The Ideal Bride (71 page)

 
“He
was
surprised over what she’d done,” Lucifer amended, “but not surprised she’d finally done something.”

 
“He must have known how obsessed she was,” Gabriel said. “He was quick to take our points. He’s a quiet sort, but seems competent and decisive enough, and we left him in no doubt over what he needs to do to ensure our silence.”

 
“So he’s undertaken to keep her restrained?”

 
Gabriel nodded. “She’s immensely strong, and given her skills she’ll always be dangerous. Hedderwick has an isolated cottage on the Cornish coast he intends taking her to; she’ll be guarded night and day.”

 
Devil glanced at Caro. “The doctor intends to remain with Breckenridge overnight, just to make sure, but he felt certain that with time he’d recover fully.” He looked at Michael, raised a brow.

 
Michael nodded, winced, resettled his head carefully. “In the circumstances, we’ll need to consult with Breckenridge, and also with George Sutcliffe, but allowing any of this to become public is pointless.

 
Quite aside from tarnishing Camden Sutcliffe’s memory—and despite his personal shortcomings, his public service was exemplary—any formal proceedings will cause considerable anguish and difficulties for the other Sutcliffes, and even more for the Danverses.“

 
He glanced around the circle; no one argued. He nodded. “It’s a sorry enough tale as it is—best we end it here.”

 
They all agreed, drained their glasses, then, reassured that all was as well as could be, took their leave.

 
Michael woke in the night, in the small hours when the world lay blanketed and asleep. About him, the huge old house lay silent and still; he rested warm beneath soft covers, Caro curled against his side.

 
He smiled, felt relief and quiet joy spread through him. Realized his head had stopped throbbing. Reaching up, he touched the bump, confirmed it still hurt if touched, but otherwise was bearable.

 
Beside him, Caro stirred. She seemed to realize he was awake; lifting her head, she peered into his face, then blinked her eyes wide. “How are you feeling?”

 
He’d barely made it to her room before collapsing; she’d helped him undress and crawl beneath the covers—he’d fallen asleep the instant his face touched the pillow. “Much better.” He studied her face, put out a hand to stroke her hair, smiled. “Your tonic worked.”

 
Her look said “I told you so,” but she refrained from uttering the words. Instead, she searched his eyes, then, shifting further over, crossed her arms on his chest and settled to look into his face. “If you are properly awake and compos mentis, I wanted to ask you a question.”

 
He hid a frown; she seemed terribly serious. “I’m awake. What question?”

 
She hesitated, then drew a deep breath—he felt her breasts press into his chest. “How soon can we marry?” It came out calmly enough; she continued, “I’ve made my decision. I know what I want—there’s nothing more I need to wait for. That is,” she held his gaze, arched a brow, “assuming you still want to marry me.”

 
“You don’t have to ask.” He closed one hand over her waist—over her latest silk confection. He hadn’t yet seen it; he would—soon. “But…” He tried to stop himself questioning fate, yet he had to know. “What convinced you—brought on your decision?”

 
“You. Me.” She searched his eyes. “And seeing Muriel point a pistol at your head. That… opened my eyes—I suddenly saw things terribly clearly.” She paused, her eyes on his, then went on, “You’d convinced me that I should marry you, that being your wife was the right position for me, but I sensed some element was missing, some last vital thing.” Her lips twisted ironically. “I realized what was missing was me, or rather my decision itself. I had to, in Therese Osbaldestone’s words, ‘claim my courage and seize the day’ Until I did, until I knowingly accepted the risk and went forward, what’s grown between us couldn’t develop further.”

 
She shifted, her legs tangling with his. “Muriel and her threats brought home to me all I was risking by
not
deciding—by not taking the risk. Life is for living, not hating, but it’s not for wasting, either. You and I, we’ve both wasted years, but now we have a chance to go forward.”

 
She met his gaze openly, without any veil or shield. “Together we can build a family, fill the Manor with children and joy. And the Half Moon Street house, too—I could imagine living there with you, being your hostess, your helpmate to a much greater degree than I ever was with Camden.”

 
Her eyes were purest silver in the night. “Together, we’ve a chance to create our future as we want it to be. Whether what we feel will see us through…” She tilted her head. “It’s a risk, yes, but one worth taking.” Her lips lifted lightly as she refocused on his eyes. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take with you.”

 
He smiled, felt every last vestige of concern fall from him. “Thank you.” He closed his arms about her, held her close, felt her warmth sink to his bones. “We can be married as soon as you like—I’ve got a special license.”

 
Before she could think too much about that last, he bent his head, nudged hers up, and kissed her—a kiss that rapidly spun out of control, his or hers.

 
Several heated minutes later, she pulled back, gasped, “What about your head?”

 
“It’ll be fine,” he groaned, “if you’ll just”—throwing back the covers, he caught her knees, drew them up to his sides, adjusted beneath her, sighed and closed his eyes—“sit back.”

 
Caro did, smiling blissfully, exhaling slowly as she took him in.

 
And all was well. Very well.

 
* * *

 
They dealt with the last loose end of Camden Sutcliffe’s life the next morning. When they’d taken Timothy home the day before, Caro had retrieved Camden’s letters. Ferdinand called at eleven o’clock, armed with a list of dates; it was a simple enough matter to find the relevant letters.

 
Caro read them, confirmed they were not only what Ferdinand wanted but also seriously inflammatory; they dealt with a proposed coup to be led by the duke many years ago, a few months before Camden had been appointed ambassador to Portugal. Satisfied there was nothing in the letters to concern the present British government, she handed them to Ferdinand. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

 
He looked down at her, then smiled his winning smile. “Dear Caro, you are known too well for that. If I’d asked, you would have looked, and then you might have felt compelled to let someone in your Foreign Office know…” He shrugged. “It
could
have ended badly.”

 
Considering what she’d just read, she had to agree; for the duke, the stakes had been, and still were, high.

 
With smiles all around, Ferdinand shook hands and left.

 
She turned to Michael, raised a brow. “If you’re up to it, I’d like to visit Timothy. Given your views on my visiting his house, I imagine you would prefer to accompany me?”

 
Michael met her gaze. “You imagine correctly.”

 
They went, and found Breckenridge lying in bed, interestingly pale, very weak, but fully conscious—and not at all receptive to Caro’s fussing, let alone her tonic. Michael saw the desperate plea in Breckenridge’s eyes and took pity. Wincing as if from a headache, when Caro noticed he suggested that perhaps he needed to return home to rest.

 
She reacted as he’d expected with instant solicitude. Behind her back, Breckenridge rolled his eyes, but wisely remained mute.

 
Later in the afternoon, on his way to his club to meet with Jamieson, Michael looked in again on Breckenridge. This time, Timothy was propped up in bed; Michael lounged in the doorway.

 
Timothy eyed him, then faintly smiled. “I suppose I should thank you. I had no idea she was such an excellent shot.”

 
“So I assumed. But you can avoid doing violence to your feelings— I saved you because of Caro. Strange to tell, she seems to value you.”

 
Letting his head rest against his pillows, Timothy grinned. “Indeed.

 
Do bear that in mind for the future.“ He considered Michael, then added, ”Of course, you wouldn’t have saved me if you’d known in doing so you’d incapacitate yourself in the process.“

 
Michael didn’t smile. “I would never knowingly leave Caro unprotected.”

 
Timothy’s eyes glinted from beneath his heavy lids. “Just so.” His smile dawned.

 
Michael was sure they understood each other perfectly.

 
“So,” Timothy lifted a glass and sipped Caro’s cordial, grimaced, “why are you here?”

 
“To prey on your gratitude,” Michael replied. “This might well be the only chance I get.”

 
Brows rising, Timothy studied him, then waved him to a chair. “What do you want?”

 
Pushing away from the doorframe, Michael closed the door. Crossing to the chair, he turned it and sat astride; folding his arms along the back, he met Timothy’s eyes. “I want to know what the relationship between Caro and Camden was.”

 
Timothy’s eyes widened. “Ah…” He blinked, refocused on Michael. Hesitated, then said, “I presume you know…”

 
“That their marriage was unconsummated? Yes. What I want to know is why.”

 
Timothy smiled. “That, as it happens, is easy to explain—because the great Camden Sutcliffe, womanizer of the world, bit off more than he could chew.”

 
Michael blinked. Timothy explained, “Camden was a connoisseur of women. From the moment he set eyes on her, he lusted after Caro— not as she then was so much as for the potential he correctly identified, for what he knew she could become. On
all
levels. That was what drove him to marry her. However, Camden was very much aware he was forty years her senior; when it came to the sexual side of things, he became so anxious that he wouldn’t be able to satisfy her, or keep satisfying her, he couldn’t perform at all.”

 
Michael stared. “You’re sure of that?”

 
Timothy nodded. “He told me himself, years after they were wed. He simply couldn’t, not with her.”

 
Michael digested that, eventually again met Timothy’s eyes. “Did he love her?”

 
“I’m not sure Camden knew the meaning of the word ‘love,’ not as you use it—not as Caro would use it. He was devoted to her, but more in a sense of being obsessed with the aspects of her potential he could and did unlock. But love?” Timothy grimaced deprecatingly. “If Cam-den ever loved anyone other than himself, it would, I suppose, be me.”

 
Michael raised his brows. “Because you’re like him?”

 
Timothy inclined his head. “So he believed.”

 
Michael suspected that was another mistake Camden had made.

 
“I don’t think Caro ever knew his reason—I’d take an oath Camden never told her. He was a confusing man—selfless and devoted to his country, but in all things personal, utterly self-centered.” Timothy caught Michael’s gaze. “If I’d believed it would have helped, I’d have told Caro myself, but…”

 
His face hardened, but he didn’t look away. “The past can’t be changed—believe me, I know. It can only be laid to rest. That’s what Muriel wouldn’t accept.” His features eased, his lips curving. “Caro was always much wiser.”