Caro, slender in old gold, was before them, as were Edward and Elizabeth. Standing in the middle of the room, Caro was facing the chaise on which Elizabeth sat; hearing their footsteps, she turned.

Her gaze first found Geoffrey, then moved on to rest on him-

She blinked, then looked back at Geoffrey. Other than that blink, no sign of surprise showed on her face or in her bearing.

Geoffrey gave her away. “Ah—my apologies, Caro—slipped my mind. I invited Michael to dinner this evening.‘

She smiled, confident and assured. “How delightful.” Gliding forward, she gave him her hand. She glanced at Geoffrey. “Mrs. Judson… ?”

“Oh, I remembered to tell her.”

Geoffrey ambled across to speak with Edward. Caro narrowed her eyes on his back; her smile took on a subtle edge.

He lifted her hand to his lips, briefly kissed. Had the satisfaction of seeing her gaze and her attention whip back to him. “I take it you don’t disapprove?”

Caro looked him in the eye. “Of course not.”

She would have liked more time to consider her position before they met again; however, that plainly was not to be. She would cope— coping was her specialty.

They didn’t dally long in the drawing room. A discussion of the preparations for the church fete filled the minutes; they were still arguing the merits of Muriel’s suggestion of an archery contest when they took their places at the dining table.

The meal passed off well. As always when Caro was in residence, Mrs. Judson outdid herself. Caro sympathized with the woman; during the rest of the year, she had only Geoffrey to cater for, and his tastes were plain beyond belief.

Tonight, the food was exceptional, the conversation relaxed and pleasant. Michael chatted easily with all of them; for her, and Geoffrey, too, it was easy to treat him as something very close to a family member.

As inviting Michael had been Geoffrey’s idea, she wasn’t sure what to expect when, all three men denying any wish for port, they all rose and returned to the drawing room together. Geoffrey suggested some music; Elizabeth dutifully went to the pianoforte.

Caro played, too, yet hung back, knowing Geoffrey liked to hear Elizabeth play and that Edward would, too, so he could stand beside her and turn the sheets… but that left her with Michael. Left her to ensure that he was entertained…

She glanced at him and found him watching her. With an understanding smile, he offered his arm. “Come— stroll with me. I wanted to ask what Leponte tried to prise out of Edward.”

The comment served to emphasize how distracted she’d been; she’d forgotten all about Ferdinand’s odd behavior.

Sliding her hand onto Michael’s arm, letting him steer her toward the far end of the long room, she assembled her facts. Looking down, she spoke softly, below the lilting air Elizabeth had started to play. “He wanted to know all sorts of odd things, but Edward said the crux of it was that Ferdinand wanted to know if Camden had left any personal papers—diaries, letters, personal notes—that sort of thing.”

“Did he?”

“Of course.” She glanced at him. “Can you imagine any ambassador of Camden’s caliber not keeping detailed notes?”

“Indeed—so why did Leponte need to ask?”

“Edward’s theory is that that was merely a gambit to elicit some reply alluding to where such papers might be.”

“I take it the gambit failed?”

“Naturally.” Halting before the French doors to the terrace, currently open to let in the evening breeze, she drew her hand from his arm and faced him. “Edward’s entirely trustworthy—he gave Ferdinand no joy at all.”

Michael frowned. “What else did Leponte ask? Specifically.”

She raised her brows, recalled Edward’s sober words. “He asked if it was possible to gain access to Camden’s papers.” She met Michael’s gaze. “To further his studies into Camden’s career, of course.”

His lips thinned. “Of course.”

She studied his steady blue eyes. “You don’t believe him, do you?”

“No. And neither do you.”

She wrinkled her nose. Turning, she gazed out, unseeing. “Ferdinand knew Camden for years—only now has he shown any interest.”

After a moment, he asked, “Where are Camden’s papers?”

“In the London house.”

“It’s closed up?”

She nodded and met his eyes. “But they’re not lying around in his study or anywhere easy to find, so…”

His eyes narrowed, then he glanced back up the room.

Half turning, she followed his gaze. Geoffrey’s eyes were closed— he looked to be asleep; at the pianoforte, Elizabeth and Edward had eyes only for each other.

Michael’s fingers closed about her elbow; before she could react, he’d steered her outside.

“You’re not, by any chance, considering giving Leponte access to those papers?”

She blinked at him. “No—of course not. Well…” She looked ahead, let him link their arms and stroll with her down the long terrace. “At least not until I know exactly what he’s looking for and, even more importantly, why.”

Michael glanced at her face, saw the determination behind her words, and was satisfied. She clearly didn’t trust Leponte. “You would have a better idea than most—what could he be after?”

“I never read Camden’s diaries—I don’t believe anyone has. As for the rest, who knows?” She shrugged, looking down as they descended the steps to the lawn; distracted by his question, she didn’t seem to notice…

Then again, would Caro truly not notice?

It was an intriguing question, but not one he felt any need to press her over; if she was willing to go along with his direction, he wasn’t foolish enough to erect hurdles in her path,

“I’m sure whatever it is, it can’t be anything diplomatically serious.” She glanced at him through the deepening dusk as they headed down the lawn. “The Ministry called Edward in for a debriefing as soon as we arrived back in England, and that was on top of the discussions both Edward and I had with Gillingham, Camden’s successor. We spent our last weeks in Lisbon making sure he knew everything there was to know. If anything had cropped up since, I’m sure he, or the Foreign Office, would have contacted Edward.”

He nodded. “It’s hard to see what it might be, given Camden’s been buried for two years.”

“Indeed.”

The word was somewhat vague. He looked at her, and realized she’d guessed where he was taking her.

She was looking at the summerhouse, at the dark expanse of lake beyond it rippling and lapping, ruffled by the rising breeze. Clouds were racing, overrunning each other as they streaked and tumbled across the evening sky, breaking up the lingering light. They would have a storm before dawn; it was still some distance away, yet the sense of its rising, of the air quivering at its approach, a primal warning of elemental instability rushing their way, was pervasive.

Heightening anticipation, tightening nerves.

Making senses stretch.

The summerhouse rose before them, blocking out the lake. “Do you think Camden’s papers are safe where they are?”

“Yes.” She looked down as they reached the summerhouse steps. “They’re safe.”

She reached down to lift her skirts. He released her elbow and started up the steps.

Immediately realized she hadn’t; she’d remained on the lawn.

He swiveled on the step and looked down at her—at her pale face, her shadowed eyes; she was looking up at him, hesitating.

He caught her gaze, held it, then extended his hand. “Come with me, Caro.‘

Through the dusk, her eyes remained locked on his; for an instant, she didn’t move—then she made up her

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