Candace Camp

by A Dangerous Man

  Anthony looked at Eleanor meaningfully, and she nodded and went to the bell pull, summoning her own maid, Janet. The girl arrived promptly, and Eleanor coaxed Honoria, for once too upset even for sobs, to let the maid help her upstairs and fetch Samantha to be with her.

  When Honoria and Janet were out of the room and the door closed behind them, Anthony turned again to face Dario. “Tell us all of it. What did Edmund do for your group?”

  “He wanted to help us. And we—we hoped that, as an Englishman, he would not be suspected of joining us. Even if he were, we thought none would dare touch an Englishman, especially a titled one. He was entrusted with our names.”

  “Your names? I don’t understand.”

  “You see, because the society is so secret, because we are under such a threat, it is safest if we do not know the names of the others in the group. We meet only in very small groups, two or three at a time. Word is passed from group to group. This is the way the Carbonari worked, as well. But it proved quite a problem for them, for none knew who all their members were, who they could rely on and who they could not. It made it hard to grow and to reach people. So we wanted to have a roster, a list of all our members that would be kept someplace safe. It was this that Edmund did for us.”

  “He knew all your names?” Eleanor asked. “And he held this list for you somewhere in our house?”

  Dario nodded. “Yes. When he died, we were afraid that if it had not been an accident, if the other side had gotten him, perhaps they had forced him to reveal the names. We waited, in fear for our lives. But as we were not all dragged out and put in jail or killed, we realized that his death probably had been an accident, and that di Graffeo and the others did not know about Edmund.” He paused, then went on. “Still, we worry about that list. Edmund must have hidden it somewhere. What if it should fall into the count’s hands? We would be ruined.”

  “Is that why you came to England?” Eleanor asked.

  “Is that why you broke into this house?” Anthony barked, striding over to loom above Dario. “To steal the list?”

  “What?” Dario jumped to his feet, his eyes blazing. “How dare you? You accuse me? Of—of frightening Eleanor? Of trying to harm her?”

  Anthony quirked one eyebrow. “You have not exactly been honest with her.”

  “No! I did not tell her about the list or what Edmund was doing, that is true. We do not talk about L’unione. It could mean our death. But I would never hurt Eleanor!” He turned to her, his eyes pleading, then reached out and took her hand between both of his. “You must believe me. I honor and respect you. I would not do anything that would frighten you. Yes, I wanted the list. That is why I came to England.” Dario looked abashed. “But when I talked to you, I soon realized that you knew nothing about Edmund’s activities. That you would know nothing of any list.”

  “I don’t think it exists, Dario,” Eleanor told him gently. “After what happened, I looked high and low all over the house. I searched all Edmund’s possessions, and mine, as well. But I found no list. I promise you that. Either Edmund hid it far too well, or he destroyed it before he died. If—” her voice caught, but she swallowed and continued “—if in fact the count’s men did kill Edmund, perhaps he realized what was going to happen and got rid of it.”

  “That will not stop di Graffeo from searching for it,” Dario said. “He must be the one who has broken into your house. Oh, not the man himself. He would not dirty his hands with such work. But I am sure he paid someone to do it. He wants that list. He would stop at nothing to get it.”

  “He will not have it,” Eleanor assured him. “I promise you, it is not here.”

  “That is why I wanted you to return with me to Italy,” Dario went on. “You must be protected from the count.”

  Anthony let out an inelegant snort. “Then why take her back to Naples? That’s bringing the hen to the fox’s den, don’t you think? You need not worry. I will make sure that Lady Scarbrough is protected.”

  Dario faced Anthony, his chin rising pugnaciously. Eleanor quickly stepped between them. “I will make sure that I am protected,” she said firmly. “Neither of you need worry about it.”

  She gave first Dario, then Anthony, a long, warning look. After a moment, Dario stepped back and swept her an elegant bow. “Of course, my lady. I would not presume. Still, I hope you will not object if I stay in London. I want you to know that I am here to do any service you wish.”

  “Thank you.” Eleanor smiled. “I will keep that in mind.”

  With a final defiant look in Anthony’s direction, Dario turned on his heel and left.

  “I do not trust that man,” Anthony commented darkly.

  “I had no idea,” Eleanor said, smiling faintly.

  Anthony turned his scowl on her. “And you, doubtless, find him a charming, dashing rapscallion. The man has lied to you from the moment he set foot here. Does that not make you suspicious of him?”

  Eleanor shrugged. “If a woman distrusted every man who was silent about something because he wanted to ‘protect’ her, then I fear she would be able to rely on no man.”

  He grimaced. “Blast it, don’t try to turn this around on me. I have not lied to you or kept silent about anything. I asked only that you let me help keep you safe.”

  Eleanor smiled at him. “You are right. I’m sorry.”

  He relaxed and smiled back at her, crossing the floor to her. He put his hands on her arms and looked down into her face. “Perhaps I am too hard on the man. I do not like how he looks at you.”

  “He is Italian. He would think it was an insult not to pay me flowery compliments and send me meaningful glances.”

  Anthony slid his hands up her arms and back down, his eyes darkening, as he gazed at her. His voice was husky when he spoke. “And is that what is necessary to win you? Flowery compliments? Meaningful glances? Should I tell you that my heart beats faster every time I see you? Or that last night I found myself looking for you across the room whenever I was not with you?”

  Eleanor found herself aware suddenly of every physical sensation in her body—the pumping of her blood, the prickling of her skin, the shallow breaths that passed through her lips.

  “It matters only if it is true,” she replied softly, her eyes not moving from his.

  “Oh, it is true,” he told her, his mouth softening as he raised his hand to touch the side of her face, gently pushing a stray strand of hair back from her cheek. “It is all too true. There were times these past few days when I hardly knew myself. All I can think about anymore is how it felt to kiss you. All I want to do is take you in my arms again.”

  He bent and brushed his lips lightly against hers. Eleanor felt herself warming, weakening, all over.

  “Anthony…the servants.”

  “Damn the servants.” He kissed her again, his lips searching, and when he pulled back, she was breathless.

  “But Honoria…Samantha…”

  “And them, as well,” he went on ruthlessly as he kissed his way across her cheek to her ear.

  His breath brushed her ear, sending shivers through her, and he nibbled gently at the tender lobe. Eleanor’s hands came up and curled into the lapels of his coat, holding on; she felt as if her knees might give way at any moment, so shaky were they. She knew they should stop; this was foolhardy. But she could not force herself to move away from him or even to protest. Everything he was doing was precisely what she craved, she realized, even before she knew she wanted it.

  He moved back to take her lips once again, kissing her long and deeply. At last he raised his head, staring down into her face. He looked predatory, fierce. Desire flooded her.

  With a low growl of frustration, Anthony released her and turned away, balling his hands into fists and shoving them into his pockets. “Bloody hell! I cannot think when I am around you!”

  Eleanor stood where she was, torn with indecision. Every muscle, every nerve, every drop of blood in her body, cried to her to go to him, certain that if she put he
r arms around him, even touched him, the taut reins of his control would snap. Then there would be no holding back, no stopping. The passion between them would rage like a fire until at last it was spent.

  But if that happened, there would be no return. Their lives would have changed irrevocably.

  Eleanor let out a long sigh and also turned away, walking over to the window and staring out sightlessly at the garden.

  “Forgive me,” Anthony said at last, his voice tight. “I should go now.”

  Eleanor turned, her eyes flying to his face. He looked as cold and hard as when she had first met him. She could not quite keep the anxiety from her voice as she said, “You will come back?”

  His face softened a little. “Yes, of course. I will return this evening. I would not leave you to deal with this alone.”

  She did not tell him that she had not feared his leaving because she would have to face whatever danger lurked, but simply because she hated to be away from him. Better to let him think she was afraid than to let him know how completely she was falling under his spell.

  “I have a few things to do first,” he went on grimly.

  “Of course. I have kept you too much from your own concerns.”

  Anthony took his leave of her without admitting that it was not his own business that took him away. The fact was that he had decided to pay a visit to the Conte di Graffeo. He could not stay with Eleanor or he was all too likely to forget his good intentions, as well as his duty as a gentleman, and carry her off to her bedroom upstairs. Passion was thrumming in him, and he was as taut as a pulled bowstring.

  The only thing to do was to take himself out of this house for the next few hours. Paying a call on the count seemed the perfect distraction. He had intended to do so since Eleanor told him what the man had said to her last night. Now, as he strode out of her house and down the street, his purpose grew and hardened in him. All the pent-up hunger and emotion that boiled within him were channeled into his dislike of the count.

  He had set his butler, Hudgins, to finding out where the man was living while in London. Hudgins, while affecting an aloof and tight-lipped manner that implied he was above such mundane things as gossip, in fact kept his ears open and had tentacles of influence that spread throughout the servant world, enabling him to be the prime source of any information one wanted about the habits of anyone in the ton. A notable visitor’s leasing of a house and hiring servants for it would be something Hudgins could find out with little problem.

  Anthony felt sure that Hudgins would have come up with an answer by now, and he was not disappointed. The butler directed him toward one of the most fashionable streets in Mayfair, a small crescent with a sliver of park between it and a major thoroughfare. The count from Naples, Hudgins informed him, had leased a narrow charcoal-gray house set cheek-by-jowl among larger abodes, a perfect spot for a man of position, wealth and taste to stay temporarily.

  The house was, in fact, not far from where Anthony himself lived, and he walked the few blocks to it. After trotting up the steps to the red door, the only splash of color against the dark, white-shuttered house, Anthony brought down the knocker firmly. When the liveried footman opened the door, Anthony stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. He had no intention of being denied a talk with Conte di Graffeo.

  The servant appeared somewhat startled, but automatically took the hat and gloves that Anthony removed and handed to him. “I am here to speak to the count,” he told the man, taking out his silver card case from an inside pocket of his jacket and handing the man his card.

  The footman bowed. “Right this way, my lord. I will tell the count you are here.”

  He showed Anthony into a small drawing room off the entryway. It was several minutes before Conte di Graffeo appeared. Anthony suspected that he had left him cooling his heels in order to demonstrate that he was in control of the visit, but, in fact, the wait only gave Anthony’s anger time to cool into a hard, unyielding block.

  “Lord Neale,” di Graffeo said, bowing slightly. His expression was polite, but faintly supercilious. “An unexpected pleasure. Please, sit down.”

  “I prefer to stand,” Anthony answered tersely.

  “Indeed? Well…to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “You made certain threats to Lady Eleanor Scarbrough last night,” Anthony told him, his face like stone. “I came to inform you that I will deal personally with anyone who harms, or attempts to harm, Lady Scarbrough.”

  “Threats?” The other man raised his eyebrows, looking faintly amused. “My dear sir, I fear the lady misunderstood what I said to her. Women are, after all, rather excitable.”

  “Not this woman,” Anthony retorted flatly.

  The count shrugged. “I merely pointed out that her husband had been involved in some rather foolish activities. I would not like to see such a lovely lady get drawn into the same activities. That is all.”

  “Did you kill Edmund?”

  Anthony was somewhat pleased to note that his abrupt question had startled the other man out of his sophisticated calm. Di Graffeo stared at him for a moment before his features relaxed once more into their usual smooth state.

  “I would not stain my hands with such as him,” the count said, making a dismissive gesture. “Scarbrough was a boy playing at adult games. He was weak—an impressionable idealist. Precisely the sort who falls prey to the thugs and criminals who masquerade as revolutionaries. He came to Naples and fell in with the wrong crowd. He became a member of L’unione. They are the remnants of a ragtag group that tried to overthrow the king. Most of them are now resting in prison. But there are always foolish young men ready to take their place. They want to unify Italy under a democratic government. It is absurd, of course. It will never work. But the men are persuasive, especially when they work on the minds of the young or ignorant.”

  “Sir Edmund was my nephew,” Anthony told him coldly. “And he was neither foolish nor ignorant. He was, in fact, a man of enormous talent, as well as ideals. But you, I am sure, would have trouble understanding such a man.”

  “His music was exquisite. I have no argument with that. But he would have been better served to work on his operas, not dabble in politics.”

  “Why? Because you killed him for it?”

  “I told you. I did not kill him. Nor order him killed. I did not really care about him. Englishmen like him come to Italy every year. They develop their little enthusiasms, spread their English ideas around, and then, after a year or two, they return to England. It would have been the same with him.”

  “Then why did you make such a point of talking to Lady Eleanor? Why are you so concerned about what she does or what she gets involved in?”

  “Sir Edmund had information I want,” the count told him bluntly. “Now Lady Scarbrough is in possession of it. That is all I care about—a list of names that was entrusted to him. The lady would be well-advised to give the list to me.”

  “Another threat?” Anthony asked.

  “You may take it as you will,” the count replied, gazing back at him blandly.

  “I take it that you have broken into Lady Scarbrough’s home and tried to steal this information, but you could not find it, so now you intend to make her give it to you.”

  “I have not broken into Lady Scarbrough’s house or any other house. I am not a thief,” di Graffeo told him scornfully.

  “Of course not. You paid someone else to do it for you.”

  “You are sadly misinformed. I have no need to try to steal anything. I have always found that money works much better. I am quite prepared to pay Lady Scarbrough for the list of names. You may tell her so.”

  “Let me assure you that an offer of money will have no effect on Lady Scarbrough,” Anthony said flatly. “I can also tell you that you are wasting your time. Eleanor knows nothing about any papers relating to L’unione or anything else. Edmund told her nothing about his involvement with the group. He wanted to protect her. He gave her no papers. She
has searched the house thoroughly, because of the attempted thefts, and she has found nothing.”

  “Or so she says.”

  “You are questioning the lady’s honesty?” Anthony’s voice was low and silkily dangerous.

  “People lie, even beautiful women. Especially beautiful women.”

  Anthony took a long step forward, so that he was standing only a foot away from the man, looming over him. His eyes were as hard and emotionless as flint.

  “Lady Scarbrough does not lie. Nor do I. And I am telling you this for a fact: if any harm comes to Eleanor Scarbrough or any of the people about whom she cares, I will hunt you down, wherever you may hide, and I will see to it that you pay.”

  For a moment the men’s gazes remained locked. The count was the first to move, turning away as he said, “As I told you, I mean no harm to Lady Scarbrough. I simply want the list.”

  “Then I suggest you return to Italy and look for it there.” Anthony turned and strode out of the room.

  He lingered in the entryway for a moment and was pleased to hear something hit the wall in the room behind him with a crash, followed by a string of Italian curses. A frosty smile touched Anthony’s lips as he reclaimed his possessions and walked out the door.

  AFTER ANTHONY LEFT HER, Eleanor went upstairs to Honoria’s room. She found the lady stretched out on her bed, a lavender-scented cloth laid across her eyes, both her daughter and Eleanor’s own maid hovering over her.

  For the first time, it seemed to Eleanor that the woman was genuinely grieving for Edmund.

  “Why would he do such a thing?” she asked Eleanor plaintively, taking off the cold compress and looking at Eleanor with red-rimmed eyes. “Why would he endanger himself like that? All his life, I was so careful with him.”

  “I know you were,” Eleanor answered. “I don’t know. I think he must have felt very deeply about it.”

  “Was he—did someone kill him?” Honoria asked, her voice tinged with horror.

  “There is nothing to say that anyone did,” Eleanor replied carefully. Certainly the things that Dario had told her had raised her suspicions about the manner of his death, but she feared that voicing those suspicions would only make his mother feel even worse. “Try not to think about it. Why don’t you sleep now? I will tell the kitchen to send you up a nice cup of hot chocolate, and then maybe you can nap.”