The Ideal Bride (Cynster Novels)

by Stephanie Laurens

The man standing at the foot of the stairs looked up. What little light came through the fanlight above the back door didn’t reach his face. All Michael could tell was that he was tall, lean, and broad-shouldered, with brown, slightly wavy hair. Not Ferdinand, but not anyone he knew either.

  For one fraught instant, they stared at each other.

  Then the stranger charged up the stairs; with an oath, Michael flung himself down them.

  The man hadn’t seen his cane; Michael brought it up across his body, intending to stop the man’s murderous charge with it and push him back down the stairs. It certainly stopped the man’s rush, but he caught hold of the cane. They wrestled, then both lost their balance and fell, tumbling down the stairs.

  They landed in a wild tangle on the flagstones; both checked— each instantly knew the other wasn’t incapacitated. Both sprang to their feet. Michael threw a punch, but it was blocked; he had to duck quickly to avoid a fist aimed at his jaw.

  He grabbed the man; furious wrestling ensued, both trying to land a telling blow. Dimly, he heard Caro yelling something; avoiding another jab, he was too busy to pay attention.

  Both he and his attacker thought of tripping each other at the same time; they lurched, but their death grips on each other kept them upright—

  Icy water hit them. Struck them, drenched them.

  Gasping, spluttering, they broke apart, furiously dashing water from their eyes.

  “Stop it! Both of you! Don’t you dare hit each other!”

  Dumbstruck, they stared up at Caro.

  The now empty ewer from Mrs. Simms’s room in her hands, she glared down at them. “Allow me to introduce you. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby—Timothy, Viscount Breckenridge.”

  They glanced at each other, eyes narrow.

  She hissed in frustration. “For goodness sake! Shake hands—now!”

  Both looked at her, then at each other, then, reluctantly, Michael held out his hand. Equally reluctantly, Timothy gripped it. Briefly.

  Michael eyed him coldly. “What are you doing here?” He spoke softly, yet there was unmistakable menace in the words.

  Timothy studied him, then glanced up at her. “I received a note. It said you were in danger and if I wanted to know more, to meet the writer here at eight o’clock.”

  It was plain Michael didn’t believe him.

  His usually infallible instincts starting to operate again, Timothy looked from her to Michael, then he narrowed his eyes at her. “What have you been up to? What’s this all about?”

  His tone should have set Michael’s suspicions to rest; it rang with typical aggravated male concern. She elevated her nose. “I got a note, too. Very similar. We came to meet the writer.” She peered across the kitchen at the clock Mrs. Simms kept wound. “It’s ten minutes to eight, and we’re down here arguing.”

  “And now we’re wet.” Bending his head, Timothy ran his hands through his hair, dislodging droplets.

  Michael, brushing water off his shoulders, didn’t take his eyes from him. “How did you get in?”

  Timothy glanced at him. Even though Caro couldn’t see it, she could imagine his smirk as he softly answered, “I have a key, of course.”

  “Stop it!” She glared at him; he tried to look innocent and as usual failed. Transferring her gaze to Michael’s stony face, she explained, “There’s a perfectly sensible, acceptable reason.”

  Michael bit his tongue. The most notorious rake in London had a key to his wife-to-be’s house—and she was 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.

  Caro looked at the pistol in Muriel’s hand; it remained resolutely steady, pointed at her heart. It was one of a pair. She hoped Timothy and Michael realized; she knew Muriel—she was an excellent shot, and she planned carefully. She’d organized for all three of them to be there; she wouldn’t have faced them with only one pistol, and she’d kept her other hand out of sight.

  “You came to tender your condolences when Helen died. I saw you and Camden walking in the gardens. You didn’t look that alike”— Muriel sneered—“except in profile. I saw the truth then. If Camden could lie with his sister-in-law, why not others? But I didn’t care, not then—I was convinced that at last, now he’d lost Helen, and he was old, after all, at last Camden would open his arms to me. I didn’t care if he called me his niece and not his daughter, but I’d trained for the position.” Muriel lifted her chin. “I was excellently well prepared to act as his hostess at the embassy.”

  Slowly, her gaze swung to Caro; the murderous intent that contorted her features had both Michael and Timothy stiffening, battling the instinct to move protectively nearer.

  “Instead”—the words were deep, seething with barely suppressed violence; Muriel’s chest heaved—“you caught his eye. He ran after you—a girl younger than his own daughter and totally inexperienced! He wouldn’t talk to me—refused to talk to me. He married you, and made you his hostess in my placel”

  Rage poured from Muriel; she physically shook, yet the pistol remained uncompromisingly aimed. “For years—years!—all I’ve heard is how wonderful you are, not just from Camden, but from everyonel Even now, you drop by out of the blue and every lady in the Ladies’ Association falls on your neck. All they talk of is your wonderful ideas, how capable you are—they forget about me, but I’m the one who does all the hard work. I’m the one who does everything right, but you always steal my glory!”

  Her voice had risen to a shriek; Caro was so shaken she could barely take in the hatred spewing out in Muriel’s words.

  “Driving back from the meeting at Fordingham, I’d had enough. I realized I had to get rid of you. I’d confiscated Jimmy Biggs’s slingshot and his bag of pellets the day before; they were lying at my feet in the gig as I followed you home. I didn’t think of them until you turned off to the Manor—it was the perfect opportunity, obviously meant to be.”

  Muriel’s gaze shifted to Michael. “But you saved her. I didn’t think it mattered—there were other, probably better ways. I hired two sailors to kidnap and get rid of her, but you delayed her and they grabbed Miss Trice instead. After that, I didn’t trust anyone else. I would have killed her at the fete—again you pulled her away just in time.” Muriel snarled at him; stony faced, Michael held her gaze, aware that to his right, Breckenridge was edging farther away.

  “And then I sawed through the railings above the weir. She should have drowned, but yet again you pulled her out!” Her eyes glittered. “You’re a nuisance!”

  She looked at Caro. “And why didn’t you come to the meeting I arranged for you? Of course, you wouldn’t have met the steering committee, but some others I’d hired, but you never came.”

  Strangely, Muriel appeared to be calming; her lips curved in a travesty of a smile. “But I forgive you for that. Because of it, I came here and looked around. I’d copied the key years ago, but never used it.” Her dark eyes blazed; she drew herself up. “Once I saw this place, I realized it should be mine. I deserved it—I deserved his love—but he gave it to you. Now I want it.”

  Breckenridge took another half step away.

  Muriel noticed. Realized what he was doing.

  Everything slowed. Michael saw her blink. Saw her cold-blooded decision to shoot—he knew Muriel was an excellent shot.

  Knew, absolutely, that in seconds Breckenridge would be dead. Breckenridge, whom Caro cared about, who through no fault of his own had become a target for Muriel’s hate.

  And his death wouldn’t change anything; Muriel assuredly had the second pistol loaded and primed.

  He wasn’t aware of making the decision; he flung himself at Breckenridge. Took him down in a tackle as the pistol discharged.

  Caro screamed.

  They hit the floor. Michael registered Breckenridge’s jerk—he’d been hit—but then his own head met the heavy iron claw-foot of an elegant chaise. Light exploded through his skull.

  Pain followed, washing over him in a nauseating wave.

  Grimly, he clung to consciousness; he hadn’t planned this—hadn’t intended to leave Caro to face Muriel and that second pistol alone…

  He felt Caro leaning over them; she’d flung herself on her knees beside him. Her fingers touched his face, burrowed beneath his cravat, feeling for his pulse. Then she was tugging his cravat
loose.

  Through a cold fog, he heard her cry, “Muriel, for God’s sake, help me! He’s bleeding.”

  For a moment, he wondered, but it was Breckenridge Caro meant. She shifted to work over him, trying to staunch a wound, where he couldn’t tell. He tried to open his lids, but couldn’t. Pain battered his senses; blank unconsciousness drew closer, beating down his will.

  “Stop.” Muriel’s voice was colder than ice. “Right now, Caro—I mean it.”

  Caro paused, froze. Then quietly said, “There’s no point killing Michael.”

  “No, that’s right. I’ll only kill Michael if you don’t do as you’re told.”

  A pause ensued, then Caro asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  “I told you I want this house, so I’ve arranged for you to make a new will. It’s waiting with a solicitor in his office at Number 31, Horse-ferry Road. Mr. Atkins—don’t bother to ask him for help. He won’t oblige. Once you’ve signed the will he’s drawn up for you, he and his clerk will witness it, then give you a token to signify that all has been done as I wish.

  “If you want Michael to live, you must bring that token back here to me before,” Muriel paused, then said, “nine-thirty.”

  He wanted to make sure Caro realized that Muriel would never let him live, but the black tide was steadily dragging him under.

  But Muriel had thought of that, too. “You don’t need to worry I won’t let Michael live if you do as I say—I only want what rightfully should be mine, and when all is said and done, once you’re dead, he won’t be any threat to me—he’ll bury you and Breckenridge and let me go, because if he doesn’t he’ll hurt and damage any number of others. Brunswick and his family, George and my brothers, their families—if Michael exposes me, the victims of Camden’s legacy will only grow.”

  Memory flickered; they had a chance, a faint one, yet all he could do was with all his heart will Caro onto the right path. She touched his cheek; he sensed her rise. Then the black wave breached his guard, poured over and through him and dragged him down.

  Chapter 22

  Caro stood, her mind racing. She was used to emergencies but not of this sort. She swallowed, glanced at the clock—she had less than an hour to return with the token. “Very well.” She didn’t have time to argue, and from the light in Muriel’s eyes, the expression on her face, there d be no point. “Number 31, Horseferry Road. Mr. Atkins.”