Candace Camp (16 page)

The simple words, offered in her calm voice, warmed him. She was not, he knew, a woman for whom trust came easily, yet she was placing that which was most precious to her in his hands.

He raised her hand to his lips. “Thank you.”

He kissed the backs of her fingers, then turned her hand over and pressed his lips against her palm. The velvet touch of his lips, the warm brush of his breath on her skin, sent a shiver through Eleanor. She looked up at him, her eyes darkening, and desire coiled in his loins.

He wanted to curl his arm around her and pull her close. He wanted to sink his lips into hers and take her in a slow, deep, leisurely kiss. But this, he knew regretfully, was neither the time nor the place.

With a sigh, he released her hand and stepped back. “If you will excuse me, I will set arrangements in place.”

“I will go home and explain our plan to the children and the others. I am sure I can get them packed and ready to go by this evening.”

He nodded. “I shall send them north in my carriage, with a couple of outriders. If anyone follows them, they’ll catch him,” he promised grimly. “Then,” he went on, “as soon as they are gone, you and I are going to look for this mysterious object.”

Eleanor returned home, looking around her carefully as she got out of the carriage. Had the would-be kidnapper kept watch on the house just as Anthony’s man had and then trailed them to the park? It seemed the most likely possibility. However, she would have expected Rowlands to have seen the man there, which meant, Eleanor concluded, that the kidnapper had been very adept at keeping hidden. She frowned, wondering if even now there was someone here, carefully hidden, watching her.

She shook off the shivery feelings such thoughts engendered in her and went inside. Calling for Bartwell, she trotted upstairs to the nursery, where she found Zachary, Kerani and the children. Kerani was trying to distract Claire and Nathan by reading a story aloud, but the effort was clearly in vain. There was a tight look on Claire’s face that sent a pang through Eleanor’s heart, and the girl had jumped when Eleanor opened the door.

Eleanor sat down, taking the girl onto her lap, and explained to them what she and Anthony had planned. Predictably, the children were loath to leave her, but she reassured them by pointing out that not only Kerani, but Zachary and Bartwell, would be there, as well, to make sure they were safe. Zachary chimed in with a description of the many pleasant activities that would doubtless await them in Scotland. Even though he had never been there, he made it sound like such a paradise that soon even Claire was asking eager questions.

“It will be a splendid vacation,” Eleanor assured them, adding the clinching statement, “And you won’t have to do any schoolwork for the next two weeks, so you will have plenty of time to fish and ride and explore.”

Eleanor set the maids to packing and the cook to preparing a basket of food to take with them for the ride. Soon everyone was bustling around, and by the time Anthony arrived in his spacious carriage, along with a second carriage for the travelers, everything was in order. Eleanor loaded the children into their carriage, kissing them goodbye and swallowing back the tears that threatened to rise in her throat. Zachary and Kerani climbed into the coach with the children, while Bartwell, a brace of dueling pistols tucked into his belt, took his place on the high seat beside the coachman.

From the trusting expression on Kerani’s face when she looked at Zachary, Eleanor suspected that he might find his suit progressing during their stay in Scotland far faster and farther than he ever would have expected.

The coach clattered off, followed by the two horsemen Anthony had promised. Eleanor waved goodbye, then stood for a long moment, watching the dark street for any sign of movement in the shadows. Anthony, beside her, did the same.

“No one is following them,” he said. “And if somehow they are, the outriders will spot them.”

Eleanor nodded. “They are safe away.”

The two of them turned and walked back into the house.

“Where shall we start?” Anthony asked.

She sighed. “I suppose with my jewelry. Obviously he must not have gotten what he wanted when he made off with my locket. But it seems to be the jewelry that interests him.”

They checked on the expensive jewelry first, on the presumption that the intruder simply had not realized where to look for what he wanted. It was all there where it belonged, in the safe—a glittering parure of diamonds and rubies; a pendant necklace of deep blue sapphires; a brooch of pearls and another of rubies; two bracelets, one of heavy gold links and the other of emeralds; and several rings, including her mother’s wedding ring and a large, mannish gold ring that had belonged to Eleanor’s father.

“They’re certainly valuable,” Anthony commented, sifting through the glittering baubles.

“But not anything that one would have mistaken a locket for,” Eleanor pointed out. “I cannot think that if he were searching for expensive jewelry, he would have taken the locket.”

“Perhaps it just happened to be in his hand when you woke and he ran with it,” Anthony suggested.

“I suppose that could be it.” Eleanor inspected each piece of jewelry again. “Perhaps he might think I would keep good jewelry in my bedroom here, but why would he think I would take such pieces on a trip into the country for a few days?”

“If we assume that the intruder has any sense, then I think we must admit that he is not after these jewels,” Anthony agreed.

Eleanor nodded and began to fold the jewelry back into its soft velvet cases. She returned everything to its place in the safe, and she and Anthony went up the stairs to her bedroom.

When they stepped into the room, her eyes strayed immediately to the large bed. It seemed illicit to even be in a bedroom with Anthony. She remembered what had occurred the last time he had been in her bedchamber, and she could feel a flush rise up her cheeks.

“I have looked through everything here several times,” she said quickly to cover her embarrassment, and led Anthony to the dresser where her jewelry box sat. “But on the basis that this is what the intruder concerned himself with both times, let us examine these again.”

She pulled out all the necklaces, earrings and brooches from the box, and spread them out on the surface of her dresser. Carefully, one by one, she and Anthony picked up each piece and examined it.

“I was wearing this the night he broke in the first time,” Eleanor commented, picking up the black inlaid brooch Edmund had given her before his death. “You know…Edmund gave me this, and he told me…”

Eleanor thought back, trying to remember his exact words. “He was rather odd about it. He said to wear it for his sake. Or to treasure it for his sake, something like that. Afterwards I wondered if he had had a premonition of his death. Or if he had…perhaps planned it.”

“What?” Anthony looked startled. “You think that Edmund committed suicide?”

“I don’t!” she protested, but even she could hear the desperate desire in her voice to believe her own words. “He did not seem unhappy. He was in the best health I had ever seen him, and his opera was being produced. He had every reason to live. Yet he said that to me, and he looked very solemn. When he died at sea, I could not help but remember how he had told me about Percy Shelley’s death. He found Shelley’s funeral pyre fascinating…somehow heroic. Sometimes I wondered if he meant to seek his death at sea so that he could leave this earth in the same grand fashion.”

Eleanor looked up at Anthony, her blue eyes tortured. Quickly he reached out and took her hand.

“Do not think that. I do not believe that Edmund would have taken his own life. He had clung to it too hard for too many years. And why would he do it when he was at the very peak of his career and health?”

Eleanor gripped his hand, grateful for his reassurance. “Thank you. I want to think that, too. But why did he say what he said to me?”

“Perhaps it was just that he wanted to stress the importance of this brooch. Just in case something happened to him, he wanted you to take care of it. Is it somehow special?”

“It is of good quality. It is called
pietra dura,
an Italian method of inlaying tiny pieces of stone into a picture. It requires skill, of course, but it isn’t as if it is made of precious stones.”

Eleanor ran her fingers over the inlaid colored stones that formed the picture of a flower, and the circle of gold that surrounded the black stone. She turned it over and looked at the back.

For the first time, she noticed a line running through the golden rim of the brooch. “Wait, what is this?”

She held the object closer to the candle. There, faint but distinct, was a line, no thicker than a hair. It ran all around the circular rim of the brooch, about a quarter of an inch from the back of the pin. “Do you see this?”

Anthony nodded, his head bent close to hers. Eleanor was vividly aware of his nearness, the brush of his hair against hers, the warmth of his breath upon her cheek, the faint scent of his masculine cologne. It was suddenly difficult to think of anything but his presence. She hoped he did not notice the faint trembling of her fingers.

“Can it be prised apart?” he asked.

Eleanor tried to insert her nail into the infinitesimal crack, but she could not. Holding it between her fingers on either side of the crack, she tried to pull, without any results, and then began to twist it.

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.

“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.”