Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

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?

He returned to Upper Grosvenor Street just before three o’clock, still no further along, either with his inquiries or his cogitations on Caro’s needs. Putting both aside, he took the stairs two at a time; opening the parlor door, he beheld Caro, seated in an armchair and deep in one of Camden’s diaries.

She looked up. Her fine hair formed a nimbus about her head; the sun striking through the window gilded each strand, a quiveringly alive filigree halo for her heart-shaped face with its delicate features and tip-tilted silvery eyes.

Those eyes lit at the sight of him. “Thank God!” Shutting the diary and setting it atop the pile, she held out her hands. “I sincerely hope you’re here to rescue me.”

Smiling, he walked in, took her hands, and pulled her up—and into his arms. Closing them about her, he bent his head; she lifted her lips.

They kissed. Long and slowly, deeply, yet both aware that they had to hold passion at bay, had to keep the flames suppressed.

Their lips parted only to meet again, to taste, take, give.

Eventually, he raised his head.

She sighed. Opened her eyes. “I suppose we must go.”

Her transparent reluctance delighted him. Yet… “Unfortunately, we must.” Releasing her, he stepped back. “Lucifer will be waiting.”

They’d agreed to show Lucifer around the Half Moon Street house that afternoon at three. When they arrived, he was lounging, tall, dark, and rakishly handsome, against the front railings.

Grinning, he straightened and stepped forward to hand Caro down from the hackney, then bowed gracefully. “Your servant, Mrs. Sutcliffe. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She smiled. “Thank you—but please call me Caro.”

Lucifer nodded to Michael, then waved up the steps. “I confess I’m agog to view the collection.”

Opening the door, Caro led them into the front hall. “I hadn’t realized Camden was such a well-known collector.‘’

“He wasn’t, but once I started asking around, he was definitely known, mostly for his eccentricity in collecting as he had.” Lucifer studied a sideboard and the vase that stood upon it. “Most people collect one type of thing. Sutcliffe collected all sorts of things, but for one house—this house.” He gestured at the round table in the hall, at the mirror on the wall. “Everything was chosen specifically to fill a particular place and function in this house. Everything is unique—the collection itself is unique.”

“I see.” Leading the way into the drawing room, she crossed to the windows and dragged back the heavy drapes, letting light spill across the gorgeous furniture, fracture and refract through crystal, gleam across gilt and beaten silver. “I hadn’t thought of it as strange.” She turned. “So what do you need to see?”

“Most of the major rooms, I suspect. But tell me, do you know who he dealt with? I have some names, but wondered which other dealers he used.”

“Wainwright, Cantor, Jofleur, and Hastings. No others.”

Lucifer looked up. “You’re certain of that?”

“Yes. Camden refused to deal with anyone else—he once told me he wasn’t interested in getting bilked, and that’s why he insisted on dealing only with men he trusted.”

Lucifer nodded. “He was right about those four, which means we can forget any likelihood of forgery. If any of them discovered they’d sold him a fake, they would have offered him his money back. If he dealt solely with them, that’s one scam we don’t need to imagine was involved here.”

“One scam.” Michael raised his brows. “There’s another possibility?”

“One that’s looking more likely every minute.” Lucifer glanced around. “Wait until I’ve seen more, then I’ll explain.”

Caro dutifully guided him about the ground floor, answering his questions, confirming that Camden had kept excellent records of all his purchases. In the dining room, waiting while Lucifer studied the contents of a glass-fronted cabinet, she noticed a candlestick normally in the center of the sideboard now stood to the left. She centered it again; thinking back to when she’d glanced in when she and Michael had come to fetch Camden’s papers, she was sure the candlestick had been in its accustomed place.

Mrs. Simms must have called; the housekeeper must have been distracted not to have replaced the candlestick precisely. Nothing was missing, nothing else had been moved. Making a mental note to send a message to let Mrs. Simms know she was back in town, she turned as Lucifer straightened. “Come—I’ll show you upstairs.”

Michael followed in their wake, listening with half an ear, otherwise looking about him. Not as Lucifer was doing, examining individual objects, not as he himself had done the last time he was here, but looking to learn what the house could tell him of Caro, what hints it might give him of what she needed, what she might covet that she didn’t already have. What was missing in this apparently wonderful house?

Children leapt to mind, but, as he looked and considered and compared, it wasn’t simply little people with grubby fingers thundering pell-mell down the corridors, sliding with whoops down the elegantly carved banister, that were missing.

This house was empty. Truly empty. Camden had created it for Caro—that Michael no longer doubted—yet it lay cold, without a heart, without the life, that indefinable pulse of family, that should have enlivened it and filled it with joy. It was presently an exquisitely beautiful shell, nothing more.

The one thing needed to bring the house to life was the one gift Camden had not given Caro. Either he’d neglected to do so, or it hadn’t been in him to give.

What was it that brought a house to life, that didn’t just create a family residence, but transformed it into a home?

Michael was standing in the upstairs corridor when Caro and Lucifer came out of the study.

Lucifer waved to the stairs. “Let’s go down.” He looked a touch grim.

In the hall, he faced them. “There’s a danger here that could account for the attacks on Caro. The collection as a whole is no tempta-tion, but individual pieces are. Sutcliffe had an eye for the highest quality—many pieces here are beyond superb. More than enough to tempt a rabid collector, one of those who, having once seen, absolutely must have.”

Lucifer looked at Caro. “Given Sutcliffe’s reason for assembling such a collection, I doubt he could have been induced to sell any piece once he acquired it. Is that right?”

Caro nodded. “He was approached on numerous occasions over different pieces, but as you say, once he had the perfect piece for a certain spot, he wasn’t interested in selling it. For him, there wasn’t any point.”