Contents

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      Coming Next Month

      PROLOGUE

      THE FUNERAL PYRE WAS arranged on the beach, a simple bier of wooden planks resting on two branches at either end, crossed and nailed into disproportionate X-shapes. Below the bier, the wood was stacked—a jumble of hewn logs, branches and smaller pieces of driftwood gathered from the beach itself, all soaked with kerosene to make them burn fast and hot. On the two wide planks rested a still figure, wrapped round with a sheet, the shape of a man but faceless, and all the more stark and lonely for that.

      The widow stood at some distance, tall and statuesque, imposing in her severe black mourning. It was as close as they would let her stand. The authorities had tried to dissuade her, even sending a priest to counsel reason. It was too upsetting for delicate feminine sensibilities, they explained, too harsh a thing for her to witness.

      “Rather more harsh for my husband, I imagine,” Eleanor, Lady Scarbrough, had answered in the flat way that would have warned anyone familiar with her that the lady’s mind was made up. “I will see him through to the end.”

      The Italian authorities had had no experience with her, but eventually they, too, learned that Eleanor Townsend Scarbrough rarely lost an argument, and finally they had had to accede to her wishes—though they had not budged on the place where she must stand, finally dropping their delicate phrasings in exasperation and pointing out bluntly that the smell would be overpowering any closer up.

      So she now stood on a hillock, still and straight, gazing across the sand to where Sir Edmund Scarbrough’s body lay in its final resting place. The wind molded the long black mantle to her body and whipped her veil, and she shivered, thinking bitterly that it should not be so cold on the sunny coast of the Kingdom of Naples.

      The short, rotund man beside her glanced at Eleanor uneasily. In less somber circumstances, they would have looked comical side-by-side, she so tall and straight, he so round and short, especially given his ineffective efforts to play the role of male protector. He touched her arm, then dropped his hand, which hovered at her back, not quite daring to place it upon her unyielding form. Finally he glanced at her and then at the scene playing out below them, and his features contracted in dismay. He quickly glanced away.

      “I do not think…you must be cold…Please, Lady Scarbrough…”

      Eleanor spared him a brief glance. “It is all right, Signore Castellati, you need not stay. I will be perfectly fine.”

      The man’s round face reflected his horror. “No, no, no.” He burst into impassioned Italian, too fast for Eleanor to follow entirely, but she understood enough to get the gist of his speech, which was that the opera impresario had no thought for himself but only for the lady’s discomfort and distress. He ended with a quick glance at the pile of wood, putting the lie to his own words.

      “Thank you, Signore,” Eleanor said sincerely, reaching out and patting the short man’s arm. However silly the man might seem, he was standing fast in his determination to see her through this moment, despite his obvious dislike, even fear, and that, she thought, was very brave of him. “You have helped me a great deal.”

      It was true. Castellati had been at her side throughout the last few days, ever since Sir Edmund had not returned from his afternoon of boating. While it was true that Castellati had a vested interest in Edmund’s welfare, as he was in the midst of producing Edmund’s opera, and while at times Eleanor had wished him elsewhere, he had been helpful in dealing with the Italian authorities.

      Of course, Dario Paradella, Sir Edmund’s closest friend in Naples, had been by her side, as well, but he, caught up in his own grief, had been of little help. In any case, Dario, she well knew, was not on the best of terms with the Neapolitan government, as he had some rather liberal leanings that did not sit well with them.

      “Ah, ma donna bella…” Dario, standing on the other side of Eleanor, turned toward her and took her hand, squeezing it tightly. “It is so sad…so sad…such a genius.”

      “Yes.”

      They lit the funeral pyre then, the flames licking to life along the kerosene-soaked logs, dancing and setting the smaller pieces of driftwood alight. The men who had set it afire moved back hastily, several of them crossing themselves.

      It was a macabre scene—the lifeless, covered form, the flames crawling up the wood toward it. A shudder ran through Eleanor’s body.

      How had it come to this? Edmund should not have died so soon. Guilt and regret welled up in her. Had she been wrong to bring him here?

      She had been so certain that she could help him. Improve his life, his health. She could see now what utter gall it had been on her part, what false pride she had indulged in, to think she could cheat death of its intended victim.

      She had brought Edmund to Naples for his health, hoping that the warm Italian climate would prove salubrious. There was no cure, of course, for consumption, but the doctors had agreed that the damp English weather could only make him worse. But here, she had thought, where Edmund would have warmth, gentle ocean breezes, freedom from the demands of his persistent family and all the time in the world to create his music, in the country where opera was most revered, he would thrive.

      Instead, he had died.

      The pyre was burning fiercely now, the long form atop the bier engulfed in flames. Despite the distance, the odor of burning flesh was unmistakable. Beside her, Signor Castellati raised one gloved hand to his face, pressing a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, and turned his head away from the sight. Even Dario lowered his gaze.

      But Eleanor would not let herself look away. She would not excuse herself from this last duty. It was all she could do for her husband now.

      She would watch the fire consume his earthly remains, and she would take his ashes from the fire. And then, once his work was brought to completion, his opera performed in Naples, she would take his ashes home to England.

      CHAPTER ONE

      ANTHONY, LORD NEALE, sliced through the seal on the note that the footman had just handed him and read through it quickly. He sighed. His older sister, Honoria, was informing him that she planned to visit him that afternoon. Knowing Honoria, he suspected that her carriage would arrive not long after the messenger.

      He was aware of a cowardly impulse to send a note to the stables to saddle his horse and pretend that he had not been there to receive Honoria’s message. But he knew, with a sigh, that he could not. It had been only six months since Sir Edmund’s death. Annoying as his sister could be, he could not bring himself to be rude to a grieving mother.

      Tossing the letter onto his desk, he rang for the footman and sent a message to the kitchen, informing the butler that his sister