Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

No accident, but a callously deliberate act.

Rising, he drew a deep breath and stepped down to the bank.

Caro met his gaze. “I don’t usually use the rail all that much, just for crossing. Did you, yesterday?”

He cast his mind back… recalled putting a hand on the post at the bridge’s other end, not far from where Caro had grasped the rail today. “Yes.” He refocused on her eyes, reached for her arm. “It was solid, then.”

Had the perpetrator known that only Caro and Mrs. Judson used the bridge, and, it being Tuesday, that it was most likely Caro who would use it next?

Lips setting grimly, he steered her up the meadow. They walked back to the house as fast as she could manage. They entered via the garden hall; he parted from her in the corridor with a stern reminder of the advisability of a hot bath.

She cast him a sharp glance, with a glimmer of her usual manner tartly replied, “I’m hardly likely to want anyone to see me in my present state.” Her wave directed his attention to her hair—now sun-dried, it seemed twice its normal volume and even more untameable than usual. “I’m going up the back stairs.”

He caught her gaze. “I’ll go home and change, then I’ll meet you in the parlor.”

She nodded and left; he watched her go, then headed for the parlor. As he’d hoped, the door was open; Elizabeth was on the window seat embroidering while Edward sat in a chair poring over some papers spread on a low table. Standing in the shadows of the corridor, out of Elizabeth’s sight, Michael called to Edward.

Edward looked up; Michael beckoned. “If you can spare a moment?”

“Yes, of course.” Edward shot to his feet and strode to the door, eyes widening as he took in Michael’s state. He pulled the door closed behind him. “What the devil happened?”

In a few short sentences, Michael told him. Grim-faced, Edward swore he would ensure that after her bath, Caro came straight down to the parlor and stayed there, safe in his and Elizabeth’s company until Michael returned.

Satisfied he’d done all he could for the moment, Michael left to ride home and change out of his bedraggled clothes.

He returned two hours later, resolute and determined.

While riding home, then bathing and changing his clothes, calming Mrs. Entwhistle and Carter, eating a quick luncheon, then riding back to Bramshaw House, he’d had plenty of time to think without the distraction of Caro’s presence. Plenty of time not just to dwell on what might have been, but to draw some conclusions, firm enough for their purpose, and from that see ahead to how they should go on—what they needed to do to unmask whoever was behind what he now firmly believed were four attempts on. Caro’s life.

He walked into the parlor. Caro, recognizing his step, had already looked up, was already rising. Edward rose, too.

Elizabeth, still ensconced on the window seat, beamed a bright smile his way. Gathering her emboridery she got to her feet. “I’ll leave you to discuss your business.”

Sunnily assured, she swept out. He held the door, then closed it behind her. Turning, he looked—just looked—at Caro.

She waved and sat again. “I don’t want her to know and worry, and even less become involved, and she will if she knows, so I’ve told her you and I have some political business to discuss, and given the ambitions we all hold for Edward, that he should stay.”

Edward shot him a long-suffering look and resumed his seat.

Michael took the armchair opposite Caro. He wanted to be able to see her face; she was often difficult to read, but given the subjects they had to discuss, he wanted to catch as much as she let show.

“I think,” he said, glancing at Edward, “that we’re all in possession of the relevant facts?”

Edward nodded. “I believe so.”

Michael looked at Caro. “Do I take it you now accept that someone is intent on causing you harm?”

She met his gaze, hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Very well. The question we clearly have to answer is: Who would want you dead?”

She spread her hands. “I don’t have any enemies.”

“I’ll accept that you don’t know of any enemies, but what about enemies who aren’t motivated by personal connection.”

She frowned. “You mean via Camden?”

He nodded. “We know of the Duke of Oporto, and the interest he apparently has in Camden’s papers.” Michael looked at Edward, then back at Caro. “Can we agree that it’s possible there’s some hidden reason in whatever’s at stake there that the duke believes you know, that’s sufficient to convince him he needs to do away with you?”

Edward considered for only a moment, then nodded decisively. “A possibility, definitely.” He looked at Caro. “You must agree, Caro. You know as well as I do what’s at stake at the Portuguese court. Murder has, indeed, been committed for less.”

Caro grimaced; she glanced at Michael, then nodded. “Very well. The duke is one suspect—or rather, his minions.”

“Or, as it might be, Ferdinand’s minions.” His softly voiced correction drew a sigh, then a reluctant inclination of her head.

“True. So that’s one potential nest of vipers.”

His lips quirked, but only briefly. “Are there any other nests of that type?”

She met his gaze, then exchanged a long look with Edward.

It was Edward who finally answered, “I honestly don’t know of any.” His careful tone stated that that was the truth as far as he knew it, yet he was aware of the limits of his knowledge.

Michael watched Caro’s face closely as she turned to meet his gaze. She noticed, searched his eyes, then smiled—lightly, genuinely; she’d realized what he feared. “Nor I.” She hesitated, then added, “Truly.”

The directness in her gaze assured him that was indeed the truth. With some relief, he let go of the worry that she would feel compelled to conceal something she considered diplomatically sensitive even though it might be a potential source of threat to her.

“Very well. So we have no direct personal enemies, and only one known from the diplomatic front. Which leaves us with Camden’s personal life.” Sitting back, he caught Caro’s eye. “Camden’s will—what did you inherit under it?”

She raised her brows. “The house in Half Moon Street, and a rea-sonable fortune in the Funds.”

“Is there anything special about the house—could someone else covet it for some reason?”

Edward snorted. “The house is valuable enough, but it’s what’s in it that speaks to your question.” He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. “Camden filled it with antiquities and antique furniture and ornaments. The collection ranks as impressive, even among other collectors.”

Brows rising, jaw firming, Michael looked Caro. “In Camden’s will, was the house and its contents left to you outright, or on your death does it revert to his estate or go to someone else?”

She met his gaze, then blinked, slowly. Glanced at Edward. “I really can’t remember. Can you?”

Edward shook his head. “Other than that it went to you… I’m not sure I ever knew more.”

“Do you have a copy of the will?”

Caro nodded. “It’s in Half Moon Street.”

“With Camden’s papers?”

“Not in the same place, but yes, they, too, are in the house.”

Michael briefly considered the alternatives, then evenly stated, “In that case, I believe we need to return to London. Immediately.”

In the end, the problem wasn’t convincing Caro to go, but convincing Edward to stay.

“If you don’t,” Caro warned, “then Elizabeth will come, too—even if I don’t take her, she’ll invent some excuse to come up and stay at Angela’s or Augusta’s. She has open invitations in case she needs to shop, and she now has sufficient acquaintances in town to convince Geoffrey to let her go up, no matter what we might say when we leave. So!” She paused for breath; arms folded, she halted in her pacing and looked sternly down at Edward, still seated in the chair. ‘You, Edward dear, must remain here.“