Candace Camp - A Dangerous Man

“Well?” he asked, as the coach rattled over the cobblestone streets. “Are you ready to answer my questions?”

Eleanor set her jaw. Her pride made her want to refuse. His very questions were an insult, and to answer them seemed to admit that he had some sort of right to question her. She hated to give him the satisfaction of explaining anything to him.

However, she had been thinking about the problem all evening, and she knew that it would be foolish to let her pride dictate to her in this matter. If she did not quash this story of his right at the beginning, she knew that he and his sister would spread the rumor all over the city. While she cared little for the opinion of the ton, she knew that this sort of story would travel into the set among which she and Edmund had socialized. She did care what many of that group thought of her, and such a rumor, once started, was difficult to dispel. Moreover, it would embroil Juliana in exactly the sort of situation in which Eleanor did not want to involve her. Juliana would, of course, defend her friend; Eleanor knew how loyal she was. And that would put her at odds with the aristocratic society in which her marriage to Lord Barre had placed her.

Above all, she did not want Edmund’s memory to be touched in any way by a scandal. His death had been a tragedy for the world of music, and she refused to let that fact be submerged under a storm of gossip and innuendo.

“I will not be questioned by you like a criminal,” Eleanor told him coldly. “However, I have no intention of allowing you to drag Edmund’s name or mine through the mud of scandal. So I will show you exactly how wrong you are.”

“Very well.”

They continued their ride to Eleanor’s house in stony silence.

When they pulled up in front of the elegant white townhome some minutes later, Eleanor saw to her surprise that it was blazing with lights. A little prickle of unease ran through her, and she hurried down from the carriage, ignoring Lord Neale’s proffered hand. He followed her as she swept up the steps and through the front door.

Instead of the tranquility of a houseful of inhabitants retired for the night, as one would have expected at this late hour, the front hall was a hubbub of people and noise. Two children in their nightgowns sat on the stairs, interestedly watching the scene below them, where several servants in varying states of dress milled around, everyone seemingly talking at once. At the center of the activity was a dark, attractive young woman wrapped in a blue sari, her liquid dark eyes large and frightened, as she talked in a low voice to the two men before her. One of the men, a rough-looking sort whom Anthony remembered as Eleanor’s butler, handed the woman a small glass of an amber liquid. The other man, a tall African dressed in a suit, was on one knee before the woman, looking anxiously into her face.

Eleanor’s voice cut through the hum of talk. “What is going on here?”

Everyone turned and began to talk at once, their voices rising in a babble, until finally Lord Neale’s voice rang out, overpowering all the others. “Silence!”

In the ringing quiet that followed, Eleanor said, “Bartwell?”

The rough-looking man replied, “A thief got into the house, Miss Elly.”

The African man, who had risen and turned, but stayed protectively by the Indian woman’s side, added, “And he assaulted Kerani.”

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