Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

Magnus and Evelyn thoroughly enjoyed their excursion to interrogate Lady Claypoole, although other than confirming via vague recollection that there had been some political turmoil in Lisbon toward the close of her husband’s tenure, her ladyship proved of little help. However, the outing improved both Evelyn’s and Magnus’s moods, so that much at least was gained.

Michael continued playing the part of a soon-to-be-Minister very likely to be appointed to the Foreign Office for all it was worth, exploiting the readiness of others to impress him to glean all he could on current Portuguese affairs. He laid seige not only to the relevant British offices, but to the Spanish, French, Corsicans, Sardinians, Belgians, and Italians, too. Everyone had their sources—someone had to know something of use.

And then there was Ferdinand.

Michael didn’t forget him, or the Portuguese embassy staff. But he couldn’t act directly there; with Devil’s assistance, he organized others to infiltrate and see what they could learn, but such operations necessarily took time.

Time he was increasingly worried they might not have.

Returning to Upper Grosvenor Street late one afternoon, still no further along and running out of useful avenues to explore, he climbed the stairs, paused in the parlor doorway to watch Caro read. When she glanced up and smiled, he joined her.

With a sigh, he sank into the armchair that was the mate of the one she occupied.

She raised a brow. “Nothing?”

He shook his head. “Patience, I know, is a virtue, but …”

She grinned; looking down, she returned to her reading.

He sat and watched her, oddly pleased that she did not feel the need to entertain him as any other lady would. It was a comfortable feeling, to be accepted with such ease, to simply be together without any of the customary social barriers between them.

The simple togetherness soothed his aggravation, stroked his impatient irritation away.

In the distance, the front doorbell pealed. Hammer’s muffled steps crossed the tiles; a moment passed, then the front door closed. An instant later, they heard Hammer ascending the stairs, heading their way.

Hammer appeared in the open doorway. He bowed to them both, then advanced to offer his salver. “A note for you, ma’am. The boy expected no reply.”

Caro took the folded sheet. “Thank you, Hammer.”

With a bow, Hammer departed. Michael watched Caro’s face as she opened the missive and read. Then she smiled, glanced at him as she laid the single sheet aside. “It’s from Breckenridge.”

Michael stared. “ Breckenridge ?” Had he heard aright? “Viscount Breckenridge—Brunswick’s heir?”

“The same. I told you I asked an old and trusted friend of Cam-den’s to read his letters. Timothy’s just written to say he hasn’t found anything yet.” Her gaze on the note, her expression turned affectionate. “I daresay he was worried I’d call to ask in person, so he sent word instead.”

Timothy? Call in person ? Michael felt poleaxed. “Ah… you wouldn’t, would you?” Caro looked at him, puzzled. He cleared his throat. “Call on Breekenridge in person.” His voice faded as he took in her increasingly puzzled expression.

She blinked. “Well, I had to take him the letters. Or rather, have two footmen carry the letters into his house. Then I had to explain what I needed him to do, what he should look for.”

For a suspended moment, he simply stared. ‘You entered Brecken-ridge’s establishment alone.“ His voice sounded strange; he was struggling to take it in.

She frowned at him. Severely. “I’ve known Timothy for more than a decade—we danced at my wedding. Camden knew him for nearly thirty years.”

He blinked. “Breekenridge is barely thirty.”

“He’s thirty-one,” she tartly informed him.

“And one of the foremost rakes in the ton—if not the foremost!” Abruptly, he stood. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked down at Caro.

She fixed him with a narrow-eyed silver gaze and crisply advised, “Don’t start.”

He took in the increasingly mulish set of her lips, the militant light in her eyes—felt his own jaw set. “For God’s sake! You can’t simply… call to see a man like Breekenridge as if you’re visiting for morning tea!”

“Of course I can—although now you mention it, he didn’t offer tea.”

“I can imagine,” he growled.

Caro arched her brows. “I seriously doubt you can. You’re starting to sound as bad as he, what with insisting I leave via the mews. Unnecessarily exercised for no cause at all.”

Fixing him with a very direct look, she continued, “As I reminded him, let me remind you—I am the Merry Widow. My widowhood is established—no one in the ton imagines I will readily succumb to the blandishments of any rake.”

Michael simply stood and stared down at her—pointedly.

She felt faint heat rise in her cheeks. Lightly shrugged. “Only you know about that—and anyway, you’re no rake.”

His eyes narrowed along with his lips. “Caro…”

“No!” She held up a hand. “Hear me out. Timothy is an old and dear friend, one I trust implicitly, without reservation. I’ve known him for an age—he was an associate—well, more a connection—of Cam-den’s, and while I know what he is, what his reputation paints him, I assure you that I am in absolutely no danger from him. Now!” She glanced at the pile of diaries. “While I’m very glad Timothy sent around a note because I don’t have time to call to see how he’s faring, I likewise have no time to waste in silly arguments.”

Picking up a diary, she looked up at Michael. “So rather than scowling at me for no reason and to no avail, you can help, too. Here— read this.”

She tossed the book at him.

He caught it. Frowned at her. “You want me to read it?”

She’d already reopened the volume she’d been perusing. Looking up at him, she raised her brows. “I’m sure you can read as well as Timothy. I gave him the letters, but the diaries are crammed and much harder going.” Looking down again, she continued, her tone softer, “And while I trust Timothy with the letters, there are references in the diaries I would rather he didn’t see.”

Michael stared at her down-bent head, absentmindedly hefted the volume in his hand. He was too astute not to recognize blatant manipulation when it was so shamelessly practiced on him—she trusted him where she didn’t trust Breckenridge—Timothy!—yet…

After a moment, he shifted back to the chair, slowly sat. Opened the diary, flicked through a few pages. “What am I looking for?”

She answered without looking up. “Any mention of the Portuguese court, or the names Leponte, Oporto, or Albufeira. Anything you find, show it to me—I’ll know if it’s what we’re after.”

Discovering that the lady he was determined to make his wife consorted, apparently without any degree of caution, with the ton’s most dangerous rake, would, Michael told himself, rattle any man.

It certainly rattled him, to the point of making him actively consider hedging her about with guards, an action he was well aware would simply lead to another argument, another he wouldn’t win.

He knew, better than anyone else could, that, as she’d intimated, Caro had never consorted in the physical sense with Breckenridge or any of his peers. In light of that knowledge, he might be overreacting, yet…

While Caro readied herself for dinner at Lady Osterley’s, he sat in the library and pored over Burke’s Peerage .

Timothy Martin Claude Danvers, Viscount Breckenridge. Only son of the Earl of Brunswick.

The usual background—Eton, Oxford—with the usual clubs listed. Quickly, Michael read further, cross-referencing between the Dan-verses, the Elliots—Breckenridge’s mother’s family—and the Sut-cliffes. He could find no hint of the connection to which Caro had alluded.