The Ideal Bride

Chapter 21

Michael left the house the next morning feeling for the first time in weeks as if he were walking in mental sunshine rather than fog. As if a miasma had blown away and he could finally see clearly.

Caro was all that truly mattered to him. It wasn’t just sensible but completely justifiable to devote himself wholly, single-mindedly, to her protection. To set aside all other concerns and concentrate solely on that, for she was the key to his future.

He’d left her still sleeping, sated and warm in her bed, safe in his grandfather’s house. He headed for the clubs and scouted through his contacts; none had anything to report. After lunching at Brooks with Jamieson, who was still puzzled and uneasy over the break-in, not so much over it happening but because he couldn’t see why, Michael headed for Grosvenor Square, confident there was no piece of accessible information he’d overlooked.

Devil had summoned him to a meeting at three o’clock; Gabriel had turned up something odd among the legatees that Lucifer agreed needed to be investigated. The meeting was opportune; Michael could report his findings, or lack thereof, and Devil would have news of Fer-dinand and his doings.

Devil’s butler, Webster, was waiting to admit him; Michael surmised Honoria had not been informed a meeting was taking place. His brother-in-law had deeply entrenched prejudices against involving his wife in any potentially dangerous game. He now shared—fully—those same prejudices, and other similar reactions and emotions to which he’d never thought to fall prey. Thinking of Caro and all she made him feel, he wondered that he’d been so self-blind.

Devil and Lucifer were waiting in the study; Gabriel arrived as he sat in one of the four armchairs facing each other across the empty hearth. As Gabriel sank into the last, Michael glanced around at the faces; he’d grown close to all the Cynsters. Since Honoria’s marriage they’d treated him as one of them; he’d come to regard them in the same light. Helping each other was an unwritten Cynster code; it didn’t seem odd, even to him, that they’d put aside other things and devoted time and effort to aiding him.

Gabriel looked at him. “Let’s hear your news first.”

Michael grimaced; it didn’t take long to summarize nothing.

“Leponte has been lying low,” Devil said. “Sligo’s certain he hired someone to watch the Foreign Office buildings, but he’s been careful to work through intermediaries. However, for the night in question, we can’t place Leponte anywhere. He might have remained within the emabassy all night—then again, he might not.”

“If he’s searching for something incriminating,” Michael said, “presumably he won’t want anyone else to read it. While at Sutcliffe House, he could have asked others to bring away anything they found, removing an entire archive…”

Devil nodded. “He would have had to go through it. He probably did, but as he’s not going about much anyway, his social absence that night can hardly be cited as evidence.”

They all grimaced, rather grimly, then turned to Gabriel.

“Whether this means anything or not I don’t know,” he said, “but it’s definitely deuced odd. I checked the list of bequests, all those involving items of value. There were nine such bequests, all of antiques, specific pieces that Camden had collected over the last decade.

“All the pieces were highly valuable. Eight went to men Camden had known for decades, most from his early years in diplomatic circles. Those eight fit the mold of old and valued friend. I ran the list past Lucifer—”

“All eight are known collectors,” Lucifer said. “The pieces each received fit perfectly into their collections. From what I saw in Half Moon Street, those bequests didn’t leave holes in Camden’s collection.

He’d clearly viewed the pieces as gifts from the first, so it’s no surprise they were listed in his will.“

“Subsequently,” Gabriel resumed, “I quietly asked around and confirmed none of those eight are in any way pressed for cash.”

“Nor do any of them have the reputation of those I term ‘rabid collectors,” Lucifer added.

“So eight bequests make eminent sense and raise no hares,” Michael said. “What of the ninth?”

“That’s where things become interesting.” Gabriel met Michael’s eyes. “On first reading, I didn’t realize its significance. The ninth bequest is described as ‘a Louis XIV desk set in marble and gold, jewel-encrusted.’”

“However,” Lucifer took up the tale, “that particular piece is not simply a desk set created in the time of Louis XIV—it was Louis XIV’s desk set. It’s worth a not-so-small fortune.”

“Who is the ninth legatee?‘ Devil asked.

Gabriel looked at him. “He’s listed as T M. C. Danvers.”

“Breckenridge?” Michael stared. “Is he a collector, too?”

“No,” Lucifer said, a touch grimly. “He isn’t—not at all.”

“But you know of him,” Gabriel said. “I searched everywhere, but I couldn’t find any connection between Camden Sutcliffe and Breckenridge, other than that, due to some reason, they knew each other.”

“Caro said they’d known each other for thirty years—all Brecken-ridge’s life.” Michael frowned. “She’s given Breckenridge Camden’s letters to read, explained what we’re looking for.” He glanced at the others. “She trusts him completely.”

Their frowns stated that they, as he, thought Caro had no business trusting a man of Breckenridge’s ilk.

“Did she explain what the connection between Sutcliffe and Breckenridge was?” Devil asked.

“No, but it’s not through political or diplomatic circles—I’d know if Breckenridge was a player there, and he isn’t.” Michael felt his face hardening. “I’ll ask her.” He looked at Gabriel. “If he’s not a collector, could money be the motive?”

Gabriel grimaced. “I’d so like to say yes, but all the answers I got say otherwise. Breckenridge is Brunswick’s heir, and Brunswick is as financially solid as the proverbial rock. When it comes to money, Breckenridge is his father’s son; his investments are sound, even a touch conservative for my taste, and his income greatly exceeds his expenditures. Breckenridge certainly has a vice, but it’s not the tables, it’s women, and even there, he’s careful. I couldn’t find the slightest sign any harpy has her talons in him, let alone to the extent of bleeding him.”

Devil murmured, “From all I’ve heard, Breckenridge is considered a dangerous man to cross. There seems no reason to think him a blackmailer, yet equally I can’t see him as a blackmailer’s victim.”

“Forced to act as a pawn in bleeding Sutcliffe?” Lucifer asked.

Devil nodded. “Highly unlikely, I should think.”

“So what we have is a nobleman with no explainable connection to Sutcliffe being left a disguised but sizeable fortune in his will.” Michael paused, then added, “There has to be a reason.”

“Indeed,” Devil said. “And while we know the Portuguese are attempting to suppress something in Sutcliffe’s past, and can surmise they might wish to permanently silence Caro, there’s the possibility the attempts on her life stem from something quite different.”

“Like Sutcliffe’s treasures.” Lucifer rose. “We need to learn what the connection between Sutcliffe and Breckenridge was with all speed.”

“Caro knows what it is.” Michael rose, as did the others; he glanced at them. “I’ll go and ask.”

Devil clapped him on the shoulder as they turned to the door. “If it’s anything potentially damning, let us know.”

Michael nodded.

Lucifer opened the door—just as Honoria swept up. She halted in the corridor, her hazel eyes noting each one.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Her tone was all grande dame. “And what have we here?”

Devil smiled. “There you are.” Surreptitiously, he prodded Michael in the back.

Michael moved forward, through the door; Honoria stepped back, allowing him into the corridor.

Devil efficiently ushered Gabriel and Lucifer through the doorway—into freedom. “I was just on my way to tell you our news.”

Michael glanced back as he, Gabriel, and Lucifer retreated down the corridor; the look on his sister’s face was disbelieving in the extreme.

Her “Indeed?” was incredulous.

As they turned into the front hall, they heard Devil’s answering purr, “Come in, and I’ll tell you.”

They could imagine Honoria’s “Humph!” but an instant later, they heard the click of the study door closing.

Pausing on the front steps, they exchanged glances.

“I wonder how much he’ll tell her,” Lucifer mused.

Gabriel shook his head. “That’s one question on which I wouldn’t like to wager.”

Michael agreed; with a grin, he saluted them, then strode down the steps and headed for Upper Grosvenor Street. Turning his thoughts to his mission, his grin faded.

“Breckenridge.” Michael stood before Caro, his face impassive as he looked down at her.

She blinked up at him. She was seated in an armchair in the parlor, one of Camden’s diaries in her hands. About them the house was peaceful, basking in the late afternoon sunshine.

He read her surprise in her eyes—she didn’t try to hide it. He’d walked in, nodded a greeting, shut the door, and baldly said, “Breckenridge.”

Some of the tension eased from his shoulders. Glancing around, he moved to the armchair facing her.

The last time she’d seen his face, it had been dawn and his expression had been slack with sated passion. Calmly shutting the diary, she inquired, “What about Timothy”?“

Her use of the name touched a nerve, but Michael suppressed his reaction. Grimly stated, ‘You said Breckenridge was an old and trusted friend of Camden’s, that their association stretched back to when Breckenridge was a child.“ He met her gaze. ”What was the basis of the connection?“

She raised her brows, waited…

It was like a shield being reluctantly lowered; she could almost sense his deliberation, the subsequent conscious submission.

“We were checking the bequests in Camden’s will.” He explained the information Gabriel and Lucifer had gathered, Devil’s report on Ferdinand’s movements, and his own lack of success in learning what it was the Portuguese were after, or why.

She listened without comment, but when he outlined their reasoning that the attempts on her life might in some way stem from Camden’s collection, she went to shake her head, then stopped.

He saw, waited, then raised a brow back.

She met his gaze, then inclined her head. “While I can’t dismiss the notion that someone might be motivated by a piece in Camden’s collection, I can and do assure you that I can be absolutely certain Breckenridge is not in any way involved—either in anything illicit to do with Camden’s collection or with the attempts on my life.”

He studied her face, searched her eyes, then somewhat bleakly asked, “You trust him that much?”

She held his gaze, then reached out, threaded her fingers through his and squeezed. “I know it’s not easy for you to accept or understand, but yes, I know I can trust Breckenridge that much.”

A long moment passed. She saw in his eyes his decision to accept her reassurance. “What,” he asked, “is or was the nature of the connection between Camden and Breckenridge?”

“It’s ‘is’—the connection continues. And while I know what it is, I’m afraid, much as I wish to”—she let her eyes show how much she wished, that it wasn’t because she didn’t or wouldn’t trust him that she felt forced to say—“I can’t tell you. As you’ve discovered, the connection is a secret, concealed from the world for a multitude of good reasons. It’s not my secret to share.”

She watched as he digested her answer… and decided he had to accept it. Had to respect the confidence she wouldn’t break, even for him. Had to trust her to be right.

Refocusing on her eyes, he nodded. “All right—it’s not Breckenridge, then.”

Her heart swelled; she hadn’t realized his simple acceptance would mean so much, yet it did.

She smiled.

He sat back in the chair, slowly smiled in return. “Where have we got to with the diaries?”

She couldn’t simply change her mind and say yes, she would marry him. Not after last night and all she now understood of both herself and him.

They sat in the parlor a few feet apart and read more of the diaries; while part of her mind followed Camden’s accounts of social gatherings, the rest followed a different tack.

Ever since she’d woken that morning, languorous and exhausted in the rumpled disaster of her bed, she’d been reassessing, reevaluating— hardly surprising given the tectonic shift in the landscape between them that the night had brought. That Michael had wrought. Quite deliberately.

She’d tried to tell herself he hadn’t meant it. That he couldn’t really not care.

One glance at the bruises circling her thighs, the lingering evidence of the intensity that had gripped him, had brought the power that drove him, that when they were together caught her and drove her, too, forcibly to mind.

She’d felt it, experienced it, recognized it; she knew it wasn’t fabricated or false. Indeed, gripped by it, it was impossible to be false, to play false, not between them. She believed in it—that between them that power existed, simply was. Replaying his words, the fervor, the certainty with which he’d made his declarations, she’d come to believe in them, too.

He’d made no subsequent reference to his decision. It seemed to have become a part of him; he clearly felt no need to try to convince her further. He’d told her all he needed to. All he had to.

All she needed to know.

Glancing up, she watched as he turned a page and continued reading. For a long moment, she studied his face, him, drank in his strength, the reliability and steadfastness that was so much a part of him one hardly noticed, then looked down.

There was still something missing in their equation. She and he were in unknown territory; neither had been this way before. She didn’t know what it was that had yet to manifest between them, yet her instincts, instincts she was too experienced to ignore, assured her there was something more. Something they yet lacked that they needed to have, to find, to secure if their relationship, the relationship they both wanted and needed, was to thrive.

That last was now her aim. By freeing her to make her own decision, he’d given her the opportunity to get everything right. More, he’d revealed how important it was to him that their relationship was strong and well founded.

So she wouldn’t let herself get swept away—she would grasp the chance he’d created. She’d wait and keep searching until she found that vital piece; he’d given her the strength to stand against the tide.

They’d gone down to report to Magnus and were climbing the stairs to change for dinner when Hammer strode into the hall. Glancing up, he saw them.

“Mrs. Sutcliffe.”

They halted on the landing. With stately tread, Hammer ascended, then, bowing, proffered his salver. “A lad delivered this to the back door. No reply required, I gather, for he disappeared without a word.”

“Thank you, Hammer.” Caro took the note; her name was printed on it. As Hammer retreated, she unfolded the single sheet.

She glanced at the contents, then held it up so Michael could read over her shoulder. She scanned the words more carefully, then exhaled. “Someone from the Portuguese embassy, do you think?”

Michael considered the careful clerkish script and the phrasing— diplomatic formal.

Should Mrs. Sutcliffe wish to learn the reason behind the recent strange events, she is invited to meet with the writer at her Half Moon Street house tonight at eight o’clock. Provided Mrs. Sutcliffe comes alone, or with only Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby as escort, the writer is willing to reveal all they know. If, however, more people are present, the writer cannot undertake the risk of coming forward and speaking.

The note concluded with the customary formal Yours, et cetera, but unsurprisingly was unsigned.

Caro lowered the sheet and looked at him.

He took the note, folded it, and tucked it into his pocket. “Yes, I agree—it sounds like a foreign aide.” He met her eyes. “Sligo, Devil’s majordomo, has been quietly putting the word about that we’re looking for information.”

“And here it is.” She held his gaze. “We are going, aren’t we? One foreign aide in my house—that’s no great risk, surely?”

Expression impassive, Michael waved up the stairs. Caro turned and went; he grasped the moment to consider his response.

Instinct was pulling him one way, experience and Caro’s common-sense assessment in another. Aside from all else, it was already after seven o’clock; if he alerted any of the Cynsters, it was unlikely they could take up any position covertly before eight.

And if instead they were seen… no more than Caro did he believe their would-be informant would appear. Diplomatic games had rules like any other; a show of trust was essential.

They gained the top of the stairs. Caro halted and turned to him. He met her gaze, read her question, curtly nodded. “We’ll go. Just you and me.”

“Good.” She looked down at her flimsy day gown. “I’ll need to change.”

Consulting his watch, he nodded. “I’ll go and tell Magnus what’s happened and what we’re doing. I’ll be in the library when you’re ready.”

At twenty minutes before eight o’clock, a hackney set them down before the Half Moon Street house. Climbing the steps, Michael glanced up and down the street. It was long enough, the area fashionable enough that even in summer at that hour there were carriages drawn up before houses and others rattling past.

There were gentlemen lounging against railings, chatting, others strolling, some alone. Any carriage, any stroller, could be their man; it was impossible to tell.

Caro opened the front door; Michael followed her into the hall, reminding himself to rein in his protectiveness. Whoever arrived to meet them most likely wouldn’t be a threat, not unless this was some kind of trap.

Recognizing the possibility, he’d grasped the few minutes he’d spent with Magnus to refine a plan and put it into action. Sligo, Devil’s sometime batman, now his majordomo, had ways, means, and experience beyond that of most servants; Michael hadn’t hesitated to send for him. He would arrive close to eight and keep watch from outside; even if they saw him, no one would imagine the slight, unprepossessing man was of any consequence.

As for inside the house… Michael tightened his grip on the head of his cane; the blade concealed within was rapier sharp and well honed.

Caro opened the double doors into the drawing room.

He followed her inside, saw her crossing to the windows. “Leave the curtains closed.” It was still full light outside. “Whoever it is won’t want to risk being glimpsed.”

Caro looked at him, then nodded. Going instead to the sideboard, she lit two three-armed candelabra. The flames flared, then settled, casting warm light across the room. Leaving one candelabra on the sideboard, she carried the other to the mantelpiece. “There—at least we’ll be able to see.”

It wasn’t that dark, but the candlelight was comforting.

Michael glanced around, struck again by the sense that the house was a shell, prepared and waiting to be used as a home. He glanced at Caro—

A grinding groan—the scrape of wood against stone—reached them.

Caro’s eyes flared. Then puzzlement filled her face. “That’s from downstairs,” she hissed.

His face leaching of expression, he turned and went back into the hall. Pushing through the swinging door at the end, he considered— fleetingly—ordering Caro to go back and wait in the drawing room. Recognized the futility; standing there arguing wouldn’t help. Besides, she might well be safer with him.

The corridor beyond the door was narrow and dim; it was relatively short, ending in a ninety-degree turn to the right. Faint scuffling came from beyond the turn. Treading carefully, silently, he went on.

Caro’s hand touched his back; reaching past him, she pointed to the right, then walked her fingers down… stairs lay immediately around the corner. He nodded. He considered drawing his swordstick, but the sound would carry in the enclosed space, and if the kitchen lay down the stairs… a naked rapier in close confines might be more dangerous than helpful.

Tightening his grip on the cane, he halted at the corner; the sounds below had resolved into definite footsteps.

Reaching back with one hand, he found Caro; stepping out onto the landing beyond the corner, he simultaneously held her back.

The man standing at the foot of the stairs looked up. What little light came through the fanlight above the back door didn’t reach his face. All Michael could tell was that he was tall, lean, and broad-shouldered, with brown, slightly wavy hair. Not Ferdinand, but not anyone he knew either.

For one fraught instant, they stared at each other.

Then the stranger charged up the stairs; with an oath, Michael flung himself down them.

The man hadn’t seen his cane; Michael brought it up across his body, intending to stop the man’s murderous charge with it and push him back down the stairs. It certainly stopped the man’s rush, but he caught hold of the cane. They wrestled, then both lost their balance and fell, tumbling down the stairs.

They landed in a wild tangle on the flagstones; both checked— each instantly knew the other wasn’t incapacitated. Both sprang to their feet. Michael threw a punch, but it was blocked; he had to duck quickly to avoid a fist aimed at his jaw.

He grabbed the man; furious wrestling ensued, both trying to land a telling blow. Dimly, he heard Caro yelling something; avoiding another jab, he was too busy to pay attention.

Both he and his attacker thought of tripping each other at the same time; they lurched, but their death grips on each other kept them upright—

Icy water hit them. Struck them, drenched them.

Gasping, spluttering, they broke apart, furiously dashing water from their eyes.

“Stop it! Both of you! Don’t you dare hit each other!”

Dumbstruck, they stared up at Caro.

The now empty ewer from Mrs. Simms’s room in her hands, she glared down at them. “Allow me to introduce you. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby—Timothy, Viscount Breckenridge.”

They glanced at each other, eyes narrow.

She hissed in frustration. “For goodness sake! Shake hands—now!”

Both looked at her, then at each other, then, reluctantly, Michael held out his hand. Equally reluctantly, Timothy gripped it. Briefly.

Michael eyed him coldly. “What are you doing here?” He spoke softly, yet there was unmistakable menace in the words.

Timothy studied him, then glanced up at her. “I received a note. It said you were in danger and if I wanted to know more, to meet the writer here at eight o’clock.”

It was plain Michael didn’t believe him.

His usually infallible instincts starting to operate again, Timothy looked from her to Michael, then he narrowed his eyes at her. “What have you been up to? What’s this all about?”

His tone should have set Michael’s suspicions to rest; it rang with typical aggravated male concern. She elevated her nose. “I got a note, too. Very similar. We came to meet the writer.” She peered across the kitchen at the clock Mrs. Simms kept wound. “It’s ten minutes to eight, and we’re down here arguing.”

“And now we’re wet.” Bending his head, Timothy ran his hands through his hair, dislodging droplets.

Michael, brushing water off his shoulders, didn’t take his eyes from him. “How did you get in?”

Timothy glanced at him. Even though Caro couldn’t see it, she could imagine his smirk as he softly answered, “I have a key, of course.”

“Stop it!” She glared at him; he tried to look innocent and as usual failed. Transferring her gaze to Michael’s stony face, she explained, “There’s a perfectly sensible, acceptable reason.”

Michael bit his tongue. The most notorious rake in London had a key to his wife-to-be’s house—and she was insisting there was an acceptable explanation. He managed not to snort. With an exaggerated wave, he gestured for Breckenridge to precede him up the stairs.

His expression faintly amused, Breckenridge did; he followed.

Caro had disappeared. As he and Breckenridge turned into the corridor, she emerged ewerless from the housekeeper’s room; shutting the door, she led them back to the front hall. “I hope our writer didn’t knock while we were down there. I’m not sure if the bell’s still working.”

She glanced back at Timothy.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, either. I haven’t dropped by for some time.”

Michael digested that as they crossed the hall and entered the drawing room. Caro led the way to the area before the hearth. As he followed, Breckenridge beside him, Michael was aware of the man glancing from Caro to him, and back again.

They halted at the edge of the exquisite rug before the hearth; both were still dripping from various extremities.

Breckenridge was studying Caro. “You haven’t told him, have you?”

She raised her brows, fixed him with an irritated look. “Of course not. It’s your secret. If anyone is to be told, you have to tell them.”

It was Michael’s turn to glance from one to the other; their interaction seemed more like his with Honoria than anything remotely loverlike.

Brows lifting, Breckenridge faced him, studied him levelly, then, his voice free of any drawl, said, “As there’s presumably a reason Caro wants you told, and as it’s difficult to explain my presence without knowing… Camden Sutcliffe was my sire.”

Amusement gleamed in Breckenridge’s eyes; he glanced at Caro. “Which makes Caro my… I’m not quite sure what. Stepmother?”

“Whatever.” Caro firmly stated. “That explains your connection to Camden, with this house, and why he left you that desk set.”

Breckenridge’s brows rose. He glanced at Michael with a touch more respect. “Twigged to that, did you?”

Michael refused to be drawn. “There was no evidence of any connection…” He broke off as things fell into place.

Breckenridge smiled. “Indeed. It was not just kept quiet but thoroughly buried by both parties. My mother, God rest her soul, was perfectly content with her husband, but in Camden she found what she always claimed was the love of her life. A short-lived love, but…” He shrugged. “My mother was forever a pragmatist. Camden was married. The liaison occurred during a brief visit to Lisbon. Mama returned to England and bore my father—by whom I mean Brunswick—his only son. Me.”

Moving past Michael, Breckenridge went to the sideboard, where a decanter stood. He looked at Michael, waved at the glasses; Michael shook his head. Breckenridge poured. “Aside from the obvious considerations, there was the fact that if I wasn’t there, as Brunswick’s heir, the title and estates would revert to the Crown, pleasing no one except the royal treasurer.”

He paused to sip the brandy. “My father, however, is a stickler—if he knew, he might feel forced to disown me, sacrificing himself, the wider family, and me in the process. Not, I should add, that the decision was ever mine to make—it was made for me by my mother. She did, however, inform Camden of my birth. As he had no other children, he kept informed of my progress, although always from a distance.

“Until I was sixteen.” Breckenridge looked down, sipped, then went on. “My mother accompanied me on a tour of Portugal. In Lisbon, we met privately with Camden Sutcliffe, the famous ambassador. Together, they told me that he was my father.” A faint smile curved his lips. “Of course, I never thought of him as that—to me, Brunswick is and always will be my father. However, knowing Camden was my sire explained much that wasn’t, until then, all that easy to understand.

And although Camden knew my filial allegiance remained with Brunswick—to his credit, he never attempted to challenge that—he was always helpful and interested in my welfare. I never leaned toward diplomatic or political life—I intend to succeed Brunswick and continue to nurture all he and his forebears have worked for. In spite of that, Camden was… I suppose as devoted as it was in him to be.“

Breckenridge’s gaze had grown distant. “I visited Lisbon frequently until Camden’s death. Getting to know him, learning about him, taught me a great deal.” He drained his glass, then glanced at Michael. “About myself.”

He was turning to set the glass on the sideboard when the clock above the mantelpiece stuck eight o’clock.

It was a large clock; its bongs reverberated through the room.

They glanced at each other.

Caro noticed the drawing room door swinging shut.

She straightened, eyes widening. Both men noticed and swung around.

Muriel Hedderwick stepped from the shadows; the half-closed door had until then concealed her.

Caro stared, literally not knowing what to think. Muriel walked slowly forward, a smile on her lips. Reaching the middle of the room, she halted and lifted her arm.

She was holding one of Camden’s dueling pistols; she trained it, very steadily, on Caro.

“At last.” The words held a wealth of feeling, the hatred ringing through them so intense it held them silent.

Muriel’s dark eyes glowed as with transparent satisfaction she viewed them. “Finally, I have the two people I hate most in the world at my mercy.”

Michael shifted to face her, simultaneously moving closer to Caro. “Why do you hate me?”

“Not you!” Muriel’s expression turned contemptuous. “Them!” With her chin, she indicated Caro and Breckenridge; the pistol didn’t waver. “The two who took what was rightfully mine!”

Evangelical fanatacism rang in her voice. Michael glanced at Breckenridge, caught his equally mystified look.

Caro stepped forward. “Muriel—”

“No!” The roar exploded around the room. Muriel fixed Caro with a

gaze glittering with rage. Breckenridge grasped the moment to edge further away; Michael guessed what he intended doing—didn’t like the odds, but couldn’t think of a better plan.

“Don’t tell me I have it wrong—don’t try to explain it all away!” Muriel’s fury turned mocking.

“I’ve only met you in passing.” Breckenridge drew her attention. “I barely know you. How could I have harmed you?”

Muriel bared her teeth at him. “You were his bright-eyed boy.” She spat the words at him. “He cared about you—he talked to you. He acknowledged you!”

Breckenridge frowned. “Camden? What has he to say to this?”

“Nothing anymore—it’s too late for him to make amends. But he was my father, too, and I will have my due.”

Michael glanced at Caro, saw her shock, her consternation. “Muriel—”

“No!” Again Muriel’s eyes glittered, this time with patent malice. “You think I’m inventing it? That your dear Camden didn’t lie with his sister-in-law?” Her gaze darted to Breckenridge; her lips curled. “See— he knows it’s true.”

Caro glanced at Timothy; briefly he met her eyes. Lips tightening, he looked back at Muriel. “It makes sense of references in letters from George’s wife to Camden.”

Muriel nodded. “Indeed. Mama told Camden of my birth—she never loved George, it was Camden she adored. She gave George two sons, then Camden came home to bury his first wife. It was perfect timing, or so she thought, but Camden married Helen and returned to Lisbon—and I was born at Sutcliffe Hall.” Muriel snarled at Timothy, “Me. I’m Camden’s firstborn, but he never paid attention—not a jot. He never even spoke to me as his—he always treated me as George’s daughter!”

Her eyes gleamed. “But I wasn’t, was I? I was his.”

“How did you learn about me?” Timothy asked. He sounded merely interested, unconcerned.

Caro looked at the pistol in Muriel’s hand; it remained resolutely steady, pointed at her heart. It was one of a pair. She hoped Timothy and Michael realized; she knew Muriel—she was an excellent shot, and she planned carefully. She’d organized for all three of them to be there; she wouldn’t have faced them with only one pistol, and she’d kept her other hand out of sight.

“You came to tender your condolences when Helen died. I saw you and Camden walking in the gardens. You didn’t look that alike”— Muriel sneered—“except in profile. I saw the truth then. If Camden could lie with his sister-in-law, why not others? But I didn’t care, not then—I was convinced that at last, now he’d lost Helen, and he was old, after all, at last Camden would open his arms to me. I didn’t care if he called me his niece and not his daughter, but I’d trained for the position.” Muriel lifted her chin. “I was excellently well prepared to act as his hostess at the embassy.”

Slowly, her gaze swung to Caro; the murderous intent that contorted her features had both Michael and Timothy stiffening, battling the instinct to move protectively nearer.

“Instead”—the words were deep, seething with barely suppressed violence; Muriel’s chest heaved—“you caught his eye. He ran after you—a girl younger than his own daughter and totally inexperienced! He wouldn’t talk to me—refused to talk to me. He married you, and made you his hostess in my placel”

Rage poured from Muriel; she physically shook, yet the pistol remained uncompromisingly aimed. “For years—years!—all I’ve heard is how wonderful you are, not just from Camden, but from everyonel Even now, you drop by out of the blue and every lady in the Ladies’ Association falls on your neck. All they talk of is your wonderful ideas, how capable you are—they forget about me, but I’m the one who does all the hard work. I’m the one who does everything right, but you always steal my glory!”

Her voice had risen to a shriek; Caro was so shaken she could barely take in the hatred spewing out in Muriel’s words.

“Driving back from the meeting at Fordingham, I’d had enough. I realized I had to get rid of you. I’d confiscated Jimmy Biggs’s slingshot and his bag of pellets the day before; they were lying at my feet in the gig as I followed you home. I didn’t think of them until you turned off to the Manor—it was the perfect opportunity, obviously meant to be.”

Muriel’s gaze shifted to Michael. “But you saved her. I didn’t think it mattered—there were other, probably better ways. I hired two sailors to kidnap and get rid of her, but you delayed her and they grabbed Miss Trice instead. After that, I didn’t trust anyone else. I would have killed her at the fete—again you pulled her away just in time.” Muriel snarled at him; stony faced, Michael held her gaze, aware that to his right, Breckenridge was edging farther away.

“And then I sawed through the railings above the weir. She should have drowned, but yet again you pulled her out!” Her eyes glittered. “You’re a nuisance!”

She looked at Caro. “And why didn’t you come to the meeting I arranged for you? Of course, you wouldn’t have met the steering committee, but some others I’d hired, but you never came.”

Strangely, Muriel appeared to be calming; her lips curved in a travesty of a smile. “But I forgive you for that. Because of it, I came here and looked around. I’d copied the key years ago, but never used it.” Her dark eyes blazed; she drew herself up. “Once I saw this place, I realized it should be mine. I deserved it—I deserved his love—but he gave it to you. Now I want it.”

Breckenridge took another half step away.

Muriel noticed. Realized what he was doing.

Everything slowed. Michael saw her blink. Saw her cold-blooded decision to shoot—he knew Muriel was an excellent shot.

Knew, absolutely, that in seconds Breckenridge would be dead. Breckenridge, whom Caro cared about, who through no fault of his own had become a target for Muriel’s hate.

And his death wouldn’t change anything; Muriel assuredly had the second pistol loaded and primed.

He wasn’t aware of making the decision; he flung himself at Breckenridge. Took him down in a tackle as the pistol discharged.

Caro screamed.

They hit the floor. Michael registered Breckenridge’s jerk—he’d been hit—but then his own head met the heavy iron claw-foot of an elegant chaise. Light exploded through his skull.

Pain followed, washing over him in a nauseating wave.

Grimly, he clung to consciousness; he hadn’t planned this—hadn’t intended to leave Caro to face Muriel and that second pistol alone…

He felt Caro leaning over them; she’d flung herself on her knees beside him. Her fingers touched his face, burrowed beneath his cravat, feeling for his pulse. Then she was tugging his cravat loose.

Through a cold fog, he heard her cry, “Muriel, for God’s sake, help me! He’s bleeding.”

For a moment, he wondered, but it was Breckenridge Caro meant. She shifted to work over him, trying to staunch a wound, where he couldn’t tell. He tried to open his lids, but couldn’t. Pain battered his senses; blank unconsciousness drew closer, beating down his will.

“Stop.” Muriel’s voice was colder than ice. “Right now, Caro—I mean it.”

Caro paused, froze. Then quietly said, “There’s no point killing Michael.”

“No, that’s right. I’ll only kill Michael if you don’t do as you’re told.”

A pause ensued, then Caro asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“I told you I want this house, so I’ve arranged for you to make a new will. It’s waiting with a solicitor in his office at Number 31, Horse-ferry Road. Mr. Atkins—don’t bother to ask him for help. He won’t oblige. Once you’ve signed the will he’s drawn up for you, he and his clerk will witness it, then give you a token to signify that all has been done as I wish.

“If you want Michael to live, you must bring that token back here to me before,” Muriel paused, then said, “nine-thirty.”

He wanted to make sure Caro realized that Muriel would never let him live, but the black tide was steadily dragging him under.

But Muriel had thought of that, too. “You don’t need to worry I won’t let Michael live if you do as I say—I only want what rightfully should be mine, and when all is said and done, once you’re dead, he won’t be any threat to me—he’ll bury you and Breckenridge and let me go, because if he doesn’t he’ll hurt and damage any number of others. Brunswick and his family, George and my brothers, their families—if Michael exposes me, the victims of Camden’s legacy will only grow.”

Memory flickered; they had a chance, a faint one, yet all he could do was with all his heart will Caro onto the right path. She touched his cheek; he sensed her rise. Then the black wave breached his guard, poured over and through him and dragged him down.