she doesn’t have a wealth of invitations.”
With perverse pleasure, Eleanor went to her mahogany secretary and opened the door, pulling out a thick stack of envelopes. Honoria’s eyes widened as she looked at the bundle.
“Nonsense, Honoria,” Anthony told her. “Lady Eleanor is both wealthy and the widow of a baronet. That makes her prime marriage material.” He flipped through the stack of white squares, shaking his head over most of them, muttering. “Boring…even worse…Good Gad, not Lady Montrose. Ah, here is one that might not prove completely stultifying. The consul from Naples is having a ball tonight. In honor of some count or other.”
“Probably the Conte di Graffeo.” Eleanor made a face. “I am not overly fond of the count. I find him…disagreeable.”
“That would doubtless be true of any number of the guests,” Anthony retorted.
“Why do you want to go to this party?” Eleanor asked curiously.
He answered quietly, for her ears only. “Because, my dear, it seems to me that there might be something to be found out there—or perhaps people who might be stirred to action at the sight of you out of your house.” When Eleanor just looked at him, one eyebrow raised, he went on. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that there is a great possibility of some sort of connection with Naples or some resident of
Naples? Your house there was broken into, as well, don’t forget. If this has to do with that key, which Edmund gave you in Naples…”
“Key?” Honoria, who had walked over to eaves drop, asked, looking blank. “What key? What are you talking about, Anthony?”
“Just a bit of a puzzle, Honoria. A sort of game that Eleanor and I have been playing.”
“Oh. A puzzle.” Honoria made a face and returned her attention to the ribbon she was adding to the hem of one of her dresses.
Anthony took Eleanor’s arm and led her over to the window seat that overlooked the street. They sat down and watched the nearly empty street, talking in low tones.
“You think that it is someone from Naples who is doing this?” Eleanor asked.
“It must be someone who knew about that key and that brooch, if that is what they have been looking for. You have been in Naples for the past year.”
“Yes, but…” She sighed. “It just seems so absurd that someone would follow me from Naples in search of that key.”
“Nevertheless, it seems to me more likely than that someone in England would even know about it.” He paused, then said carefully, “If you will notice, your Italian friend turned up conveniently around the time of the break-ins.”
“Dario?” Eleanor exclaimed. “You think it was Dario?”
“Dario?” Honoria’s blond head came up. “Do you mean that nice gentleman who accompanied you to Tedlow Park? Will he be at the ball?”
“Yes, that ‘nice’ gentleman,” her brother replied, giving a sardonic twist to his words. “And I would not be at all surprised if he is there, given that he is Italian.”
“Well, that will be very pleasant,” Honoria decided, her eyes sparkling. “Such a polite young man. I wonder what dress would suit.” She stood up, calling, “Samantha! Come up to my room. Mummy needs you to help her.”
“I am sure you are wrong about Dario,” Eleanor told Anthony, getting up from the window seat and moving away.
“Why? He seems a most suspicious character to me,” Anthony remarked, following her. “He turns up at the same time as the intruder. And he was just down the hall from you the night the locket was stolen.”
“Amazing,” Eleanor said dryly. “As I recall, Dario said precisely the same thing about you.”
“He intimated that I had stolen your locket?” Anthony exclaimed, looking thunderous.
“I believe it was more than an intimation,” Eleanor corrected, the corner of her mouth lifting in amusement.
“Of course. What better way to deflect suspicion off oneself than to cast it on another?”
Eleanor quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Don’t be absurd. That is not what I am doing.” He stopped, his expression changing to one of concern. “You don’t actually still think that I—”
“No, of course not. I am simply saying that everything you are saying about Dario would apply just as well to you. It is no reason to assume that he is the culprit.”
“I’m not. I am keeping an open mind. Still, I think we cannot ignore the Italian connection.”
“No.” Eleanor sighed. “You are probably right.”
Anthony looked at her, putting his hand to his heart dramatically. “I am shocked. You are agreeing that I am right?”
“Pray, do not let it go to your head. I am sure it will not happen often.”
“I know.” He looked into her eyes, smiling. “You are a most contrary female.” His hand circled her wrist, his thumb softly rubbing over the thin skin covering the inside.
Eleanor tried to ignore the shiver that the touch of his finger sent through her. After all, his sister and niece were in the house and could come in at any minute. “Um…I, yes, I agree that we should attend the consul’s ball.”
“Very well. You must promise to save me two waltzes.”
“Two?” Eleanor teased, her eyes dancing. “Careful, you will shock the ton.”
“Two is perfectly acceptable,” he reminded her, his smile slow and seductive, emphasizing the sensual movement of his hand as it slid lightly up her arm.
Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat, and she glanced away. “Anthony…”
“Yes.”
“Lady Honoria and Samantha are here.”
“Not in this room,” he pointed out.
“But nearby. And there are the servants.”
“We are doing nothing untoward. Only talking.”
She shot him a look that was meant to be quelling, but she feared that it came out warm and inviting. “At the moment.”
“Shall I close the door?” he asked.
“That would be even worse.”
He gazed down into her eyes, his own gray eyes heavy-lidded and sensual. “At the moment, I could wish them all at the devil.”
Frankly, so did she, Eleanor thought, but she called up all her willpower and stepped away from him, saying, “So Lady Honoria will come with us?”
He sighed but did not pursue her. “Yes. I think we should leave the house as empty as possible.”
“But what about Samantha?” Eleanor asked, realizing suddenly that the girl would be left alone in the house. “She cannot attend a ball. She’s only fifteen. But neither can we leave her here if the intruder should come.”
He nodded. “I will have Rowlands take her and her governess over to my house for the evening.”
Eleanor nodded. “Very well.”
Reluctantly, Anthony walked to the door, where he paused. “I shall return to escort you around, what, nine o’clock?”
Again Eleanor nodded. It seemed safer than speech. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth she would blurt out a request to him to stay a few minutes longer.
“Remember the waltzes,” he said, and with a smile he was gone.
Eleanor sank down onto the couch with a sigh. Working with Anthony on this was proving to be more difficult than she had imagined.
She spent extra care on her toilette that night, though she tried to tell herself that she was doing only what she would normally do. She wore her finest half-mourning ball dress, an underslip of white satin with an open robe of white lace over it, draped and caught on the side. The lace was edged with a row of jet beads, with small black satin roses sewn on at each of the three places where it was caught and bunched. A row of black jet beads was sewn around the bottom of the underslip. The neckline was low and round, revealing much of Eleanor’s white shoulders and the soft upswell of her bosom, and the sleeves were short and puffed, the white lace slashed in the Spanish style to reveal satin sleeves beneath. Jet earrings and necklace completed the ensemble. The only adornment in her hair was a few small white flowers pinned into her dark curls.
She looked, she thought, both elegant and attractive. The look in Anthony’s eyes when he arrived to escort them to the ball confirmed her opinion. Samantha oohed and ahhed over her, and even Lady Honoria seemed unable to come up with a critical statement, other than a general observation that ladies were certainly wearing their necklines low this year.
Samantha and her governess were sent in Anthony’s carriage over to his house, and Anthony, Honoria and Eleanor got into her coach for the short drive to the home of the consul from the Kingdom of Naples.
The consul, a short, rotund, voluble man, greeted Eleanor with delight, introducing her to his wife, a vague woman as slender as he was round, and explaining that Lady Scarbrough was the widow of the English genius of the opera, Sir Edmund Scarbrough. His wife’s expression lost some of its vacuity at that statement, and she talked quite animatedly for a few minutes about opera. Both of them greeted Anthony and Honoria with a good deal less interest.
Eleanor knew that Honoria was looking at her now with a newfound…not respect, she would not go that far, but at least a certain surprise, even wariness. Honoria, she thought, was seeing her for the first time in a far different light.
The consul’s wife handed her down the line, introducing her to their guest of honor, the Conte di Graffeo.
“No need to introduce us, Sofia,” di Graffeo said, with a thin smile. “Lady Scarbrough and I are already acquainted.”
“Conte, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Eleanor lied, smiling. She really had no reason to dislike the slender, silver-haired count, she knew, aside from Dario’s evident distaste for him, but Eleanor was one who relied on her instincts.
Lady Honoria, however, clearly had no such instincts, for she beamed at the man when Eleanor introduced him, bridling and blushing at his slick, indifferent compliments.
“I am most desirous of a dance with you this evening, Lady Eleanor,” di Graffeo told her, holding her hand a moment longer than was strictly polite, then releasing it with a slight squeeze.
“Of course,” Eleanor replied smoothly. She had little desire to dance with the man, but their purpose here tonight was to stir up whatever they could. The count seemed to her a much likelier prospect as the villain of the piece. She had some trouble imagining him actually sneaking into her bedchamber, but she could well believe that he had hired someone to do it…if, of course, she could only come up with a reason for him to have done so.
But first she had a waltz with Anthony penciled in on her dance card. Eleanor pushed aside all thought of their purpose here and gave herself over to the pleasure of dancing with him. He was not the best dancer she had ever taken the floor with, being more methodical and correct than inspired, but no one else’s arms around her had ever made her pulse race or her flesh tingle with pleasure. She looked up into his face as they danced, trying to decide what it was about him that made him so different from other men. In the end, she gave up the effort and simply enjoyed the moment.
All too soon, the dance ended. As they walked off the floor, Conte di Graffeo intercepted them.
“Ah, Lady Scarbrough,” he said, smiling and bowing to her. “I believe that you have promised me a dance.”
Candace Camp Page 17