Candace Camp (9 page)

In any case, she was glad for the company on the journey—as well as the support in facing Lady Honoria. She was fully confident that Dario would charm Edmund’s mother if anyone could. And if not, at least she would have someone to talk to besides Lady Honoria and Lord Neale.

The day before she left for Kent, Zachary took her aside, saying, “I have the information you requested.”

“About Lord Neale?” Eleanor led him into her office, where they sat down in the chairs in front of her desk, facing each other. “What did you find?”

“Well, I was not sure precisely what you wanted, so I got everything I could,” Zachary explained, looking down at the papers in his hand. “He is the sixth Earl Neale. They were given the earldom by Henry VII, apparently for their support. Before that they were barons. His mother was the Honorable Miss Genevieve Carruthers, also of a good family, though not of as high degree as the Neales. She was the fifth Lord Neale’s second wife. The first was Lady Honoria’s mother. There was a third wife, as well, for Lord Neale’s mother died when he was a baby. She—the Dowager Countess, that is—is still alive and resides in Brighton. The fifth earl died ten years ago, at which time Anthony, the present Lord Neale, came into the title.”

“You are very thorough, Zachary,” Eleanor commented.

“I try to be.” He offered her a dazzling smile, then continued. “Lord Neale is unmarried, has never been engaged, and while regarded as prime marriage material, is also generally held to be a waste of effort in that regard. There have been rumors, of course, of relationships, but…” Zachary cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I presume you are not really wanting the details of that. In any case, there are not many rumors. He is apparently a man of great privacy.”

Eleanor was, in fact, quite interested in those details, but she was not about to reveal that to her employee. She merely nodded. “Yes. Go on.”

“There is some talk of an estrangement between Lord Neale and his father. It was quite some time ago, fifteen years or more, apparently, and, again, none of my sources could come up with many details. The former Lord Neale died without any reconciliation between them, I believe.”

“How sad. He is a hard man, I think.”

“Apparently, so was his father. He was known in the area as the Iron Earl. The son is regarded more favorably.”

“Indeed?”

“As to his financial status, which I assume is the area in which you were primarily interested, he is, as best I can determine, quite a wealthy man.”

“I see.” The news did not surprise her. During her conversation with Lord Neale, she had begun to suspect that perhaps she had been wrong about his wanting Edmund’s money. There had been an element of surprise and almost amusement in his face when he had denied her accusation that had made her begin to wonder. It was primarily because of that fact that she had asked Zachary to investigate the man.

“The Neale lands are quite large and profitable,” Zachary went on. “They seem to have been a family that tended to its property. The revenues from the estate are quite good, but in addition to that, Lord Neale’s mother was the only grandchild of quite a wealthy man, and upon his death, he left a fortune to her son, which Lord Neale came into upon his majority. The man is not rumored to be extravagant. Nor is he a gambler. The money is conservatively invested and has grown steadily.”

“So he is more wealthy than Sir Edmund, I gather,” Eleanor mused.

“Oh, yes. I would say his fortune is the equal of yours, perhaps even more.”

Eleanor nodded. “Thank you, Zachary.”

She stood up as he left the room and wandered over to the window, where she stood staring out at the small garden behind the house.

She was not sure exactly how she felt about what her man of business had discovered. There had been an uprush of pleased satisfaction to learn that Lord Neale was not the greedy man she had assumed him to be, that, unlike Edmund’s own mother, he had not been living off Edmund’s fortune.

But she could not help feeling a pang of hurt to realize that Lord Neale had not come to argue Edmund out of marrying her out of any sort of self-interest, but simply because he wanted to save his nephew from Eleanor. His only reason had been his contempt and dislike for her.

It did not bear contemplating that the only man whose kisses had deeply stirred her was a man who despised her.

Eleanor blinked away the moisture that filled her eyes. Well, there was nothing for it, she thought, except to go to Kent and face her implacable enemy. The one man she wanted and the one man she could not have.

T
EDLOW
P
ARK
, long the home of the Scarbrough family, was a pleasant, rambling structure, timber-framed and redbricked. The center section, built in the time of Queen Elizabeth, had an uneven foundation, giving it a faintly rolling look, and wings had been added to it as the fancy struck whatever Scarbrough was living there at the time, sprawling outward and upward. The result was a mansion that was at once large and homey, with a whimsical sort of appeal.

It had been very dear to Edmund, who had grown up in it, but Eleanor had visited it only once before, when he had taken her home to meet his mother. It had been such an ordeal, with his mother alternately weeping and berating her son, then taking to her bed and refusing to even come down to eat with the newlyweds, that Edmund and Eleanor had left the next day. Edmund had gone home by himself a few months later, just before they left for Italy, but Eleanor had remained in London.

As her carriage pulled up in front of the mansion now, she experienced a pang of regret that Edmund had not seen his beloved home once more before his death.

Dario looked out the window interestedly. “So this is Tedlow Park,” he said, nodding as he studied it. “Yes, it is as Edmund described. I could not quite picture it, but now I understand what he meant. He said it was a house touched by fairy dust.”

Eleanor smiled. “Yes. I have heard him say that. It is a very charming place.”

Dario alighted from the carriage and offered her his hand as she came down the steps. They stood for a moment looking at the house.

“I suppose it belongs to Edmund’s cousin now, Sir Malcolm Scarbrough,” Eleanor mused.

“Does his mother still live here?” Dario asked.

“I think not. Her letter to me was written from Bainbury Manor, but this is where she asked to meet with me. Her home, she informed me, was much too small to pleasantly receive guests. Don’t ask me what she meant. Quite frankly, I doubt that I will be received pleasantly by Lady Honoria, no matter what the location.”

“Edmund told me something about her. She seemed a very…um…needful sort of woman.”

Eleanor nodded, then let out a little sigh. “I must not speak ill of the woman. Her only son has died, after all. She can scarcely be blamed for being unhappy. And I must deal with her a great deal in the future. I can only wish that Edmund had not put his sister’s fortune in my hands.”

“He thought you were the most capable, I’m sure,” Dario told her. “He was a little in awe of you, you know.”

“In awe?” Eleanor glanced at him, startled. “But how could he be in awe of me? He was a genius.”

“Ah, but you had a head for things that he understood not at all—account books, profits, investments.”

Eleanor smiled reminiscently. “They gave him a headache, he said.”

A footman in formal livery opened the door and ushered them into a nearby room. A middle-aged woman and a girl not yet into long skirts sat on a couch, flanked on one side by a young man sitting in a chair. But Eleanor’s eyes went immediately to the man who stood apart from the others, lounging with one elbow on the mantel above the fireplace. It was Lord Neale.

His gaze went as quickly to hers, and he straightened, coming forward. “Lady Eleanor.”

He bowed, and she offered her hand. She realized as he closed his fingers over it that she was trembling slightly. His skin was warm against hers, and faintly rough to the touch.

“My lord,” Eleanor replied as evenly as she could. She hoped that she was not blushing, for she felt suddenly, unaccountably, warm. She tried very hard not to think about the last time they had been together. But it seemed that the only thing occupying her mind at the moment was the thought of that kiss.

“You know my sister, I believe,” Anthony was saying, turning toward the sofa. “Lady Honoria Scarbrough.”

“Good day, my lady,” Eleanor offered politely.

“Lady Eleanor.” Edmund’s mother gave her a slight nod, her face a rigid mask of sorrow.

Lady Honoria was dressed in black, with a heavy black veil turned back to expose her face. It was a dress so heavily mournful that it seemed almost comical, like a broadly-drawn character on a stage. However, Eleanor noticed that the dress itself was of the first stare of fashion, and the material was a luxurious silk. Lady Honoria was still an attractive woman, and she dressed well. Eleanor suspected that had black not suited her blond, pale-skinned looks so well, Lady Honoria would not have worn heavy mourning for so long.

Anthony next introduced Eleanor to the girl beside Lady Honoria. It was her daughter, Samantha. Though Eleanor had met her once, she would scarcely have recognized the girl, who had gone in the past year and a half through one of the growth spurts that happened to young girls, turning the chubby-cheeked child Eleanor had met into a long-limbed, slender girl teetering on the edge of womanhood. Samantha was dressed all in black, as well, but the color did not look as good on her, the stark color washing out her very pale skin and almost white-blond hair, so that she appeared rather colorless.

“Hello, Samantha,” Eleanor said, extending her hand to shake the girl’s. “It’s good to see you again.”

Samantha smiled, lighting up her face, and Eleanor could see a resemblance to Sir Edmund in her. “Hello. It is good to see you, too.”

“I hope that we can get to know one another a little better,” Eleanor went on.

“I would like that, too,” Samantha replied a little shyly, casting a quick nervous glance at her mother.

Lady Honoria responded with a small frown and a tightening of her lips, and Samantha’s smile left her face. She cast an apologetic glance at Eleanor, and Eleanor smiled back at her reassuringly. She had meant it when she said she wanted to get to know the girl better. For Edmund’s sake, she intended to be friends with Samantha and, she hoped, keep the girl from being too much under her mother’s thumb. She was prepared for Lady Honoria’s slights, and she knew that the woman would try to thwart any attempt she made to befriend Samantha. It would be a long process, and Eleanor wanted to avoid, if she could, making the poor girl the center of a war between herself and Edmund’s mother.

Lord Neale turned toward the other man in the room, saying, “Allow me to present to you Sir Malcolm Scarbrough, Edmund’s cousin and the new master of Tedlow Park.”

There was a faint resemblance to Edmund in this man, too—similar fair coloring and tall, slender build—but where Edmund’s face had been alive with intelligence and interest in the world around him, this man’s face was carefully controlled.

“My lady,” he said to Eleanor, bowing to her a little stiffly. “Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you, Sir Malcolm.” She turned toward Dario, from whom Anthony had neatly separated her during the introductions. “Allow me to introduce to you a good friend of Sir Edmund’s, Mr. Dario Paradella.”

Dario bowed with his usual Latin flourish. “I am most honored to meet you, Lady Scarbrough. Miss Scarbrough. Sir Malcolm. Lord Neale, it is an honor to see you again. I hope you will forgive my intrusion into this time of family grief. Sir Edmund was a good friend to me, and I wished to pay my respects to him here, at his family home.”

“Of course. A splendid sentiment.” Lady Honoria extended her hand to him with a gracious smile. Clearly she was not immune to Dario’s charm, however much she might dislike Eleanor. “We are quite pleased to have you here with us. I know Edmund would have appreciated it.” She stopped, her voice catching, and dabbed her handkerchief to her eye. “He was such a wonderful man. A blessing to have as a son. If only he had not gone away…”

Honoria began to cry. Samantha reached over to pat her hand and murmur soothing words. Sir Malcolm cast Honoria a brief glance, then looked away with a bored expression. Beside Eleanor, Anthony’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Dario, however, went quickly to the woman’s side, offering his pristine white handkerchief for her tears and bending over her solicitously. In an amazingly swift time, his ministrations brought a watery smile to Lady Honoria’s lips and her tears disappeared.

“I think it is time we went to the church, don’t you?” Anthony offered. “The vicar is expecting us.”

“Yes, of course.” Sir Malcolm sprang up from his chair, looking relieved at the ending of the small emotional scene.

Dario helped Lady Honoria up and escorted her out to Sir Malcolm’s carriage. He managed to deftly maneuver himself into the carriage with her, casting a sly glance and a smile toward Eleanor. Eleanor smiled back. She had told Dario that she wished to spend some time with Edmund’s sister, and he had neatly managed to afford her the opportunity.

“Miss Scarbrough, why don’t you ride with me in my carriage?” Eleanor offered. “Yours seems quite crowded, and we can have a nice chat.”

“I should like that,” Samantha answered quickly, glancing toward the other vehicle, where her mother was already ensconced. She turned, hurriedly tying on her bonnet, and scrambled up into Eleanor’s carriage.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Anthony agreed. “I believe I shall join you.” He swung toward the groom, giving him instructions to tie his horse to the back of the carriage, and turned back to Eleanor, offering her his hand up into the coach.

Anthony was almost as smooth as Dario had been, Eleanor thought. She should have been annoyed at his inviting himself into her chat with Samantha, but, frankly, she was aware only of a frisson of excitement.

“You have very nice horses, my lady,” the girl told her politely, referring to the matched grays that pulled the vehicle.

“Our Samantha is quite the horsewoman,” Anthony said, his face relaxing into a fond smile as he looked at his niece.

“Riding is ever so much more fun than boring things like geography,” Samantha told him a little saucily. “Or dancing. Mama is making me take lessons with a dance tutor.” She grimaced.

“You don’t enjoy them?” Eleanor inquired.

“No. He smiles all the time. Like this.” Samantha demonstrated, showing them a stiff rictus of a smile that looked more like a person in pain than someone being agreeable. “And he always smells of peppermints.” She paused, then added judiciously, “It’s not that I don’t like peppermints, but I think he does it to cover up the smell of gin. I saw him one time taking a nip out in front before he came in the house.”

“Well, dancing is something that will be much more fun once you know how to do it and can go to dances,” Eleanor told her.

“I know. But that is years away. Mama says I can’t dance at the county assemblies until I’m seventeen, and that is two whole years. But I don’t suppose it matters, because there won’t be anybody to stand up with except Mama’s friends and such, and they’re all dreadfully old.”

“My dear girl, you wound me,” Anthony teased, laying a hand on his heart, his grin belying his words.

He had, Eleanor noted, the sort of grin that made one’s heart flutter a little in one’s chest. A long masculine dimple popped into one cheek, giving his usually stoic expression a sudden, compelling charm. Watching him, she could not help but smile, as well.

“Am I among this group of which you speak?” Anthony went on. “For I intend to ask you to dance when you reach seventeen. Perhaps even before.”

Samantha giggled and dimpled prettily. “No, of course not, Uncle Anthony. You aren’t old. Well, not old like General Havermore or Mr. Sotherton, or any of those other men who dance attendance on Mama.”

“And are any of them gaining ground?” Anthony asked. “I have a fiver on the general, you know.”

Samantha chuckled again. “No, you don’t. You are being silly. You know Mama would never marry the general. He’s ancient, and besides, he hasn’t enough fortune.” She covered her mouth, looking guilty, and said quickly, “Oh! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean…” She trailed off, obviously not wishing to lie, but regretting what her words had implied about her mother.

“Of course you didn’t mean anything bad,” Eleanor told her quickly. “A mother has to be especially careful about making such decisions, and I am sure Lady Honoria is. After all, when one has a child, one has to consider her welfare above all else. Lady Honoria could not possibly consider tying herself to someone who could not support both of you in the manner appropriate to you.”

Samantha looked relieved. “Yes, of course. That’s right.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Eleanor saw Lord Neale watching her, a considering expression on his face. No doubt he would have expected her to seize the opportunity to encourage Lady Honoria’s daughter to speak ill about her. That was the sort of person he presumed her to be. Eleanor wondered, with some degree of hurt, what it was about her that had made him take such a thorough and immediate dislike to her.

Eleanor pulled her thoughts back from that unproductive path and resumed her conversation with Samantha. “When you are older and make your debut, you will be able to dance with many more people. And I can assure you that a great number of them will be young men, not old ones.”

Samantha sighed. “Mama doesn’t want to take me to London for my debut. She says we are quite poor now that Edmund is gone.”

“What nonsense,” Anthony responded, his voice edged with irritation. “Of course you will have a season when you are eighteen.”

“Certainly,” Eleanor agreed. “There will be ample money for that.”