The Ideal Bride

Chapter 18

VV hat did Devil have to say about Camden’s will?“ Caro swiveled on the carriage seat so she could see Michael’s face.

He glanced at her, smiled faintly. “The house was left to you outright, in your name, and doesn’t revert to Camden’s estate or anyone else on your death—it would go to your heirs.”

She sat back. “My heirs… that’s Geoffrey, Augusta, and Angela, who definitely aren’t trying to kill me. So there’s no reason buried in Camden’s will for anyone to want me dead.”

“Not directly, no. However, there were an unusual number of bequests to unrelated individuals. Devil asked if you’d mind if he had two of his cousins quietly look over the legatees.”

She frowned. “Which cousins? And why?”

“Gabriel and Lucifer.”

“Who?”

Michael had to stop and think. “Rupert and Alasdair Cynster.”

Caro cast her eyes heavenward. “Such nicknames.”

“Appropriate, or so I’ve been told.”

“Indeed? And how are these two supposed to help us?”

“Gabriel is the Cynsters’ investment expert—no one within the ton has better contacts in finance, business, and banking. Lucifer’s interest is antiques, principally silver and jewelry, but his knowledge and expertise are wide.”

After a moment, she inclined her head. “I can see that in this case such talents might be useful.”

Michael considered her expression. “I didn’t think you’d mind, so I agreed on your behalf. Given Gabriel’s and Lucifer’s backgrounds, discretion is assured.” He caught her gaze. “Are you comfortable with that?”

Caro studied his eyes—and thought it more a question of whether such an investigation made him more comfortable. She’d accepted that someone—to her mind some nebulous person she’d never met— wanted her dead, presumably so she couldn’t relate something they thought she knew; she couldn’t see the house or any piece it contained as a likely reason for murder.

He, however, had without hesitation volunteered to brave the terrors of Bond Street. What had prompted his request that she didn’t leave his grandfather’s house without him wasn’t hard to guess. Never before had anyone so concertedly focused on her safety; she couldn’t help but be touched and grateful, even though to her mind pursuing the bequests would prove wide of the mark.

Smiling, she settled back against the seat. “If they wish to investigate discreetly, I can see no harm in that.”

That evening, she walked into Harriet Jennet’s salon on Michael’s arm. They hadn’t been invited, yet as a family member, Michael had permanent entree there; as a celebrated diplomatic hostess, Caro could claim the same.

She’d expected to detect at least mild surprise behind Harriet’s eyes; instead, Harriet greeted her with her usual hostessly aplomb touched, if anything, by faintly amused understanding. Seeing Caro arrive on her nephew’s arm had been precisely what she’d been expecting.

“Did you send word?” Caro pinched Michael’s arm as, leaving Harriet, they moved into the salon in which the creme de la creme of political society mingled.

He glanced at her. “Not I.”

She humphed. “Magnus, then. I was so looking forward to seeing Harriet blink. I don’t think anyone has managed that in years.”

They spent a pleasant evening circulating among the political elite, a milieu in which they both blended with ease. Her appearance with Michael undoubtedly raised questions, but among that crowd, no one would leap to any conclusions; they were who they were because they knew better than to make unwarranted assumptions.

At twelve, they returned to Upper Grosvenor Street, content to have so easily established their presence in London among the political crowd. Diplomatic circles were more varied; climbing the stairs by Michael’s side, Caro mulled over the most efficient way forward there.

Later, as was fast becoming habit, Michael joined her in her room, and in her bed. She found his continuing desire, his continuing hunger for her glorious and enthralling, yet amazing, too; she couldn’t bring herself even to consider, let alone believe, that it would last.

So she enjoyed it while she could, took all he offered and returned it fullfold. The liaison remained a source of wonder; it had happened so fast—her initial, unexpected trust in giving herself to him, and all that had followed so easily, so naturally from that. She still hadn’t come to grips with it, with what it meant, what she felt and why… it seemed as if she were another person, some other woman, when in his arms.

The following morning, Honoria took her up in her carriage and they went to call on Lady Osbaldestone at her daughter’s house in Chelsea.

The house was old, its terrace overlooking the river. The assembled ladies of the haut ton—all matrons or widows—sat in the sunshine, sipped tea, and spoke of their world.

It was, she had to admit, another perfect venue in which to advertise her return to the capital. Over wafer-thin sandwiches and biscuits, she informed the many who asked that she was presently residing with the Anstruther-Wetherbys in Upper Grosvenor Street.

The only difficult moment occurred, predictably, when Therese Osbaldestone cornered her.

“Honoria tells me you’re staying with that old fool, Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby.” Therese fixed her with a interrogatory look. “Now why is that?”

No one else would dare ask such a question in such an outrageous way. Then again, no one else would refer to Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby as “that old fool.” Caro gestured airily. “I was in Hampshire with my brother and had to come up to town—some matters to do with Camden’s estate. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby is our neighbor—as he was coming to town on business, he accompanied me.” Caro prayed her expression was as innocent as it needed to be. “As I haven’t opened up the Half Moon Street house, and Angela is still in the country, Michael suggested I stay in Upper Grosvenor Street.”

For a long moment, Therese Osbaldestone studied her, then both her brows rose. “Indeed? So there was nothing particular behind your appearing at Harriet’s last evening on Michael’s arm?”

Caro shrugged. “We were both interested in attending.”

One of Therese’s brows quirked higher. “I see.”

Caro greatly feared she might.

However, after another pregnant pause, she merely said, “Cam-den’s estate? I would have thought such matters had been resolved long ago.”

“There was a question over the individual bequests.” Caro wasn’t keen to invite further discussion; her tone made that clear.

Therese seemed to accept it; mildly, she said, “I was glad to see you about this last Season, glad you’re not about to hide yourself away. To my mind”—her black eyes trapped Caro’s—“you have no excuse not to use your talents and experience where they will do most good.”

Safety assuredly lay in silence; Caro kept mum.

Therese’s lips twitched. “Now tell me, who of the diplomatic crowd was gallivanting in Hampshire?”

Caro told her, mentioning her Midsummer Revels and the fading contretemps between the Prussians and the Russians. In her time, Therese Osbaldestone had been a premier hostess in diplomatic circles; her husband had been variously a Minister, an ambassador, and an elder statesman. He’d died over a decade ago, but Therese remained closely linked with diplomatic and political circles, as influential there as she was in the ton at large.

She had a soft spot for Caro, and Caro had one for her. They had always understood each other, understood the challenges of diplomatic life as those outside it could not. “And the Portuguese were there, too—just part of the legation. The ambassador is at Brighton, I believe.”

Therese nodded. “I know him only vaguely, but you must know that whole crew well.” She snorted reminiscently. “The Portuguese were forever Camden’s specialty, even before he took up his post there.”

“Oh?” Caro pricked up her ears. Therese was a contemporary of Camden’s.

“I don’t suppose you would have been told, but Camden was hand in glove with a veritable rabble of courtiers there. I always suspected they made him ambassador to force him to acquire some restraint in that regard—before he could get himself involved in anything regrettable.”

“Regrettable?” Caro gave her a look of unfeigned interest.

Therese shook her head. “I never knew any details—it was one of those things, an understanding running beneath a decision that one grasped without explanation or proof.”

Caro nodded; she understood what Therese meant. But Therese’s recollection was the first intimation they’d stumbled on that there could indeed be something in Camden’s past, in his papers, that some Portuguese might kill to suppress.

A chill touched her; she shivered.

“The breeze is rising—come inside.”

Therese led the way. Caro followed. There was no point questioning Therese further; if she knew anything more, she would have said.

After returning to Upper Grosvenor Street and taking luncheon with Magnus and Evelyn—Michael was still out doing the rounds of the political and diplomatic clubs—Caro retired to the upstairs parlor and settled to her task of plodding through Camden’s diaries.

Therese’s words had given her renewed purpose, making the likelihood of some entry buried in the accummulated 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.”

She frowned. “I didn’t take much notice of Camden’s collecting— he’d been doing it for decades before I met him. It was simply something that was always going on. That said, I know he dealt with the same people constantly, that those associations went back many years. He only dealt with people he trusted.” She met his eyes. “He’d learned to be very careful.”

“Be that as it may, do you have any objection to Lucifer’s looking around the house?”

She shook her head. “No. Indeed, I think it might be wise. The more things we can reassure ourselves are not in question…”

He squeezed her hand. “Precisely.”

Recalling their other lines of inquiry, Caro said, “Incidentally, I remembered an old, very trusted friend of Camden’s—I called on him today and asked him to read Camden’s letters. He agreed.”

The carriage rocked to a halt before the steps of the Corsican consulate; a waiting footman opened the door. Michael nodded, indicating he’d heard her, stepped down, then handed her down.

Their hostess was waiting just beyond the open door; they both smiled and climbed the steps to be welcomed with a great deal of delight and Corsican camaraderie. The crowd was small and select; while superficially the customary formalities held sway, beneath, a more informal atmosphere reigned. Everyone knew everyone else, what they did, what their current aims were; the usual games were still played, but openly.

Caro was the only one there who did not have a defined role. While the stage was familiar, she felt rather strange not having any clear part to play. The lack made her more aware of others’ roles, especially Michael’s. Although the evening was a diplomatic affair, there were numerous civil servants present, those with whom the consular staff interacted in promoting their country’s interest. Every such gentleman made a point of stopping by Michael’s side, making sure he knew who he was, his present position, and his role in foreign affairs.

In no other sphere, not even the haut ton, was the grapevine more efficient.

Her presence by his side was remarked by all, but none knew what to make of it. They presented themselves as old family friends, and were accepted as such, at least on the face of it. Yet as the evening wore on, she found herself aiding him much as she had at Muriel’s supper— it was so much a habit, so easy for her to do, it seemed churlish not to assist. Especially when he was so busily assisting her on so many other fronts.

When a member of the Spanish legation bowed before them, she instinctively knew Michael couldn’t place him. Smiling, she gave Senor Fernandes her hand; while he was bowing and complimenting her on her appearance, she glibly dropped his name, position, and a little of his past into the conversation. Without a blink, Michael took things from there.

Later, when the conversation had parted them, she glanced over, alerted by some sixth sense, and saw the wife of a senior Foreign Office mandarin cutting Michael out from the knot of diplomats with whom he’d been speaking.

That was dangerous—the possible future Foreign Minister speak-ing too privately with the wife of one who would be jockeying for position beneath him. A fast way of creating rancor among the ranks. From her one brief glance, she realized Michael was aware of the unwisdom, yet was having trouble extricating himself from the lady’s clutches.

She smiled at the Corsican deputy consul. “Do excuse me. I must have a word with Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby.”

The deputy consul glanced at Michael and needed no further explanation. He returned her smile and bowed. “Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby is a lucky man.‘

Caro smiled easily. Leaving the deputy consul, she glided around to come up on Michael’s free side.

“There you are!” She slid her hand onto his arm as she rounded him, apparently only then noticing his companion. “Lady Casey. She smiled. ”It’s been some time since I’ve had the pleasure.“

She held out her hand; Lady Casey met her gaze, clearly wished her elsewhere, but had to take her hand, press fingers, and smile in return.

“My dear Mrs. Sutcliffe.” Lady Casey twitched her shawl higher. “I had thought you’d retired from the fray.”

“I may no longer be an ambassador’s wife, but you know what they say… Why,” she artlessly continued, “I’ve already been lectured once today that I absolutely must not hide myself away. I was given to understand that it’s my duty to continue to participate in diplomatic activities.”

Lady Casey looked as if she’d like to argue the point, however, ex-ambassador’s wife or no, Caro outranked her by several rather telling degrees. Deciding retreat was the better part of valor, Lady Casey inclined her head. “If you’ll excuse me, I must join my husband.”

They parted amicably.

The instant Lady Casey was out of earshot, Michael exhaled. “Thank you—she was trying to bully me into accepting a dinner invitation.”

“Quite out of order,” Caro declared. “Now, have you spoken privately with Monsieur Hartinges?”

Michael glanced at her. “Monsieur Hartinges being?”

“One of the French ambassador’s senior aides. He’s clever, he’ll go far, and he’s well disposed.”

“Ah.” He closed his hand over Caro’s, anchoring it on his sleeve— anchoring her by his side. “Obviously he’s someone I should know.”

“Indeed. He’s standing by the windows, and he’s been watching you all evening, waiting for his moment.”

He grinned. “Lead on.”

She did; he spent the next twenty minutes talking to the Frenchman, one inclined to let bygones be bygones and deal more effectively in trade—one of the most important issues that would face the next Foreign Minister.

Parting most cordially from Monsieur Hartinges, they circulated again, this time with a view to leaving.

“I should speak with Jamieson before we leave—he’s just come in.” Michael nodded to a lanky, faintly harassed-looking gentleman bowing over their hostess’s hand, clearly making obsequious apologies for his tardiness.

“Odd that he’s so late,” Caro murmured.

“Indeed.” He steered her to intercept Jamieson, an undersecretary at the Foreign Office. Jamieson saw them as he parted from the consul’s wife, and came their way.

He bowed to Caro, whom he knew of old, and nodded deferentially to Michael. “Sir.”

Michael held out his hand; relaxing a trifle, Jamieson shook it. “Anything amiss?”

Jamieson grimaced. “Strangest thing. There’s been a break-in at the office—that’s why I’m late. Two of our storerooms holding nothing but old archives were searched.” He looked at Caro. “The strange thing is they’re the Lisbon files.”

Caro frowned. “Why is that particularly strange?”

Jamieson glanced at Michael, then back at her. “Because we just received word that our place in Lisbon was burgled two weeks ago. The packet was delayed by storms, but, well, there it is. First them, now us. Nothing like it ever happened in Camden’s day.” Jamieson focused on Caro. “Have you any notion who might be behind it?”

Caro kept her eyes wide and shook her head. “What were they after? Was anything taken, either here or there?”

“No.” Jamieson glanced at Michael. “Every sheet in our files is numbered, and none are missing. It’s clear the files were searched, but beyond that…” He shrugged. “There isn’t anything remotely useful, diplomatically speaking, in there. The Lisbon station’s in my sector, but the files searched date from before my time. However, Roberts, my predecessor, was precise in the extreme—I can’t imagine anything would have slipped past him.”

“What period,” Caro asked, “did the files that were searched cover?”

“They span the years before and after Camden took up his position there. We’re inclined to think someone’s looking for information on some activity Camden put a stop to.” Jamieson grimaced. “I’m glad I bumped into you—I would have called in the next few days to ask if you knew anything. If you do think of any possibility that might account for this, do let me know.”

Caro nodded. “Of course.”

They parted from Jamieson, and shortly afterward left the consulate.

“You know,” Michael said as, later, having joined Caro in her room, he drew her into his arms, “I’m starting to wonder if someone’s panicking over nothing. If there’s nothing in the Foreign Office files…”

“That,” Caro admitted, winding her arms about his neck, “is entirely possible.”

Gripping her waist, anchoring her, he held back against her tug, and studied her face in the dimness. “I detect a ‘but.’”

Her lips curved, not so much in humor as in resignation over his perspicacity. “Knowing Camden and his love of intrigue, and his deep connections with Portugal’s elite, it’s equally possible there’s something quite explosive buried somewhere in his papers.”

She studied his eyes, then continued, “Therese Osbaldestone reminded me how personally involved with the Portuguese Camden was, even before his appointment to Lisbon. Given that, it’s perfectly possible there’s nothing in the Foreign Office files—Camden might have considered the matter as something outside the office if the contact had come before he took up the position.”

“You mean he buried all mention of it?”

“If nothing came of it that subsequently affected the office for which he was responsible, then yes,” she nodded, “I can see that he might have.”

“But mention might remain in his papers.”

“Indeed.” She sighed. “I had better put more effort into reading them, but at least now I know over which period I need to search.”

At that moment, however, in the shadows of the night, standing within Michael’s arms, Camden’s papers were not uppermost in her mind. She tightened her arms, stretched up against his hold. “Kiss me.”

Michael smiled, and did, taking full advantage of her invitation— making a mental note to later ask who the old friend she’d entrusted with Camden’s letters was—but then her invitation deepened, broadened, sensual horizons expanding… capturing him, his thoughts, his body, his mind.

Ultimately his soul.

With no other woman had he shared such a connection; with no other could he imagine doing so. With every passing night, every day, every soiree, every hour in their mutual world, they seemed to become more definitely, ever more clearly the compatible halves of a powerful whole.

The knowledge shook him, and thrilled him. Sent impatient exulta-tion surging through him. No matter that she hadn’t yet recanted her opposition and agreed to their wedding, he couldn’t see—had no intention of countenancing—any other outcome. The path between now and then might be shrouded in impenetrable shadow, uncertain both in length and events, yet their eventual destination remained fixed and unwavering.

Later, sated and replete, he gathered her, boneless and drowsy, against him, settling them comfortably in the billows of her bed. He’d meant to ask her something… couldn’t quite focus his mind… “Who lectured you on your duty?” He hoped it hadn’t been Magnus.

“Therese Osbaldestone.‘ Caro sleepily rubbed her cheek against his arm. ”She’s pleased I’m not hiding myself away.“

He made a mental note to keep an eye on Lady Osbaldestone. He didn’t need her queering his pitch, pressuring Caro in any way whatever.

If he’d harbored any reservations that he needed her—specifically her—by his side, the past two evenings would have put the matter beyond doubt. Yet that was his professional life; while such considerations provided a major impetus—an increasingly powerful motive for him to marry her with all speed—the very same arguments were those she would most distrust… and he couldn’t fault her in that.

Marriage—the more he thought of it, considered it in its totality, the more he appreciated that it had to be based on more than professional interests, on far more than a sense of duty. Not only would Caro not bow to duty again, he didn’t want her to come to him that way. Not for that reason.

Above all, not for that reason.

As he lay in the warmth of the rumpled bed and let sleep draw near, heard Caro’s soft breaths, felt them ruffle the hairs on his chest, felt her soft warmth, her feminine curves, pressed to him, a promise clearer, more potent than any words, he was aware of impatience, yet equally conscious of the wisdom of waiting.

Of letting her make up her mind on her own, no pressure, no persuasions…

A thought rippled through his mind as sleep drew him under. Perhaps there was something he could do.

Subtly influencing people was a politician’s stock-in-trade. He was an excellent politician; the following morning, leaving Caro ensconced in the upstairs parlor leafing through Camden’s diaries, he reminded himself of that as he paced down Upper Grosvenor Street and into Grosvenor Square.

Not pressure, not persuasion, but there were other avenues, other means. Aside from all else, actions spoke loudest, were always more convincing.

Honoria was at home; she joined him in the sitting room. The children barreled in in her wake; after dutifully admiring Sebastian’s and young Michael’s new bat and ball, and spending a few minutes tickling Louisa, he glanced at Honoria. She saw and efficiently shooed her brood out through the terrace doors to play on the lawn where their nursemaids were waiting.

“There!” Standing on the threshold, she looked at him. “What is it?”

He joined her, allowing her to keep a distant eye on her sons’ antics while they talked. “I want to marry Caro, but…” Staring out at the lawns, he continued, “Her marriage to Camden was based on his need of her talents—what he correctly perceived as her potential hostessly skills. Those, of course, are precisely the same skills I need in a wife, but such a need is the very last thing that would persuade Caro to a second marriage.”

Honoria grimaced. “I can see her point. Camden was a great deal older than she.”

“Indeed. Worse, it was very much an arranged marriage, primarily for Camden’s benefit. Caro, however, was not initially aware of that.”

Honoria’s grimace turned pained. “Oh, dear.” She glanced briefly at him. “So if you approach her offering the position of your wife…”

He nodded, a touch grim. “If that was all I offered, I would stand no chance of winning her.” He drew breath, exhaled, stated his decision. “To win Caro, I need to offer more—a lot more.”

He looked at Honoria, met her eyes. “Which is why I’m here. I wanted to ask why, when initially you were so set against it, you changed your mind and accepted Devil’s proposal. What tipped the scales?”

Honoria studied his face, his eyes; she understood exactly what he was asking. Her mind flitted back seven years, to that long-ago summer. Remembered… recalled. Facing the lawn, she searched for words to explain what had compelled her to accept Devil’s offer, to seize the chance, accept the challenge—pick up the gauntlet fate had so unexpectedly flung in her path.

How could she explain the allure, the compelling temptation, of love? Of a heart offered, however reluctantly, however much against the grain. That that very reluctance could in certain circumstances make the gift even more precious, because it could never be seen as something lightly yielded.

She drew breath, thought how to phrase her answer. Eventually said, “I changed my mind because he offered me the one thing I most truly needed, the thing that would make my life into what—or even more than—I had dreamed it could be. Because he was prepared to give me that, and through that, all that was most important to me.”

Her gaze focused on her children. Should she mention that Caro wanted children, yearned for them in much the same way she had? A hidden, very private yearning that only another who had felt the same might guess. She’d guessed, and had seized the opportunity to let Louisa confirm it, prodding that yearning to life.

But if she told Michael… he was male—would he understand how to effectively use the knowledge? He might think the promise of children, of itself, was enough, and not see it as the outcome, the consequence of that even more precious gift.

Quite aside from her sisterly desire to see him happy and settled, married to a lady of the type he deserved, she also felt a compulsion to do all she could to see Caro happy, too. To have her childhood friend experience the same happiness she had found.

The last thing she wished was for Caro’s unsatisfactory first marriage to dim her chances of attaining that happiness.

She glanced at Michael, realized that despite his impassive expression he was wrestling with her words, trying to interpret them. “I can’t explain better than that. For each woman, the outward expression of what is most important will differ, yet giving her that one critical thing that enables all else, being willing to do so, is the key.”

He met her gaze. Smiled a touch wryly. “Thank you.”

She sighed. “I hope that helps.”

Michael took her hand, squeezed lightly. “It does—it will.”

Casting a last glance at his nephews and niece, cavorting, shrieking, on the lawn, he released Honoria’s hand, nodded in farewell. “I’ll leave you to your dream.”

She snorted, but by the time he reached the door, she’d already gone out on the terrace.

He stopped to speak to Devil, who had nothing further to report, then set out for the clubs. As he walked, he turned Honoria’s words over in his mind.

When she’d spoken, she’d been looking at her children. Given their background, the tragic loss of the rest of their family, he had no difficulty understanding that for Honoria, home, family, and therefore children, mattered a great deal—that those things were as important to her as they were to him.

Had she meant that those things were just as important to Caro?

If she did, where did that get him?

What, indeed, was Caro’s deepest need?