The Ideal Bride (Cynster Novels)

by Stephanie Laurens

  He smiled grimly. “Did you see?”

  Caro nodded.

  “I take it he searched?” Michael asked.

  “Carefully and thoroughly for the past half hour. I watched him from outside.”

  Caro frowned. “I know there’s nothing there, but did he take anything? Or look at anything in particular that might give us some clue?”

  “No, but he went over the books very quickly. If I had to guess, I’d say he was looking for folios—the sort that look like books but are really folders of notes or letters.”

  Michael grimaced. “Camden’s papers.”

  Caro humphed. “Well, at least he now knows there’s nothing here.”

  “Or at Sutcliffe Hall.” Michael took her elbow and steered her toward the ballroom, from whence sounds of guests regathering were emanating.

  Edward followed. When they reached the ballroom, Michael released Caro; she headed for the terrace, no doubt intent on checking that her supper by moonlight had gone as she’d planned. He let her go. Pausing on the threshold, he scanned the heads, eventually locating Ferdinand’s.

  Beside him, Edward quietly said, “I wonder where Leponte will think of looking next.”

  “Indeed.” Michael glanced at Edward. “We’ll need to think more on that.”

  Edward nodded. “He’s already checked the study, but I’ll continue to keep an eye on him, just in case.”

  Inclining his head, Michael moved away. When he had a chance, he was going to have to try to put himself in Ferdinand’s shoes, but the Russian attache was, possibly unwittingly, standing next to the Prussian ambassador’s wife—duty called.

  Two hours, he’d said. As far as Caro could see, that meant she’d be waiting until the day after the fete, at the earliest, to learn the answer to her desperately urgent question.

  She felt like having the gig harnessed, driving around to Eyeworth Manor, grabbing Michael by the cravat and hauling him off…

  Where? That was the problem. Indeed, the more she thought of it, she couldn’t imagine how he’d solve that particular difficulty at any time… unfortunately, today, she couldn’t put her mind to devising a solution—she had a fete to help stage and a small horde of guests to herd to it.

  The weather had held; the day had dawned fine, free of any but the lightest clouds. The lilting breeze was just strong enough to rustle leaves and set ribbons dancing.

  Breakfast was held late due to the previous night’s festivities; as soon as it was over and the guests, refreshed, reassembled, she, aided by Edward, Elizabeth, and Geoffrey, shepherded them up the shady drive and across the village street.

  For decades, the fete had been held in the meadow behind the church; a good-sized clearing, it was bound at the back and to the right by the forest, with a secondary clearing to the left, perfect for leaving horses and gigs under Muriel’s stableman’s watchful eye. Stalls set in a large circle displayed jams, cakes, and homemade wines amid a host of other local produce. There were wood carvings and paintings, horseshoes and ornamental brasses; the latter proved popular among the foreign visitors, as did Miss Trice’s watercolors.

  The offerings of the Ladies’ Association—doilies, crocheted scarves, beribboned handkerchief sachets, embroidered tray cloths, antimacassars, and more—covered two long trestle tables. Caro stopped to chat with Mrs. Henry and Miss Ellerton, who were currently overseeing the wares.

  While she talked she kept an eye on her guests, but they all seemed quite taken with this, for them uncommon, slice of English life. Lady Kleber and the general in particular seemed in their element; they’d stopped to talk with the woodcarver.

  She was turning away when another large group came through from the stabling area. Michael steered the Swedish and Finnish contingents she’d billeted at the Manor into the main clearing, pausing to point out various stalls. She watched him smile and charm the Verol-stadt girls, but when they went off, parasols gaily bobbing in their parents’ wake, he remained where he was.

  Then he turned his head, looked straight at her, and smiled.

  A warm glow filled her; he’d known she was there. Not only that, but his smile—the smile he seemed to save just for her—was quite different. Somehow more real. He started toward her; she went forward to meet him. He took her hand, deftly raised it to his lips, kissed it.

  His eyes on hers reminded her, stirred memories inappropriate to indulge in while in public. She felt a blush tinge her cheeks, tried to frown. “Don’t.”

  His smile deepened. “Why not?” He wound her arm in his and turned her toward the homemade wines. “You look delicious when you blush.”

  Delicious. Of course he would use that word.

  She retaliated by ensuring he bought two bottles of Mrs. Crabthorpe’s elderberry wine, then guided him around the stalls, loading him with produce, even making him purchase two doilies from Miss Ellerton, who blushed even more rosily than she had.

  His eyes laughed at her; indeed, he bore her managing in such good vein she started to become suspicious. Then they came upon Mrs. Entwhistle, who exclaimed at his load and insisted on relieving him of it; all the packages disppeared into her capacious bag while she waved aside his protests. “It’s no difficulty at all, sir. Hardacre’s here— he’ll see me home.”

  “Ah, good.” Michael’s expression eased. “Given our guests won’t be returning, I meant what I said earlier—please spend as long as you like here, all of you. I don’t expect to be back until late. After all your hard work, you deserve some fun.”

  Mrs. Entwhistle beamed. “Thank you, sir. I’ll tell the others. This is one of those occasions where we can catch up with our cousins and nieces and nephews—having the time to chat without thinking of ought else is a boon. I know Carter’ll be happy to spend time with his mum.”

  “If I see him, I’ll tell him, but do spread the word.”

  They parted; Caro felt her instincts pricking, but she couldn’t fathom over what. Then Muriel saw them and swooped.

  “Excellent! Just in time to perform the official opening.” Muriel ran her eye critically over Michael, as if expecting to find something to correct.

  When she frowned, defeated, Caro hid a smile; for this setting, for his role, Michael was sartorially impeccable in a perfectly tailored riding jacket in brown-and-green tweed, his cravat snowy white, simply styled, his waistcoat an understated brown velvet, his breeches tight-fitting buckskins that disppeared into gleaming topboots. He looked the part he was there to play, the part he wished to project to this audience, that of a gentleman accustomed to moving in the highest circles, but who also was one of them, approachable, not above riding through their lanes, a man who appreciated their country pleasures as they did.

  Had Muriel really thought he’d falter?

  More, that if he had, that she, Caro, wouldn’t have put him right?

  Linking her arm more definitely in his, she nodded to a dray drawing up before the stalls. “Is that the platform?”

  Muriel looked. “Yes, indeed! Come along.”

  Muriel strode ahead, calling to others to gather around. Seeing Reverend Trice, she imperiously directed him to the dray.

  Michael caught Caro’s eye; the glance they shared was one of complete understanding and politely suppressed amusement.

  Reaching the dray, Caro slid her arm from Michael’s and stood watching as he climbed up, assisted Reverend Trice up, then looked around, nodding and exchanging salutes with those he’d yet to chat with while they waited. Muriel came striding back; at her sharp command, numerous hands helped her up to the dray’s tray.

  Regaining her balance, Muriel smoothed down her skirts. She was a large woman, taller than Caro and rather heavier; in her dark green gown she looked imposing and severe. In a ringing voice, she called the crowd to order; briefly mentioning the long history of the fete and its purpose in raising funds for the physical betterment of the church, she graciously if somewhat superiorly thanked those who had assisted in staging today’s event.

&n
bsp; Muriel stepped back, inviting Reverend Trice to address the crowd. His tones imbued with the authority of his office, he accepted the support of the community and thanked all who had assisted and all who had come to share in the event in the name of the church and the Almighty.

  Michael spoke last; it was instantly apparent he was the most gifted speaker of the three. His attitude was relaxed, his message succinct, his tone and inflections natural and assured as he applauded their community spirit, alluded to its strength, and how it owed its existence to each and every one of them. With just a few words, he bound them together, made each individual feel personally included. Then, drawing on local lore, thus subtly underscoring that he was one of them, he made them laugh, and then, speaking over the laughter, owned himself honored to declare the fete officially open.

  The emphasis he placed on “officially” left everyone with a smile on their face; in true country fashion, no one had waited for any official sanction.

  Caro had heard many such speeches, but not before from him. Yet she knew talent when she heard it; the Prime Minister’s push to promote Michael into the Cabinet, where his eloquence would be of even more use to the government, now made complete sense.

  Watching him shake hands with Reverend Trice and exchange a few words with Muriel, she sensed he was a politician who, although already successful, still had further to go. He had the talent to be a real power, but had yet to fully develop his strengths; to her experienced eyes, that was very clear.

  He jumped down from the dray and rejoined her. Smiling, she took his arm. “You’re very good at that, you know.”

  Michael looked into her eyes, read her sincerity, lightly shrugged. “It runs in the family.”

  Her smile deepened and she looked away; he seized the moment to tuck the compliment safely away in his mind. Such praise from her would have been gold in any case, yet now it meant much more.

  The crowd had returned to the stalls and the various activities— the horseshoe throwing, the woodchopping and archery contests, among others. Despite her long absences, Caro was popular; as they strolled, people came up to greet her. And him. She was easy to spot in her summery gown of wide white and gold vertical stripes. She hadn’t bothered with a hat; a gauzy gold scarf lay about her throat, protecting her fine skin from the sun.

  Many members of the Ladies’ Association stopped them, congratulating her on her idea of steering her ball guests to the fete, thus, as was quite evident about them, ensuring a special success for the day. Again he was struck by her facility for knowing what was happening in the lives of so many, even though she so rarely resided at Bramshaw; she picked up snippets from this one and that, and always seemed to remember to whom they applied when she next met that person.

  He had more than one reason for clinging to her side; she commanded his attention on so many levels. Luckily, the fete was primarily Muriel’s responsibility; when he asked, Caro confirmed that, as he’d supposed, once she’d delivered her guests as promised, her duty was discharged.

  And she was free.

  He bided his time, buying a selection of savories and two glasses of Mrs. Hennessy’s pear wine to take the edge from their visceral hunger.

  Normally, at such gatherings most participants would remain all day. The ball guests, who to a person had attended, had made their own arrangements for departure, instructing their coachmen to stop in the nearby clearing at prearranged times. There was no reason, therefore, that he and Caro could not remain until late afternoon.

  He gave her no hint that he planned anything else. Arm in arm, they wended through the now considerable crowd, meeting others, in between amusing each other with observations and anecdotes that, un-surprisingly, were colored by their worldliness, by the background they shared.

  Caro grew increasingly aware of that last, of just how much at ease in Michael’s company she’d become. As they parted from Mrs. Carter, voluble in her thanks to Michael for having hired her son—which thanks he’d glibly yet sincerely turned aside with praise for Carter’s service, thereby allaying any lingering doubts raised by Muriel’s rejection of same, a fact Caro was perfectly certain he both knew and intended—she glanced at him. He caught her eye, lightly raised a brow. She merely smiled and looked away.

  Impossible to tell him—explain to him—what a pleasure it was to be with someone who saw and understood as she did, to share even such minor yet significant matters with someone who thought and acted as she would. It was an emotional pleasure, not just an intellectual one, something that left, her with a warm inner glow, a sense of shared achievement.

  She’d grown used to his strength, to the sense of it surrounding her, to him being by her side, yet today she was conscious of the less obvious, less deliberate attentions he paid her. Without making any point of it, he seemed devoted to her pleasure, constantly seeking to smooth her way, to find things to amuse her, to please and entertain her.

  If it had been Ferdinand, he’d have expected her to notice, and to reciprocate in kind; Michael hardly seemed aware he was doing it.

  It occurred to her that he was taking care of her—that he considered her as being in his care, his to care for. Not as in a duty, but more as an instinctive act, an expression of the man he was.

  She recognized the role; it was one she often assumed. Yet it was novel to find that role reversed, to discover herself the recipient of such unobtrusive, instinctive care.

  They’d paused; she glanced at him. He was looking through the crowd, his expression impassive. She followed his gaze and saw Ferdinand talking to George Sutcliffe.

  “I wonder,” Michael murmured, “what Leponte is up to now.”

  “Whatever,” she replied, “knowing George’s taciturnity, especially with foreigners, I can’t imagine Ferdinand will have much joy of him.”

  Michael raised his brows. “True.” He glanced at her. “You’re sure we shouldn’t go and save him?”

  She laughed. “Ferdinand or George? But regardless, I think we can leave them to their own devices.” She had no wish to mar her day by having to deal with Ferdinand, to let him attempt to seduce her into revealing more about Camden’s papers. He wouldn’t succeed, and then he’d sulk; she’d known him for too long not to be certain of that.

  Michael had pulled out his watch and was checking it.

  “What’s the time?” she asked.

  “Nearly one o’clock.” Returning the watch to his pocket, he looked over the crowd toward the forest. “They’re starting the archery contest.” He looked at her. “Shall we go and have a look?”

  She smiled, took his arm. “Let’s.”

  Many men had attempted to charm her, yet this—this simple day and his caring companionship—touched her in a way no other ever had.

  The archery contest should have started by now; however, the participants, many eager to try their luck, had yet to agree on the precise structure of the contest. She and Michael were both appealed to, but were too experienced to get drawn in; laughing, they disclaimed all knowledge and, after a shared glance, beat a hasty retreat.

  “Enough!” Taking her hand, Michael led her back into the crowd. They circled the central ring of stalls, passing three more, stopping to talk to the helpers who’d relieved those who had manned the same stalls earlier.

  The crowd was dense, the sun high. Waving a hand before her face, regretting her lack of a fan, Caro tugged on Michael’s arm. “Let’s step to the side for a moment—catch our breath.”

  Instantly, he led her free of the bustle. A tall birch with a smooth trunk stood just within the clearing; reaching it, she turned and leaned against it, half closing her eyes, lifting her face to the sky. “It’s really the perfect day for the fete, isn’t it?”

  Michael stood between her and the crowd; he let his gaze dwell on her face, on the light flush the sun’s warmth and their peripatetic exertions had brought to her fair skin. When he didn’t immediately respond, she lowered her gaze and looked at him. Slowly, he smiled. “That’s preci
sely what I was thinking.”

  Smile deepening, he reached for her hand. “Indeed.” He drew her from the tree, almost into his arms as he leaned close to murmur, “As I was about to say—”

  Whizz-thunk!

  Startled, they looked up. Froze. Stared at the arrow quivering in the tree trunk precisely where Caro had been an instant before.

  Michael closed his hand hard about hers. He looked down at her. Slowly, she brought her gaze back to his face. For one instant, her screens were down. Shock, bewilderment, and the first stirrings of fear were all there in her silver eyes. The fingers locked in his quivered.

  He swore, drew her closer, into the protection of his body. One glance around showed that with all the noise and bustle, no one else had heard, much less seen, what had happened.

  He glanced down at her. “Come on.”

  Keeping her close, he drew her back into the safety of the crowd, her hand still locked in his as they tried to disguise their shock. Caro put a hand on his arm, slowed him. He looked down. She was shaken, pale, but in control.

  “It must have been an accident.”

  His jaw clenched so hard he thought it might crack. “We’ll see.”

  He halted as the crowds parted and they got a clear view of the archery butts, now properly set up and with the contest in full swing. Laughing, Ferdinand laid down a bow. He appeared to be in high good humor, exchanging comments with two locals.

  Caro grabbed his arm. “Don’t make a fuss.”

  He looked down at her, grimaced. “I wasn’t intending to.” His protective instincts might have leapt at the sight of Ferdinand, bow in hand, but his wits were still functioning; he knew the two men running the contest—neither was so witless as to allow anyone to point an arrow toward the crowd.

  And, as he’d assumed but had wanted to confirm, the butts all the contestants were aiming at had been positioned along the edge of the forest. There was absolutely no chance that even a stray arrow could have struck where he and Caro had been, all but in the opposite direction.

  In addition to that, the arrow they’d left sunk in the tree trunk had been fletched with dark-striped feathers. All those for the contest carried plain white ones. He scanned the quivers standing filled and ready; not one arrow sported even a single stripe.