Dumbstruck, they stared up at Caro.
The now empty ewer from Mrs. Simms’s room in her hands, she glared down at them. “Allow me to introduce you. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby—Timothy, Viscount Breckenridge.”
They glanced at each other, eyes narrow.
She hissed in frustration. “For goodness sake! Shake hands—now!”
Both looked at her, then at each other, then, reluctantly, Michael held out his hand. Equally reluctantly, Timothy gripped it. Briefly.
Michael eyed him coldly. “What are you doing here?” He spoke softly, yet there was unmistakable menace in the words.
Timothy studied him, then glanced up at her. “I received a note. It said you were in danger and if I wanted to know more, to meet the writer here at eight o’clock.”
It was plain Michael didn’t believe him.
His usually infallible instincts starting to operate again, Timothy looked from her to Michael, then he narrowed his eyes at her. “What have you been up to? What’s this all about?”
His tone should have set Michael’s suspicions to rest; it rang with typical aggravated male concern. She elevated her nose. “I got a note, too. Very similar. We came to meet the writer.” She peered across the kitchen at the clock Mrs. Simms kept wound. “It’s ten minutes to eight, and we’re down here arguing.”
“And now we’re wet.” Bending his head, Timothy ran his hands through his hair, dislodging droplets.
Michael, brushing water off his shoulders, didn’t take his eyes from him. “How did you get in?”
Timothy glanced at him. Even though Caro couldn’t see it, she could imagine his smirk as he softly answered, “I have a key, of course.”
“Stop it!” She glared at him; he tried to look innocent and as usual failed. Transferring her gaze to Michael’s stony face, she explained, “There’s a perfectly sensible, acceptable reason.”
Michael bit his tongue. The most notorious rake in London had a key to his wife-to-be’s house—and she was insisting there was an acceptable explanation. He managed not to snort. With an exaggerated wave, he gestured for Breckenridge to precede him up the stairs.
His expression faintly amused, Breckenridge did; he followed.
Caro had disappeared. As he and Breckenridge turned into the corridor, she emerged ewerless from the housekeeper’s room; shutting the door, she led them back to the front hall. “I hope our writer didn’t knock while we were down there. I’m not sure if the bell’s still working.”
She glanced back at Timothy.
He shook his head. “I don’t know, either. I haven’t dropped by for some time.”
Michael digested that as they crossed the hall and entered the drawing room. Caro led the way to the area before the hearth. As he followed, Breckenridge beside him, Michael was aware of the man glancing from Caro to him, and back again.
They halted at the edge of the exquisite rug before the hearth; both were still dripping from various extremities.
Breckenridge was studying Caro. “You haven’t told him, have you?”
She raised her brows, fixed him with an irritated look. “Of course not. It’s your secret. If anyone is to be told, you have to tell them.”
It was Michael’s turn to glance from one to the other; their interaction seemed more like his with Honoria than anything remotely loverlike.
Brows lifting, Breckenridge faced him, studied him levelly, then, his voice free of any drawl, said, “As there’s presumably a reason Caro wants you told, and as it’s difficult to explain my presence without knowing…Camden Sutcliffe was my sire.”
Amusement gleamed in Breckenridge’s eyes; he glanced at Caro. “Which makes Caro my…I’m not quite sure what. Stepmother?”
“Whatever.” Caro firmly stated. “That explains your connection to Camden, with this house, and why he left you that desk set.”
Breckenridge’s brows rose. He glanced at Michael with a touch more respect. “Twigged to that, did you?”
Michael refused to be drawn. “There was no evidence of any connection…” He broke off as things fell into place.
Breckenridge smiled. “Indeed. It was not just kept quiet but thoroughly buried by both parties. My mother, God rest her soul, was perfectly content with her husband, but in Camden she found what she always claimed was the love of her life. A short-lived love, but…” He shrugged. “My mother was forever a pragmatist. Camden was married. The liaison occurred during a brief visit to Lisbon. Mama returned to England and bore my father—by whom I mean Brunswick—his only son. Me.”