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.”
“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.