The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)
Lips setting grimly, he steered her up the meadow. They walked back to the house as fast as she could manage. They entered via the garden hall; he parted from her in the corridor with a stern reminder of the advisability of a hot bath.
She cast him a sharp glance, with a glimmer of her usual manner tartly replied, “I’m hardly likely to want anyone to see me in my present state.” Her wave directed his attention to her hair—now sun-dried, it seemed twice its normal volume and even more untameable than usual. “I’m going up the back stairs.”
He caught her gaze. “I’ll go home and change, then I’ll meet you in the parlor.”
She nodded and left; he watched her go, then headed for the parlor. As he’d hoped, the door was open; Elizabeth was on the window seat embroidering while Edward sat in a chair poring over some papers spread on a low table. Standing in the shadows of the corridor, out of Elizabeth’s sight, Michael called to Edward.
Edward looked up; Michael beckoned. “If you can spare a moment?”
“Yes, of course.” Edward shot to his feet and strode to the door, eyes widening as he took in Michael’s state. He pulled the door closed behind him. “What the devil happened?”
In a few short sentences, Michael told him. Grim-faced, Edward swore he would ensure that after her bath, Caro came straight down to the parlor and stayed there, safe in his and Elizabeth’s company until Michael returned.
Satisfied he’d done all he could for the moment, Michael left to ride home and change out of his bedraggled clothes.
He returned two hours later, resolute and determined.
While riding home, then bathing and changing his clothes, calming Mrs. Entwhistle and Carter, eating a quick luncheon, then riding back to Bramshaw House, he’d had plenty of time to think without the distraction of Caro’s presence. Plenty of time not just to dwell on what might have been, but to draw some conclusions, firm enough for their purpose, and from that see ahead to how they should go on—what they needed to do to unmask whoever was behind what he now firmly believed were four attempts on Caro’s life.
He walked into the parlor. Caro, recognizing his step, had already looked up, was already rising. Edward rose, too.
Elizabeth, still ensconced on the window seat, beamed a bright smile his way. Gathering her emboridery, she got to her feet. “I’ll leave you to discuss your business.”
Sunnily assured, she swept out. He held the door, then closed it behind her. Turning, he looked—just looked—at Caro.
She waved and sat again. “I don’t want her to know and worry, and even less become involved, and she will if she knows, so I’ve told her you and I have some political business to discuss, and given the ambitions we all hold for Edward, that he should stay.”
Edward shot him a long-suffering look and resumed his seat.
Michael took the armchair opposite Caro. He wanted to be able to see her face; she was often difficult to read, but given the subjects they had to discuss, he wanted to catch as much as she let show.
“I think,” he said, glancing at Edward, “that we’re all in possession of the relevant facts?”
Edward nodded. “I believe so.”
Michael looked at Caro. “Do I take it you now accept that someone is intent on causing you harm?”
She met his gaze, hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Very well. The question we clearly have to answer is: Who would want you dead?”
She spread her hands. “I don’t have any enemies.”
“I’ll accept that you don’t know of any enemies, but what about enemies who aren’t motivated by personal connection.”
She frowned. “You mean via Camden?”
He nodded. “We know of the Duke of Oporto, and the interest he apparently has in Camden’s papers.” Michael looked at Edward, then back at Caro. “Can we agree that it’s possible there’s some hidden reason in whatever’s at stake there that the duke believes you know, that’s sufficient to convince him he needs to do away with you?”
Edward considered for only a moment, then nodded decisively. “A possibility, definitely.” He looked at Caro. “You must agree, Car
o. You know as well as I do what’s at stake at the Portuguese court. Murder has, indeed, been committed for less.”
Caro grimaced; she glanced at Michael, then nodded. “Very well. The duke is one suspect—or rather, his minions.”
“Or, as it might be, Ferdinand’s minions.” His softly voiced correction drew a sigh, then a reluctant inclination of her head.
“True. So that’s one potential nest of vipers.”