She felt her heart swell, was so glad he couldn’t see her face, see her eyes as tears welled and silently fell.
Then he picked up their rhythm, the tempo escalated, and there were no more words, but a wordless communion. An age-old melding; he held her tight, his chest to her back as she crested the peak and fell through the stars. He followed immediately, with her—as he wished, as she wished—when they found their distant shore.
Chapter 21
Michael left the house the next morning feeling for the first time in weeks as if he were walking in mental sunshine rather than fog. As if a miasma had blown away and he could finally see clearly.
Caro was all that truly mattered to him. It wasn’t just sensible but completely justifiable to devote himself wholly, single-mindedly, to her protection. To set aside all other concerns and concentrate solely on that, for she was the key to his future.
He’d left her still sleeping, sated and warm in her bed, safe in his grandfather’s house. He headed for the clubs and scouted through his contacts; none had anything to report. After lunching at Brooks with Jamieson, who was still puzzled and uneasy over the break-in, not so much over it happening but because he couldn’t see why, Michael headed for Grosvenor Square, confident there was no piece of accessible information he’d overlooked.
Devil had summoned him to a meeting at three o’clock; Gabriel had turned up something odd among the legatees that Lucifer agreed needed to be investigated. The meeting was opportune; Michael could report his findings, or lack thereof, and Devil would have news of Fer-dinand and his doings.
Devil’s butler, Webster, was waiting to admit him; Michael surmised Honoria had not been informed a meeting was taking place. His brother-in-law had deeply entrenched prejudices against involving his wife in any potentially dangerous game. He now shared—fully—those same prejudices, and other similar reactions and emotions to which he’d never thought to fall prey. Thinking of Caro and all she made him feel, he wondered that he’d been so self-blind.
Devil and Lucifer were waiting in the study; Gabriel arrived as he sat in one of the four armchairs facing each other across the empty hearth. As Gabriel sank into the last, Michael glanced around at the faces; he’d grown close to all the Cynsters. Since Honoria’s marriage they’d treated him as one of them; he’d come to regard them in the same light. Helping each other was an unwritten Cynster code; it didn’t seem odd, even to him, that they’d put aside other things and devoted time and effort to aiding him.
Gabriel looked at him. “Let’s hear your news first.”
Michael grimaced; it didn’t take long to summarize nothing.
“Leponte has been lying low,” Devil said. “Sligo’s certain he hired someone to watch the Foreign Office buildings, but he’s been careful to work through intermediaries. However, for the night in question, we can’t place Leponte anywhere. He might have remained within the emabassy all night—then again, he might not.”
“If he’s searching for something incriminating,” Michael said, “presumably he won’t want anyone else to read it. While at Sutcliffe House, he could have asked others to bring away anything they found, removing an entire archive…”
Devil nodded. “He would have had to go through it. He probably did, but as he’s not going about much anyway, his social absence that night can hardly be cited as evidence.”
They all grimaced, rather grimly, then turned to Gabriel.
“Whether this means anything or not I don’t know,” he said, “but it’s definitely deuced odd. I checked the list of bequests, all those involving items of value. There were nine such bequests, all of antiques, specific pieces that Camden had collected over the last decade.
“All the pieces were highly valuable. Eight went to men Camden had known for decades, most from his early years in diplomatic circles. Those eight fit the mold of old and valued friend. I ran the list past Lucifer—”
“All eight are known collectors,” Lucifer said. “The pieces each received fit perfectly into their collections. From what I saw in Half Moon Street, those bequests didn’t leave holes in Camden’s collection.
He’d clearly viewed the pieces as gifts from the first, so it’s no surprise they were listed in his will.“
“Subsequently,” Gabriel resumed, “I quietly asked around and confirmed none of those eight are in any way pressed for cash.”
“Nor do any of them have the reputation of those I term ‘rabid collectors,” Lucifer added.
“So eight bequests make eminent sense and raise no hares,” Michael said. “What of the ninth?”
“That’s where things become interesting.” Gabriel met Michael’s eyes. “On first reading, I didn’t realize its significance. The ninth bequest is described as ‘a Louis XIV desk set in marble and gold, jewel-encrusted.’”
“However,” Lucifer took up the tale, “that particular piece is not simply a desk set created in the time of Louis XIV—it was
“Who is the ninth legatee?‘ Devil asked.
Gabriel looked at him. “He’s listed as T M. C. Danvers.”
“
“No,” Lucifer said, a touch grimly. “He isn’t—not at all.”
“But you know of him,” Gabriel said. “I searched everywhere, but I couldn’t find any connection between Camden Sutcliffe and Breckenridge, other than that, due to some reason, they knew each other.”
“Caro said they’d known each other for thirty years—all Brecken-ridge’s life.” Michael frowned. “She’s given Breckenridge Camden’s letters to read, explained what we’re looking for.” He glanced at the others. “She trusts him completely.”
Their frowns stated that they, as he, thought Caro had no business trusting a man of Breckenridge’s ilk.
“Did she explain what the connection between Sutcliffe and Breckenridge was?” Devil asked.
“No, but it’s not through political or diplomatic circles—I’d know if Breckenridge was a player there, and he isn’t.” Michael felt his face hardening. “I’ll ask her.” He looked at Gabriel. “If he’s not a collector, could money be the motive?”
Gabriel grimaced. “I’d so like to say yes, but all the answers I got say otherwise. Breckenridge is Brunswick’s heir, and Brunswick is as financially solid as the proverbial rock. When it comes to money, Breckenridge is his father’s son; his investments are sound, even a touch conservative for my taste, and his income greatly exceeds his expenditures. Breckenridge certainly has a vice, but it’s not the tables, it’s women, and even there, he’s careful. I couldn’t find the slightest sign any harpy has her talons in him, let alone to the extent of bleeding him.”
Devil murmured, “From all I’ve heard, Breckenridge is considered a dangerous man to cross. There seems no reason to think him a blackmailer, yet equally I can’t see him as a blackmailer’s victim.”
“Forced to act as a pawn in bleeding Sutcliffe?” Lucifer asked.
Devil nodded. “Highly unlikely, I should think.”
“So what we have is a nobleman with no explainable connection to Sutcliffe being left a disguised but sizeable fortune in his will.” Michael paused, then added, “There has to be a reason.”
“Indeed,” Devil said. “And while we know the Portuguese are attempting to suppress something in Sutcliffe’s past, and can surmise they might wish to permanently silence Caro, there’s the possibility the attempts on her life stem from something quite different.”
“Like Sutcliffe’s treasures.” Lucifer rose. “We need to learn what the connection between Sutcliffe and Breckenridge was with all speed.”
“Caro knows what it is.” Michael rose, as did the others; he glanced at them. “I’ll go and ask.”
Devil clapped him on the shoulder as they turned to the door. “If it’s anything potentially damning, let us know.”
Michael nodded.
Lucifer opened the door—just as Honoria swept up. She halted in the corridor, her hazel eyes noting each one.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Her tone was all grande dame. “And what have we here?”
Devil smiled. “There you are.” Surreptitiously, he prodded Michael in the back.
Michael moved forward, through the door; Honoria stepped back, allowing him into the corridor.
