Eleanor’s left hand rested on her hip and her right sat atop the silver handle of a cane. She looked like a painting come to life, the story of an avenging angel who fell to Earth a thousand years ago, then decided to stick around. Maggie had read every book—every article—every word ever written by (or about) Eleanor Ashley, but all she could think as she stood there was No wonder they call her the Duchess of Death.
