Candace Camp (18 page)

“Of course,” Eleanor replied smoothly. She had little desire to dance with the man, but their purpose here tonight was to stir up whatever they could. The count seemed to her a much likelier prospect as the villain of the piece. She had some trouble imagining him actually sneaking into her bedchamber, but she could well believe that he had hired someone to do it…if, of course, she could only come up with a reason for him to have done so.

But first she had a waltz with Anthony penciled in on her dance card. Eleanor pushed aside all thought of their purpose here and gave herself over to the pleasure of dancing with him. He was not the best dancer she had ever taken the floor with, being more methodical and correct than inspired, but no one else’s arms around her had ever made her pulse race or her flesh tingle with pleasure. She looked up into his face as they danced, trying to decide what it was about him that made him so different from other men. In the end, she gave up the effort and simply enjoyed the moment.

All too soon, the dance ended. As they walked off the floor, Conte di Graffeo intercepted them.

“Ah, Lady Scarbrough,” he said, smiling and bowing to her. “I believe that you have promised me a dance.”

“Yes, of course.” Eleanor swallowed her irritation and let the man lead her back onto the dance floor.

The dance was a slow-moving one of intricate pattern, requiring some degree of concentration, but which unfortunately, in Eleanor’s view, kept a couple close enough and moving slowly enough for ample talking.

“I am a great admirer of your late husband,” the count began by saying. “I believe I told you that.”

“Yes. I am so glad that you enjoyed his music,” Eleanor replied politely.

“I regret that I never spoke with Sir Edmund at any length,” he went on.

Eleanor had no idea what to reply to this, so she said nothing. She could scarcely imagine Edmund and this man conversing about anything.

“Of course, I am sure he was interested in many subjects outside the area of music,” di Graffeo continued.

Eleanor glanced at him, wondering what he was talking about. Edmund’s pursuit of his music had been single-minded. “He liked to sail,” she offered.

“Ah, yes. Sailing.” He cast a sideways glance at her, his dark eyes unreadable. “An unfortunate hobby, as it turned out. But young Englishmen seem to have a fondness for the ocean. A national trait, I suppose. Shelley. Lord Byron, I am told, is quite fond of swimming.”

“So I have heard.” Eleanor was quite lost. The count’s words seemed the most bland chitchat, and yet there was an ironic undertone to his voice that lent emphasis to what he said, as if it were particularly meaningful. She could not imagine why he was talking about poetic Englishmen.

“I admire the English,” di Graffeo continued. “So determined in their beliefs. So sure that they know what is right.”

Again Eleanor had the strong feeling that the man’s words expressed the opposite of what he was saying. “I have found, sir, that the same can be said for people of most any nation. My own countrymen, for example, are often regarded as bullheaded. In my experience, Italians are equally passionate in their beliefs, though, of course, they express them quite elegantly.”

He gave a careful smile at Eleanor’s small witticism. “Indeed, Lady Scarbrough, you are right about that. Romans, Neapolitans, Venetians…we are all quite devoted to our beliefs. It is sad to see, however, when such devotion leads one down the wrong path.”

Eleanor looked at him. “Conte, why is it that I think that you are trying to tell me something?”

His eyes remained on hers for a long moment. Then he looked away as they began the steps that took them away from each other down the line of dancers, until they finally circled all the way back around and were once again partners.

The steps now took them in a long promenade, side by side, their hands joined across each other in front. As they walked in a slow, dignified cadence to the music, the count said, “Your husband’s sympathies, Lady Scarbrough, were doubtless heartfelt. That does not mean, however, that they were right. There are many complications, which the young do not always see.”

“His sympathies?” Eleanor asked. She turned to look at her partner and found him watching her, a knowing look in his eyes. “I am an American, sir, and I prefer plain talk. What do you mean, his ‘sympathies’?”

“Come, Lady Scarbrough, surely you do not expect me to believe that you were not aware of what your husband did or thought. With some wives, that is possible. With a woman like you? I think not.”

“I have told you—”

“Lady Scarbrough, I want to help you. Your husband is no longer here. You are no longer in Naples. There is no reason for you to—” he gave a slight shrug “—to follow in Sir Edmund’s path. You should think about your own future, your own well-being. I beg you, do not make the mistake of clinging to a dead man’s preferences.”

Eleanor swung her head around to stare at him, shocked. “Are you threatening me?”

At that moment the music ended, and the count stopped, dropping her hands. He bowed to her formally. “My lady, thank you for the dance.”

The count walked off, leaving Eleanor standing on the dance floor, staring after him in amazement.

S
HE TURNED
to see Anthony striding toward her, frowning.

“What happened?” he asked, coming up beside her. “What did he say to you?”

He glanced toward Conte di Graffeo, walking away from them.

“I’m not entirely sure. It was most peculiar.”

“You looked upset.” Anthony took her arm and led her away from the dance floor to a secluded spot between the wall and a potted palm. “Tell me what happened.”

“He kept making vague statements, things that sounded like small talk—a trifle odd, perhaps, but still only the sorts of things strangers might converse about. Lord Byron and Englishmen’s fondness for the sea.”

“What?” Anthony’s brow quirked. “He talked to you about Lord Byron?”

“Yes. I told you, it was odd. But he said everything with a certain undertone. You would have had to hear it to understand. It was a trifle sardonic and…knowing, as if he was talking about something else and thought that I knew what he was talking about.”

“There must have been more.”

Eleanor nodded. “He mentioned Edmund several times, and then, toward the end of the dance, he told me that Edmund’s ‘sympathies’ were wrong, and that I should not make the mistake of following Edmund’s ‘path.’ I think he was threatening me. He told me I should think of my future and my well-being.”

Anthony stiffened, his eyes suddenly hard as flint. “He threatened you?”

He turned, searching the room for Conte di Graffeo. Eleanor quickly tucked her hand into his arm. The muscle beneath her hand was taut, and she pressed her fingers into it, holding on to him.

“No, do not go over there and confront him,” she said in a low, urgent voice.

He glanced at her. “I will not stand by and allow him to threaten you. You cannot expect me to.”

“I
expect
you not to make a scene here at the consul’s ball,” Eleanor countered. “We came here tonight to try to stir something up. You cannot get into a fight just because we did.”

The muscle in his jaw tightened, and he cast another look at the count’s back, where he stood talking to a group of people.

“Please,” Eleanor went on, moving closer to Anthony. “A fight with him will accomplish nothing, other than insulting the consul. We need to figure out what is going on and why someone keeps trying to steal something from me. Engaging in a duel will not help.”

He relaxed, casting a small smile in her direction. “I was not actually planning on engaging in a duel.”

“Then you don’t know Italian men,” Eleanor retorted acidly. “If you go over there and start dressing him down for what he said to me, his honor will be bruised, and the next thing you know, he will be talking about seconds. It will be a great scene and not at all helpful. What we need to do is figure out what he was talking about.”

Anthony turned back to her. “Very well. What
was
he talking about?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “But when Dario saw him at the opera the other day, he—” She stopped abruptly and glanced around. “Do you know, I have not seen Dario here tonight?”

Anthony glanced around in a disinterested way. “Nor have I.”

“Doesn’t that seem peculiar? That he was not invited or did not accept the invitation to his own consul’s party?” She paused, looking thoughtful. “He seemed to distinctly dislike the count.”

Anthony shrugged. “No doubt that is why he is not here.”

Eleanor nodded. “But his absence indicates a great deal of dislike, I think. Which only increases the impression I received that night at the opera. Dario was very stiff when the Colton-Smythes brought Conte di Graffeo to my box to introduce him to me. The two of them barely spoke to each other. After they left, he told me not to let the count worry me. He said that di Graffeo was despicable.”

“Strong words,” Anthony commented. “What did he mean about not letting him ‘worry’ you?”

“I’m not sure. I suppose he simply noticed the fact that the count…bothered me. Di Graffeo was speaking as he did tonight, in that oblique way, as if he was talking on more than one level.”

“Why does Paradella dislike the chap?”

“I did not ask him, but I assumed it was because they were on opposite sides of a political issue in Naples. Di Graffeo is a well-known supporter of the king and his government, and Dario, I think, is one of those who supported the
Carbonari
movement.”

“
Carbonari?
What is that?”

“Well, literally it means charcoal makers or coalmen. But it is the name given to a liberal, even revolutionary, movement in Italy. I am not sure exactly why they chose that name—I think to identify with the common man, the workers, even though I think most of the followers are members of the educated classes. They advocate political freedom, as well as unifying the various small Italian states into a single country. It started in Naples. I’m not sure how much you know about Naples.”

Anthony shrugged. “I know that it is a kingdom, that it is ruled by King Ferdinand, who is married to one of the princesses of the Austrian Empire. And that Napoleon conquered it and put one of his followers in power.”

Eleanor nodded. “Murat. He was married to Napoleon’s sister. But, little as the people of Naples liked being ruled by a foreigner, Murat did institute some reforms in the government, and he had his followers.”

“But after Napoleon was defeated, Naples was given back to King Ferdinand, correct?”

“Yes. But there was a great deal of ill will against the king. There was a strong movement in favor of a constitutional monarchy. It was this cause that the
Carbonari
favored, and only two years ago there was an uprising, led by the
Carbonari,
and they forced King Ferdinand to accept a constitution. However, the Austrians then sent in troops, and they routed the revolutionaries and reinstated absolute rule.”

“What happened to the
Carbonari
after the defeat?”

“They were crushed. Their leaders were largely thrown into prison. As far as I know, that was the end of them.”

“Do you think that Dario was a
Carbonari?
”

“I’m not sure. He could have been. It was a secret society. But it was favored by young men such as Dario—students, intellectuals, the more liberal element of Neapolitan society. I don’t know that he or anyone is still active in the movement. But certainly Conte di Graffeo would have been opposed to the
Carbonari.
”

Anthony frowned thoughtfully. “Was Edmund involved in it? Is that what the count meant by his ‘sympathies’?”

Eleanor sighed. “I’m not sure. He did sympathize with their ideals, I know. I often heard him and his friends talking about political freedom and the rights of the people. He hated oppression in any form. But, on the other hand, I never knew Edmund to be particularly political. His main interest was his music, as you know.”

Anthony nodded.

“But if he was involved, why would he never have said anything to me about it?” Eleanor went on, frowning.

“It was, as you said, a secret society. Perhaps he did not want to involve you in it.” Anthony cast her a wry look. “No doubt you will consider it absurd, but husbands often try to protect their wives.”

Eleanor sent him a flashing glance. “I cannot believe that Edmund would get involved in something dangerous!”

“No?” He regarded her skeptically. “Why? Because he had been sickly all his life?”

“Yes. He had struggled so with his health.”

“Perhaps when one has been facing death for so many years, it does not seem so fearsome,” Anthony said quietly. “You know how he hated his ill health.”

Eleanor sighed. “He regarded it as a weakness.”

“As did others,” Anthony pointed out. “He knew that, and he despised that fact.”

Eleanor looked at him. “You think he would have gotten involved in something dangerous just to prove that he was not weak?”

“Not only for that,” Anthony said. “He would have had to believe in it strongly. But I do not think he would have allowed himself to hold back from it just because it might prove dangerous.”

Eleanor half turned away from him, gazing out at the dancers. She was silent for a long moment, then said quietly, “Lord Byron favors the movement against absolutism. He is a proponent of nationalism and freedom.”

“Was he involved with the
Carbonari?
”

“I don’t know. But he is not reluctant about expressing his belief in their ideals.”

“Do you think that is why the count referred to him?”

“Again, I have no idea. But it does make some sense. If the count thought I knew about Edmund’s involvement in the movement, then I would have understood what he was hinting at, I suppose.”

“But why is di Graffeo threatening you? It seems as though he, or some underling, is the one who stole your locket and ransacked your room. But why? What is he seeking?”

“I don’t know. But I fear he is mistaken. He apparently believes I was much more in Edmund’s confidence than I was. He may believe that Edmund entrusted something to me. I don’t know how he would know about that key, but if he does, he might believe that the secret compartment it opens contained something important rather than just some music.”

“But what could that be?”

Eleanor shook her head. “I am woefully ignorant. Obviously, if Edmund was involved in any of this, he did not confide in me.” Eleanor could not keep a note of bitterness from her voice.

Anthony hesitated, then said, “Eleanor…I am sure that if Edmund hid something from you, it was only to protect you. He would not have wanted you placed in harm’s way. It is perfectly understandable. When a man loves someone, he wants to keep her safe.”

She cast him an ironic look. “Ignorance is not the same as safety. Don’t you think I would have been safer if I had known what he was doing? I could have been prepared for the things that have happened.”

“Love blinds a person to what is wise, I find.”

Eleanor smiled at him. Obviously Anthony understood how learning of Edmund’s apparent secrecy had hurt her. “Thank you,” she told him softly.

He smiled back at her, and Eleanor felt a little flutter in her chest. She wished, briefly, that she could ignore the things that had happened and just enjoy being at a dance with Anthony, that she could smile and tease and cast flirtatious glances over the top of her fan. It would be so nice to have nothing on her mind other than anticipation of how it would feel the next time he swept her out onto the floor in a waltz.

He bent a little closer to her, his eyes darkening, almost as if he had read her thoughts. Eleanor wondered if they were so plain on her face, if he had only to look at her to know how much he affected her. She wished she had as much knowledge of him. She would have liked very much to know whether at this moment he was thinking of kissing her as much as she was thinking of kissing him.

She turned aside a little, a flush rising in her cheeks. “I should talk to Dario,” she said, seizing on the first thing that came to her mind. “Perhaps he can tell us what Edmund was doing in Naples.”

Anthony grimaced. “I’m not sure you can trust the man.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “You are entirely unreasonable about Dario.”

That, Anthony knew, was true. He disliked the fellow, but he had some difficulty telling whether the feeling came from an instinctive recognition of something wrong or just from the prick of jealousy. The man was altogether too free and easy around Eleanor. She might think he hung about her only because he had been good friends with Edmund, but Anthony had seen the way the man looked at her. Paradella was not interested in a merely platonic relationship.

“I want to go with you when you talk to him,” he told her, regretting as soon as he spoke the demanding tone of his voice. Nothing was more likely to make Eleanor contrary than acting as if she should obey him.

But, to his relief, she did no more than nod.

“Lady Scarbrough!” a high-pitched woman’s voice called from behind them. “There you are! I knew you would come. Mr. Colton-Smythe tried to tell me that I was wrong, but I felt sure that you would wish to join us all in honoring the count tonight.”

Suppressing a sigh, Eleanor turned to greet Mrs. Colton-Smythe. “How do you do? Mrs. Colton-Smythe. Mr. Colton-Smythe. Have you met Lord Neale?”

If she hoped to divert the woman’s attention onto Lord Neale, she was doomed to disappointment. While Mrs. Colton-Smythe did flutter and smirk a bit over meeting an earl, she was distracted for only a moment before returning her attention to Eleanor.

“Lady Scarbrough, I beg you will allow me to introduce a friend of ours from Naples.” She turned and pulled a petite dark-haired woman forward. “Signora Malducci has come from Naples to visit us. Isn’t that wonderful? I told her that she should have come earlier, so we could have traveled together.”

Eleanor smiled at the woman beside Mrs. Colton-Smythe. “How do you do, Signora? I hope you are enjoying your visit to England.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, Lady Scarbrough,” Mrs. Malducci answered in heavily-accented English. “I want very much to see you. When Mrs. Colton-Smythe tell me she know you, I told her, I must talk to you.”