The Ideal Bride

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.”

Moving past Michael, Breckenridge went to the sideboard, where a decanter stood. He looked at Michael, waved at the glasses; Michael shook his head. Breckenridge poured. “Aside from the obvious considerations, there was the fact that if I wasn’t there, as Brunswick’s heir, the title and estates would revert to the Crown, pleasing no one except the royal treasurer.”

He paused to sip the brandy. “My father, however, is a stickler—if he knew, he might feel forced to disown me, sacrificing himself, the wider family, and me in the process. Not, I should add, that the decision was ever mine to make—it was made for me by my mother. She did, however, inform Camden of my birth. As he had no other children, he kept informed of my progress, although always from a distance.

“Until I was sixteen.” Breckenridge looked down, sipped, then went on. “My mother accompanied me on a tour of Portugal. In Lisbon, we met privately with Camden Sutcliffe, the famous ambassador. Together, they told me that he was my father.” A faint smile curved his lips. “Of course, I never thought of him as that—to me, Brunswick is and always will be my father. However, knowing Camden was my sire explained much that wasn’t, until then, all that easy to understand.

And although Camden knew my filial allegiance remained with Brunswick—to his credit, he never attempted to challenge that—he was always helpful and interested in my welfare. I never leaned toward diplomatic or political life—I intend to succeed Brunswick and continue to nurture all he and his forebears have worked for. In spite of that, Camden was… I suppose as devoted as it was in him to be.“

Breckenridge’s gaze had grown distant. “I visited Lisbon frequently until Camden’s death. Getting to know him, learning about him, taught me a great deal.” He drained his glass, then glanced at Michael. “About myself.”

He was turning to set the glass on the sideboard when the clock above the mantelpiece stuck eight o’clock.

It was a large clock; its bongs reverberated through the room.

They glanced at each other.

Caro noticed the drawing room door swinging shut.

She straightened, eyes widening. Both men noticed and swung around.

Muriel Hedderwick stepped from the shadows; the half-closed door had until then concealed her.

Caro stared, literally not knowing what to think. Muriel walked slowly forward, a smile on her lips. Reaching the middle of the room, she halted and lifted her arm.

She was holding one of Camden’s dueling pistols; she trained it, very steadily, on Caro.

“At last.” The words held a wealth of feeling, the hatred ringing through them so intense it held them silent.

Muriel’s dark eyes glowed as with transparent satisfaction she viewed them. “Finally, I have the two people I hate most in the world at my mercy.”

Michael shifted to face her, simultaneously moving closer to Caro. “Why do you hate me?”

“Not you!” Muriel’s expression turned contemptuous. “Them!” With her chin, she indicated Caro and Breckenridge; the pistol didn’t waver. “The two who took what was rightfully mine!”

Evangelical fanatacism rang in her voice. Michael glanced at Breckenridge, caught his equally mystified look.

Caro stepped forward. “Muriel—”

“No!” The roar exploded around the room. Muriel fixed Caro with a

gaze glittering with rage. Breckenridge grasped the moment to edge further away; Michael guessed what he intended doing—didn’t like the odds, but couldn’t think of a better plan.

“Don’t tell me I have it wrong—don’t try to explain it all away!” Muriel’s fury turned mocking.

“I’ve only met you in passing.” Breckenridge drew her attention. “I barely know you. How could I have harmed you?”

Muriel bared her teeth at him. “You were his bright-eyed boy.” She spat the words at him. “He cared about you—he talked to you. He acknowledged you!”

Breckenridge frowned. “Camden? What has he to say to this?”

“Nothing anymore—it’s too late for him to make amends. But he was my father, too, and I will have my due.”

Michael glanced at Caro, saw her shock, her consternation. “Muriel—”

“No!” Again Muriel’s eyes glittered, this time with patent malice. “You think I’m inventing it? That your dear Camden didn’t lie with his sister-in-law?” Her gaze darted to Breckenridge; her lips curled. “See— he knows it’s true.”

Caro glanced at Timothy; briefly he met her eyes. Lips tightening, he looked back at Muriel. “It makes sense of references in letters from George’s wife to Camden.”

Muriel nodded. “Indeed. Mama told Camden of my birth—she never loved George, it was Camden she adored. She gave George two sons, then Camden came home to bury his first wife. It was perfect timing, or so she thought, but Camden married Helen and returned to Lisbon—and I was born at Sutcliffe Hall.” Muriel snarled at Timothy, “Me. I’m Camden’s firstborn, but he never paid attention—not a jot. He never even spoke to me as his—he always treated me as George’s daughter!”

Her eyes gleamed. “But I wasn’t, was I? I was his.”

“How did you learn about me?” Timothy asked. He sounded merely interested, unconcerned.