Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

“ 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.