Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

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.”