The last thing she wished was for Caro’s unsatisfactory first marriage to dim her chances of attaining that happiness.
She glanced at Michael, realized that despite his impassive expression he was wrestling with her words, trying to interpret them. “I can’t explain better than that. For each woman, the outward expression of what is most important will differ, yet giving her that one critical thing that enables all else, being willing to do so, is the key.”
He met her gaze. Smiled a touch wryly. “Thank you.”
She sighed. “I hope that helps.”
Michael took her hand, squeezed lightly. “It does—it will.”
Casting a last glance at his nephews and niece, cavorting, shrieking, on the lawn, he released Honoria’s hand, nodded in farewell. “I’ll leave you to your dream.”
She snorted, but by the time he reached the door, she’d already gone out on the terrace.
He stopped to speak to Devil, who had nothing further to report, then set out for the clubs. As he walked, he turned Honoria’s words over in his mind.
When she’d spoken, she’d been looking at her children. Given their background, the tragic loss of the rest of their family, he had no difficulty understanding that for Honoria, home, family, and therefore children, mattered a great deal—that those things were as important to her as they were to him.
Had she meant that those things were just as important to Caro?
If she did, where did that get him?
What, indeed, was Caro’s deepest need?
Chapter 19
He returned to Upper Grosvenor Street just before three o’clock, still no further along, either with his inquiries or his cogitations on Caro’s needs. Putting both aside, he took the stairs two at a time; opening the parlor door, he beheld Caro, seated in an armchair and deep in one of Camden’s diaries.
She looked up. Her fine hair formed a nimbus about her head; the sun striking through the window gilded each strand, a quiveringly alive filigree halo for her heart-shaped face with its delicate features and tip-tilted silvery eyes.
Those eyes lit at the sight of him. “Thank God!” Shutting the diary and setting it atop the pile, she held out her hands. “I sincerely hope you’re here to rescue me.”
Smiling, he walked in, took her hands, and pulled her up—and into his arms. Closing them about her, he bent his head; she lifted her lips.
They kissed. Long and slowly, deeply, yet both aware that they had to hold passion at bay, had to keep the flames suppressed.
Their lips parted only to meet again, to taste, take, give.
Eventually, he raised his head.
She sighed. Opened her eyes. “I suppose we must go.”
Her transparent reluctance delighted him. Yet… “Unfortunately, we must.” Releasing her, he stepped back. “Lucifer will be waiting.”
They’d agreed to show Lucifer around the Half Moon Street house that afternoon at three. When they arrived, he was lounging, tall, dark, and rakishly handsome, against the front railings.
Grinning, he straightened and stepped forward to hand Caro down from the hackney, then bowed gracefully. “Your servant, Mrs. Sutcliffe. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She smiled. “Thank you—but please call me Caro.”
Lucifer nodded to Michael, then waved up the steps. “I confess I’m agog to view the collection.”
Opening the door, Caro led them into the front hall. “I hadn’t realized Camden was such a well-known collector.‘’
“He wasn’t, but once I started asking around, he was definitely known, mostly for his eccentricity in collecting as he had.” Lucifer studied a sideboard and the vase that stood upon it. “Most people collect one type of thing. Sutcliffe collected all sorts of things, but for one house—this house.” He gestured at the round table in the hall, at the mirror on the wall. “Everything was chosen specifically to fill a particular place and function in this house. Everything is unique—the collection itself is unique.”
“I see.” Leading the way into the drawing room, she crossed to the windows and dragged back the heavy drapes, letting light spill across the gorgeous furniture, fracture and refract through crystal, gleam across gilt and beaten silver. “I hadn’t thought of it as strange.” She turned. “So what do you need to see?”
“Most of the major rooms, I suspect. But tell me, do you know who he dealt with? I have some names, but wondered which other dealers he used.”
“Wainwright, Cantor, Jofleur, and Hastings. No others.”
Lucifer looked up. “You’re certain of that?”
“Yes. Camden refused to deal with anyone else—he once told me he wasn’t interested in getting bilked, and that’s why he insisted on dealing only with men he trusted.”
Lucifer nodded. “He was right about those four, which means we can forget any likelihood of forgery. If any of them discovered they’d sold him a fake, they would have offered him his money back. If he dealt solely with them, that’s one scam we don’t need to imagine was involved here.”
“One scam.” Michael raised his brows. “There’s another possibility?”
“One that’s looking more likely every minute.” Lucifer glanced around. “Wait until I’ve seen more, then I’ll explain.”
Caro dutifully guided him about the ground floor, answering his questions, confirming that Camden had kept excellent records of all his purchases. In the dining room, waiting while Lucifer studied the contents of a glass-fronted cabinet, she noticed a candlestick normally in the center of the sideboard now stood to the left. She centered it again; thinking back to when she’d glanced in when she and Michael had come to fetch Camden’s papers, she was sure the candlestick had been in its accustomed place.
Mrs. Simms must have called; the housekeeper must have been distracted not to have replaced the candlestick precisely. Nothing was missing, nothing else had been moved. Making a mental note to send a message to let Mrs. Simms know she was back in town, she turned as Lucifer straightened. “Come—I’ll show you upstairs.”
Michael followed in their wake, listening with half an ear, otherwise looking about him. Not as Lucifer was doing, examining individual objects, not as he himself had done the last time he was here, but looking to learn what the house could tell him of Caro, what hints it might give him of what she needed, what she might covet that she didn’t already have. What was missing in this apparently wonderful house?
Children leapt to mind, but, as he looked and considered and compared, it wasn’t simply little people with grubby fingers thundering pell-mell down the corridors, sliding with whoops down the elegantly carved banister, that were missing.
This house was empty. Truly empty. Camden had created it for Caro—that Michael no longer doubted—yet it lay cold, without a heart, without the life, that indefinable pulse of family, that should have enlivened it and filled it with joy. It was presently an exquisitely beautiful shell, nothing more.
The one thing needed to bring the house to life was the one gift Camden had not given Caro. Either he’d neglected to do so, or it hadn’t been in him to give.
What was it that brought a house to life, that didn’t just create a family residence, but transformed it into a home?
Michael was standing in the upstairs corridor when Caro and Lucifer came out of the study.
Lucifer waved to the stairs. “Let’s go down.” He looked a touch grim.
In the hall, he faced them. “There’s a danger here that could account for the attacks on Caro. The collection as a whole is no tempta-tion, but individual pieces are. Sutcliffe had an eye for the highest quality—many pieces here are beyond superb. More than enough to tempt a rabid collector, one of those who, having once seen, absolutely must have.”
Lucifer looked at Caro. “Given Sutcliffe’s reason for assembling such a collection, I doubt he could have been induced to sell any piece once he acquired it. Is that right?”
Caro nodded. “He was approached on numerous occasions ov
er different pieces, but as you say, once he had the perfect piece for a certain spot, he wasn’t interested in selling it. For him, there wasn’t any point.”
“Indeed. And that’s my point.” Lucifer glanced at Michael. “There are those among the rabid collectors who will, in pursuit of a particular piece, ignore all rules and laws. They grow obsessed, and simply must have that piece regardless of what they have to do to get it.”
Michael frowned. “Why not simply buy the piece from Caro?”
Lucifer looked at her. “Would you sell?”
She met his gaze. After a long moment, said, “No. This was Cam-den’s creation—I couldn’t pull bits out of it.”
Lucifer looked at Michael. “That’s why; they’d assume she wouldn’t sell, that she would be as obsessed with the item as they were.”
“Why not break in and steal it?” Michael gestured about them. “The locks may be sound, but a determined thief—”
“Would achieve little in terms of what rabid collectors want. They want the provenance, too, and that they can only legitimately claim via a sale.”
Caro stared at him. “They’re trying to kill me to force a sale?”
“Whoever inherits if you die—would they feel as you do about this place? Or, if they were quietly and honorably approached, would they, after a suitable period had elapsed, feel they might as well sell at least bits of the contents?”
She blinked, then looked at Michael.
He didn’t need to read her eyes. “Geoffrey, Augusta, and Angela would sell. Not immediately, but after a time.”
She nodded. “Yes. They would.”
“When I asked around, I was surprised how many people were aware of this place, of individual pieces in it.” Lucifer once again glanced around. “There’s definitely enough motive here for murder.”
—
Instead of narrowing, their net seemed to be widening, the reasons to murder Caro piling up rather than diminishing. After joining them in Upper Grosvenor Street for tea, Lucifer went off to further investigate, first the list of those who’d received bequests, and then more widely through his contacts in the antiquarian underworld for any whisper of one he termed a “rabid collector” with designs on any of the more obvious pieces in the Half Moon Street house.
Over dinner, they discussed the situation with Magnus and Evelyn; Magnus humphed, clearly chafing that he couldn’t do more to assist, that in this case his contacts, these days all political, were of no help. It was Evelyn who suggested Magnus and she should call on old Lady Claypoole.
“Her husband was the ambassador to Portugal before Camden— Lord Claypoole is long gone, but Ernestine might recall something useful. She’s in town at present, visiting her sister. No reason we can’t call and see what she has to say.”
They all agreed that was an excellent idea; leaving Magnus and Evelyn making plans, Michael and Caro left for their evening rounds— two small soirees, the first at the Belgian embassy, the other at Lady Castlereagh’s.
Entering the Belgian embassy drawing room, Caro glimpsed a dark head through the shoulders. On Michael’s arm, she leaned close. “Is that Ferdinand by the windows?”
Michael looked. His lips thinned. “Yes.” He glanced at her. “Shall we ask him what he’s doing in town?”
She smiled, with her lips but not her eyes. “Let’s.”
But by the time they wove their way through the crowd, chatting and greeting, and finally gained the windows, Ferdinand had gone. Lifting his head, Michael scanned the room. “He’s no longer here.”
“He caught sight of us and beat a hasty retreat.” In such company, Caro was careful not to frown, but her gaze when she met Michael’s was severe. “What does that say of his conscience, I wonder?”
Michael arched a brow. “Does he have one?”
Eloquently shrugging, Caro turned to greet Lady Winston, the Ja-macian governor’s wife, who came bustling up to talk with them.
She introduced Michael, remained by his side, then and later as they circled the room. That done, they traveled on to Lady Castlereagh’s; again, they worked the room together. Caro wasn’t sure if their unvoiced decision to act as a team owed more to her reaction to Michael’s need—a need she more and more clearly perceived, a need it was all but instinctive for her to fill—or to his desire to keep her close, protected and within reach; his hand lay heavy over hers on his sleeve, communicating that desire without words.
The evening revealed nothing regarding any long-buried secret the Portuguese might be keen to bury even deeper, but she did become aware—more aware—of other things.
Later, when they’d returned to Upper Grosvenor Street, when Michael had joined her in her bed, when they’d shared and indulged, bathing in an ocean of mutual pleasure to finally lay slumped, limbs tangled, sated and relaxed in her bed, with their heartbeats slowing and sleep drifting ever nearer… she let herself think of all she’d seen, all she’d become conscious of, all she now knew.
Of Michael. Of his need for her, not just the physical need they’d so recently slaked, not his professional need, even though she was coming to realize that was far more acute than she’d supposed, but that other need that lingered in the way his arms closed around her, in the way, sometimes, his lips touched her hair. In the way his arm lay heavy over her waist even in sleep. In the way he tensed and came alert, ready to step forward and shield her from danger, physical or otherwise.
The need he revealed through his compulsion to protect her.
He’d said he wanted to marry her, that the offer remained so that all she had to do was agree and it would happen. She hadn’t believed anything could make her change her mind, make her rethink her aversion to matrimony, especially to another politician, yet his elusive need had. It possessed a power against which even her hardened heart—the heart she’d deliberately hardened—wasn’t immune. While she was no longer so young, so innocent and naive as to take anything at face value, by the same token the years had taught her the wisdom of not unthinkingly rejecting fate’s gifts.
Such gifts weren’t offered frequently. When they were…
Was she prepared to again face the risk of loving a politician? A man to whom charm was intrinsic, to whom the facility for glib persuasiveness was a necessary skill?
Yet it wasn’t Michael’s words that were persuading her. It was his actions, his reactions. And the emotions that drove them.
Sleep slunk into her mind and weighed heavily, pressing her down, wiping out her thoughts. Beckoning her dreams.
The last whisper of consciousness of which she was aware was the sensation of Michael’s body, hot, naked, heavy with the languor of satiation, wrapped protectively about hers, a tacit statement—he wasn’t Camden.
Sunk beside her in the bed, Michael felt sleep take her; for himself, he tried to hold it at bay—to wrestle with his problem, to try to see further, to identify what her heart most desired, what were her most secret dreams.
A home, a family, a husband, the position of a political and diplomatic hostess, a Minister’s wife—a stage on which her highly polished skills would be most highly regarded and appreciated… all that he could give her, but what was the key—what was the one thing that would persuade her to marry him?
Sleep wouldn’t be denied; ruthlessly, it caught him and dragged him down, and left him still searching for his answer.
Over the next days, Caro devoted herself assiduously to Camden’s diaries. Other than attending the most select soirees with Michael every evening, she remained indoors, in the parlor, and read.
If the clue to what was behind the threat to her lay in Camden’s papers, then it clearly behooved her to apply herself to discovering it.
Magnus and Evelyn thoroughly enjoyed their excursion to interrogate Lady Claypoole, although other than confirming via vague recollection that there had been some political turmoil in Lisbon toward the close of her husband’s tenure, her ladyship proved of little help. However, the outing improved both Evelyn’s and
Magnus’s moods, so that much at least was gained.
Michael continued playing the part of a soon-to-be-Minister very likely to be appointed to the Foreign Office for all it was worth, exploiting the readiness of others to impress him to glean all he could on current Portuguese affairs. He laid seige not only to the relevant British offices, but to the Spanish, French, Corsicans, Sardinians, Belgians, and Italians, too. Everyone had their sources—someone had to know something of use.
And then there was Ferdinand.
Michael didn’t forget him, or the Portuguese embassy staff. But he couldn’t act directly there; with Devil’s assistance, he organized others to infiltrate and see what they could learn, but such operations necessarily took time.
Time he was increasingly worried they might not have.
Returning to Upper Grosvenor Street late one afternoon, still no further along and running out of useful avenues to explore, he climbed the stairs, paused in the parlor doorway to watch Caro read. When she glanced up and smiled, he joined her.
With a sigh, he sank into the armchair that was the mate of the one she occupied.
She raised a brow. “Nothing?”
He shook his head. “Patience, I know, is a virtue, but…”
She grinned; looking down, she returned to her reading.
He sat and watched her, oddly pleased that she did not feel the need to entertain him as any other lady would. It was a comfortable feeling, to be accepted with such ease, to simply be together without any of the customary social barriers between them.
The simple togetherness soothed his aggravation, stroked his impatient irritation away.
In the distance, the front doorbell pealed. Hammer’s muffled steps crossed the tiles; a moment passed, then the front door closed. An instant later, they heard Hammer ascending the stairs, heading their way.
Hammer appeared in the open doorway. He bowed to them both, then advanced to offer his salver. “A note for you, ma’am. The boy expected no reply.”
The Ideal Bride (Cynster Novels) Page 36
