The Ideal Bride (49 page)

 
Satisfied he’d done all he could for the moment, Michael left to ride home and change out of his bedraggled clothes.

 
He returned two hours later, resolute and determined.

 
While riding home, then bathing and changing his clothes, calming Mrs. Entwhistle and Carter, eating a quick luncheon, then riding back to Bramshaw House, he’d had plenty of time to think without the distraction of Caro’s presence. Plenty of time not just to dwell on what might have been, but to draw some conclusions, firm enough for their purpose, and from that see ahead to how they should go on—what they needed to do to unmask whoever was behind what he now firmly believed were four attempts on. Caro’s life.

 
He walked into the parlor. Caro, recognizing his step, had already looked up, was already rising. Edward rose, too.

 
Elizabeth , still ensconced on the window seat, beamed a bright smile his way. Gathering her embroidery she got to her feet. “I’ll leave you to discuss your business.”

 
Sunnily assured, she swept out. He held the door, then closed it behind her. Turning, he looked—just looked—at Caro.

 
She waved and sat again. “I don’t want her to know and worry, and even less become involved, and she will if she knows, so I’ve told her you and I have some political business to discuss, and given the ambitions we all hold for Edward, that he should stay.”

 
Edward shot him a long-suffering look and resumed his seat.

 
Michael took the armchair opposite Caro. He wanted to be able to see her face; she was often difficult to read, but given the subjects they had to discuss, he wanted to catch as much as she let show.

 
“I think,” he said, glancing at Edward, “that we’re all in possession of the relevant facts?”

 
Edward nodded. “I believe so.”

 
Michael looked at Caro. “Do I take it you now accept that someone is intent on causing you harm?”

 
She met his gaze, hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

 
“Very well. The question we clearly have to answer is: Who would want you dead?”

 
She spread her hands. “I don’t have any enemies.”

 
“I’ll accept that you don’t know of any enemies, but what about enemies who aren’t motivated by personal connection.”

 
She frowned. “You mean via Camden?”

 
He nodded. “We know of the Duke of Oporto, and the interest he apparently has in Camden’s papers.” Michael looked at Edward, then back at Caro. “Can we agree that it’s possible there’s some hidden reason in whatever’s at stake there that the duke believes you know, that’s sufficient to convince him he needs to do away with you?”

 
Edward considered for only a moment, then nodded decisively. “A possibility, definitely.” He looked at Caro. “You must agree, Caro. You know as well as I do what’s at stake at the Portuguese court. Murder has, indeed, been committed for less.”

 
Caro grimaced; she glanced at Michael, then nodded. “Very well. The duke is one suspect—or rather, his minions.”

 
“Or, as it might be, Ferdinand’s minions.” His softly voiced correction drew a sigh, then a reluctant inclination of her head.

 
“True. So that’s one potential nest of vipers.”

 
His lips quirked, but only briefly. “Are there any other nests of that type?”

 
She met his gaze, then exchanged a long look with Edward.

 
It was Edward who finally answered, “I honestly don’t know of any.” His careful tone stated that that was the truth as far as he knew it, yet he was aware of the limits of his knowledge.

 
Michael watched Caro’s face closely as she turned to meet his gaze. She noticed, searched his eyes, then smiled—lightly, genuinely; she’d realized what he feared. “Nor I.” She hesitated, then added, “Truly.”

 
The directness in her gaze assured him that was indeed the truth. With some relief, he let go of the worry that she would feel compelled to conceal something she considered diplomatically sensitive even though it might be a potential source of threat to her.

 
“Very well. So we have no direct personal enemies, and only one known from the diplomatic front. Which leaves us with Camden’s personal life.” Sitting back, he caught Caro’s eye. “Camden’s will—what did you inherit under it?”

 
She raised her brows. “The house in Half Moon Street, and a reasonable fortune in the Funds.”

 
“Is there anything special about the house—could someone else covet it for some reason?”

 
Edward snorted. “The house is valuable enough, but it’s what’s
in
it that speaks to your question.” He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. “Camden filled it with antiquities and antique furniture and ornaments. The collection ranks as impressive, even among other collectors.”

 
Brows rising, jaw firming, Michael looked Caro. “In Camden’s will, was the house and its contents left to you outright, or on your death does it revert to his estate or go to someone else?”

 
She met his gaze, then blinked, slowly. Glanced at Edward. “I really can’t remember. Can you?”

 
Edward shook his head. “Other than that it went to you… I’m not sure I ever knew more.”

 
“Do you have a copy of the will?”

 
Caro nodded. “It’s in Half Moon Street.”

 
“With Camden’s papers?”

 
“Not in the same place, but yes, they, too, are in the house.”

 
Michael briefly considered the alternatives, then evenly stated, “In that case, I believe we need to return to London. Immediately.”

 
Chapter 16

 
In the end, the problem wasn’t convincing Caro to go, but convincing Edward to stay.

 
“If you don’t,” Caro warned, “then
 
Elizabeth
 
will come, too—even if I don’t take her, she’ll invent some excuse to come up and stay at Angela’s or Augusta’s. She has open invitations in case she needs to shop, and she now has sufficient acquaintances in town to convince Geoffrey to let her go up, no matter what we might say when we leave. So!” She paused for breath; arms folded, she halted in her pacing and looked sternly down at Edward, still seated in the chair. ‘You, Edward dear, must remain here.“

 
“I’m supposed to be your bloody secretary.” Edward’s jaw was set. He looked to Michael, something he had thus far managed not to do. “You must see my duty is to remain with her—it would be better if I come up to town and help you keep an eye on her.”

 
He doggedly refused to look at Caro, refused to notice her narrowing eyes.

 
Michael sighed. “Unfortunately, I agree with Caro.” He pretended not to see the startled look Caro threw him. “Given the potential danger, we really can’t have
 
Elizabeth
 
involved. She’s known as Caro’s niece; it’s obvious Caro is fond of her.” He paused, held Edward’s gaze. “As Caro’s secretary, it’s your job to aid her, and in this instance, strange though it may seem, you really can help best by keeping
 
Elizabeth
 
out of London.”

 
Edward’s determination wavered; Michael quietly added, “With the vital clue—whether it’s in Camden’s papers or in his will—in London, we cannot afford to give whoever’s been pursuing Caro an avenue through which to coerce her—we don’t need to give them any hostage to fortune.”

 
The prospect of
 
Elizabeth
 
as a hostage tipped the scales. Michael had known it would; he understood Edward’s dilemma, also his decision.

 
“Very well.” Distinctly grim, Edward conceded. “I’ll remain”—his lips twisted, briefly cynical—“and endeavor to keep
 
Elizabeth
 
distracted.”

 
Caro began packing immediately. Michael remained for dinner to assist in excusing her whirlwind departure, sans Edward, to Geoffrey.

 
As expected, once apprised of Michael’s intention to accompany Caro, having business to attend to in the capital himself, Geoffrey accepted the arrangement without quibble.

 
Michael took his leave as soon as the covers were drawn; he had to pack and ensure matters he’d expected to be at home to oversee were appropriately delegated. Caro, off upstairs to finish her own packing, saw him into the front hall. She gave him her hand. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”

 
Her fingers felt so delicate in his; raising her hand, he placed a quick kiss on them, then released her. “At eight. Don’t be late.”

 
She smiled a very feminine smile and turned for the stairs.

 
He watched her climb them, then walked out and around to the stables.

 
Three hours later, he retraced his steps.

 
Quietly. It was close to midnight; the house was dark, silent under the fitful shadows thrown by the large oaks along the drive. Staying on the grass, he skirted the forecourt, circling to the west wing and the room at its end.

 
Caro’s bedchamber. He’d learned its location on the day of her ball when she’d sent him traipsing through the house.

 
He’d finished packing an hour ago. He’d intended to go to bed and sleep; instead, here he was, slinking through the shadows like some lovelorn Romeo, and he wasn’t even sure why. He was hardly a callow youth in the throes of his first romance, yet when it came to Caro, the feelings she evoked left him, if not in quite the same giddy and reckless state, then certainly compelled to actions and deeds his rational, experienced brain knew to be rash—and potentially far too revealing.

 
That that knowledge held no power to stop him was a revelation in itself. The risk of revealing too much, of leaving himself exposed and therefore vulnerable, barely registered against his need to know, not logically or rationally but physically via the immediate fact, that she was safe.

 
After hauling her out of the currents of the weir, after discovering the neatly sawn posts, he wasn’t going to get any sleep unless she lay beside him under his hand.

 
Night, gently cool, engulfed the scene, settling, soothing; other than the rustle of some small creature foraging through the bushes, no sound disturbed the stillness. He’d left Atlas in the nearest paddock, left his saddle slung over the fence beneath a tree.

 
Rounding the west wing, he paused. Through the shadows, he studied the narrow balcony that the French doors of Caro’s room gave onto. The balcony served only her room; built above the parlor’s bay window, it could only be reached from this side.

 
He squinted at the wall to the left. His memory hadn’t lied; a creeper grew there, thick and old. The west-facing wall caught the sun; over the years, the creeper had grown to the roof—past the balcony.

 
Quitting the dense shadows beneath the trees, he carefully crossed the path circling the house. Picking his way through the plants in the garden bed, he reached the creeper.

 
The base was over a foot thick, gnarled and solid. He looked up at the balcony, then sighed, wedged his boot into a suitable fork, and prayed the creeper was strong enough to take his weight.