The Ideal Bride

While George and Muriel exchanged greetings with Michael, Caro joined Muriel on the chaise. Edward retreated to stand by the wall. As Michael lifted a straight-backed chair to join the circle, Caro fixed her gaze on George. “Edward mentioned a burglary—what’s happened?‘

“Sometime last night, under cover of the storm, someone broke into the sitting room at the end of the west wing.”

During Camden’s lifetime, the rooms in the west wing had been his, left untouched while he was absent, always ready for the few scattered weeks when he returned to his home. Suppressing a frown, Caro listened while George recounted how his grandsons had discovered a forced window, and described the signs that suggested whoever had entered had searched the rooms thoroughly. However, as far as they could tell, only a few knickknacks, none valuable, had been taken.

Muriel broke in. “They must have been after something of Camden’s, something he’d left there.”

George snorted. “More likely passing vagabonds—came in looking for shelter and picked the place over while they were about it. No seri-ous harm done, but I did wonder if it might have been those two who attacked Miss Trice.” He looked at Geoffrey. “Thought I’d put you on your guard.”

Caro glanced at Michael.

Muriel all but snorted. “I think it most likely was something of Camden’s they were after—that’s why I insisted we see you.” She appealed to Caro. “What of his things left at the Hall would be of interest to others?”

Looking into Muriel’s dark, slightly protruberant eyes, Caro wondered if she’d heard of Ferdinand’s interest. “No,” she said, her tone leaving no scope for argument. “There’s nothing of Camden’s, nothing valuable, left at the Hall.”

She glanced at Edward, wordlessly warning him not to support or elaborate. Camden had never viewed the Hall, buried in rural Hampshire, as any real base of his. She and Edward knew her statement was absolutely true, but it was a truth few others were likely to know or guess. Muriel clearly hadn’t; it would hardly be surprising if Ferdinand believed Camden’s personal papers remained in his rooms at the Hall, his ancestral home.

Muriel frowned, unhappy with her answer, yet with little choice but to grudgingly accept it.

Caro had Edward ring for tea. Over their cups, George, Michael, and Geoffrey discussed crops, weather, and yields; she determinedly steered Muriel’s thoughts to the fete, inquiring as to the numerous stalls, refreshments, and entertainments that were all coming together under Muriel’s eagle eye.

Tea consumed, Muriel and George took their leave. Geoffrey retreated to his study; Caro, with Michael and Edward in train, made for the parlor.

Elizabeth had had her own tea tray brought in; she set down her cup and the novel she’d been reading as Caro entered. “I heard Muriel’s voice.” She grimaced. “I assumed if you needed me, you’d send for me.”

Caro waved. “Of course.” She sat on the chaise, fixed her gaze on Michael as he lounged in the armchair opposite; Edward perched on the arm of the other chair. “Those two weaselly men we saw Ferdinand speaking with in the forest. Do you think…?”

Edward frowned. “What two men?”

Michael explained. Edward shot a concerned glance at Caro. “You think Ferdinand hired them to burgle Sutcliffe Hall?”

“I think,” Michael broke in decisively, “that we’re getting ahead of ourselves. While I agree that Ferdinand, with his sudden interest in Camden’s papers, having a clandestine meeting with two men whom neither Caro nor I recognized but who certainly looked like thieves, and Sutcliffe Hall being burgled two nights later, is suggestive, it’s hardly proof. Indeed, it could have been as George suggested—vagabonds seeking shelter from the storm.”

He looked at Caro. “The end of the Hall’s west wing is the most isolated part of the house, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Camden liked it for that reason—the others in the house didn’t disturb him.”

“Exactly. And the forest encroaches on that side, so if any vagabonds were looking for a refuge, it’s the most likely place they’d enter.”

Caro pulled a face. “You’re saying it could just be coincidence.”

He nodded. “I’m hardly a Leponte supporter, but there’s insufficient evidence to charge the break-in to his account.”

“But we can keep a closer eye on him.” Edward’s tone had hardened.

Michael met his gaze. “Indeed. Regardless of our lack of proof in this instance, I definitely think that would be wise.”

Michael and Edward spent the next half hour discussing possibilities; they settled on alerting the Bramshaw House staff to watch for any intruders, citing the burglary at Sutcliffe Hall as the cause of their concern.

“Leadbetter Hall is too far away to mount a meaningful watch directly on Leponte.” Michael grimaced. “And with the fete and the ball in the offing, there are too many easily constructed reasons for him to be out and about around Bramshaw anyway. Short of alerting half the county, there’s not much more we can do.”

Edward nodded. “The ball will be his best chance to search here, don’t you think?”

“Yes—we’ll have to make sure he’s watched at all times.”

Caro listened, agreed when appealed to, but otherwise held her tongue; she had enough to do organizing her ball without worrying about Ferdinand. Besides, it was clear she could leave that to Michael and Edward.

The sun was sinking behind the trees when Michael rose. She rose, too, watched while he took his leave of Elizabeth and Edward; when he turned to her, she gave him her hand and an easy smile. “Good-bye.”

Discussion of the ball had reminded her just how much there was yet to do, to organize, supervise, and manage. Regardless of their decision to embark on an affair, she did not need further distraction just now.

He held her hand, held her gaze, then raised her fingers and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “I’ll call on you tomorrow afternoon.”

She turned with him to the door; he still held her fingers. “Tomorrow will be very busy.” She lowered her voice so only he could hear. “There’s a great deal we have to do with both the preparations for the ball and our contribution to the fete.”

Pausing at the door, he looked down at her. “Nevertheless, I’ll be here midafternoon.” The words were a promise, underscored by the weight of his gaze. He again raised her fingers; his eyes on hers, he kissed them, then released her. “Look for me then.”

With a nod and that same intent look, he left.

She stood in the doorway listening to his retreating footsteps, and wondered… in agreeing to an affair, just what had she agreed to?

The question resonated in her mind the following afternoon when she stood on the terrace, hands on her hips, and glared at Michael.

She opened her mouth—

He pointed a finger at her nose. “Without argument. Remember?”

She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss through teeth unbecomingly clenched. “I—”

“You have precisely five minutes to change into your riding habit. I’ll meet you on the front steps with the horses.”

With that, he turned, went down the terrace steps, and strode away toward the stables—leaving her with her mouth open… and a sneaking suspicion she had no alternative but to fall in with his plans.

She’d never been so dictated to in her life!

Swinging around, muttering dire imprecations against males, all males, presumptuous or otherwise, she whipped off her apron, swung through the kitchens to check with Cook and Mrs. Judson, then hurried upstairs. Ten minutes later, after remembering and delivering the instructions she’d been on her way to give when the sight of Michael striding purposefully up to the house had distracted her, she hurried into the front hall.

Looking down, tugging on her riding gloves, she ran straight into a wall of solid male muscle her senses had no difficulty recognizing.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” she protested, bouncing off.

He steadied her, then locked one hand about one of hers. “Just as well.”

His growl made her blink, but she couldn’t see his face—he’d already turned and was striding for the door, towing her behind him. She had to hurry to keep up, frantically grabbing up her habit’s skirt so she could clatter down the steps in his wake.