Caro did, smiling blissfully, exhaling slowly as she took him in.

And all was well. Very well.

* * *

They dealt with the last loose end of Camden Sutcliffe’s life the next morning. When they’d taken Timothy home the day before, Caro had retrieved Camden’s letters. Ferdinand called at eleven o’clock, armed with a list of dates; it was a simple enough matter to find the relevant letters.

Caro read them, confirmed they were not only what Ferdinand wanted but also seriously inflammatory; they dealt with a proposed coup to be led by the duke many years ago, a few months before Camden had been appointed ambassador to Portugal. Satisfied there was nothing in the letters to concern the present British government, she handed them to Ferdinand. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

He looked down at her, then smiled his winning smile. “Dear Caro, you are known too well for that. If I’d asked, you would have looked, and then you might have felt compelled to let someone in your Foreign Office know…” He shrugged. “It could have ended badly.”

Considering what she’d just read, she had to agree; for the duke, the stakes had been, and still were, high.

With smiles all around, Ferdinand shook hands and left.

She turned to Michael, raised a brow. “If you’re up to it, I’d like to visit Timothy. Given your views on my visiting his house, I imagine you would prefer to accompany me?”

Michael met her gaze. “You imagine correctly.”

They went, and found Breckenridge lying in bed, interestingly pale, very weak, but fully conscious—and not at all receptive to Caro’s fussing, let alone her tonic. Michael saw the desperate plea in Breckenridge’s eyes and took pity. Wincing as if from a headache, when Caro noticed he suggested that perhaps he needed to return home to rest.

She reacted as he’d expected with instant solicitude. Behind her back, Breckenridge rolled his eyes, but wisely remained mute.

Later in the afternoon, on his way to his club to meet with Jamieson, Michael looked in again on Breckenridge. This time, Timothy was propped up in bed; Michael lounged in the doorway.

Timothy eyed him, then faintly smiled. “I suppose I should thank you. I had no idea she was such an excellent shot.”

“So I assumed. But you can avoid doing violence to your feelings— I saved you because of Caro. Strange to tell, she seems to value you.”

Letting his head rest against his pillows, Timothy grinned. “Indeed.

Do bear that in mind for the future.“ He considered Michael, then added, ”Of course, you wouldn’t have saved me if you’d known in doing so you’d incapacitate yourself in the process.“

Michael didn’t smile. “I would never knowingly leave Caro unprotected.”

Timothy’s eyes glinted from beneath his heavy lids. “Just so.” His smile dawned.

Michael was sure they understood each other perfectly.

“So,” Timothy lifted a glass and sipped Caro’s cordial, grimaced, “why are you here?”

“To prey on your gratitude,” Michael replied. “This might well be the only chance I get.”

Brows rising, Timothy studied him, then waved him to a chair. “What do you want?”

Pushing away from the doorframe, Michael closed the door. Crossing to the chair, he turned it and sat astride; folding his arms along the back, he met Timothy’s eyes..“I want to know what the relationship between Caro and Camden was.”

Timothy’s eyes widened. “Ah…” He blinked, refocused on Michael. Hesitated, then said, “I presume you know…”

“That their marriage was unconsummated? Yes. What I want to know is why.”

Timothy smiled. “That, as it happens, is easy to explain—because the great Camden Sutcliffe, womanizer of the world, bit off more than he could chew.”

Michael blinked. Timothy explained, “Camden was a connoisseur of women. From the moment he set eyes on her, he lusted after Caro— not as she then was so much as for the potential he correctly identified, for what he knew she could become. On all levels. That was what drove him to marry her. However, Camden was very much aware he was forty years her senior; when it came to the sexual side of things, he became so anxious that he wouldn’t be able to satisfy her, or keep satisfying her, he couldn’t perform at all.”

Michael stared. “You’re sure of that?”

Timothy nodded. “He told me himself, years after they were wed. He simply couldn’t, not with her.”

Michael digested that, eventually again met Timothy’s eyes. “Did he love her?”

“I’m not sure Camden knew the meaning of the word ‘love,’ not as you use it—not as Caro would use it. He was devoted to her, but more in a sense of being obsessed with the aspects of her potential he could and did unlock. But love?” Timothy grimaced deprecatingly. “If Cam-den ever loved anyone other than himself, it would, I suppose, be me.”

Michael raised his brows. “Because you’re like him?”

Timothy inclined his head. “So he believed.”

Michael suspected that was another mistake Camden had made.

“I don’t think Caro ever knew his reason—I’d take an oath Camden never told her. He was a confusing man—selfless and devoted to his country, but in all things personal, utterly self-centered.” Timothy caught Michael’s gaze. “If I’d believed it would have helped, I’d have told Caro myself, but…”

His face hardened, but he didn’t look away. “The past can’t be changed—believe me, I know. It can only be laid to rest. That’s what Muriel wouldn’t accept.” His features eased, his lips curving. “Caro was always much wiser.”

Michael studied his face, heard truth ring in his tone. Wisdom from the mouth of one of the ton’s foremost rakes?

Timothy looked away, took another sip of his cordial. “One thing— before he leaves town with Muriel, can you tell Hedderwick about me?” He met Michael’s eyes. “While I shudder at the thought that she’s my half sister, I will want to keep track of her.”

Michael agreed; Timothy might want to remain advised of Muriel’s whereabouts purely for his own protection, but Michael was starting to suspect that Timothy was more likely to protect Muriel, and ensure her welfare, than anything else. For all he wasn’t like Camden, he was in one respect his sire’s son—a complex character.

Timothy grimaced. “I have two older sisters—half sisters. I’ve always in jest referred to them as my evil, ugly sisters.” He winced. “Never again.”

The words had barely passed his lips when a tap on the door heralded his man. “Lady Constance has arrived, m’lord. She’s heard about your injury and is demanding to see you.”

Timothy stared at him, then slumped back and groaned. Feelingly.

Michael laughed. Standing, he gripped Timothy’s hand, assured him he’d let Hedderwick know of Timothy’s interest, then beat a hasty retreat.

Timothy muttered darkly—something about deserting fallen comrades and leaving them to the enemy.

On the stairs, Michael passed Lady Constance Rafferty, a handsome matron grimly set on her task; they exchanged nods, but she didn’t pause, regally sweeping into her brother’s chamber.

Grinning, Michael left the house, abandoning Timothy to Lady Constance’s tender mercies.

Later that night, when he’d joined Caro in her bedchamber and she stood within the circle of his arms, he smiled down at her and mentioned his visit to Timothy and Lady Constance’s arrival. “He seemed stronger. I’m sure between you and his sisters, he’ll make an amazing recovery.”

Caro narrowed her eyes at him. “Was he taking my cordial?”

“I witnessed it with my own eyes.”

“Humph! Just as well.” She leaned into him, reached up and carefully speared her fingers through his hair, gently explored the back of his skull. “It still hurts,” she said when he winced.

“Nothing like it did.” He spread his hands and drew her to him, molded her to him. “And my head isn’t spinning in the least.”

Her eyes searched his; her smile was slow, filled with sultry promise. “Perhaps I should rectify that.”

“Indeed. I’m quite sure that falls under the heading of wifely duties.” He’d used the term deliberately; her lashes had been lowering, but now they rose and she met his eyes.

She read them, then drew breath, exhaled. “We haven’t discussed the details.”

“The details,” he informed her, “remain up to you. Whatever you want, whatever you wish. Whenever you wish.”

She studied his eyes, smiled. “I believe you mentioned a special license?”

She had remembered; he’d wondered. He nodded. “I have one.”

Gently, within his arms, she swished her hips side to side, back and forth, the exquisitely sheer figured silk of her gown a tantalizing whisper shielding her svelte curves. Her eyes never left his. “Perhaps we should marry as soon as possible…” Her gaze dropped to his lips; she licked hers, then met his gaze again. “Can you see any reason to wait?”

He could see every reason to rush ahead. “Three days.” He tightened his hold on her, anchoring her distracting hips, almost groaning as he realized how aroused she’d succeeded in making him. “Soon!”

She laughed, that light airy, truly carefree sound he’d heard too infrequently to date. “It’s the height of summer—hardly anyone’s in town. And they’ll never forgive us if we slip away and tie the knot without them.”

Michael thought of Honoria, and groaned aloud. “Invitiations, organization.” More delay.

“Don’t worry—I’ll handle it.” Caro smiled up at him. “Let’s say the end of next week…” Her smile faded; her eyes remained on his, open, yet… “Can we hold the wedding breakfast at the Manor?”

“Of course.” He didn’t ask why, left the choice to her.