A Dangerous Man. Candace Camp
Читать онлайн книгу.
walked over to the window and stood looking out on the front drive. It was his favorite view, offering a sweeping expanse of the front yard, the drive and the trees beyond, but at the moment, he scarcely saw it. His thoughts were turned inward, to his nephew and the young man’s death six months ago. He had not been close, he supposed, to Edmund; he was not, he admitted, close to any of his relatives—a fault, no doubt Honoria would tell him, of his own nature. But he had been fond of Edmund, and had thought him a man of great talent and promise. Anthony had been saddened by the news of Edmund’s death, and he was certain that the world would be poorer for the music that it had lost.
It had been clear for years that Edmund would not have a long life. He had always been sickly. But to have lost him this way, in a sudden accident, seemed even more wrong. Anthony could not help but wonder if the young man would still have been alive if it had not been for that stubborn woman he had been foolish enough to marry.
At the time, despite his dislike for Eleanor Townsend, now Lady Scarbrough, he had approved of their moving to Italy, thinking that the warm, sunny clime would be better for Edmund’s consumption than the damp winters of England. Nor, he had thought, would it hurt the young man to be farther away from his mother’s frequent complaints and demands.
But ever since Edmund’s death, Anthony had been weighed down by the guilty thought that he had failed his nephew by not trying to persuade him to remain in England. Only Anthony knew how much of his decision not to talk to Sir Edmund about it had been due to his reluctance to go to Sir Edmund’s house, where he might once again run into Lady Eleanor.
Anthony felt the same uneasy sensations that he always did whenever he thought of Lady Eleanor—a volatile blend of annoyance and sharp physical hunger, as well as a fierce stab of anger at his seeming inability to control those emotions. The devil take the woman, he thought. She was impossible in every way, not the least of which was that she was impossible to forget.
It had been a year since he had first seen her, but he could remember every moment of it perfectly….
ANTHONY KNOCKED on the door of Eleanor Townsend’s house and waited, wishing he were somewhere else, anywhere else. He regretted telling his sister he would talk to the woman Sir Edmund intended to marry.
Anthony had not wanted to do as his older sister asked; everything within him rebelled at the idea of messing about in his relatives’ lives. He was a man who preferred to live his own life free of others’ interference, and he liked to return the favor.
But Honoria had pleaded with him, hands clasped dramatically to her heaving bosom. He must save her only son from the clutches of a money-hungry harpy, she had told him. Edmund was so young and inexperienced that he had asked an American adventuress to marry him. Eleanor Townsend, Honoria was convinced, had tricked her son into it. Anthony, she had decided, must call upon the American siren who had ensnared Edmund and convince her not to marry him. An offer of money, in Honoria’s opinion, would speak volumes with the adventuress.
Honoria, who was in fact his half sister, had, of course, reminded him of his duty as the head of the family and especially of his duty regarding her. She had been fourteen years old when his mother had died giving birth to him and had, at least according to Honoria herself, practically raised him. And, she pointed out, he of all people should know the harm that could be done by a beautiful adventuress who lured a rich man into marriage.
Anthony was well aware of his responsibilities to his family; it was a lesson that had been pounded into his head from childhood. However, he was also quite aware that for his sister, the earl’s duties usually coincided with her own wishes. And since he knew that Honoria had married and left the house when he was five years old, and that he had been primarily raised by his old nurse and a succession of governesses until he was old enough to be sent away to Eton, he was generally unmoved by Honoria’s claims to have been “almost a mother” to him.
Ordinarily, he would have turned down her request, disavowing that one of his responsibilities was meddling about in the private life of a grown man of twenty-four years of age.
But Sir Edmund was different. There was a childlike innocence to him that one rarely saw in an aristocratic young gentleman, and he was possessed of a talent that both awed and puzzled Anthony. He suspected that Edmund was a musical genius, but the young man’s experience with the world—and his ability to deal with it—were as small as his talent was large. Anthony, being fonder of the young man than he was of most of his relatives, had hated to see him crushed between his mother and his fiancée.
Besides, Honoria was right about one thing: He did have a wealth of personal experience in the area of the harm wrought by a beautiful, money-hungry woman. His father had married one when Anthony was sixteen, and she had managed to drive a wedge between Anthony and his father that had almost destroyed their relationship.
So, finally, Anthony had agreed to her request, and here he was, standing on Eleanor Townsend’s doorstep. He allowed himself a small, vain hope that no one would answer the door.
At that moment the door swung open, revealing a man who looked like no other servant Anthony had ever seen. He was short and squarely built, the muscles of his chest and arms straining against the cloth of his jacket. One ear was peculiarly misshapen; his nose appeared to have been broken at least once in the past, and there were two or three small scars on his face. He looked, Anthony thought, more like a pugilist or a ruffian than a servant.
“Lord Neale,” Anthony told him, extracting a calling card from his case and extending it to him.
Unlike a proper British footman or butler, the man did not hold out a small silver tray for him to place the card upon but simply took it from Anthony’s hand. He examined it somewhat suspiciously, then nodded to Anthony.
“I’ll tell her you’re here,” the man told him and strode away, leaving Anthony standing in the entry hall.
Anthony watched him leave, astonished. It was the first time he could remember ever being left to wait in the hall when he called upon someone. His title and wealth usually earned him a deferential bow, after which he was escorted to the best drawing room.
Another man might have been offended. Anthony found it rather amusing.
Well, Honoria had warned him that Miss Townsend and her household were decidedly “off.” She was, first of all, an American. Secondly, she was an unmarried woman living in London without any sort of proper chaperone—unless one could count a young Indian amah for the two children who traveled with her, which Honoria clearly did not. Thirdly, as Honoria had found out by setting one of her own servants to spy on the house from across the street, Miss Townsend’s household consisted of a hodgepodge of people from a variety of countries, including not only the two children whose parentage was decidedly unclear—one of them was American and the other apparently French—and the aforementioned Indian girl who cared for the children, but also an African man who wore not the livery of a servant but the suit of a gentleman and who was, according to the gossip Honoria’s spy had heard in a nearby pub, Miss Townsend’s man of business.
Anthony glanced around him as he waited, taking in the spare yet elegant décor. Whatever else could be said about Miss Townsend, her taste was impeccable.
He wondered if the woman was the grasping harpy his older sister had portrayed her as. Honoria was not only given to dramatic excess, she was, in Anthony’s opinion, far too protective and clinging where her son was concerned. Edmund had been frail from childhood, given to coughs and catarrh. More than once the doctor had assured Honoria that her beloved son would not last through the winter.
As a result of this—and her innate personality—Honoria had coddled Edmund all his life, keeping him at home with her until, as a grown man, he had finally insisted on moving to London and living on his own. Even then, Honoria had kept him running to her side for one reason or another, alternating her coddling with pleas for him to help her with this problem or that. She had, Anthony thought, ignored her daughter, Samantha, and her late husband in her obsession with her son—which was, he reasoned, probably a good thing as far as the daughter was concerned.
Honoria would not easily give