Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

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.

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.”

“That’s right.” Muriel waved to the door with the second pistol. She dropped the one she’d used; she’d been carrying its twin in her other hand, as Caro had suspected. “Off you go.”

Casting one last glance at the men slumped at her feet, she said a silent prayer and went.

“Hurry back!” Muriel called after her, then laughed.

Suppressing a shiver, Caro flew out of the front door. Dragging it shut, she looked up and down the street. Where was a hackney when one needed one?

She clattered down the steps. Should she run for Piccadilly, where hackneys were plentiful, or head in the direction she wanted to go? She paused on the pavement, then turned north and started running for Grosvenor Square.

She’d passed three houses when an unmarked black carriage slowed alongside.

A small wiry man opened the door and leaned out. “Mrs. Sutcliffe? Sligo, ma’am—I’m in the employ of His Grace of St. Ives.”

Caro stopped, stared, then leapt for the carriage. “Thank God! Take me to your master immediately!”

“Indeed, ma’am. Jeffers—home as fast as you can.”

On the way, Sligo explained that Michael had asked him to keep watch; Caro gave thanks and prayed all the harder. They rattled into Grosvenor Square minutes later—just as Devil and Honoria, dressed for the evening, were descending their front steps.

Caro all but fell from the carriage. Devil caught her. Steadied her.

She poured out her desperate tale.

Honoria knew Muriel; she paled. “Good God!”

Devil looked at Honoria. “Send word to Gabriel and Lucifer to meet us at the south end of Half Moon Street.”

“Immediately.” Honoria met Caro’s gaze, squeezed her hand. “Take care.” Turning, she hurried back up the steps.

Devil lifted Caro back into the carriage, called to the coachman, “Horseferry Road, Number Thirty-one. Fast as you can.” He leapt in, acknowledged Sligo’s nod. Sitting beside Caro, he took her hand. “Now tell me exactly what Muriel said about this will.”

They returned to the south end of Half Moon Street less than thirty minutes later. The ride back and forth had been wild, the incident in the solicitor’s office managed with ruthless dispatch.

At Devil’s suggestion, she’d played the witless female; it hadn’t been hard. Supported by Sligo, she’d entered the solicitor’s office; Devil had hung back in the shadows outside the office window. A greasy individual with an equally greasy clerk, the solicitor had had her new will ready and waiting. She’d signed; the clerk and Sligo had witnessed it, then the solicitor, rubbing his hands in unctuous delight, had handed her the “token”—a jay’s feather.

With it clutched in her hand, she’d turned to the window. Devil had entered in a swirl of dark drama and black evening cape, twitched the will from the stunned solicitor’s fingers, and ripped it to shreds.

They’d been back in the carriage, she with the feather clutched in her hand, within a minute.

She peered out of the carriage window; the light was fast fading, the sky turning purple and deep blue. Still on Piccadilly, the carriage slowed before the corner. Devil opened the door and leaned out; two large shadows detached themselves from a nearby wall and approached.

In hushed tones, they conferred. All three were against her delivering Muriel’s feather. “There has to be a better way,” Gabriel insisted.

At Devil’s request, she described the scene in the drawing room. Lucifer shook his head. “Too risky to just walk in. We need to make sure she’s still in that room.”

“I have the keys to the back door and back gate.”

All three men looked at her, then exchanged a silent glance, then Devil was helping her from the carriage.

“Stay with Jeffers,” he told Sligo. Pulling out his watch, he glanced at it. “Drive up to the house exactly fifteen minutes from now.”

Sligo looked at his own watch and nodded.

Devil shut the carriage door, took her arm; with Gabriel and Lucifer following, they walked quickly down the narrow mews that lay behind the houses on Half Moon Street.

“This is it.” She stopped before the garden gate and opened her reticule to get her keys.

Lucifer reached forward and lifted the latch—the gate opened.

They all looked at her; she stared at the gate. “The housekeeper might have left it unlocked.” That was possible, but was it likely?

Gabriel and Lucifer led the way up the garden path; despite their size, all three Cynsters moved with silent grace. The garden was overgrown—Caro caught herself making a mental note to have a gardener in, to make the place habitable now that—

She broke off the thought, looked ahead. Gabriel ducked out of sight. Lucifer crouched, then looked back and signaled. Devil drew her off the path into the shadows of a large rhododendron.

“What?” she whispered.

“There’s someone there,” Devil murmured back. “The others will take care of it.”

On the words, she heard a faint thump, a muted scuffle, then the others returned propelling a man almost as tall as they were, a hand clamped over his mouth, his arms twisted behind him.

The man’s eyes met hers—and flared.

Stepping out from the bush, she glared. “Ferdinand! What the devil are you doing here?”

He looked mulish; removing his hand, Gabriel checked Ferdinand’s face, then did something that made him gasp.

Caro suppressed a wince, but this—Ferdinand surrounded by three murderous Cynsters—was the perfect opportunity to get a straight answer. “We don’t have time to waste, Ferdinand. Tell me what you’re after—now!”

He glanced at Lucifer, then through the dimness met Devil’s gaze. Paled and looked down at her. “Letters—an exchange of letters between the duke and Sutcliffe from many years ago. The duke has been pardoned and wants to return home, but if those letters ever surface… he would be exiled again.” He paused, then went on more fervently, “You know what it’s like, Caro, at court. You know—”

She held up a hand. “Yes, I know. And yes, you can have the letters. We’ll have to find them, if they exist…” Her gaze had gone to the house, her mind to Michael and Timothy. “Call on me tomorrow and we’ll sort it out. We don’t have time for this now—something’s happening in the house we must stop. Go now—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ferdinand would have clutched her hand and poured out his heartfelt thanks, but Lucifer gave him a not-too-gentle shove toward the gate.

They turned their attention to the house. The lock on the back door was well oiled; it turned without a sound. The door opened easily; Caro led them through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the narrow corridor. Stopping before the door into the hall, she looked back and noticed that Ferdinand had followed, but was hanging back and, most important, keeping quiet.

“The drawing room is three rooms forward on the right—closest to the front door,” she whispered.

They all nodded. Silently, she pushed open the door. Devil held it for her as she crept forward. He went with her; the others hung back. No sound reached them from the drawing room.

Just before the double doors, Devil closed his hands about her shoulders and halted her; he stepped silently past her, briefly looked, then rejoined her and motioned them all back beyond the service door. Once there, he softly said, “She’s sitting in a chair facing the hearth. She has a pistol in her hand—there’s another on the floor beside the chair. Michael still appears to be unconscious.” He glanced at Caro. “Breckenridge has lost a lot of blood.”

She nodded. Only distantly heard the three Cynsters conferring; dragging in a breath, she forced her ears to function—fought to ignore the hollowness in her stomach, the chill flowing through her veins.

“You’re right,” Gabriel grudgingly conceded. “If we barge in, she’s too likely to fire and we can’t guess what she’ll aim for.”

“We need a diversion,” Devil murmured back.

They looked at each other; nothing sprang to mind. Any minute the carriage would roll up outside and Muriel would expect her to enter.

Ferdinand reached forward and tapped Gabriel on the shoulder. Gabriel glanced back, stepped back as Ferdinand joined them and whispered, “I have a suggestion. The lady with the pistol—it is Muriel Hedderwick, yes?” Caro nodded; Ferdinand went on, “Does she know these three?” Caro shook her head. Ferdinand grinned. “She knows me—she’ll recognize me. I can walk in and play the ‘crazy Portuguese,’ yes? She will let me get close—she won’t see me as a danger. I could take the pistol from her.”

Caro understood immediately—not just what he was proposing, but why. If he did this and saved Michael and Timothy, she’d be in his debt—he could claim the letters as a reward.

The Cynsters were unconvinced, but ultimately looked to her. She nodded. Decisively. “Yes. Let him try. He might pull it off, and we can’t.”

Ferdinand looked at Devil. Who nodded. “Get the pistol she’s holding—we’ll be there as soon as you’ve got your hands on it.”

With a nod in reply, Ferdinand moved past them. He paused before the door to resettle his coat, then he lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and pushed through, walking confidently, his boots ringing on the tile.

“Caro?” He called. “Where are you?”