The Ideal Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  He was about to step back and shut the carriage door when she leaned forward and said, “Incidentally, I do like the peacocks.”

  He blinked, then glanced down at his robe. Swore softly. He looked up at her, eyes blazing. “Next time,” he bit out, “send word!”

  The carriage door shut with an ominous click, the gate with a definite thud. Sinking back on the cushions, she gave way to her laughter as the carriage rocked and rumbled away.

  She and Michael had a soirée to attend that evening—a small affair at the Corsican consulate at which the Italian and Spanish legations would be present.

  “Do you think the Spaniards might know something?” she asked as the carriage rattled over the cobbles. “Could it be some incident during the wars?”

  Michael shrugged. “Impossible to say. All we can do is keep our ears open. If someone is so desperate to bury irretrievably whatever this secret is, then there must be some reason they’ve been prodded into action now, so long after the event.”

  She nodded. “True. We might hear a clue from an unexpected source.”

  His hand wrapped about hers on the seat between them, Michael felt his attention literally divided—as if he were a swordsman simultaneously defending on two fronts. The Portuguese seemed the most likely villains, yet…“Devil caught up with me today. He’s spoken to Gabriel and Lucifer. Gabriel agreed that the long list of bequests warrants further scrutiny—he’s already looking into the individuals, seeing if there’s any reason to imagine they might harbor deeper designs on Camden’s property, now yours. Lucifer apparently took one look at the list of bequests themselves and declared he needs to examine the contents of the Half Moon Street house.”

  He glanced at Caro. “Devil at first suspected Lucifer simply wanted to get a look at the collection, but Lucifer explained that forgery—at least of items such as those bequeathed—was a thriving business. He thought Camden might inadvertently have got caught up in that—unknowingly been used to pass forgeries off as authentic.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t take much notice of Camden’s collecting—he’d been doing it for decades before I met him. It was simply something that was always going on. That said, I know he dealt with the same people constantly, that those associations went back many years. He only dealt with people he trusted.” She met his eyes. “He’d learned to be very careful.”

  “Be that as it may, do you have any objection to Lucifer’s looking around the house?”

  She shook her head. “No. Indeed, I think it might be wise. The more things we can reassure ourselves are not in question…”

  He squeezed her hand. “Precisely.”

  Recalling their other lines of inquiry, Caro said, “Incidentally, I remembered an old, very trusted friend of Camden’s—I called on him today and asked him to read Camden’s letters. He agreed.”

  The carriage rocked to a halt before the steps of the Corsican consulate; a waiting footman opened the door. Michael nodded, indicating he’d heard her, stepped down, then handed her down.

  Their hostess was waiting just beyond the open door; they both smiled and climbed the steps to be welcomed with a great deal of delight and Corsican camaraderie. The crowd was small and select; while superficially the customary formalities held sway, beneath, a more informal atmosphere reigned. Everyone knew everyone else, what they did, what their current aims were; the usual games were still played, but openly.

  Caro was the only one there who did not have a defined role. While the stage was familiar, she felt rather strange not having any clear part to play. The lack made her more aware of others’ roles, especially Michael’s. Although the evening was a diplomatic affair, there were numerous civil servants present, those with whom the consular staff interacted in promoting their country’s interest. Every such gentleman made a point of stopping by Michael’s side, making sure he knew who he was, his present position, and his role in foreign affairs.

  In no other sphere, not even the haut ton, was the grapevine more efficient.

  Her presence by his side was remarked by all, but none knew what to make of it. They presented themselves as old family friends, and were accepted as such, at least on the face of it. Yet as the evening wore on, she found herself aiding him much as she had at Muriel’s supper—it was so much a habit, so easy for her to do, it seemed churlish not to assist. Especially when he was so busily assisting her on so many other fronts.

  When a member of the Spanish legation bowed before them, she instinctively knew Michael couldn’t place him. Smiling, she gave Señor Fernandes her hand; while he was bowing and complimenting her on her appearance, she glibly dropped his name, position, and a little of his past into the conversation. Without a blink, Michael took things from there.

  Later, when the conversation had parted them, she glanced over, alerted by some sixth sense, and saw the wife of a senior Foreign Office mandarin cutting Michael out from the knot of diplomats with whom he’d been speaking.

  That was dangerous—the possible future Foreign Minister speaking too privately with the wife of one who would be jockeying for position beneath him. A fast way of creating rancor among the ranks. From her one brief glance, she realized Michael was aware of the unwisdom, yet was having trouble extricating himself from the lady’s clutches.

  She smiled at the Corsican deputy consul. “Do excuse me. I must have a word with Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby.”

  The deputy consul glanced at Michael and needed no further explanation. He returned her smile and bowed. “Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby is a lucky man.”

  Caro smiled easily. Leaving the deputy consul, she glided around to come up on Michael’s free side.

  “There you are!” She slid her hand onto his arm as she rounded him, apparently only then noticing his companion. “Lady Casey.” She smiled. “It’s been some time since I’ve had the pleasure.”

  She held out her hand; Lady Casey met her gaze, clearly wished her elsewhere, but had to take her hand, press fingers, and smile in return.

  “My dear Mrs. Sutcliffe.” Lady Casey twitched her shawl higher. “I had thought you’d retired from the fray.”

  “I may no longer be an ambassador’s wife, but you know what they say…. Why,” she artlessly continued, “I’ve already been lectured once today that I absolutely must not hide myself away. I was given to understand that it’s my duty to continue to participate in diplomatic activities.”

  Lady Casey looked as if she’d like to argue the point, however, ex–ambassador’s wife or no, Caro outranked her by several rather telling degrees. Deciding retreat was the better part of valor, Lady Casey inclined her head. “If you’ll excuse me, I must join my husband.”

  They parted amicably.

  The instant Lady Casey was out of earshot, Michael exhaled. “Thank you—she was trying to bully me into accepting a dinner invitation.”

  “Quite out of order,” Caro declared. “Now, have you spoken privately with Monsieur Hartinges?”

  Michael glanced at her. “Monsieur Hartinges being?”

  “One of the French ambassador’s senior aides. He’s clever, he’ll go far, and he’s well disposed.”

  “Ah.” He closed his hand over Caro’s, anchoring it on his sleeve—anchoring her by his side. “Obviously he’s someone I should know.”

  “Indeed. He’s standing by the windows, and he’s been watching you all evening, waiting for his moment.”

  He grinned. “Lead on.”

  She did; he spent the next twenty minutes talking to the Frenchman, one inclined to let bygones be bygones and deal more effectively in trade—one of the most important issues that would face the next Foreign Minister.

  Parting most cordially from Monsieur Hartinges, they circulated again, this time with a view to leaving.

  “I should speak with Jamieson before we leave—he’s just come in.” Michael nodded to a lanky, faintly harassed-looking gentleman bowing over their hostess’s hand, clearly making obsequious apologies for his tardiness.

 
“Odd that he’s so late,” Caro murmured.

  “Indeed.” He steered her to intercept Jamieson, an undersecretary at the Foreign Office. Jamieson saw them as he parted from the consul’s wife, and came their way.

  He bowed to Caro, whom he knew of old, and nodded deferentially to Michael. “Sir.”

  Michael held out his hand; relaxing a trifle, Jamieson shook it. “Anything amiss?”

  Jamieson grimaced. “Strangest thing. There’s been a break-in at the office—that’s why I’m late. Two of our storerooms holding nothing but old archives were searched.” He looked at Caro. “The strange thing is they’re the Lisbon files.”

  Caro frowned. “Why is that particularly strange?”

  Jamieson glanced at Michael, then back at her. “Because we just received word that our place in Lisbon was burgled two weeks ago. The packet was delayed by storms, but, well, there it is. First them, now us. Nothing like it ever happened in Camden’s day.” Jamieson focused on Caro. “Have you any notion who might be behind it?”

  Caro kept her eyes wide and shook her head. “What were they after? Was anything taken, either here or there?”

  “No.” Jamieson glanced at Michael. “Every sheet in our files is numbered, and none are missing. It’s clear the files were searched, but beyond that…” He shrugged. “There isn’t anything remotely useful, diplomatically speaking, in there. The Lisbon station’s in my sector, but the files searched date from before my time. However, Roberts, my predecessor, was precise in the extreme—I can’t imagine anything would have slipped past him.”

  “What period,” Caro asked, “did the files that were searched cover?”

  “They span the years before and after Camden took up his position there. We’re inclined to think someone’s looking for information on some activity Camden put a stop to.” Jamieson grimaced. “I’m glad I bumped into you—I would have called in the next few days to ask if you knew anything. If you do think of any possibility that might account for this, do let me know.”

  Caro nodded. “Of course.”

  They parted from Jamieson, and shortly afterward left the consulate.

  “You know,” Michael said as, later, having joined Caro in her room, he drew her into his arms, “I’m starting to wonder if someone’s panicking over nothing. If there’s nothing in the Foreign Office files…”

  “That,” Caro admitted, winding her arms about his neck, “is entirely possible.”

  Gripping her waist, anchoring her, he held back against her tug, and studied her face in the dimness. “I detect a ‘but.’ ”

  Her lips curved, not so much in humor as in resignation over his perspicacity. “Knowing Camden and his love of intrigue, and his deep connections with Portugal’s elite, it’s equally possible there’s something quite explosive buried somewhere in his papers.”

  She studied his eyes, then continued, “Therese Osbaldestone reminded me how personally involved with the Portuguese Camden was, even before his appointment to Lisbon. Given that, it’s perfectly possible there’s nothing in the Foreign Office files—Camden might have considered the matter as something outside the office if the contact had come before he took up the position.”

  “You mean he buried all mention of it?”

  “If nothing came of it that subsequently affected the office for which he was responsible, then yes,” she nodded, “I can see that he might have.”

  “But mention might remain in his papers.”

  “Indeed.” She sighed. “I had better put more effort into reading them, but at least now I know over which period I need to search.”

  At that moment, however, in the shadows of the night, standing within Michael’s arms, Camden’s papers were not uppermost in her mind. She tightened her arms, stretched up against his hold. “Kiss me.”

  Michael smiled, and did, taking full advantage of her invitation—making a mental note to later ask who the old friend she’d entrusted with Camden’s letters was—but then her invitation deepened, broadened, sensual horizons expanding…capturing him, his thoughts, his body, his mind.

  Ultimately his soul.

  With no other woman had he shared such a connection; with no other could he imagine doing so. With every passing night, every day, every soirée, every hour in their mutual world, they seemed to become more definitely, ever more clearly the compatible halves of a powerful whole.

  The knowledge shook him, and thrilled him. Sent impatient exultation surging through him. No matter that she hadn’t yet recanted her opposition and agreed to their wedding, he couldn’t see—had no intention of countenancing—any other outcome. The path between now and then might be shrouded in impenetrable shadow, uncertain both in length and events, yet their eventual destination remained fixed and unwavering.

  Later, sated and replete, he gathered her, boneless and drowsy, against him, settling them comfortably in the billows of her bed. He’d meant to ask her something…couldn’t quite focus his mind…. “Who lectured you on your duty?” He hoped it hadn’t been Magnus.

  “Therese Osbaldestone.” Caro sleepily rubbed her cheek against his arm. “She’s pleased I’m not hiding myself away.”

  He made a mental note to keep an eye on Lady Osbaldestone. He didn’t need her queering his pitch, pressuring Caro in any way whatever.

  If he’d harbored any reservations that he needed her—specifically her—by his side, the past two evenings would have put the matter beyond doubt. Yet that was his professional life; while such considerations provided a major impetus—an increasingly powerful motive for him to marry her with all speed—the very same arguments were those she would most distrust…and he couldn’t fault her in that.

  Marriage—the more he thought of it, considered it in its totality, the more he appreciated that it had to be based on more than professional interests, on far more than a sense of duty. Not only would Caro not bow to duty again, he didn’t want her to come to him that way. Not for that reason.

  Above all, not for that reason.

  As he lay in the warmth of the rumpled bed and let sleep draw near, heard Caro’s soft breaths, felt them ruffle the hairs on his chest, felt her soft warmth, her feminine curves, pressed to him, a promise clearer, more potent than any words, he was aware of impatience, yet equally conscious of the wisdom of waiting.

  Of letting her make up her mind on her own, no pressure, no persuasions….

  A thought rippled through his mind as sleep drew him under. Perhaps there was something he could do.

  Subtly influencing people was a politician’s stock-in-trade. He was an excellent politician; the following morning, leaving Caro ensconced in the upstairs parlor leafing through Camden’s diaries, he reminded himself of that as he paced down Upper Grosvenor Street and into Grosvenor Square.

  Not pressure, not persuasion, but there were other avenues, other means. Aside from all else, actions spoke loudest, were always more convincing.

  Honoria was at home; she joined him in the sitting room. The children barreled in in her wake; after dutifully admiring Sebastian’s and young Michael’s new bat and ball, and spending a few minutes tickling Louisa, he glanced at Honoria. She saw and efficiently shooed her brood out through the terrace doors to play on the lawn where their nursemaids were waiting.

  “There!” Standing on the threshold, she looked at him. “What is it?”

  He joined her, allowing her to keep a distant eye on her sons’ antics while they talked. “I want to marry Caro, but…” Staring out at the lawns, he continued, “Her marriage to Camden was based on his need of her talents—what he correctly perceived as her potential hostessly skills. Those, of course, are precisely the same skills I need in a wife, but such a need is the very last thing that would persuade Caro to a second marriage.”

  Honoria grimaced. “I can see her point. Camden was a great deal older than she.”

  “Indeed. Worse, it was very much an arranged marriage, primarily for Camden’s benefit. Caro, however, was not initially aware of that
.”

  Honoria’s grimace turned pained. “Oh, dear.” She glanced briefly at him. “So if you approach her offering the position of your wife…”

  He nodded, a touch grim. “If that was all I offered, I would stand no chance of winning her.” He drew breath, exhaled, stated his decision. “To win Caro, I need to offer more—a lot more.”

  He looked at Honoria, met her eyes. “Which is why I’m here. I wanted to ask why, when initially you were so set against it, you changed your mind and accepted Devil’s proposal. What tipped the scales?”

  Honoria studied his face, his eyes; she understood exactly what he was asking. Her mind flitted back seven years, to that long-ago summer. Remembered…recalled. Facing the lawn, she searched for words to explain what had compelled her to accept Devil’s offer, to seize the chance, accept the challenge—pick up the gauntlet fate had so unexpectedly flung in her path.

  How could she explain the allure, the compelling temptation, of love? Of a heart offered, however reluctantly, however much against the grain. That that very reluctance could in certain circumstances make the gift even more precious, because it could never be seen as something lightly yielded.

  She drew breath, thought how to phrase her answer. Eventually said, “I changed my mind because he offered me the one thing I most truly needed, the thing that would make my life into what—or even more than—I had dreamed it could be. Because he was prepared to give me that, and through that, all that was most important to me.”

  Her gaze focused on her children. Should she mention that Caro wanted children, yearned for them in much the same way she had? A hidden, very private yearning that only another who had felt the same might guess. She’d guessed, and had seized the opportunity to let Louisa confirm it, prodding that yearning to life.

  But if she told Michael…he was male—would he understand how to effectively use the knowledge? He might think the promise of children, of itself, was enough, and not see it as the outcome, the consequence of that even more precious gift.