The Ideal Bride

Chapter 17

Caro slid her key into the lock on the front door of the town house in Half Moon Street. “Our old housekeeper, Mrs. Simms, comes in twice a week to air and dust so all will be ready should I wish to return.”

Michael followed her into an airy hall tiled with black, white, and ochre mosaics, flecks of gold glinting in the veined marble. In returning to town, Caro hadn’t elected to come here; apparently she hadn’t considered it. Closing the front door, he glanced around as she paused in an archway he assumed led to the drawing room. The double doors were open; she cast a comprehensive glance within, then moved on to the next door, opened it, and looked in.

Noting the quality of the oak wainscoting, the side tables, and the huge mirror gracing the hall, he stolled up and looked over Caro’s head, and felt his eyes widen. The room was the dining room; it contained a long mahogany table with the most wonderful glowing sheen, and a set of chairs even his less than expert knowledge labeled as antiques—French; he couldn’t guess the period, yet their value was obvious.

He followed as Caro flitted from room to room; every item he saw was museum-quality, even the ornaments and fittings. Yet the house was neither cluttered nor cold and off-putting. It was as if it had been created with incredible love, care, and a superb eye for beauty, and then, for some reason, barely used.

As he climbed the sweeping staircase behind Caro, he realized Edward had been right; the house and its contents were highly valuable__

something someone could conceivably kill for. He caught up with Caro at the top of the stairs. “The will first.”

She glanced at him, then led the way down a corridor.

The room she turned into had clearly been Camden’s study. While she went to the wall behind the desk, swung aside a painting—one that looked suspiciously like an old master—to reveal a large wall safe, and set about carefully unlocking it, he lounged in the doorway and looked around. Tried to imagine Camden here. With Caro.

Less overtly masculine than most studies were, the room testified to a sense of balance and taste; as in the other rooms, all the furniture was antique, the fabrics sumptuous. He examined, considered, conscious once again of not being able to get a clear picture of the relationship between Camden and Caro.

He’d seen them together on a number of occasions, diplomatic soirees, dinners, and the like. He’d never suspected that their marriage had been nothing more than a facade. He now knew it had been, yet here in the house Caro had told him Camden had created over the years of their marriage, essentially for her…

A folded parchment in her hand, she shut the safe, locked it, and swung the painting back into place; watching her cross the room, Michael inwardly shook his head. Camden may have created the house, but it was Caro’s—it suited her to the ground, the perfect showcase for her and her manifold talents.

The instant the thought formed, he knew it was true, yet if Camden had cared enough to pour such a lot of himself—not just money but so much more—into creating this masterpiece for her, why had he left her untouched? Physically at least, unloved?

And given his attentions to a mistress instead?

Straightening, he took the thick sheaf Caro held out to him.

“It won’t fit in my reticule.”

He managed to tuck it into his inside coat pocket. “I’m not a legal expert—would it worry you if I got it examined by one, just to make sure there’s no strange twist we can’t see?”

She raised her brows, but nodded. “That might be wise. Now”— she pointed further down the corridor—“Camden’s papers are along here.”

To his surprise, she didn’t lead him into another room, but instead stopped before a pair of double doors, a cupboard built into the corridor wall.

Caro set the doors wide, revealing shelves of linens and towels, all neatly stacked. The two halves of the cupboard were separate sets of shelves, like two bookcases abutting; reaching deep to the back of one shelf, she pressed the catch to release them—they swung open a little. “Stand back.”

Michael did, watching, amazed as she swung first one set of shelves, then the other wide, revealing a storeroom lined with shelves on which boxes of files lay neatly stacked.

Stepping back, she gestured. “Camden’s papers.”

Michael considered them, then glanced at her. “Lucky we brought two footmen.”

“Indeed.” He hadn’t understood when she’d requested them.

Turning, she led the way downstairs, through the back of the house, and down the garden path to open the back gate. Magnus’s largest carriage stood waiting in the mews beyond.

Michael took charge. An hour later, with the Half Moon Street house once again closed and locked, they returned to Upper Grosvenor Street and proceeded to unload the accumulated records of Camden Sutcliffe’s life.

Evelyn, a quiet but redoubtable lady whom Caro had met over dinner the previous evening, had suggested they store the papers in a small parlor on the first floor, not far from the main stairs in the central part of the mansion. “Safest,” Evelyn had opined. “There’s always some maid or footman traipsing about in sight of that door.”

Magnus had grunted, but agreed. The boxes, therefore, were carried upstairs and stacked neatly along one wall of the parlor, waiting for Caro to read through them. When the footmen finally retreated, their job done, she eyed the work before her and sighed.

Michael, shoulder propped against the doorframe, studied her. “Magnus would help at the drop of a hat.”

She sighed again. “I know, but in deference to Camden, if anyone is to read his diaries and private correspondence, it should be me. At least until we know if there’s anything of note in there.”

Michael studied her face, then nodded and straightened. Downstairs, a gong clanged.

Caro smiled. “Saved—I’ll start after lunch.”

Tucking a wayward strand back into her coiffure, she took his arm, let him draw her out of the room and shut the door.

Over luncheon, they studied the will. All of them read it, even Evelyn, as crochety as Magnus could be irrascible yet also shrewd and experienced in her way. None of them felt confident they fully comprehended the convoluted legal language enough to pass judgment.

“Best get an expert opinion,” Magnus said.

Caro graciously repeated her permission; Michael tucked the will back into his pocket.

Once the meal was ended, he accompanied her back to the parlor. They spent the next half hour rearranging the boxes into some semblance of order, then, the first box open at her feet, Caro sat in an armchair—and looked up at him. Raised a faintly amused brow.

He smiled. “No, I’m not going to stand here watching you read.” He tapped his chest; the will crackled. “I’m going to get this examined. I’ll ensure it’s done with absolute discretion.”

She smiled back. “Thank you.”

Still, he hesitated. When she again a raised a brow, he asked, “Will you do something for me?”

She searched his face. “What?”

“Stay here—safe inside. Promise me you won’t leave the house until I get back.”

Her smile was gentle; she regarded him for a moment from steady silver eyes, then inclined her head. “I promise.”

He held her gaze for an instant longer, then saluted her and left.

He didn’t have far to go—just along Upper Grosvenor Street to where it fed into Grosvenor Square. He paced along the north side of the square, searching among the ladies, children, and nursemaids walking and playing in the central gardens, hoping to catch sight of familiar faces. In that he was disappointed. Reaching the imposing mansion in the center of the block, he went up the steps, praying the owners were in residence.

Fate smiled; they were.

It was Devil he asked to see.

Ensconced behind the desk in his study, his brother-in-law greeted him with raised brows and a devilish, faintly taunting smile. “Ho! I

thought you were engrossed in the hunt for a wife. What brings you here?“

“A will.” Michael tossed Camden’s will onto Devil’s desk and sank into one of the chairs facing it.

Sitting back in his chair, Devil considered the folded parchment, but made no move to take it. “Whose?”

“Camden Sutcliffe’s.”

At that, Devil looked up, met his gaze. After a moment of studying his face, he asked, “Why?”

Michael told him; as he’d expected, relating the attempts on Caro’s life was all it took to focus his powerful brother-in-law’s attention.

Devil picked up the will. “So the answer could lie in here.”

“Either in there, or in Camden’s papers. Caro’s going through the papers—I wondered if you could get your people to go over that”—with a nod, he indicated the will—“with a fine-toothed comb.”

He could have approached the firm of solicitors Magnus used, but those solicitors were as old as Magnus. Devil, on the other hand, Duke of St. Ives and head of the powerful Cynster clan, and thus constantly embroiled in dealing with all types of legal affairs, employed the very best of the up-and-coming legal fraternity. If any solicitors could identify a potential threat to Caro buried in Camden’s will, Devil’s would.

Flicking through the document, Devil nodded. “I’ll get them onto it immediately.” He grimaced, then refolded the will. “Makes one wonder what became of the English language.”

Laying the will aside, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper. “I’ll add a note to the effect we want the answer with all speed.”

“Thank you.” Michael rose. “Is Honoria in?”

A faint smile lifted Devil’s lips. “She is, and I’m sure your presence within her purlieu will by now have been reported.” He looked up at Michael and grinned. “She’s probably waiting to pounce the instant you leave this room.”

Michael raised his brows. “I’m surprised she hasn’t simply waltzed in.” It wasn’t like Honoria to stand on ceremony, and Devil had no secrets from her.

Devil’s grin only deepened; he looked down and wrote. “I think she’s trying to restrain herself from prying into your love life—the effort is probably killing her.”

With a laugh, Michael turned to the door. “I’d better go and relieve her.”

Devil raised a hand in farewell. “I’ll send word the instant I have any news.”

Michael left. Closing the study door, he headed back along the corridor to the front hall.

“I do hope”—his sister’s crisp, unquestionably duchessy tones reached him the instant he set foot on the hall tiles—“that you intend to come up and call on me?”

Michael swung around, looked up the grand staircase to where Honoria stood on the landing. He grinned. “I was on my way up.”

He took the stairs two at a time, then swung her into a hug, which she, smiling delightedly, returned.

“Now,” she said, releasing him and stepping back to look into his face. “Tell me your news. What are you doing back in town? Have you made an offer?”

He laughed. “I’ll tell you,.but not here.”

She took his arm and led him to her private sitting room. Swinging around, she sat in an armchair, barely waited for him to do the same before demanding, “Now tell me. All of it.”

He did; there was no point doing otherwise—any hint of evasion and she’d have pounced, and either wrung it out of him or out of Devil. The only information he omitted to mention, as he had with Devil, was the truth of Caro and Camden’s marriage. He didn’t specifically state that Caro Sutcliffe was the woman he’d set his heart on; he didn’t have to—Honoria made the connection with ease.

The news of the attempts on Caro’s life sobered her—Caro and she had once been close friends—but when he explained how they proposed to meet the challenge, she merely nodded. With three children whose welfare she supervised very closely, Honoria had too much on her plate these days to interfere. However…

“Bring her to afternoon tea.” Honoria considered, then said, “It’s too late today, but bring her tomorrow afternoon.”

Michael knew he could count on Honoria to take his side, to tactfully and covertly steer Caro toward accepting his proposal. He couldn’t wish for better support, but… it was a support that had better be informed. “I’ve asked her to marry me—she hasn’t yet agreed.”

Honoria’s brows rose. She blinked, then smiled, entirely compre-hending. “Then we’ll have to see what we can do to help her make up her mind.”

She stood. “Now come and do your penance—your nephews and niece are in the schoolroom.”

With a smile, he rose, prefectly willing to pay her price.

Late July in London might be warm and muggy; it was, however, relatively free of unavoidable social engagements. Consequently, they gathered over the dinner table enfamille—Caro, Magnus, Evelyn, and he; over the meal, they revisited the facts and refined their strategy.

“I’ve started on Camden’s diaries.” Caro grimaced. “He was incredibly detailed in his observations—it’s perfectly possible he might have seen and noted something that someone might now deem dangerous.”

“Slow going?” Michael asked.

“Very. I’ve started from when he first took up his post as ambassador to Portugal—that seemed the most sensible place to start.”

“What about his letters?”

“I’ll go through them later, if I find nothing in the diaries.”

Michael was aware that Magnus was restraining himself from demanding to help with the letters; he briefly described his visit to Devil Cynster, and Devil’s agreement to get his solicitors to examine the will.

“There must be something else you can do.” From under beetling brows, Magnus looked at Michael.

Faintly smiling, Michael glanced at Caro. “The Portuguese are firm suspects—it seems likely Leponte was behind the burglary at Sutcliffe Hall. We know he searched Bramshaw House. I think it would be wise to discover if he, or any of his family, have come up to town.”

“And if they haven’t,” Magnus growled, “we need to set a watch.”

“Indeed.” Michael returned his gaze to Caro. “We need to pool our sources—what’s the best way to learn who among the Portuguese delegation are in London?”

They tossed around names of aides and other officials in various capacities. Michael eventually assembled a short list. “I’ll do the rounds tomorrow morning and see what they can tell me.”

“It occurs to me”—leaning on one elbow, her chin propped in her hand, Caro studied him from across the table—“that between us, we have numerous contacts in diplomatic and political circles we could exploit—not officially so much as socially. They might be able to help us, not just with news of who is in town, but with memories and also with current changes, any shifts in power in Portugal or elsewhere.”

She glanced at Magnus. “We have no idea how far back the connection with Camden goes, nor do we know why it’s suddenly assumed importance.” She looked back at Michael. “Someone might know more, although how we’re to approach the issue I can’t yet see.”

Magnus was nodding his shaggy head. “A sensible way forward, even if you can’t yet see precisely how it might help. The first thing you need to do is let it be known you’re back in town.”

“Given it’s midsummer, the circles are smaller and correspondingly more elite.” Caro tapped the table. “It shouldn’t be hard to wave the flag, put ourselves about—learn what we can regarding the Portuguese, and at the same time explore any other avenues that offer.”

Michael studied her face, wondered if she’d realized why Magnus was so keen on them going about together among their social set. Yet it was she who’d suggested it. “Why don’t we meet again over lunch tomorrow and see how far we’ve-progressed, then we can make more definite plans to step back into the limelight.”

Evelyn pushed back her chair; using her cane, she got to her feet. “I’ll be out to both morning and afternoon teas tomorrow.” She smiled. “We might be old, but we know what’s what—and what’s going on, what’s more. I’ll take note of which hostesses are entertaining in the next few days.”

“Thank you.” With a smile, Caro rose, too. Going around the table, she linked her arm in Evelyn’s. “That would indeed help.”

Together she and Evelyn left for the drawing room and the tea trolley; in an hour or so, they’d retire to their rooms.

Michael, who had also risen, sat again. He waited for Hammer to set out the decanters, then filled Magnus’s glass and his. When Hammer had retreated and they were alone, he sat back, sipped, and looked speculatively at Magnus.

Perfectly aware, Magnus raised a shaggy brow. “Well?”

Michael savored his grandfather’s excellent brandy, then asked, “What do you know about Camden Sutcliffe?”

An hour and a half later, having helped Magnus to his room, Michael returned to his own—to undress, don his robe, and join Caro in hers. Pulling the gold pin from his cravat, he considered the picture

Magnus had painted of Camden Sutcliffe. Magnus had, of course, known Camden, but not well; Magnus was over eighty, more than ten years older than Camden, and although throughout his long political career Magnus had frequently been involved in diplomatic events, none of those had involved Portugal during Camden’s tenure.

Nevertheless, Magnus was a shrewd and acute observer; he’d painted Camden with a few deft strokes, leaving Michael with a clear vision of a gentleman born and bred, one who, like them, took his station for granted and saw no need to impress it on others. Camden, however, had been, as Magnus put it, exquisitely charming, a man who knew just the right degree of gloss to apply for whomever he was dealing with. A man who combined that lethal charm with a pleasant temperament and easy, well-bred manners in the service of his country—and of Camden Sutcliffe.

The picture Magnus had created was of a supremely self-centered man, but one who, simultaneously, had been a recognized patriot. A man who unstintingly put his country above all else, who held his service and loyalty to it inviolate, but who otherwise thought, first and last, of himself.

That vision fitted well with Caro’s revelation that Camden had married her solely for her hostessly talents. It sat well with Edward’s insights, too, and those Michael himself had gleaned over the years, not only from personal experience, but from Geoffrey, George Sutcliffe, and others who had known Camden well.

It did not, however, explain the house in Half Moon Street.

Michael shrugged on his robe, belted it. Inwardly shaking his head, putting aside the as yet inexplicable conundrum of Camden’s relationship with Caro, he opened his door and set out to join her.

Camden’s widow—his wife-to-be.

By lunchtime the next day, he’d learned that Ferdinand Leponte was in London. Returning to Upper Grosvenor Street, he joined the others about the luncheon table. Taking his seat, he glanced at Caro.

She caught his gaze. Her eyes opened wide. “You’ve learned something. What?”

He was surprised; he knew he wasn’t that easy to read. But he nodded, and told them his news. “Neither the duke, duchess, count, or countess are with him—apparently they’re still in Hampshire. Ferdinand, however, has left his yacht and the lure of the Solent in summer, and come up to London—he’s staying in rooms attached to the embassy.”

“When did he come up?” Magnus asked.

“Yesterday.” Across the table, Michael exchanged a glance with Caro.

She nodded. “Easy enough to call at Bramshaw House, ask for me, and learn I’d left for town.”

He reached for his glass. “I didn’t learn anything more of interest. Did you turn up anything?”

Caro grimaced and shook her head. “It’s all very colorful, but there’s no hint of anything nefarious—any item that could now be dangerous to know.”

They looked at Evelyn; she’d pulled a note from her pocket and was smoothing it out.

“I made a list of who’s entertaining tonight.” She passed it to Caro. “That should get you started.”

Glancing up from perusing the list, Caro smiled gratefully. “Thank you—this is perfect.” Across the table, she met Michael’s eyes. “Your aunt Harriet is giving a soiree this evening.”

Although nothing showed in his face, she was sure he was thinking of his last meeting with his aunt, and Caro’s subsequent encounter with Harriet. Harriet thought he was pursuing Elizabeth.

Caro smiled. “Quite obviously we should attend.”

A faint grimace crossed his face, but he inclined his head.

When they rose from the luncheon table and dispersed, Caro paused in the hall, tapping Evelyn’s note in her hand, planning.

Returning from helping Magnus back to the library, Michael found her there. Paused to take in her slender figure, erect, head high, her absorbed yet focused expression, before strolling to join her. “Are you heading back to the diaries, then?”

She glanced at him, smiled. “No—if we’re to plunge back into the whirl, I need new gloves and more stockings. I think I’ll go to Bond Street.” Fleetingly, she pulled a face. “I’ve had enough of Camden’s writings for one day.”

He could detect no sadness in her, yet would he? Would she let such a reaction show? He had no idea what manner of revelations Camden might have set down in his diaries.

“I’ll come with you.” The words, and his intention, were instinctive; he hadn’t needed to—didn’t need to—think.

She blinked at him. “You want to go to Bond Street?”

“No. But if that’s where you’re heading, then that’s where I’ll go.”

For what seemed like a full minute, she looked into his eyes, then a faint smile curved her lips; she turned to the stairs. “We may as well go now, but I’ll have to change.”

He stifled a sigh. “I’ll wait in the library.”

He was reading a treatise on the recent history of Portugal when she opened the library door and looked in. He rose; Magnus glanced up from his own researches, on much the same topic, grunted, and waved them off.

Joining Caro in the corridor, he ran an appreciative eye over the creation she’d selected, a gown in spotted voile of a delicate ice-blue. The vision of ice on a hot summer’s day flashed into his mind; his mouth watered. With a smile, she led the way back to the hall and the front door, transparently oblivious of the effect the sight of her swaying hips, clothed in such fantasy, was having on him.

When she paused by the door Hammer was holding open and, haloed by the sunshine outside, looked back at him, waiting, expectant, he hesitated—for one second toyed with the notion of inveigling her back upstairs… realized she wouldn’t immediately understand, that despite all they’d thus far shared, she didn’t yet truly comprehend the depth of his desire for her. She wouldn’t necessarily react accordingly, not immediately.

Dragging in a breath, forcing his features to relax into an expression of indulgent ease, he reached for her arm./‘The carriage should be waiting.“

It was; he handed her up, then sat beside her as they rattled through the streets. Bond Street wasn’t far; soon they were strolling arm in arm past the fashionable shops. Caro entered only two establishments—one for gloves, one for stockings. He waited on the pavement in both instances, giving mute thanks that she wasn’t one of those females who had to look through every shop she passed.

The street was far less crowded than during the Season. It was pleasant enough to walk along, nodding to this lady and that. The bulk of society was absent, cavorting in the countryside; those of the haut ton presently in town were there because they needed to be—because they were involved in one or other arm of government, or were essential players in some similar sphere.

Caro drew eyes, both male and female. She had a style that was elegant and exclusive—exclusively hers. Today the attention she attracted often resulted in recognition; many of the ladies currently in Bond Street were the more senior hostesses who regarded her as one of their own.

Parting from Lady Holland, the hostess of note they’d encountered, he arched a brow as Caro reclaimed his arm. “Just gloves and stockings?”

She smiled. “It was an obvious opportunity. If we’re to rejoin the pack, then these ladies are the first who need to know.”

“Speaking of obvious opportunities, I forgot to mention”—glancing down, he caught her eyes as she looked up inquiringly—“Honoria asked that I bring you to tea today. I gathered it was to be private—I think, entertainingwise, she’s lying low at present.”

Caro’s face lit. “I haven’t seen her—not to talk to—in years. Not since your parents died. I only glimpsed her a few times this last Season in the ballrooms—we never had a chance to really talk.” She met his eyes. “What’s the time?”

He pulled out his watch, consulted it; she peeked. Slipping it back into his pocket, he looked around. “If we stroll to the corner, then return to the carriage, we can go straight there—our timing will be perfect.”

“Excellent.” Settling her hand on his arm, she stepped out. “Let’s see who else we meet.”

Two more hostesses, then, to their surprise, Muriel Hedderwick appeared in their path.

“Caro.” She directed a nod Caro’s way, then looked at Michael.

He reached for her hand and bowed over it. Muriel returned his polite greeting, then turned to Caro.

“Have you come up for a meeting?” Caro knew Muriel rarely came to town for anything else.

“Indeed,” Muriel replied. “The Older Orphans’ Temperance Society. The inaugural meeting was yesterday. Our aim, of course…” She launched into an impassioned description of the society’s predictable aims.

Michael shifted; Caro pinched his arm. There was no point interrupting; Muriel would say what she would say. Any attempt to distract her would only prolong the exercise.

Muriel’s eloquence finally ended. She fixed her gaze intently on Caro. “We’re holding a steering committee meeting tonight. As you’re now residing in England, I should think it’s the sort of association to which you would wish to devote some of your time. I would most strongly urge you to attend—the meeting will be held at eight o’clock.”

Caro smiled. “Thank you for the invitation—I’ll make every effort to attend.” From experience she knew this was a case in which a simple prevarication worked to everyone’s advantage. If she demurred and said she was already committed elsewhere, Muriel would feel compelled to argue her case until Caro broke down and agreed to attend. She made a mental note to make her excuses when next they met.

She felt Michael’s gaze, pressed his arm to keep him silent. Smiled at Muriel.

Who nodded, as haughty as ever. “We’re meeting at Number Four, Alder Street, just past Aldgate.”

Michael inwardly frowned; he glanced at Caro—she wouldn’t know London all that well, not beyond the fashionable areas.

She confirmed that by smiling and inclining her head. “I’ll hope to meet you and the rest of your committee there.”

“Good.” With another firm nod and a regal glance his way, Muriel made her good-byes.

He suppressed an impulse to tell her that if she was going to Aldgate, she should take a footman—a burly one—with her; Muriel would consider the comment unforgivably presumptuous.

He waited until she was out of earshot to murmur, “You’re not attending any meeting near Aldgate.”

“Of course not.” Caro retook his arm; they strolled on. “I’m sure the steering committee is full of eager and interested members—they’ll manage perfectly well without me. But Muriel’s obsessed with her societies and associations—she doesn’t seem to appreciate that others aren’t as interested, at least not to the same extent as she.” She smiled up at him. “But each to her own.”

He met her gaze. “In that case, let’s go to tea.”

Much more frivolous than a temperance society meeting—also much more relaxing.

They sat not in the formal drawing room but in a beautiful sitting room that gave onto the back terrace of the mansion in Grosvenor Square, drank tea, consumed cakes and scones, and caught up with the past.

Within seconds of taking Honoria’s hands and being pulled into a warm embrace, Caro felt as if the years had, if not fallen from them, then been bridged. Honoria was three years older than she; throughout childhood they’d been firm friends. But then Honoria and Michael’s parents had been killed in a tragic accident; the event had parted Caro and Honoria, not only physically.

They had been—still were, Caro suspected—alike in many ways; if Honoria had been and still was the more assertive, she was the more assured, the more confident in herself.

She had remained in Hampshire, the much-loved youngest daughter of the happy household at Bramshaw House—until she’d been swept off her feet into her marriage with Camden. While Honoria had been very much alone, she, catapulted into the highest echelons of society, had been wrestling with hostessly demands that had initially been well beyond her years. She had coped; so had Honoria.

While Honoria glossed over the years she’d spent with distant relatives in the shires, virtually alone in the world but for Michael, Caro was quite sure those years had left their mark, as the accident itself must have done. Now, however, there was not the faintest vestige of cloud to be found in Honoria’s eyes; her life was full, rich, and transparently satisfying.

She had married Devil Cynster.

Over the rim of her cup, Caro glanced at the lounging presence talking with Michael; they had taken chairs opposite the chaise where she and Honoria sat. It was the first time she had seen Devil beyond a glimpse.

Within the ton, the name Cynster was synonymous with a certain type of gentleman, with a certain type of wife. And while Honoria certainly fitted the mold of a Cynster wife, Devil Cynster, from all she could see and all she had heard, was the epitome of the Cynster male.

He was large, lean, harsh featured. There was very little softness about him; even his eyes, large, heavy lidded, a curious shade of pale green, seemed crystalline, his glance hard and sharp. Yet Caro noted that every time his eyes rested on Honoria, they softened; even the austere lines of his face, of his lean lips, seemed to ease.

Power was his—he’d been born to it, not just physically but in every imaginable way. And he used it; that Caro knew beyond doubt. Yet talking to Honoria, sensing the deep, almost startlingly vibrant connection carried in shared glances, in the light touch of a hand, she sensed—could almost feel—that another power ruled here. That just as Honoria seemed to have surrendered to it, so, too, had Devil.

And they were happy. Deeply, powerfully content.

Caro set down her cup, reached for another scone, and asked Honoria who else was in town; Honoria had confirmed that Michael had explained the real reason for their presence in the capital. “In order to learn whatever we can, we must make an effort to be seen.”

Honoria raised her brows. “In that case, Therese Osbaldestone came up two days ago. A select gathering has been summoned to attend her tomorrow for morning tea.” She grinned. “You should come with me.”

Caro met Honoria’s eyes. “You know perfectly well she’ll pounce on me and lecture me. You’re just trying to divert her attention.”

Honoria opened her eyes wide, spread her hands. “Of course. What are friends for, after all?”

Caro laughed.

Devil and Michael rose; she and Honoria turned to view them inquiringly.

Devil grinned. “I’ll return your late husband’s will. While my people couldn’t find anything significant in it, there are a number of matters I need to clarify with Michael, so if you’ll excuse us, we’ll retire to my study.”

Caro found herself smiling and inclining her head—even while her mind retreaded his words and found no request for permission in them. But by then, the door was closing. Looking at Honoria, she raised a quizzical brow. “Tell me—were those ‘matters’ to be clarified to do with the will, or something else entirely?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Devil and Michael share other interests; however, I, too, suspect those matters are most likely questions about Camden’s will.” Honoria shrugged. “No matter. I’ll get it out of Devil later, and you can drag the information from Michael.

Rising, she waved Caro up. “Come—I want to show you the other half of my life.”

Caro rose. The doors to the terrace were open; she could hear the shrill laughter of children playing on the lawns beyond. Linking her arm in Honoria’s, she strolled with her outside. “How many?”

“Three.”

The satisfaction and deep happiness that rang in Honoria’s voice slipped under Caro’s guard, and touched her. She glanced at Honoria, but she was looking ahead. Love and pride glowed in her face.

Caro followed her gaze to where three children romped on the lush lawn. Two brown-haired young boys held wooden swords; under the watchful gaze of two nursemaids, they were staging a fight. One of the nursemaids juggled a toddler, a dark-haired poppet, on her knee.

Honoria steered her down the steps. “Sebastian—sometimes known as Earith—is nearly five, Michael is three, and Louisa is one.”

Caro smiled. “You have been busy.”

“No, Devil’s been busy—I’ve been occupied.” Not even her laughter could disguise Honoria’s joy.

The dark-haired poppet saw them and waved chubby arms. “Mama!”

The demand was imperious. They walked that way, then Honoria lifted her daughter into her arms. The child cooed—literally—wrapped her arms about her mother’s neck, and snuggled her curly head onto Honoria’s shoulder. Her wide, pale green eyes, impossibly long- and lushlylashed, remained fixed—openly inquisitive—on Caro.

“Contrary to all appearances”—Honoria squinted down at her daughter—“this is the dangerous one. She’s already got her father wrapped about her little finger, and when her brothers aren’t busy fighting each other, they’re her knights to command.”

Caro grinned. “A very sensible young lady.”

Honoria chuckled, gently jigging Louisa. “She’ll do.”

At that moment, a wail rent the air. “Oowww! You did that on purpose!”

All eyes deflected to the would-be swordsmen; they’d progressed further down the lawn. Michael was rolling on the grass holding his knee.

Sebastian stood over him, a scowl on his face. “I didn’t hit you there—that would be a foul blow. It was your own silly sword—you stuck yourself with the hilt!”

“Didn’t!”

The nursemaids hovered, unsure whether to intervene, given that their charges had not yet come to blows.

Honoria took one look at her eldest son’s face—and untangled Louisa and thrust her into Caro’s arms. “Here—hold her. Any minute now a deadly insult is going to be uttered—and then it’ll have to be avenged!”

Left with no option, Caro hefted Louisa, a warm, resilient bundle, into her arms.

Honoria walked quickly down the lawn. “Hold hard, you two! Let’s just see what’s going on here.”

“Prrrt.”

Caro refocused on Louisa. Unlike her behavior with Honoria, the little girl sat up in Caro’s arms and stared into her face.

“Prrrt,” she said again, chubby fingers not very steadily pointing to Caro’s eyes. Then the tiny fingers touched her cheeks. Louisa leaned close, peering at first one eye, then the other.

She clearly found them fascinating.

“You, my sweet, have very pretty eyes, too,” Caro informed her. They were her father’s eyes, yet not—a similar shade, yet softer, more beguiling… oddly familiar. Caro searched her memory, then realized. She smiled. “You have your grandmother’s eyes.”

Louisa blinked at her, then lifted her gaze to Caro’s hair. A huge, delighted smile wreathed Louisa’s face. “Prrrtttt!”

She reached for the corona of frizzy golden brown; Caro tensed to feel a tug—instead, the tiny hands touched gently, patting, then lacing lightly through. Louisa’s face filled with wonder, big eyes wide as she stiffened her pudgy fingers and drew strands free, marveling…

Caro knew she should stop her—her hair was wayward enough as it was—yet… she couldn’t. She could only watch, her heart turning over, as the little girl explored, curious and enthralled.

The wonder of discovery lit the small, vivid face, glowed in her eyes.

Caro fought, tried so hard to keep the thought from forming, but it wouldn’t be held down. Would she ever have a child like this—hold a child of her own like this—and witness again this simple joy, be touched by such open, innocent pleasure?

Children had never been part of the equation of her marriage. Although she was close to her nieces and nephews, she’d rarely seen them as babies, or even as young children—she couldn’t recall carrying any of them, not even at Louisa’s age.

She hadn’t thought of children of her own—hadn’t allowed herself to; there’d been no point. Yet the warm weight of Louisa in her arms opened a well of longing she hadn’t until then realized she possessed.

“Thank you.” Honoria returned. “War has been averted and peace restored.” She reached for Louisa.

Caro gave her up, conscious of a reluctant tug—made all the stronger by Louisa, who made protesting noises and leaned back toward her until Honoria allowed her to place her little hands on Caros face and plant a damp kiss on her cheek.

“Prrttt!” Louisa said as, satisfied, she turned back to Honoria.

Honoria smiled. “She thinks you’re pretty.”

“Ah.” Caro nodded.

Bootsteps on stone had them looking toward the house; Devil and Michael had come out onto the terrace. The boys saw them; with whoops, they pelted past, swords waving, charging up to the terrace and male company.

Smiling indulgently, Honoria glanced back, checked that the nursemaids were gathering the scattered toys, then, Louisa in her arms, together with Caro started back up the gently sloping lawn.

As she paced alongside, Caro tried to rid herself of—or at least suppress—the thought that had taken up residence in her mind. Marrying just to have children was surely as bad as marrying just to gain a hostess. But she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at Louisa, secure and settled in Honoria’s arms.

The little girl’s eyes were wide, her gaze open, yet intent, not serious, yet seeing… Caro remembered again why those eyes seemed familiar. Old eyes, knowing eyes, ageless and all-seeing.

Drawing in a breath, she looked up as they reached the steps to the terrace. She murmured to Honoria as they ascended, “You’re right— she’s the dangerous one.”

Honoria only smiled. Her gaze fell on her eldest, standing by his father’s side, relating some tale of male significance. Michael was talking with his namesake. She made a mental note to give orders that they could have extra dessert tonight—and Louisa, too, of course.

She couldn’t have managed their recent scene better if she’d tried.