He studied her face, searched her eyes, then somewhat bleakly asked, “You trust him that much?”

She held his gaze, then reached out, threaded her fingers through his and squeezed. “I know it’s not easy for you to accept or understand, but yes, I know I can trust Breckenridge that much.”

A long moment passed. She saw in his eyes his decision to accept her reassurance. “What,” he asked, “is or was the nature of the connection between Camden and Breckenridge?”

“It’s ‘is’—the connection continues. And while I know what it is, I’m afraid, much as I wish to”—she let her eyes show how much she wished, that it wasn’t because she didn’t or wouldn’t trust him that she felt forced to say—“I can’t tell you. As you’ve discovered, the connection is a secret, concealed from the world for a multitude of good reasons. It’s not my secret to share.”

She watched as he digested her answer… and decided he had to accept it. Had to respect the confidence she wouldn’t break, even for him. Had to trust her to be right.

Refocusing on her eyes, he nodded. “All right—it’s not Breckenridge, then.”

Her heart swelled; she hadn’t realized his simple acceptance would mean so much, yet it did.

She smiled.

He sat back in the chair, slowly smiled in return. “Where have we got to with the diaries?”

She couldn’t simply change her mind and say yes, she would marry him. Not after last night and all she now understood of both herself and him.

They sat in the parlor a few feet apart and read more of the diaries; while part of her mind followed Camden’s accounts of social gatherings, the rest followed a different tack.

Ever since she’d woken that morning, languorous and exhausted in the rumpled disaster of her bed, she’d been reassessing, reevaluating— hardly surprising given the tectonic shift in the landscape between them that the night had brought. That Michael had wrought. Quite deliberately.

She’d tried to tell herself he hadn’t meant it. That he couldn’t really not care.

One glance at the bruises circling her thighs, the lingering evidence of the intensity that had gripped him, had brought the power that drove him, that when they were together caught her and drove her, too, forcibly to mind.

She’d felt it, experienced it, recognized it; she knew it wasn’t fabricated or false. Indeed, gripped by it, it was impossible to be false, to play false, not between them. She believed in it—that between them that power existed, simply was. Replaying his words, the fervor, the certainty with which he’d made his declarations, she’d come to believe in them, too.

He’d made no subsequent reference to his decision. It seemed to have become a part of him; he clearly felt no need to try to convince her further. He’d told her all he needed to. All he had to.

All she needed to know.

Glancing up, she watched as he turned a page and continued reading. For a long moment, she studied his face, him, drank in his strength, the reliability and steadfastness that was so much a part of him one hardly noticed, then looked down.

There was still something missing in their equation. She and he were in unknown territory; neither had been this way before. She didn’t know what it was that had yet to manifest between them, yet her instincts, instincts she was too experienced to ignore, assured her there was something more. Something they yet lacked that they needed to have, to find, to secure if their relationship, the relationship they both wanted and needed, was to thrive.

That last was now her aim. By freeing her to make her own decision, he’d given her the opportunity to get everything right. More, he’d revealed how important it was to him that their relationship was strong and well founded.

So she wouldn’t let herself get swept away—she would grasp the chance he’d created. She’d wait and keep searching until she found that vital piece; he’d given her the strength to stand against the tide.

* * *

They’d gone down to report to Magnus and were climbing the stairs to change for dinner when Hammer strode into the hall. Glancing up, he saw them.

“Mrs. Sutcliffe.”

They halted on the landing. With stately tread, Hammer ascended, then, bowing, proffered his salver. “A lad delivered this to the back door. No reply required, I gather, for he disappeared without a word.”

“Thank you, Hammer.” Caro took the note; her name was printed on it. As Hammer retreated, she unfolded the single sheet.

She glanced at the contents, then held it up so Michael could read over her shoulder. She scanned the words more carefully, then exhaled. “Someone from the Portuguese embassy, do you think?”

Michael considered the careful clerkish script and the phrasing— diplomatic formal.

Should Mrs. Sutcliffe wish to learn the reason behind the recent strange events, she is invited to meet with the writer at her Half Moon Street house tonight at eight o’clock. Provided Mrs. Sutcliffe comes alone, or with only Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby as escort, the writer is willing to reveal all they know. If, however, more people are present, the writer cannot undertake the risk of coming forward and speaking.

The note concluded with the customary formal Yours, et cetera, but unsurprisingly was unsigned.

Caro lowered the sheet and looked at him.

He took the note, folded it, and tucked it into his pocket. “Yes, I agree—it sounds like a foreign aide.” He met her eyes. “Sligo, Devil’s majordomo, has been quietly putting the word about that we’re looking for information.”

“And here it is.” She held his gaze. “We are going, aren’t we? One foreign aide in my house—that’s no great risk, surely?”

Expression impassive, Michael waved up the stairs. Caro turned and went; he grasped the moment to consider his response.

Instinct was pulling him one way, experience and Caro’s common-sense assessment in another. Aside from all else, it was already after seven o’clock; if he alerted any of the Cynsters, it was unlikely they could take up any position covertly before eight.

And if instead they were seen… no more than Caro did he believe their would-be informant would appear. Diplomatic games had rules like any other; a show of trust was essential.

They gained the top of the stairs. Caro halted and turned to him. He met her gaze, read her question, curtly nodded. “We’ll go. Just you and me.”

“Good.” She looked down at her flimsy day gown. “I’ll need to change.”

Consulting his watch, he nodded. “I’ll go and tell Magnus what’s happened and what we’re doing. I’ll be in the library when you’re ready.”

At twenty minutes before eight o’clock, a hackney set them down before the Half Moon Street house. Climbing the steps, Michael glanced up and down the street. It was long enough, the area fashionable enough that even in summer at that hour there were carriages drawn up before houses and others rattling past.

There were gentlemen lounging against railings, chatting, others strolling, some alone. Any carriage, any stroller, could be their man; it was impossible to tell.

Caro opened the front door; Michael followed her into the hall, reminding himself to rein in his protectiveness. Whoever arrived to meet them most likely wouldn’t be a threat, not unless this was some kind of trap.

Recognizing the possibility, he’d grasped the few minutes he’d spent with Magnus to refine a plan and put it into action. Sligo, Devil’s sometime batman, now his majordomo, had ways, means, and experience beyond that of most servants; Michael hadn’t hesitated to send for him. He would arrive close to eight and keep watch from outside; even if they saw him, no one would imagine the slight, unprepossessing man was of any consequence.

As for inside the house… Michael tightened his grip on the head of his cane; the blade concealed within was rapier sharp and well honed.

Caro opened the double doors into the drawing room.

He followed her inside, saw her crossing to the windows. “Leave the curtains closed.” It was still full light outside. “Whoever it is won’t want to risk being glimpsed.”

Caro looked at him, then nodded. Going instead to the sideboard, she lit two three-armed candelabra. The flames flared, then settled, casting warm light across the room. Leaving one candelabra on the sideboard, she carried the other to the mantelpiece. “There—at least we’ll be able to see.”

It wasn’t that dark, but the candlelight was comforting.

Michael glanced around, struck again by the sense that the house was a shell, prepared and waiting to be used as a home. He glanced at Caro—

A grinding groan—the scrape of wood against stone—reached them.

Caro’s eyes flared. Then puzzlement filled her face. “That’s from downstairs,” she hissed.

His face leaching of expression, he turned and went back into the hall. Pushing through the swinging door at the end, he considered— fleetingly—ordering Caro to go back and wait in the drawing room. Recognized the futility; standing there arguing wouldn’t help. Besides, she might well be safer with him.

The corridor beyond the door was narrow and dim; it was relatively short, ending in a ninety-degree turn to the right. Faint scuffling came from beyond the turn. Treading carefully, silently, he went on.

Caro’s hand touched his back; reaching past him, she pointed to the right, then walked her fingers down… stairs lay immediately around the corner. He nodded. He considered drawing his swordstick, but the sound would carry in the enclosed space, and if the kitchen lay down the stairs… a naked rapier in close confines might be more dangerous than helpful.

Tightening his grip on the cane, he halted at the corner; the sounds below had resolved into definite footsteps.

Reaching back with one hand, he found Caro; stepping out onto the landing beyond the corner, he simultaneously held her back.

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.”