It seemed to her the normal reaction of a mother to the death of her son—even though she cynically suspected that in this case it was the loss of her son’s largesse that Lady Honoria regretted the most.
Lord Neale paused, as though choosing his words carefully, then added, “Edmund was always rather frail, but none of us expected his death to come as it did.”
“Nor did I,” Eleanor agreed, still wondering why he should jump into her carriage to tell her such obvious things.
“I never knew him to go sailing,” he went on finally, his eyes intent on her face.
“He took it up in Italy,” Eleanor explained. “I was somewhat surprised myself. I suppose it was because it was so much warmer there…and his health had improved considerably.”
“Then he was doing better?” Lord Neale asked.
“Yes, certainly.” She refrained from adding that that was precisely what she had thought would happen and why she had insisted on going to Italy despite Lady Honoria’s objections. “His coughing was diminished, his color improved. He became more active. He made several friends and went out with them frequently. Actually, it was they who got him interested in sailing.”
“You did not go with him?”
Eleanor shook her head, still at a loss as to what Lord Neale’s interest in all this was. “He went with his friend Dario Paradella, usually.” She shrugged. “And others.”
“Was he with this Paradella fellow when he died?”
“No. He was alone.” Eleanor frowned. “Why are you asking these questions? What is it you want to know?”
“The name of someone who can confirm your story,” he replied bluntly.
Eleanor stared at him. “Confirm my—” She stopped, finally understanding the direction of his conversation. “My story?” she hissed. “You dare to imply that I—that I made it up?”
“Did you?” he responded, watching her coolly.
“Of course not! Why would I make up such a—” Fury swept through her, white-hot. Her eyes flashed. “You are accusing me of murdering Edmund?”
Lord Neale did not deny her words, simply continued to look at her levelly.
“How can you be so vile?” Eleanor was so consumed by anger that she could barely speak. “You are inhuman! A monster! A—” She could think of no word bad enough to describe him.
“I notice that you have not denied the charge,” he commented calmly.
“I have no obligation to answer to you!” Eleanor spat. “I don’t have to prove anything to you just because you have a low, suspicious mind. Edmund died exactly as I told his mother. Clearly the Italian authorities had no questions about his death.”
“Unless their heads were turned by beauty,” he murmured. “Or money…”
Enraged, Eleanor swung at him with all her might, no ladylike slap, but a doubled-up fist. Lord Neale, however, was faster than she, and his hand flew out and wrapped around her wrist, stopping her swing in midair. His hold was like iron, biting painfully into her flesh, and Eleanor could not move her hand. She glared at him, and he stared back at her with a gaze equally hard and bright. The very air between them seemed to vibrate.
They remained frozen in position, his hand hot on the bare flesh of her arm. His eyes bored into hers, then dropped fractionally to her mouth, and for a brief, crazy moment, Eleanor thought that he was about to kiss her.
Abruptly he released her arm and sat back in his seat. Her hand dropped numbly into her lap. “Get out of my carriage! Now!”
“Calm down and listen to me.”
“Calm down? You jump into my carriage and accuse me of killing my husband, and you tell me to calm down?” Eleanor exclaimed.
“I did not actually accuse you of anything.”
“You accused me of making up a story about how he died,” she shot back. “You implied that I—that I—”
“Got rid of an inconvenient husband?” Anthony finished for her, his eyes intent upon her face.
She was pale, except for the bright spots of color that rage had put in her cheeks. Her vivid eyes were huge, midnight blue in the dim light of the carriage. She was startlingly beautiful, he thought. Thinner than when he had last seen her—too thin, really. Her cheekbones were too prominent in her face; her wrist had felt impossibly small in his hand.
He shoved down the sympathy that rose involuntarily in him. If his sister was right, this lovely creature had cold-bloodedly murdered his nephew.
Anthony went on roughly. “You married a frail man, one obviously dying of consumption. But then you moved to Naples and his health improved. That was a miscalculation on your part, wasn’t it? Now you were faced with a husband who might live for several years or more. You would have to put up with his demands. Or perhaps there was another man, someone you wanted, and your husband had become an inconvenience. Whatever the reason, you decided to hurry his death along. You killed him, then made up the sailing story to tell his grieving mother. Then you burned his body so that if anyone became suspicious, they would not be able to tell how he died.”
Anthony watched her closely as he spoke, alert for any telltale sign of guilt.
Eleanor let her hand fall back into her lap. Her eyes were dark with disgust. “You and Lady Honoria certainly have vivid imaginations. What do you expect me to do now? Cry and confess my sins?” Her lip curled in contempt. “You are an even greater fool than I thought you were.”
Neale’s stomach tightened. She still had not denied his statements. “Why? Because I thought you might act honestly?”
“No. Because you are so hungry for Edmund’s money that you are willing to say anything to get rid of me.”
“I don’t give a damn about Edmund’s money,” he retorted. “But if he was killed, I will see his murderer punished. I can promise you that.”
His eyes were hard as stone. Eleanor gazed back at him with an equally obdurate gaze. Her dislike of this man was so intense that it was like a huge ball in her chest, fiery and hard, threatening to explode. She curled her gloved fingers tightly into her palms, struggling to retain her usual calm self-possession.
She wasn’t sure why Lord Neale’s accusation enraged her so. She knew that he and Edmund’s mother thoroughly disliked her. It shouldn’t surprise her that Lady Scarbrough and her brother would go to such an extent to discredit her. But his words had sliced through her like a knife.
“A very noble sentiment,” Eleanor said scornfully. “Since there is little likelihood of your having to follow through, as Edmund was not murdered. But no doubt it will sound good to the others at your club. And, of course, there is the added benefit of blackening my reputation. Everyone will repeat your vile rumors, even though there isn’t the slightest shred of evidence, merely the fevered imaginings of a pair of greedy relatives.”
His nostrils flared at her biting words, and he opened his mouth to refute her. But at that moment the carriage came to
