Page 50 of The Enslaved Duet

I wanted to live out my days amid the books and die curled up in the deep-seated leather chairs in front of the hearth.

“You are taken with it,” Noel said with a smile like a proud father. “I knew you would be.”

“There are not enough words in English or Italian to say how very much I love it,” I told him honestly as I ran my fingers over a large globe set in a wooden stand. My index finger trailed unerringly to the small spot on the map that read “Naples.”

“You might be wondering why Alexander barricaded you.” It wasn’t a question, but I could feel the lure flashing in the light spilling through the warped glass windows.

He wanted to go fishing, and I was the prized trout he meant to catch.

“To be quite honest, Duke, I’ve come to realize wondering why Master Alexander does anything is a fruitless endeavour.”

He chuckled and clasped his hands behind his back, cutting the perfect image of a well-bred English gentleman in his expensive suit.

“Be that as it may, let me pierce the shrouded veil for a moment.”

I trailed him across the long length of the library to the chairs clustered around the fireplace and followed his gaze up to an oil painting that hung above it.

The woman depicted there was one of the most beautiful I had ever seen, but that wasn’t what took my breath away.

No, it was the startlingly clear fact that she was Italian.

It was in her warm olive complexion, though her skin was fair from spending some time in England, and the almond set of her dark lashed eyes. She had the thick, black hair and brows of a Sicilian woman and the body too, high, pointed breasts and wide hips after a neatly tucked waist.

“My wife,” Noel explained, his voice carefully devoid of all feeling. “Chiara passed away nine years ago. I believe I overheard Mr. O’Shea explain so in the kitchens when we first met.”

I nodded, my voice trapped deep within my throat. There was a wealth of condolences and questions I wanted to gift him, but I didn’t think they would be well received.

“I want to tell you a bit of the story myself, so you can better understand what you are doing here at Pearl Hall.”

My mouth opened in shock, and my hand flew to cover it.

Noel was offering me answers to some of the many questions that had haunted me since my arrival, and I didn’t want to say or do anything that might retract his generosity.

“Sit please,” he told me, and then waited until I sank into one of the mahogany chairs before he too took one. I watched as he settled in, crossing one leg over the other and steepling his fingers as he prepared to tell his story.

“I met Chiara when I was doing my modern pilgrimage of the Grand Tour. She was this gorgeous thing I spotted leading a tour in the Roman Colosseum and being the young, arrogant lord I was, I marched right up to her and demanded she allow me to buy her a gelato.” He smiled at the memory. “It was love from that first day.”

My romantic heart sighed in my chest. I curled up my feet onto the seat and sank further into the soft cushions.

“When it was time to go home, I took her with me. She had no family back in Italy, and I was more than happy to provide for her as my wife. Over the years, she became one of the crown jewels of British society even if it took a while for her to smooth over her Latin edges.” He smiled at me encouragingly, so I gave him a small laugh even though I quite liked my Latin edges.

“She had a… a friend, though, who was determined to visit over the years. I thought nothing of it at first, and this man, Amedeo, became like a brother to me, like an uncle to my children.” I frowned at his use of the plural, and his lips thinned in response. “Yes, Cosima, I will get to it.”

“You see, I trusted this man to care for my family. I thought nothing of it when my wife began to increase her visits back to Amedeo’s home in Italy, but then my youngest son, Edward, began to follow her. They would spend long stretches of time there and return sullen, broken in spirit. I began to get worried, but they wouldn’t tell me anything. Chiara and I had rather a row about it before her last trip there because I told her she was forbidden to go.

“Two days after she left with Edward, who was a strong, beautiful lad, four years younger than Alexander, Edward called home. It was Alexander who picked up, and it was Alexander who was first told his mother had been killed.”

I gasped. “Killed? I thought she had an accident?”

He waved the words away. “That fabrication only came later. At first, Edward himself acknowledged that she has been killed, that he had heard her scream, and then a moment later, the sound of her death against the ground. The police got involved, but nothing was found. If someone pushed her, it had to have been someone in the house.”

I blinked at him, imagining the scene, destroyed by the obvious truth. “You think it was Amedeo?”

“I know it was Amedeo,” Noel confirmed. “But that is not all. You see, Edward never came home after that. He stayed in Italy with the murderer and pledged to the police that Amedeo had not pushed Chiara over the ledge. I begged him to come home, to speak to us and explain, at the very least, to attend the funeral, but he didn’t, and he hasn’t returned since.” He turned from looking at the cold stone hearth into my eyes, and his were dark as empty coffins. “That is why we do not speak of the death of Duchess Greythorn and why the name of Edward Davenport has been scrubbed from our minds.”

“But how? I mean, why in the world would Edward stand up for his uncle when it’s so obvious he committed the crime?” I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it. “You must be missing some details of the story.”

“I am missing nothing, but Amedeo’s confirmation of his crime. Since then, I’ve done research into the man with the help of some very powerful friends, and I’ve learned that he is a member of theCamorra.”