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
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.
