A folded parchment in her hand, she shut the safe, locked it, and swung the painting back into place; watching her cross the room, Michael inwardly shook his head. Camden may have created the house, but it was Caro’s—it suited her to the ground, the perfect showcase for her and her manifold talents.
The instant the thought formed, he knew it was true, yet if Camden had cared enough to pour such a lot of himself—not just money but so much more—into creating this masterpiece for her, why had he left her untouched? Physically at least, unloved?
And given his attentions to a mistress instead?
Straightening, he took the thick sheaf Caro held out to him.
“It won’t fit in my reticule.”
He managed to tuck it into his inside coat pocket. “I’m not a legal expert—would it worry you if I got it examined by one, just to make sure there’s no strange twist we can’t see?”
She raised her brows, but nodded. “That might be wise. Now”— she pointed further down the corridor—“Camden’s papers are along here.”
To his surprise, she didn’t lead him into another room, but instead stopped before a pair of double doors, a cupboard built into the corridor wall.
Caro set the doors wide, revealing shelves of linens and towels, all neatly stacked. The two halves of the cupboard were separate sets of shelves, like two bookcases abutting; reaching deep to the back of one shelf, she pressed the catch to release them—they swung open a little. “Stand back.”
Michael did, watching, amazed as she swung first one set of shelves, then the other wide, revealing a storeroom lined with shelves on which boxes of files lay neatly stacked.
Stepping back, she gestured. “Camden’s papers.”
Michael considered them, then glanced at her. “Lucky we brought two footmen.”
“Indeed.” He hadn’t understood when she’d requested them.
Turning, she led the way downstairs, through the back of the house, and down the garden path to open the back gate. Magnus’s largest carriage stood waiting in the mews beyond.
Michael took charge. An hour later, with the Half Moon Street house once again closed and locked, they returned to Upper Grosvenor Street and proceeded to unload the accumulated records of Camden Sutcliffe’s life.
Evelyn, a quiet but redoubtable lady whom Caro had met over dinner the previous evening, had suggested they store the papers in a small parlor on the first floor, not far from the main stairs in the central part of the mansion. “Safest,” Evelyn had opined. “There’s always some maid or footman traipsing about in sight of that door.”
Magnus had grunted, but agreed. The boxes, therefore, were carried upstairs and stacked neatly along one wall of the parlor, waiting for Caro to read through them. When the footmen finally retreated, their job done, she eyed the work before her and sighed.
Michael, shoulder propped against the doorframe, studied her. “Magnus would help at the drop of a hat.”
She sighed again. “I know, but in deference to Camden, if anyone is to read his diaries and private correspondence, it should be me. At least until we know if there’s anything of note in there.”
Michael studied her face, then nodded and straightened. Downstairs, a gong clanged.
Caro smiled. “Saved—I’ll start after lunch.”
Tucking a wayward strand back into her coiffure, she took his arm, let him draw her out of the room and shut the door.
* * *
Over luncheon, they studied the will. All of them read it, even Evelyn, as crochety as Magnus could be irrascible yet also shrewd and experienced in her way. None of them felt confident they fully comprehended the convoluted legal language enough to pass judgment.
“Best get an expert opinion,” Magnus said.
Caro graciously repeated her permission; Michael tucked the will back into his pocket.
Once the meal was ended, he accompanied her back to the parlor. They spent the next half hour rearranging the boxes into some semblance of order, then, the first box open at her feet, Caro sat in an armchair—and looked up at him. Raised a faintly amused brow.
He smiled. “No, I’m not going to stand here watching you read.” He tapped his chest; the will crackled. “I’m going to get this examined. I’ll ensure it’s done with absolute discretion.”
She smiled back. “Thank you.”
Still, he hesitated. When she again a raised a brow, he asked, “Will you do something for me?”
She searched his face. “What?”
“Stay here—safe inside. Promise me you won’t leave the house until I get back.”
Her smile was gentle; she regarded him for a moment from steady silver eyes, then inclined her head. “I promise.”
He held her gaze for an instant longer, then saluted her and left.
He didn’t have far to go—just along Upper Grosvenor Street to where it fed into Grosvenor Square. He paced along the north side of the square, searching among the ladies, children, and nursemaids walking and playing in the central gardens, hoping to catch sight of familiar faces. In that he was disappointed. Reaching the imposing mansion in the center of the block, he went up the steps, praying the owners were in residence.
Fate smiled; they were.
It was Devil he asked to see.
Ensconced behind the desk in his study, his brother-in-law greeted him with raised brows and a devilish, faintly taunting smile. “Ho! I
thought you were engrossed in the hunt for a wife. What brings you here?“
“A will.” Michael tossed Camden’s will onto Devil’s desk and sank into one of the chairs facing it.
Sitting back in his chair, Devil considered the folded parchment, but made no move to take it. “Whose?”
“Camden Sutcliffe’s.”
At that, Devil looked up, met his gaze. After a moment of studying his face, he asked, “Why?”
Michael told him; as he’d expected, relating the attempts on Caro’s life was all it took to focus his powerful brother-in-law’s attention.
Devil picked up the will. “So the answer could lie in here.”
“Either in there, or in Camden’s papers. Caro’s going through the papers—I wondered if you could get your people to go over that”—with a nod, he indicated the will—“with a fine-toothed comb.”
He could have approached the firm of solicitors Magnus used, but those solicitors were as old as Magnus. Devil, on the other hand, Duke of St. Ives and head of the powerful Cynster clan, and thus constantly embroiled in dealing with all types of legal affairs, employed the very best of the up-and-coming legal fraternity. If any solicitors could identify a potential threat to Caro buried in Camden’s will, Devil’s would.
Flicking through the document, Devil nodded. “I’ll get them onto it immediately.” He grimaced, then refolded the will. “Makes one wonder what became of the English language.”
Laying the will aside, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper. “I’ll add a note to the effect we want the answer with all speed.”
“Thank you.” Michael rose. “Is Honoria in?”
A faint smile lifted Devil’s lips. “She is, and I’m sure your presence within her purlieu will by now have been reported.” He looked up at Michael and grinned. “She’s probably waiting to pounce the instant you leave this room.”
Michael raised his brows. “I’m surprised she hasn’t simply waltzed in.” It wasn’t like Honoria to stand on ceremony, and Devil had no secrets from her.
Devil’s grin only deepened; he looked down and wrote. “I think she’s trying to restrain herself from prying into your love life—the effort is probably killing her.”
With a laugh, Michael turned to the door. “I’d better go and relieve her.”
Devil raised a hand in farewell. “I’ll send word the instant I have any news.”
Michael left. Closing the study door, he headed back along the corridor to the front hall.
“I do hope”—his sister’s crisp, unquestionably duchessy tones reached hi
m the instant he set foot on the hall tiles—“that you intend to come up and call on me?”
Michael swung around, looked up the grand staircase to where Honoria stood on the landing. He grinned. “I was on my way up.”
He took the stairs two at a time, then swung her into a hug, which she, smiling delightedly, returned.
“Now,” she said, releasing him and stepping back to look into his face. “Tell me your news. What are you doing back in town? Have you made an offer?”
He laughed. “I’ll tell you,.but not here.”
She took his arm and led him to her private sitting room. Swinging around, she sat in an armchair, barely waited for him to do the same before demanding, “Now tell me. All of it.”
He did; there was no point doing otherwise—any hint of evasion and she’d have pounced, and either wrung it out of him or out of Devil. The only information he omitted to mention, as he had with Devil, was the truth of Caro and Camden’s marriage. He didn’t specifically state that Caro Sutcliffe was the woman he’d set his heart on; he didn’t have to—Honoria made the connection with ease.
The news of the attempts on Caro’s life sobered her—Caro and she had once been close friends—but when he explained how they proposed to meet the challenge, she merely nodded. With three children whose welfare she supervised very closely, Honoria had too much on her plate these days to interfere. However…
“Bring her to afternoon tea.” Honoria considered, then said, “It’s too late today, but bring her tomorrow afternoon.”
Michael knew he could count on Honoria to take his side, to tactfully and covertly steer Caro toward accepting his proposal. He couldn’t wish for better support, but… it was a support that had better be informed. “I’ve asked her to marry me—she hasn’t yet agreed.”
Honoria’s brows rose. She blinked, then smiled, entirely compre-hending. “Then we’ll have to see what we can do to help her make up her mind.”
She stood. “Now come and do your penance—your nephews and niece are in the schoolroom.”
With a smile, he rose, prefectly willing to pay her price.
Late July in London might be warm and muggy; it was, however, relatively free of unavoidable social engagements. Consequently, they gathered over the dinner table enfamille—Caro, Magnus, Evelyn, and he; over the meal, they revisited the facts and refined their strategy.
“I’ve started on Camden’s diaries.” Caro grimaced. “He was incredibly detailed in his observations—it’s perfectly possible he might have seen and noted something that someone might now deem dangerous.”
“Slow going?” Michael asked.
“Very. I’ve started from when he first took up his post as ambassador to Portugal—that seemed the most sensible place to start.”
“What about his letters?”
“I’ll go through them later, if I find nothing in the diaries.”
Michael was aware that Magnus was restraining himself from demanding to help with the letters; he briefly described his visit to Devil Cynster, and Devil’s agreement to get his solicitors to examine the will.
“There must be something else you can do.” From under beetling brows, Magnus looked at Michael.
Faintly smiling, Michael glanced at Caro. “The Portuguese are firm suspects—it seems likely Leponte was behind the burglary at Sutcliffe Hall. We know he searched Bramshaw House. I think it would be wise to discover if he, or any of his family, have come up to town.”
“And if they haven’t,” Magnus growled, “we need to set a watch.”
“Indeed.” Michael returned his gaze to Caro. “We need to pool our sources—what’s the best way to learn who among the Portuguese delegation are in London?”
They tossed around names of aides and other officials in various capacities. Michael eventually assembled a short list. “I’ll do the rounds tomorrow morning and see what they can tell me.”
“It occurs to me”—leaning on one elbow, her chin propped in her hand, Caro studied him from across the table—“that between us, we have numerous contacts in diplomatic and political circles we could exploit—not officially so much as socially. They might be able to help us, not just with news of who is in town, but with memories and also with current changes, any shifts in power in Portugal or elsewhere.”
She glanced at Magnus. “We have no idea how far back the connection with Camden goes, nor do we know why it’s suddenly assumed importance.” She looked back at Michael. “Someone might know more, although how we’re to approach the issue I can’t yet see.”
Magnus was nodding his shaggy head. “A sensible way forward, even if you can’t yet see precisely how it might help. The first thing you need to do is let it be known you’re back in town.”
“Given it’s midsummer, the circles are smaller and correspondingly more elite.” Caro tapped the table. “It shouldn’t be hard to wave the flag, put ourselves about—learn what we can regarding the Portuguese, and at the same time explore any other avenues that offer.”
Michael studied her face, wondered if she’d realized why Magnus was so keen on them going about together among their social set. Yet it was she who’d suggested it. “Why don’t we meet again over lunch tomorrow and see how far we’ve-progressed, then we can make more definite plans to step back into the limelight.”
Evelyn pushed back her chair; using her cane, she got to her feet. “I’ll be out to both morning and afternoon teas tomorrow.” She smiled. “We might be old, but we know what’s what—and what’s going on, what’s more. I’ll take note of which hostesses are entertaining in the next few days.”
“Thank you.” With a smile, Caro rose, too. Going around the table, she linked her arm in Evelyn’s. “That would indeed help.”
Together she and Evelyn left for the drawing room and the tea trolley; in an hour or so, they’d retire to their rooms.
Michael, who had also risen, sat again. He waited for Hammer to set out the decanters, then filled Magnus’s glass and his. When Hammer had retreated and they were alone, he sat back, sipped, and looked speculatively at Magnus.
Perfectly aware, Magnus raised a shaggy brow. “Well?”
Michael savored his grandfather’s excellent brandy, then asked, “What do you know about Camden Sutcliffe?”
An hour and a half later, having helped Magnus to his room, Michael returned to his own—to undress, don his robe, and join Caro in hers. Pulling the gold pin from his cravat, he considered the picture
Magnus had painted of Camden Sutcliffe. Magnus had, of course, known Camden, but not well; Magnus was over eighty, more than ten years older than Camden, and although throughout his long political career Magnus had frequently been involved in diplomatic events, none of those had involved Portugal during Camden’s tenure.
Nevertheless, Magnus was a shrewd and acute observer; he’d painted Camden with a few deft strokes, leaving Michael with a clear vision of a gentleman born and bred, one who, like them, took his station for granted and saw no need to impress it on others. Camden, however, had been, as Magnus put it, exquisitely charming, a man who knew just the right degree of gloss to apply for whomever he was dealing with. A man who combined that lethal charm with a pleasant temperament and easy, well-bred manners in the service of his country—and of Camden Sutcliffe.
The picture Magnus had created was of a supremely self-centered man, but one who, simultaneously, had been a recognized patriot. A man who unstintingly put his country above all else, who held his service and loyalty to it inviolate, but who otherwise thought, first and last, of himself.
That vision fitted well with Caro’s revelation that Camden had married her solely for her hostessly talents. It sat well with Edward’s insights, too, and those Michael himself had gleaned over the years, not only from personal experience, but from Geoffrey, George Sutcliffe, and others who had known Camden well.
It did not, however, explain the house in Half Moon Street.
Michael shrugged on his robe, belted it. Inwardly shaking his
head, putting aside the as yet inexplicable conundrum of Camden’s relationship with Caro, he opened his door and set out to join her.
Camden’s widow—his wife-to-be.
By lunchtime the next day, he’d learned that Ferdinand Leponte was in London. Returning to Upper Grosvenor Street, he joined the others about the luncheon table. Taking his seat, he glanced at Caro.
She caught his gaze. Her eyes opened wide. “You’ve learned something. What?”
He was surprised; he knew he wasn’t that easy to read. But he nodded, and told them his news. “Neither the duke, duchess, count, or countess are with him—apparently they’re still in Hampshire. Ferdinand, however, has left his yacht and the lure of the Solent in summer, and come up to London—he’s staying in rooms attached to the embassy.”
“When did he come up?” Magnus asked.
“Yesterday.” Across the table, Michael exchanged a glance with Caro.
She nodded. “Easy enough to call at Bramshaw House, ask for me, and learn I’d left for town.”
He reached for his glass. “I didn’t learn anything more of interest. Did you turn up anything?”
Caro grimaced and shook her head. “It’s all very colorful, but there’s no hint of anything nefarious—any item that could now be dangerous to know.”
They looked at Evelyn; she’d pulled a note from her pocket and was smoothing it out.
“I made a list of who’s entertaining tonight.” She passed it to Caro. “That should get you started.”
Glancing up from perusing the list, Caro smiled gratefully. “Thank you—this is perfect.” Across the table, she met Michael’s eyes. “Your aunt Harriet is giving a soiree this evening.”
Although nothing showed in his face, she was sure he was thinking of his last meeting with his aunt, and Caro’s subsequent encounter with Harriet. Harriet thought he was pursuing Elizabeth.
Caro smiled. “Quite obviously we should attend.”
A faint grimace crossed his face, but he inclined his head.
When they rose from the luncheon table and dispersed, Caro paused in the hall, tapping Evelyn’s note in her hand, planning.
The Ideal Bride c-12 Page 32
