Hammer appeared in the open doorway. He bowed to them both, then advanced to offer his salver. “A note for you, ma’am. The boy expected no reply.”
Caro took the folded sheet. “Thank you, Hammer.”
With a bow, Hammer departed. Michael watched Caro’s face as she opened the missive and read. Then she smiled, glanced at him as she laid the single sheet aside. “It’s from Breckenridge.”
Michael stared. “Breckenridge?” Had he heard aright? “Viscount Breckenridge—Brunswick’s heir?”
“The same. I told you I asked an old and trusted friend of Cam-den’s to read his letters. Timothy’s just written to say he hasn’t found anything yet.” Her gaze on the note, her expression turned affectionate. “I daresay he was worried I’d call to ask in person, so he sent word instead.”
Timothy? Call in person? Michael felt poleaxed. “Ah… you wouldn’t, would you?” Caro looked at him, puzzled. He cleared his throat. “Call on Breekenridge in person.” His voice faded as he took in her increasingly puzzled expression.
She blinked. “Well, I had to take him the letters. Or rather, have two footmen carry the letters into his house. Then I had to explain what I needed him to do, what he should look for.”
For a suspended moment, he simply stared. ‘You entered Brecken-ridge’s establishment alone.“ His voice sounded strange; he was struggling to take it in.
She frowned at him. Severely. “I’ve known Timothy for more than a decade—we danced at my wedding. Camden knew him for nearly thirty years.”
He blinked. “Breekenridge is barely thirty.”
“He’s thirty-one,” she tartly informed him.
“And one of the foremost rakes in the ton—if not the foremost!” Abruptly, he stood. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked down at Caro.
She fixed him with a narrow-eyed silver gaze and crisply advised, “Don’t start.”
He took in the increasingly mulish set of her lips, the militant light in her eyes—felt his own jaw set. “For God’s sake! You can’t simply… call to see a man like Breekenridge as if you’re visiting for morning tea!”
“Of course I can—although now you mention it, he didn’t offer tea.”
“I can imagine,” he growled.
Caro arched her brows. “I seriously doubt you can. You’re starting to sound as bad as he, what with insisting I leave via the mews. Unnecessarily exercised for no cause at all.”
Fixing him with a very direct look, she continued, “As I reminded him, let me remind you—I am the Merry Widow. My widowhood is established—no one in the ton imagines I will readily succumb to the blandishments of any rake.”
Michael simply stood and stared down at her—pointedly.
She felt faint heat rise in her cheeks. Lightly shrugged. “Only you know about that—and anyway, you’re no rake.”
His eyes narrowed along with his lips. “Caro…”
“No!” She held up a hand. “Hear me out. Timothy is an old and dear friend, one I trust implicitly, without reservation. I’ve known him for an age—he was an associate—well, more a connection—of Cam-den’s, and while I know what he is, what his reputation paints him, I assure you that I am in absolutely no danger from him. Now!” She glanced at the pile of diaries. “While I’m very glad Timothy sent around a note because I don’t have time to call to see how he’s faring, I likewise have no time to waste in silly arguments.”
Picking up a diary, she looked up at Michael. “So rather than scowling at me for no reason and to no avail, you can help, too. Here— read this.”
She tossed the book at him.
He caught it. Frowned at her. “You want me to read it?”
She’d already reopened the volume she’d been perusing. Looking up at him, she raised her brows. “I’m sure you can read as well as Timothy. I gave him the letters, but the diaries are crammed and much harder going.” Looking down again, she continued, her tone softer, “And while I trust Timothy with the letters, there are references in the diaries I would rather he didn’t see.”
Michael stared at her down-bent head, absentmindedly hefted the volume in his hand. He was too astute not to recognize blatant manipulation when it was so shamelessly practiced on him—she trusted him where she didn’t trust Breckenridge—Timothy!—yet…
After a moment, he shifted back to the chair, slowly sat. Opened the diary, flicked through a few pages. “What am I looking for?”
She answered without looking up. “Any mention of the Portuguese court, or the names Leponte, Oporto, or Albufeira. Anything you find, show it to me—I’ll know if it’s what we’re after.”
Discovering that the lady he was determined to make his wife consorted, apparently without any degree of caution, with the ton’s most dangerous rake, would, Michael told himself, rattle any man.
It certainly rattled him, to the point of making him actively consider hedging her about with guards, an action he was well aware would simply lead to another argument, another he wouldn’t win.
He knew, better than anyone else could, that, as she’d intimated, Caro had never consorted in the physical sense with Breckenridge or any of his peers. In light of that knowledge, he might be overreacting, yet…
While Caro readied herself for dinner at Lady Osterley’s, he sat in the library and pored over Burke’s Peerage.
Timothy Martin Claude Danvers, Viscount Breckenridge. Only son of the Earl of Brunswick.
The usual background—Eton, Oxford—with the usual clubs listed. Quickly, Michael read further, cross-referencing between the Dan-verses, the Elliots—Breckenridge’s mother’s family—and the Sut-cliffes. He could find no hint of the connection to which Caro had alluded.
Hearing her footsteps on the stairs, he shut the tome and returned it to the shelf. Mentally adding Breckenridge at the top of the list of things he intended to investigate tomorrow, he headed for the front hall.
Caro wasn’t at all sure how she felt about Michael being jealous of her association with Timothy. From observation, she knew jealous males tended to dictate, to restrict, to try to hem women in; she was, to her mind sensibly, wary of jealous men. However…
She’d never had a man jealous over her before; while irritating in some respects, it was, she had to admit, rather intriguing. Subtly revealing. Interesting enough for her to endure Michael’s silence all the way to the Osterleys‘. He wasn’t sulking; he was brooding, thinking— about her more than Timothy.
Yet when they reached the Osterleys’ and he stepped down, then handed her down, she was conscious of his attention focusing dramatically. On her. As they went up the steps, greeted their hostess, then moved into the drawing room to join the other guests, regardless of his occupation, that’s where his attention remained. Locked, squarely, on her.
Far from annoying her, she found being the cynosure of his attention quite enjoyable. Having a man jealous over one wasn’t all bad.
The Osterleys’ drawing room was awash with blue political blood. Aside from all the usual suspects, the gathering included Magnus, who had come ahead of her and Michael, Michael’s aunt Harriet Jennet, and Therese Osbaldestone. Devil and Honoria were there, too.
“Lord Osterley is distantly connected to the Cynsters,” Honoria told her as they touched fingers, brushed cheeks.
There were few among the company Caro did not know; she and Michael spent a few minutes with Honoria and Devil, then both couples moved on, as all were expected to, to converse, reestablish and strengthen ties. This group formed the political elite, the ultimate power in the land. All sides of politics were represented; although government men might presently wield the whip, all accepted that that would at some election in the future change.
Renewing acquaintances, making new contacts—exchanging names, learning faces, noting to which clubs each gentleman belonged, his present position, and, although never stated aloud, his ultimate ambition—that was the unabashed purpose of the gathering. Such congresses of the powerful were held two or three times a
year—there was rarely need for more; those who attended had long memories.
Gaining the far end of the drawing room, Caro glanced back, estimating, considering.
“What?” Michael asked, leaning close.
“I was just thinking it’s a goodly crowd, but one selected with care.” She met his eyes. “Not even all Ministers are present.”
“Some”—taking her elbow, he guided her on—“have blotted their copybook. Others are, much as it pains me to admit, hidebound— they’re not amenable to change, and change most definitely is in the air.”
She nodded; over the past two years, freed of the necessity of concentrating on Portuguese affairs, she’d been monitoring political vicissitudes nearer to hand. Plebiscite reform was only one of a multitude of challenges staring the government in the face.
It would no longer be enough to govern by default; the times—the immediate future—called for action.
Diplomacy and politics were old bedfellows; her experience in one arena stood her in excellent stead in the other. She encountered no difficulty moving through the throng, charming and allowing herself to be charmed, interacting and absorbing all that her questions and comments drew forth.
Michael needed no help in this sphere, no prompting, no direct assistance; he was more at home here than she was. He could, however, use a foil, one who comprehended not only words but their nuances, who could artfully extend a topic or introduce a new one, seeking more, revealing more.
As they left Lord Colebatch and Mr. Harris from the War Office, Caro caught Michael’s eye. The smile they exchanged was brief, and private. He leaned closer. “We make an exceptional team.”
“Colebatch didn’t want to tell you about his association with the new railway.”
“He wouldn’t have if you hadn’t asked—how did you know?”
“He was uncomfortable the moment Harris mentioned the subject—there had to be a reason.” She glanced up, met his eyes. “And there was.”
He acknowledged her astuteness with an inclination of his head, and steered her on to fresh fields.
As usual with such gatherings, the time in the drawing room before the meal was extended, and even after they were all seated about the long board, the conversation remained scintillating and sharp. At such a dinner, food wasn’t the main course. Information was.
Ideas, suggestions, observations—all had their place; in this company, all were treated with respect. Visually, the scene was glittering, gorgeous, subtly and pervasively elegant, outrageous only in its undeniable worth, the gold-plated cutlery, the Sevres dishes, the crystal flashing in poor imitation of the diamonds circling the ladies’ throats.
They all noticed, yet were barely aware. To a person, their attention remained riveted on conversation—on why they were there.
Caro found it tiring, yet exhilarating. It had been more than two years since she’d attended such an event. To her surprise, her enthusiasm, her enjoyment of the rapierlike cut-and-thrust of comment and dialogue, of witty repartee, all swirling and dipping and connecting, hadn’t died; if anything, her delight in participating and succeeding had grown.
Toward the end of the meal, when for a moment she sat back and sipped her wine, and caught her breath after an extended and quite hilarious exchange with George Canning, she caught Lady Osterley’s eye. Seated at the far end of the table, her ladyship, one of the great hostesses, smiled, inclined her head, and lifted her glass in a silent toast of patent approval.
Caro smiled back, wondered, then allowed her gaze to travel the table. Realized, confirmed, that each recognized hostess—each recognized power—was spread among the guests so that each could command a section of the table, ensuring no group did the unthinkable and let conversation die.
She had been included in the roster of female powers.
Her heart tripped, gave a definite jump of joy, of very real satisfaction.
Five minutes later, Lady Osterley rose and led the ladies back to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to discuss parliamentary business over their port.
The ladies had other issues to address, ones equally relevant.
Entering the drawing room toward the rear of the female crowd, Caro found Therese Osbaldestone waiting to waylay her. Taking her arm, Therese nodded to the long windows left open to the balcony. “I need some air—come and walk with me.”
Intrigued, Caro matched her steps to Therese’s slower ones as they crossed the wide room. As always, Therese was supremely well dressed in a high-necked maroon silk gown. Rings flashed on her gnarled fingers as she moved her cane; she used it sparingly.
Content with her own appearance, with her skillfully draped eau de nil silk and the carved green amber set in silver that adorned her throat and wrists, Caro followed Therese onto the narrow balcony. They had the space to themselves, as, she was certain, Therese had intended.
Hooking the ornate silver head of her cane over one arm, Therese gripped the balcony rails and studied her. Consideringly.
Caro met that black stare, one she knew disconcerted others— indeed, was intended to disconcert—with unruffled serenity.
Therese’s lips curved; she looked out over the darkened gardens. “Most others would be apprehensive, but of course you’re not. I wished to compliment you on your good sense.”
Good sense in what? Before Caro would voice the question, Therese continued, “I think too often we forget to tell others when they take the right road. Then, when hurdles appear and they falter, we criticize, quite forgetting we hadn’t taken the time to encourage when, perhaps, we should have. You may consider my comments in that light, if you please—while I have no wish to manage your life, in your case”— glancing at her, Therese caught her eye—“I suspect a few encouraging words will not go amiss.”
Caro waited.
“You may not recall, but I was not one of those who applauded your marriage to Camden.” Therese faced the gardens once more. “To me, it seemed very much a case of socially sanctioned cradle-snatching. But then, as time went on, I changed my mind. Not because I thought Camden an appropriate husband for you, but because I realized he was most definitely a highly suitable mentor for you.”
Caro let her gaze drift out over the gardens, black in the night. She felt Therese’s gaze on her face, but didn’t meet it.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Therese continued, her voice low, her tone dry, “the concept of tutor and pupil most closely describes your relationship with Camden. Consequently, I wished to enthusiastically applaud your return to the fray.” Her voice strengthened. “You have a great deal of skill, of honed talent and experience—and believe me, this country needs them. There are turbulent times ahead—we’ll need men of integrity, commitment, and courage to weather them, and those men will need the support of…”
Therese paused. When Caro glanced at her and met her eyes, she smiled faintly. “Ladies like us.”
Caro let her eyes flare with surprise; being classed with Therese Osbaldestone—by Therese Osbaldestone—was astounding. And an honor.
Of that, Therese herself was fully aware; she inclined her head, lips lifting self-deprecatingly. “Indeed, but you know that I mean what I say. Your ‘right road,’ dear Caro, lies in evenings such as these. There are only so many of us who can cope at this level, and you are one. It’s important to us all, and yes, I speak for the others, too, that you continue within our circle. We all sincerely hope you will marry again, and be there to specifically support one of the upcoming men, but regardless, this—our circle—is where you most definitely belong.”
Caro found it difficult to draw breath. Therese held her gaze; there could be no doubt of the sincerity with which she spoke, equally no doubt of the power she still wielded. “This, my dear, is your true life— the circle, the position that will most satisfy you, that will afford you the greatest fulfillment.” Therese’s lips quirked. “If I was given to the melodramatic, I would declare this your destiny.”
Therese’s black eyes were im
possible to read; her expression, Caro knew, showed only what she wished it to. Yet the impression she received as Therese regarded her was one of fond kindness.
As if to confirm her reading, Therese smiled and patted her arm. Reclaiming her cane, she turned toward the drawing room. Caro paced beside her as they slowly strolled back into the light.
Just inside the windows, Therese paused. Caro followed her gaze— to Michael. He’d just walked into the drawing room in company with the Prime Minister and the current Foreign Minister, George Canning.
“Unless I much mistake the matter,” Therese murmured, “your ‘full tide,’ as the Bard so aptly put it, is upon you. I wished to reassure you that you are on the right path, that when opportunity presents, you should not pass it up, but instead take heart, claim your courage, and seize the day.”
With that, Therese inclined her head and regally moved away. Caro remained for a moment, committing her words to memory, laying them aside for later examination, then glided forward to join the nearest group. To return to her annointed role.
Michael saw Caro join a group of guests on the far side of the room. Absentmindedly, he tracked her, his attention otherwise on the conversation between the three gentlemen beside him—Liverpool, Canning, and Martinbury. He made no attempt to join in; he knew Liverpool and Canning wished to speak with him, but were waiting for Martinbury to leave them.
Caro moved on, joining the group of which Honoria was a part. He caught the glance his lover and his sister exchanged; pleased, he tucked it away—another example of how well Caro fitted in his life.
A movement in a group beyond the first drew his attention. Arrogantly assured, Devil detached himself from two grand dames, and went to join his own. Honoria was standing with her back to Devil, yet as he neared, she turned.
Across the large room, Michael watched his sister’s face—saw her heart-stopping smile, saw her expression soften, almost glow. Glancing at Devil, he glimpsed, not the same but an answering response, the outward expression of a connection so deep, so powerful it was almost frightening.
The Ideal Bride c-12 Page 37
