The Ideal Bride (57 page)

 
Therese’s words had given her renewed purpose, making the likelihood of some entry buried in the accumulated papers being the reason behind the attempts on her life much more real. Her slow progress through the closely written diaries became increasingly frustrating.

 
Adding to that was a welling sense that the entire business of the attacks on her was merely a distraction, an irritating circumstance deflecting her from more important matters—such as what was happening between herself and Michael. Such as what she’d sensed and felt during her visit with Honoria, whether she should pursue the idea that had struck her with such force while holding Louisa.

 
All those things—ideas, concepts, and feelings—were new to her. She wanted to explore them, to think through them and understand, but solving the mystery of who was trying to kill her logically took priority.

 
Setting a diary on the pile beside her chair, she sighed; she looked at the row of boxes stacked along the wall. She’d finished two.

 
She needed help. Dare she summon Edward to town? He would come immediately; she could trust him to read Camden’s letters.

 
But
 
Elizabeth
 
would follow, of that she had no doubt, and that she would not allow.

 
Grimacing, she estimated how long it would take her to get through all the boxes. The answer was a depressing number of weeks. Again, she racked her brain for someone who could help, someone she could trust to go through Camden’s personal writings. There didn’t seem to be anyone…

 
“Yes, there
is
!” She sat up, enthused by the possibility that had popped into her mind. She examined it, developed it. Not the diaries— they contained highly personal comments and notes—but the letters… she could entrust those to him.

 
“Knowing him, he’s probably in town…”

 
She hesitated, then, chin firming, rose and tugged the bellpull.

 
“Good afternoon. Is Viscount Breckenridge in?”

 
The butler—she’d never met him before and didn’t know his name—blinked at her. Hesitated. “Ma’am?”

 
Caro handed over the card she had ready in her hand and walked in; the butler gave ground. “Take that to him immediately—he’ll see me.”

 
Glancing around, she spied the drawing room through an open door. “I’ll wait in the drawing room, but before you take my card up, please tell my footmen where they may store these boxes.”

 
“Boxes?” The butler whirled to face the front door; he goggled at the two footmen standing on the threshold, sturdy boxes in their arms.

 
“The boxes are for Breckenridge—he’ll understand once he’s seen me.” Caro waved the men in. “There are quite a few of them—if he has a study or a library, that might be the best place.”

 
The butler blinked, then drew himself up, and conceded. “His lordship’s study is this way.”

 
He went to show the footmen; smiling, Caro strolled into the drawing room. She looked around, then, pulling off her gloves, settled in a wing chair and waited for Timothy to join her.

 
Five minutes later, the door opened and Timothy Danvers, Viscount Breckenridge, strode in. “
Caro
? What’s happened?”

 
He paused, taking in her wide-eyed perusal of his thoroughly disarranged locks and the flamboyant silk dressing robe he’d transparently shrugged over hastily donned breeches.

 
Caro fought to keep her lips straight as she raised them to his narrowing hazel eyes. “Oh, dear—I seem to have called at an inopportune moment.”

 
His lips set, she was quite sure over a curse. Turning, he shut the door on his interested butler, then faced her. “What the devil are you doing here?”

 
She smiled, intending to calm him yet not quite able to keep the twinkle from her eye. He was thirty-one, three years older than she, and an extraordinarily handsome man, tall, broad shouldered, powerful but lean, with a face like a Greek god and grace to match; she’d heard him described as excessively dangerous to any female under the age of seventy. He wasn’t, however, dangerous to her. “I have a favor to ask, if you will.”

 
He frowned. “What favor?” He stalked forward, then abruptly halted and held up a hand. “First, tell me you arrived cloaked and heavily veiled, and had the sense to use an unmarked carriage.”

 
Again, she had to battle to keep a straight face. “No cloak or veil, but I did bring two footmen. They were necessary to carry in the boxes.”

 
“What boxes?”

 
“Camden’s letters.” She sat back, watching him study her. Then he shook his head as if shaking off a distraction.

 
“Your carriage?”

 
“It’s not mine—it’s Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby’s—but it is unmarked.”

 
“
Where
is it?”

 
She raised her brows, surprised. “Waiting in the street, of course.”

 
Timothy stared at her as if she’d grown two heads, then he cursed and strode to the bellpull. When his butler appeared, he rapped out, “Send Mrs. Sutcliffe’s carriage to await her in the mews.”

 
The instant the butler had departed, Timothy looked at her straitly. “It’s a damn good thing you never attempted to play Camden false.”

 
Haughtily she raised her brows; she was tempted to ask him how he knew she hadn’t.

 
He dropped into the other armchair and fixed her with a steady gaze. “Now cut line. Why have you brought Camden’s letters here?”

 
She told him; his face grew grimmer with every succeeding sentence.

 
“There must be someone I can wring information from…”

 
She didn’t like the look in his eyes, the set of his jaw. “No—you can’t.” The unequivocal statement brought his gaze to her face; she caught it, held it. “I, or Michael, or one of the Anstruther-Wetherbys or Therese Osbaldestone might, but not you. You have no business in and no connection with diplomatic circles. If you stalked in there, everyone would be instantly suspicious.”

 
She gave him a moment to digest that, then said, “I came to ask for your help, but I need from you something only you can give.” She waited a heartbeat, then went on, “Camden’s papers. The answer has to be in there somewhere, but I can’t—won’t—trust anyone else with them. You more than anyone else know why.”

 
Again, she paused, then, holding his gaze, continued, “I’ll read the diaries—they’re full of references only I, or maybe Edward or one of Camden’s previous aides, would understand. His letters are different— more specific, more formal, more clear.
You
are the only other person I would trust to read them. If you want to help, then read.”

 
He was very definitely a man of action, yet he was also, she knew, highly educated and intelligent. After a moment, he sighed, less than happy, but resigned. “We’re looking for reference to some politically illicit affair with the Portuguese—is that correct?”

 
“Yes. And from what Therese Osbaldestone said, it’s likely to be early in his tenure as ambassador, or possibly just before.”

 
He nodded. “I’ll start straightaway.” His gaze drifted upward.

 
She grimaced. “I’m sorry—I didn’t think. I’ve interrupted—”

 
“No. That’s not important. You and this are.” He grimaced. “And I could do without you thinking about what you interrupted.” His lips thinned; he fixed her with a severe glance. “I have one condition.”

 
She raised her brows. “What?”

 
“That under no circumstances will you call here again. If you want to see me, send word—I’ll come to you.”

 
She pulled a face. “Nonsense!” She rose, started to tug on her gloves. “I’m the Merry Widow, remember? The entire ton knows I don’t seduce that easily.”

 
She looked down at him. For a moment, he remained lounging in the armchair, looking at her, then he came to his feet.

 
Rapidly, in a movement so redolent with male power it—to her considerable surprise—had her breath tangling in her throat.

 
He ended standing very close, looking down into her eyes. His lips curved in a flagrantly predatory line. “The entire ton knows,” he purred, his voice seductively low, “that I don’t give up that easily.”

 
She remained, gaze locked with his, for a heartbeat, then she patted his arm. “I daresay. That, however, has nothing to do with me.”

 
Turning to the door, she heard him curse beneath his breath. She smiled. “You may now see me to my carriage.”

 
He muttered something unintelligible, but followed and opened the door for her. When she turned toward the front door, he caught her arm and swung her in the opposite direction. “If you insist on visiting one of the ton’s foremost rakes, you need to learn the correct procedure. Your carriage waits in the mews so no one will see you depart, or know when you do.”

 
She raised her brows, once more battling her smile. “I see.”

 
He led her along a corridor, then through the morning room onto a terrace and from there down the garden path to a gate set in the high stone wall at the rear of his property. Opening it, he glanced out, then drew her out and handed her straight into her carriage, waiting with its door aligned with the gate.

 
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 soiree 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.”