The Ideal Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  She couldn’t have managed their recent scene better if she’d tried.

  18

  What did Devil have to say about Camden’s will?” Caro swiveled on the carriage seat so she could see Michael’s face.

  He glanced at her, smiled faintly. “The house was left to you outright, in your name, and doesn’t revert to Camden’s estate or anyone else on your death—it would go to your heirs.”

  She sat back. “My heirs…that’s Geoffrey, Augusta, and Angela, who definitely aren’t trying to kill me. So there’s no reason buried in Camden’s will for anyone to want me dead.”

  “Not directly, no. However, there were an unusual number of bequests to unrelated individuals. Devil asked if you’d mind if he had two of his cousins quietly look over the legatees.”

  She frowned. “Which cousins? And why?”

  “Gabriel and Lucifer.”

  “Who?”

  Michael had to stop and think. “Rupert and Alasdair Cynster.”

  Caro cast her eyes heavenward. “Such nicknames.”

  “Appropriate, or so I’ve been told.”

  “Indeed? And how are these two supposed to help us?”

  “Gabriel is the Cynsters’ investment expert—no one within the ton has better contacts in finance, business, and banking. Lucifer’s interest is antiques, principally silver and jewelry, but his knowledge and expertise are wide.”

  After a moment, she inclined her head. “I can see that in this case such talents might be useful.”

  Michael considered her expression. “I didn’t think you’d mind, so I agreed on your behalf. Given Gabriel’s and Lucifer’s backgrounds, discretion is assured.” He caught her gaze. “Are you comfortable with that?”

  Caro studied his eyes—and thought it more a question of whether such an investigation made him more comfortable. She’d accepted that someone—to her mind some nebulous person she’d never met—wanted her dead, presumably so she couldn’t relate something they thought she knew; she couldn’t see the house or any piece it contained as a likely reason for murder.

  He, however, had without hesitation volunteered to brave the terrors of Bond Street. What had prompted his request that she didn’t leave his grandfather’s house without him wasn’t hard to guess. Never before had anyone so concertedly focused on her safety; she couldn’t help but be touched and grateful, even though to her mind pursuing the bequests would prove wide of the mark.

  Smiling, she settled back against the seat. “If they wish to investigate discreetly, I can see no harm in that.”

  That evening, she walked into Harriet Jennet’s salon on Michael’s arm. They hadn’t been invited, yet as a family member, Michael had permanent entree there; as a celebrated diplomatic hostess, Caro could claim the same.

  She’d expected to detect at least mild surprise behind Harriet’s eyes; instead, Harriet greeted her with her usual hostessly aplomb touched, if anything, by faintly amused understanding. Seeing Caro arrive on her nephew’s arm had been precisely what she’d been expecting.

  “Did you send word?” Caro pinched Michael’s arm as, leaving Harriet, they moved into the salon in which the crème de la crème of political society mingled.

  He glanced at her. “Not I.”

  She humphed. “Magnus, then. I was so looking forward to seeing Harriet blink. I don’t think anyone has managed that in years.”

  They spent a pleasant evening circulating among the political elite, a milieu in which they both blended with ease. Her appearance with Michael undoubtedly raised questions, but among that crowd, no one would leap to any conclusions; they were who they were because they knew better than to make unwarranted assumptions.

  At twelve, they returned to Upper Grosvenor Street, content to have so easily established their presence in London among the political crowd. Diplomatic circles were more varied; climbing the stairs by Michael’s side, Caro mulled over the most efficient way forward there.

  Later, as was fast becoming habit, Michael joined her in her room, and in her bed. She found his continuing desire, his continuing hunger for her glorious and enthralling, yet amazing, too; she couldn’t bring herself even to consider, let alone believe, that it would last.

  So she enjoyed it while she could, took all he offered and returned it fullfold. The liaison remained a source of wonder; it had happened so fast—her initial, unexpected trust in giving herself to him, and all that had followed so easily, so naturally from that. She still hadn’t come to grips with it, with what it meant, what she felt and why…it seemed as if she were another person, some other woman, when in his arms.

  The following morning, Honoria took her up in her carriage and they went to call on Lady Osbaldestone at her daughter’s house in Chelsea.

  The house was old, its terrace overlooking the river. The assembled ladies of the haut ton—all matrons or widows—sat in the sunshine, sipped tea, and spoke of their world.

  It was, she had to admit, another perfect venue in which to advertise her return to the capital. Over wafer-thin sandwiches and biscuits, she informed the many who asked that she was presently residing with the Anstruther-Wetherbys in Upper Grosvenor Street.

  The only difficult moment occurred, predictably, when Therese Osbaldestone cornered her.

  “Honoria tells me you’re staying with that old fool, Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby.” Therese fixed her with a interrogatory look. “Now why is that?”

  No one else would dare ask such a question in such an outrageous way. Then again, no one else would refer to Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby as “that old fool.” Caro gestured airily. “I was in Hampshire with my brother and had to come up to town—some matters to do with Camden’s estate. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby is our neighbor—as he was coming to town on business, he accompanied me.” Caro prayed her expression was as innocent as it needed to be. “As I haven’t opened up the Half Moon Street house, and Angela is still in the country, Michael suggested I stay in Upper Grosvenor Street.”

  For a long moment, Therese Osbaldestone studied her, then both her brows rose. “Indeed? So there was nothing particular behind your appearing at Harriet’s last evening on Michael’s arm?”

  Caro shrugged. “We were both interested in attending.”

  One of Therese’s brows quirked higher. “I see.”

  Caro greatly feared she might.

  However, after another pregnant pause, she merely said, “Camden’s estate? I would have thought such matters had been resolved long ago.”

  “There was a question over the individual bequests.” Caro wasn’t keen to invite further discussion; her tone made that clear.

  Therese seemed to accept it; mildly, she said, “I was glad to see you about this last Season, glad you’re not about to hide yourself away. To my mind”—her black eyes trapped Caro’s—“you have no excuse not to use your talents and experience where they will do most good.”

  Safety assuredly lay in silence; Caro kept mum.

  Therese’s lips twitched. “Now tell me, who of the diplomatic crowd was gallivanting in Hampshire?”

  Caro told her, mentioning her Midsummer Revels and the fading contretemps between the Prussians and the Russians. In her time, Therese Osbaldestone had been a premier hostess in diplomatic circles; her husband had been variously a Minister, an ambassador, and an elder statesman. He’d died over a decade ago, but Therese remained closely linked with diplomatic and political circles, as influential there as she was in the ton at large.

  She had a soft spot for Caro, and Caro had one for her. They had always understood each other, understood the challenges of diplomatic life as those outside it could not. “And the Portuguese were there, too—just part of the legation. The ambassador is at Brighton, I believe.”

  Therese nodded. “I know him only vaguely, but you must know that whole crew well.” She snorted reminiscently. “The Portuguese were forever Camden’s specialty, even before he took up his post there.”

  “Oh?” Caro pricked up her ears. Therese
was a contemporary of Camden’s.

  “I don’t suppose you would have been told, but Camden was hand in glove with a veritable rabble of courtiers there. I always suspected they made him ambassador to force him to acquire some restraint in that regard—before he could get himself involved in anything regrettable.”

  “Regrettable?” Caro gave her a look of unfeigned interest.

  Therese shook her head. “I never knew any details—it was one of those things, an understanding running beneath a decision that one grasped without explanation or proof.”

  Caro nodded; she understood what Therese meant. But Therese’s recollection was the first intimation they’d stumbled on that there could indeed be something in Camden’s past, in his papers, that some Portuguese might kill to suppress.

  A chill touched her; she shivered.

  “The breeze is rising—come inside.”

  Therese led the way. Caro followed. There was no point questioning Therese further; if she knew anything more, she would have said.

  After returning to Upper Grosvenor Street and taking luncheon with Magnus and Evelyn—Michael was still out doing the rounds of the political and diplomatic clubs—Caro retired to the upstairs parlor and settled to her task of plodding through Camden’s diaries.

  Therese’s words had given her renewed purpose, making the likelihood of some entry buried in the accummulated papers being the reason behind the attempts on her life much more real. Her slow progress through the closely written diaries became increasingly frustrating.

  Adding to that was a welling sense that the entire business of the attacks on her was merely a distraction, an irritating circumstance deflecting her from more important matters—such as what was happening between herself and Michael. Such as what she’d sensed and felt during her visit with Honoria, whether she should pursue the idea that had struck her with such force while holding Louisa.

  All those things—ideas, concepts, and feelings—were new to her. She wanted to explore them, to think through them and understand, but solving the mystery of who was trying to kill her logically took priority.

  Setting a diary on the pile beside her chair, she sighed; she looked at the row of boxes stacked along the wall. She’d finished two.

  She needed help. Dare she summon Edward to town? He would come immediately; she could trust him to read Camden’s letters.

  But Elizabeth would follow, of that she had no doubt, and that she would not allow.

  Grimacing, she estimated how long it would take her to get through all the boxes. The answer was a depressing number of weeks. Again, she racked her brain for someone who could help, someone she could trust to go through Camden’s personal writings. There didn’t seem to be anyone…

  “Yes, there is!” She sat up, enthused by the possibility that had popped into her mind. She examined it, developed it. Not the diaries—they contained highly personal comments and notes—but the letters…she could entrust those to him.

  “Knowing him, he’s probably in town….”

  She hesitated, then, chin firming, rose and tugged the bellpull.

  “Good afternoon. Is Viscount Breckenridge in?”

  The butler—she’d never met him before and didn’t know his name—blinked at her. Hesitated. “Ma’am?”

  Caro handed over the card she had ready in her hand and walked in; the butler gave ground. “Take that to him immediately—he’ll see me.”

  Glancing around, she spied the drawing room through an open door. “I’ll wait in the drawing room, but before you take my card up, please tell my footmen where they may store these boxes.”

  “Boxes?” The butler whirled to face the front door; he goggled at the two footmen standing on the threshold, sturdy boxes in their arms.

  “The boxes are for Breckenridge—he’ll understand once he’s seen me.” Caro waved the men in. “There are quite a few of them—if he has a study or a library, that might be the best place.”

  The butler blinked, then drew himself up, and conceded. “His lordship’s study is this way.”

  He went to show the footmen; smiling, Caro strolled into the drawing room. She looked around, then, pulling off her gloves, settled in a wing chair and waited for Timothy to join her.

  Five minutes later, the door opened and Timothy Danvers, Viscount Breckenridge, strode in. “Caro? What’s happened?”

  He paused, taking in her wide-eyed perusal of his thoroughly disarranged locks and the flamboyant silk dressing robe he’d transparently shrugged over hastily donned breeches.

  Caro fought to keep her lips straight as she raised them to his narrowing hazel eyes. “Oh, dear—I seem to have called at an inopportune moment.”

  His lips set, she was quite sure over a curse. Turning, he shut the door on his interested butler, then faced her. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  She smiled, intending to calm him yet not quite able to keep the twinkle from her eye. He was thirty-one, three years older than she, and an extraordinarily handsome man, tall, broad shouldered, powerful but lean, with a face like a Greek god and grace to match; she’d heard him described as excessively dangerous to any female under the age of seventy. He wasn’t, however, dangerous to her. “I have a favor to ask, if you will.”

  He frowned. “What favor?” He stalked forward, then abruptly halted and held up a hand. “First, tell me you arrived cloaked and heavily veiled, and had the sense to use an unmarked carriage.”

  Again, she had to battle to keep a straight face. “No cloak or veil, but I did bring two footmen. They were necessary to carry in the boxes.”

  “What boxes?”

  “Camden’s letters.” She sat back, watching him study her. Then he shook his head as if shaking off a distraction.

  “Your carriage?”

  “It’s not mine—it’s Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby’s—but it is unmarked.”

  “Where is it?”

  She raised her brows, surprised. “Waiting in the street, of course.”

  Timothy stared at her as if she’d grown two heads, then he cursed and strode to the bellpull. When his butler appeared, he rapped out, “Send Mrs. Sutcliffe’s carriage to await her in the mews.”

  The instant the butler had departed, Timothy looked at her straitly. “It’s a damn good thing you never attempted to play Camden false.”

  Haughtily she raised her brows; she was tempted to ask him how he knew she hadn’t.

  He dropped into the other armchair and fixed her with a steady gaze. “Now cut line. Why have you brought Camden’s letters here?”

  She told him; his face grew grimmer with every succeeding sentence.

  “There must be someone I can wring information from…”

  She didn’t like the look in his eyes, the set of his jaw. “No—you can’t.” The unequivocal statement brought his gaze to her face; she caught it, held it. “I, or Michael, or one of the Anstruther-Wetherbys or Therese Osbaldestone might, but not you. You have no business in and no connection with diplomatic circles. If you stalked in there, everyone would be instantly suspicious.”

  She gave him a moment to digest that, then said, “I came to ask for your help, but I need from you something only you can give.” She waited a heartbeat, then went on, “Camden’s papers. The answer has to be in there somewhere, but I can’t—won’t—trust anyone else with them. You more than anyone else know why.”

  Again, she paused, then, holding his gaze, continued, “I’ll read the diaries—they’re full of references only I, or maybe Edward or one of Camden’s previous aides, would understand. His letters are different—more specific, more formal, more clear. You are the only other person I would trust to read them. If you want to help, then read.”

  He was very definitely a man of action, yet he was also, she knew, highly educated and intelligent. After a moment, he sighed, less than happy, but resigned. “We’re looking for reference to some politically illicit affair with the Portuguese—is that correct?”

  “Yes. And from what Th
erese Osbaldestone said, it’s likely to be early in his tenure as ambassador, or possibly just before.”

  He nodded. “I’ll start straightaway.” His gaze drifted upward.

  She grimaced. “I’m sorry—I didn’t think. I’ve interrupted—”

  “No. That’s not important. You and this are.” He grimaced. “And I could do without you thinking about what you interrupted.” His lips thinned; he fixed her with a severe glance. “I have one condition.”

  She raised her brows. “What?”

  “That under no circumstances will you call here again. If you want to see me, send word—I’ll come to you.”

  She pulled a face. “Nonsense!” She rose, started to tug on her gloves. “I’m the Merry Widow, remember? The entire ton knows I don’t seduce that easily.”

  She looked down at him. For a moment, he remained lounging in the armchair, looking at her, then he came to his feet.

  Rapidly, in a movement so redolent with male power it—to her considerable surprise—had her breath tangling in her throat.

  He ended standing very close, looking down into her eyes. His lips curved in a flagrantly predatory line. “The entire ton knows,” he purred, his voice seductively low, “that I don’t give up that easily.”

  She remained, gaze locked with his, for a heartbeat, then she patted his arm. “I daresay. That, however, has nothing to do with me.”

  Turning to the door, she heard him curse beneath his breath. She smiled. “You may now see me to my carriage.”

  He muttered something unintelligible, but followed and opened the door for her. When she turned toward the front door, he caught her arm and swung her in the opposite direction. “If you insist on visiting one of the ton’s foremost rakes, you need to learn the correct procedure. Your carriage waits in the mews so no one will see you depart, or know when you do.”

  She raised her brows, once more battling her smile. “I see.”

  He led her along a corridor, then through the morning room onto a terrace and from there down the garden path to a gate set in the high stone wall at the rear of his property. Opening it, he glanced out, then drew her out and handed her straight into her carriage, waiting with its door aligned with the gate.