“If he’s searching for something incriminating,” Michael said, “presumably he won’t want anyone else to read it. While at Sutcliffe House, he could have asked others to bring away anything they found, removing an entire archive…”
Devil nodded. “He would have had to go through it. He probably did, but as he’s not going about much anyway, his social absence that night can hardly be cited as evidence.”
They all grimaced, rather grimly, then turned to Gabriel.
“Whether this means anything or not I don’t know,” he said, “but it’s definitely deuced odd. I checked the list of bequests, all those involving items of value. There were nine such bequests, all of antiques, specific pieces that Camden had collected over the last decade.
“All the pieces were highly valuable. Eight went to men Camden had known for decades, most from his early years in diplomatic circles. Those eight fit the mold of old and valued friend. I ran the list past Lucifer—”
“All eight are known collectors,” Lucifer said. “The pieces each received fit perfectly into their collections. From what I saw in Half Moon Street, those bequests didn’t leave holes in Camden’s collection.
He’d clearly viewed the pieces as gifts from the first, so it’s no surprise they were listed in his will.“
“Subsequently,” Gabriel resumed, “I quietly asked around and confirmed none of those eight are in any way pressed for cash.”
“Nor do any of them have the reputation of those I term ‘rabid collectors,” Lucifer added.
“So eight bequests make eminent sense and raise no hares,” Michael said. “What of the ninth?”
“That’s where things become interesting.” Gabriel met Michael’s eyes. “On first reading, I didn’t realize its significance. The ninth bequest is described as ‘a Louis XIV desk set in marble and gold, jewel-encrusted.’”
“However,” Lucifer took up the tale, “that particular piece is not simply a desk set created in the time of Louis XIV—it was Louis XIV’s desk set. It’s worth a not-so-small fortune.”
“Who is the ninth legatee?‘ Devil asked.
Gabriel looked at him. “He’s listed as T M. C. Danvers.”
“Breckenridge?” Michael stared. “Is he a collector, too?”
“No,” Lucifer said, a touch grimly. “He isn’t—not at all.”
“But you know of him,” Gabriel said. “I searched everywhere, but I couldn’t find any connection between Camden Sutcliffe and Breckenridge, other than that, due to some reason, they knew each other.”
“Caro said they’d known each other for thirty years—all Brecken-ridge’s life.” Michael frowned. “She’s given Breckenridge Camden’s letters to read, explained what we’re looking for.” He glanced at the others. “She trusts him completely.”
Their frowns stated that they, as he, thought Caro had no business trusting a man of Breckenridge’s ilk.
“Did she explain what the connection between Sutcliffe and Breckenridge was?” Devil asked.
“No, but it’s not through political or diplomatic circles—I’d know if Breckenridge was a player there, and he isn’t.” Michael felt his face hardening. “I’ll ask her.” He looked at Gabriel. “If he’s not a collector, could money be the motive?”
Gabriel grimaced. “I’d so like to say yes, but all the answers I got say otherwise. Breckenridge is Brunswick’s heir, and Brunswick is as financially solid as the proverbial rock. When it comes to money, Breckenridge is his father’s son; his investments are sound, even a touch conservative for my taste, and his income greatly exceeds his expenditures. Breckenridge certainly has a vice, but it’s not the tables, it’s women, and even there, he’s careful. I couldn’t find the slightest sign any harpy has her talons in him, let alone to the extent of bleeding him.”
Devil murmured, “From all I’ve heard, Breckenridge is considered a dangerous man to cross. There seems no reason to think him a blackmailer, yet equally I can’t see him as a blackmailer’s victim.”
“Forced to act as a pawn in bleeding Sutcliffe?” Lucifer asked.
Devil nodded. “Highly unlikely, I should think.”
“So what we have is a nobleman with no explainable connection to Sutcliffe being left a disguised but sizeable fortune in his will.” Michael paused, then added, “There has to be a reason.”
“Indeed,” Devil said. “And while we know the Portuguese are attempting to suppress something in Sutcliffe’s past, and can surmise they might wish to permanently silence Caro, there’s the possibility the attempts on her life stem from something quite different.”
“Like Sutcliffe’s treasures.” Lucifer rose. “We need to learn what the connection between Sutcliffe and Breckenridge was with all speed.”
“Caro knows what it is.” Michael rose, as did the others; he glanced at them. “I’ll go and ask.”
Devil clapped him on the shoulder as they turned to the door. “If it’s anything potentially damning, let us know.”
Michael nodded.
Lucifer opened the door—just as Honoria swept up. She halted in the corridor, her hazel eyes noting each one.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Her tone was all grande dame. “And what have we here?”
Devil smiled. “There you are.” Surreptitiously, he prodded Michael in the back.
Michael moved forward, through the door; Honoria stepped back, allowing him into the corridor.
Devil efficiently ushered Gabriel and Lucifer through the doorway—into freedom. “I was just on my way to tell you our news.”
Michael glanced back as he, Gabriel, and Lucifer retreated down the corridor; the look on his sister’s face was disbelieving in the extreme.
Her “Indeed?” was incredulous.
As they turned into the front hall, they heard Devil’s answering purr, “Come in, and I’ll tell you.”
They could imagine Honoria’s “Humph!” but an instant later, they heard the click of the study door closing.
Pausing on the front steps, they exchanged glances.
“I wonder how much he’ll tell her,” Lucifer mused.
Gabriel shook his head. “That’s one question on which I wouldn’t like to wager.”
Michael agreed; with a grin, he saluted them, then strode down the steps and headed for Upper Grosvenor Street. Turning his thoughts to his mission, his grin faded.
“Breckenridge.” Michael stood before Caro, his face impassive as he looked down at her.
She blinked up at him. She was seated in an armchair in the parlor, one of Camden’s diaries in her hands. About them the house was peaceful, basking in the late afternoon sunshine.
He read her surprise in her eyes—she didn’t try to hide it. He’d walked in, nodded a greeting, shut the door, and baldly said, “Breckenridge.”
Some of the tension eased from his shoulders. Glancing around, he moved to the armchair facing her.
The last time she’d seen his face, it had been dawn and his expression had been slack with sated passion. Calmly shutting the diary, she inquired, “What about Timothy”?“
Her use of the name touched a nerve, but Michael suppressed his reaction. Grimly stated, ‘You said Breckenridge was an old and trusted friend of Camden’s, that their association stretched back to when Breckenridge was a child.“ He met her gaze. ”What was the basis of the connection?“
She raised her brows, waited…
It was like a shield being reluctantly lowered; she could almost sense his deliberation, the subsequent conscious submission.
“We were checking the bequests in Camden’s will.” He explained the information Gabriel and Lucifer had gathered, Devil’s report on Ferdinand’s movements, and his own lack of success in learning what it was the Portuguese were after, or why.
She listened without comment, but when he outlined their reasoning that the attempts on her life might in some way stem from Camden’s collection, she went to shake her head, then stopped.
He saw, waited, then raised a brow
back.
She met his gaze, then inclined her head. “While I can’t dismiss the notion that someone might be motivated by a piece in Camden’s collection, I can and do assure you that I can be absolutely certain Breckenridge is not in any way involved—either in anything illicit to do with Camden’s collection or with the attempts on my life.”
He studied her face, searched her eyes, then somewhat bleakly asked, “You trust him that much?”
She held his gaze, then reached out, threaded her fingers through his and squeezed. “I know it’s not easy for you to accept or understand, but yes, I know I can trust Breckenridge that much.”
A long moment passed. She saw in his eyes his decision to accept her reassurance. “What,” he asked, “is or was the nature of the connection between Camden and Breckenridge?”
“It’s ‘is’—the connection continues. And while I know what it is, I’m afraid, much as I wish to”—she let her eyes show how much she wished, that it wasn’t because she didn’t or wouldn’t trust him that she felt forced to say—“I can’t tell you. As you’ve discovered, the connection is a secret, concealed from the world for a multitude of good reasons. It’s not my secret to share.”
She watched as he digested her answer… and decided he had to accept it. Had to respect the confidence she wouldn’t break, even for him. Had to trust her to be right.
Refocusing on her eyes, he nodded. “All right—it’s not Breckenridge, then.”
Her heart swelled; she hadn’t realized his simple acceptance would mean so much, yet it did.
She smiled.
He sat back in the chair, slowly smiled in return. “Where have we got to with the diaries?”
She couldn’t simply change her mind and say yes, she would marry him. Not after last night and all she now understood of both herself and him.
They sat in the parlor a few feet apart and read more of the diaries; while part of her mind followed Camden’s accounts of social gatherings, the rest followed a different tack.
Ever since she’d woken that morning, languorous and exhausted in the rumpled disaster of her bed, she’d been reassessing, reevaluating— hardly surprising given the tectonic shift in the landscape between them that the night had brought. That Michael had wrought. Quite deliberately.
She’d tried to tell herself he hadn’t meant it. That he couldn’t really not care.
One glance at the bruises circling her thighs, the lingering evidence of the intensity that had gripped him, had brought the power that drove him, that when they were together caught her and drove her, too, forcibly to mind.
She’d felt it, experienced it, recognized it; she knew it wasn’t fabricated or false. Indeed, gripped by it, it was impossible to be false, to play false, not between them. She believed in it—that between them that power existed, simply was. Replaying his words, the fervor, the certainty with which he’d made his declarations, she’d come to believe in them, too.
He’d made no subsequent reference to his decision. It seemed to have become a part of him; he clearly felt no need to try to convince her further. He’d told her all he needed to. All he had to.
All she needed to know.
Glancing up, she watched as he turned a page and continued reading. For a long moment, she studied his face, him, drank in his strength, the reliability and steadfastness that was so much a part of him one hardly noticed, then looked down.
There was still something missing in their equation. She and he were in unknown territory; neither had been this way before. She didn’t know what it was that had yet to manifest between them, yet her instincts, instincts she was too experienced to ignore, assured her there was something more. Something they yet lacked that they needed to have, to find, to secure if their relationship, the relationship they both wanted and needed, was to thrive.
That last was now her aim. By freeing her to make her own decision, he’d given her the opportunity to get everything right. More, he’d revealed how important it was to him that their relationship was strong and well founded.
So she wouldn’t let herself get swept away—she would grasp the chance he’d created. She’d wait and keep searching until she found that vital piece; he’d given her the strength to stand against the tide.
—
They’d gone down to report to Magnus and were climbing the stairs to change for dinner when Hammer strode into the hall. Glancing up, he saw them.
“Mrs. Sutcliffe.”
They halted on the landing. With stately tread, Hammer ascended, then, bowing, proffered his salver. “A lad delivered this to the back door. No reply required, I gather, for he disappeared without a word.”
“Thank you, Hammer.” Caro took the note; her name was printed on it. As Hammer retreated, she unfolded the single sheet.
She glanced at the contents, then held it up so Michael could read over her shoulder. She scanned the words more carefully, then exhaled. “Someone from the Portuguese embassy, do you think?”
Michael considered the careful clerkish script and the phrasing— diplomatic formal.
Should Mrs. Sutcliffe wish to learn the reason behind the recent strange events, she is invited to meet with the writer at her Half Moon Street house tonight at eight o’clock. Provided Mrs. Sutcliffe comes alone, or with only Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby as escort, the writer is willing to reveal all they know. If, however, more people are present, the writer cannot undertake the risk of coming forward and speaking.
The note concluded with the customary formal Yours, et cetera, but unsurprisingly was unsigned.
Caro lowered the sheet and looked at him.
He took the note, folded it, and tucked it into his pocket. “Yes, I agree—it sounds like a foreign aide.” He met her eyes. “Sligo, Devil’s majordomo, has been quietly putting the word about that we’re looking for information.”
“And here it is.” She held his gaze. “We are going, aren’t we? One foreign aide in my house—that’s no great risk, surely?”
Expression impassive, Michael waved up the stairs. Caro turned and went; he grasped the moment to consider his response.
Instinct was pulling him one way, experience and Caro’s common-sense assessment in another. Aside from all else, it was already after seven o’clock; if he alerted any of the Cynsters, it was unlikely they could take up any position covertly before eight.
And if instead they were seen… no more than Caro did he believe their would-be informant would appear. Diplomatic games had rules like any other; a show of trust was essential.
They gained the top of the stairs. Caro halted and turned to him. He met her gaze, read her question, curtly nodded. “We’ll go. Just you and me.”
“Good.” She looked down at her flimsy day gown. “I’ll need to change.”
Consulting his watch, he nodded. “I’ll go and tell Magnus what’s happened and what we’re doing. I’ll be in the library when you’re ready.”
At twenty minutes before eight o’clock, a hackney set them down before the Half Moon Street house. Climbing the steps, Michael glanced up and down the street. It was long enough, the area fashionable enough that even in summer at that hour there were carriages drawn up before houses and others rattling past.
There were gentlemen lounging against railings, chatting, others strolling, some alone. Any carriage, any stroller, could be their man; it was impossible to tell.
Caro opened the front door; Michael followed her into the hall, reminding himself to rein in his protectiveness. Whoever arrived to meet them most likely wouldn’t be a threat, not unless this was some kind of trap.
Recognizing the possibility, he’d grasped the few minutes he’d spent with Magnus to refine a plan and put it into action. Sligo, Devil’s sometime batman, now his majordomo, had ways, means, and experience beyond that of most servants; Michael hadn’t hesitated to send for him. He would arrive close to eight and keep watch from outside; even if they saw him, no one would imagine the slight, unprepossessing man was of any consequence.<
br />
As for inside the house… Michael tightened his grip on the head of his cane; the blade concealed within was rapier sharp and well honed.
Caro opened the double doors into the drawing room.
He followed her inside, saw her crossing to the windows. “Leave the curtains closed.” It was still full light outside. “Whoever it is won’t want to risk being glimpsed.”
Caro looked at him, then nodded. Going instead to the sideboard, she lit two three-armed candelabra. The flames flared, then settled, casting warm light across the room. Leaving one candelabra on the sideboard, she carried the other to the mantelpiece. “There—at least we’ll be able to see.”
It wasn’t that dark, but the candlelight was comforting.
Michael glanced around, struck again by the sense that the house was a shell, prepared and waiting to be used as a home. He glanced at Caro—
A grinding groan—the scrape of wood against stone—reached them.
Caro’s eyes flared. Then puzzlement filled her face. “That’s from downstairs,” she hissed.
His face leaching of expression, he turned and went back into the hall. Pushing through the swinging door at the end, he considered— fleetingly—ordering Caro to go back and wait in the drawing room. Recognized the futility; standing there arguing wouldn’t help. Besides, she might well be safer with him.
The corridor beyond the door was narrow and dim; it was relatively short, ending in a ninety-degree turn to the right. Faint scuffling came from beyond the turn. Treading carefully, silently, he went on.
Caro’s hand touched his back; reaching past him, she pointed to the right, then walked her fingers down… stairs lay immediately around the corner. He nodded. He considered drawing his swordstick, but the sound would carry in the enclosed space, and if the kitchen lay down the stairs… a naked rapier in close confines might be more dangerous than helpful.
Tightening his grip on the cane, he halted at the corner; the sounds below had resolved into definite footsteps.
Reaching back with one hand, he found Caro; stepping out onto the landing beyond the corner, he simultaneously held her back.
The Ideal Bride (Cynster Novels) Page 40
