The Ideal Bride (51 page)

 
Michael glanced at him. “No.” He hesitated, then said, “More in the nature of forward planning.” Before Edward could respond, he went on, “I want to ask you a question to which I would obviously like an answer, but if you feel you can’t, for whatever reason, divulge the information, I will understand.”

 
Edward was a skilled political aide; his “Oh?” was noncommittal.

 
Hands sunk in his pockets, Michael looked out over the lawn. “Caro’s relationship with Camden—what was it?”

 
After Caro’s explanation of her negligees, he had to know.

 
He’d chosen his words carefully; they revealed nothing specific, yet made clear that he knew what that relationship
hadn’t
been.

 
Which, of course, raised the question of how he knew.

 
Silence stretched; he let it. He didn’t expect Edward to reveal any-thing about Caro or Camden readily, yet he hoped Edward would allow for the fact that while Camden was dead, Caro wasn’t.

 
Eventually, Edward cleared his throat. He, too, looked out over the lawn. “I’m very fond of Caro, as you know…” After a moment, he continued, his tone that of one reporting, “It’s common practice for all pertinent information about an ambassador’s life, including his marriage, to be passed from each ambassadorial aide to his replacement. It’s considered the sort of thing that might, in certain circumstances, be vital to know. When I took up my post in Lisbon, my predecessor informed me that it was common knowledge among the household that Caro and Camden never shared a bed.”

 
He paused, then went on, “That situation was known to have been the case more or less since their marriage—at least from the time Caro took up residence in Lisbon.” Again he paused, then more reluctantly went on, “The suspicion—and it was never voiced as more than that— was that their marriage might never have been consummated.”

 
Michael felt Edward’s quick glance, but kept his gaze on the lawn.

 
After a moment, Edward continued, “Be that as it may, Camden had a mistress throughout the years of his marriage to Caro—just one, a long-term relationship that had existed prior to their wedding. I was told Camden returned to the woman within a month or so of his marriage to Caro.”

 
Despite his training, Edward hadn’t been able to keep deep disapproval from coloring his words. Frowning as he digested them, Michael eventually asked, “Did Caro know?”

 
Edward snorted, but there was sadness in the sound. “I’m sure of it. Something like that… she’d never have missed it. Not that she ever let on, not by word or deed.”

 
A moment passed; Edward shifted, glanced at Michael, then looked away. “As far as I or any of my predecessors knew, Caro never took a lover.”

 
Until now. Michael wasn’t about to confirm or deny anything. He let the silence stretch, then looked at Edward. Met his gaze and nodded. “Thank you. That was, in part, what I needed to know.”

 
It explained some things, but raised new questions, ones whose answers it seemed only Caro would know.

 
They turned back into the drawing room. “You will send for me,” Edward said, “if there’s any trouble in London?”

 
Michael considered
 
Elizabeth , still engrossed in a concerto. “If you can better serve Caro there than here, I’ll let you know.”

 
Edward sighed. “You probably know this, but
I’ll
warn you anyway. Keep a close eye on Caro. She’s totally reliable in many respects, but she doesn’t always recognize danger.”

 
Michael met Edward’s gaze, then nodded.
 
Elizabeth
 
sounded the last, triumphal chords; smoothly donning his politician’s smile, he crossed to bid her farewell.

 
They rolled into London in the late afternoon. It was humid; warmth rising from the paved streets, the westering sun reflected from windows, its heat from high stone walls. In late July, the capital was half deserted, many spending the warmer weeks in their country house or farmhouse. The park, host to only a few riders and the occasional carriage, lay like an oasis of green in the surrounding desert of gray and brown stone, yet as the carriage turned into Mayfair, Michael was conscious of a quickening of his pulse—a recognition that they were reentering the political forum, the place where decisions were formulated, influenced, and made.

 
Politics, as he’d told Caro, ran in his blood.

 
Beside him, she shifted, straightening, glancing out of the window; with a flash of insight, he realized she, too, reacted to the capital—the seat of government—with a similar focusing of her attention, a more keenly anticipatory air.

 
She turned to him. Met his gaze and smiled. “Where should I set you down?”

 
He held her gaze, then asked, “Where were you planning on staying?”

 
“At Angela’s in Bedford Square.”

 
“Is Angela in residence?”

 
Caro continued to smile. “No—but there’ll be staff there.”

 
“A skeleton staff?”

 
“Well, yes—it is the height of summer.”

 
He looked forward, then said, “I think it would be infinitely wiser for us—both of us—to stay with my grandfather in Upper Grosvenor Street.”

 
“But—” Caro glanced out as the carriage slowed. She glimpsed a street sign; the carriage was turning into Upper Grosvenor Street. The notion of having been an unwitting accomplice in her own kidnapping assailed her. She looked at Michael. “We cannot simply descend on your grandfather.”

 
“Of course not.” He sat forward. “I sent a messenger this morning.”

 
The carriage slowed, then halted. He met her eyes. “I live here while in town, and Magnus rarely leaves—the house is fully staffed. Believe me when I say that both Magnus
and
his staff will be delighted to have us—both of us—stay.”

 
She frowned. “It’s stretching the proprieties for me to reside under your grandfather’s roof while only you and he are in residence.”

 
“I omitted to mention Evelyn, my grandfather’s cousin. She lives with him and runs the house. She’s seventy if she’s a day, but then”—he met her gaze—“you’re a widow—I’m sure the proprieties will remain unruffled.” His voice gained in decisiveness. “Quite aside from all else, there’s not a gossipmonger in town would dare suggest anything scandalous took place under Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby’s roof.”

 
That last was unarguable.

 
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You had this in mind all along.”

 
He smiled and reached for the carriage door.

 
She wasn’t convinced it was a good idea, but unable to think of any solid grounds on which to resist, she allowed him to hand her down, then conduct her up the steps.

 
A very large butler opened the door, his expression benevolent. “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome home.”

 
“Thank you, Hammer.” Michael handed her over the threshold. “This is Mrs. Sutcliffe. We’ll be staying for the next week or so while we attend to a number of matters.”

 
“Mrs. Sutcliffe.” Hammer bowed low; his voice was as deep as he was large. “If there’s anything you require, you have only to ring. It will be our pleasure to serve you.”

 
Caro smiled charmingly; regardless of her reservations, she wouldn’t allow them to show. “Thank you, Hammer.” She waved at the carriage. “I’m afraid I’ve saddled you with rather a lot of luggage.”

 
“It’s of no moment, ma’am—we’ll have it up in your room in no time.” Hammer glanced at Michael. “Mrs. Logan thought the Green Room would be suitable.”

 
Mentally locating that room in the huge house, Michael nodded. “An excellent choice. I’m sure Mrs. Sutcliffe will be comfortable there.”

 
“Indeed.” Caro caught his eye, tried to see past his mask to what was going on in his head—and failed. She turned to Hammer. “My maid’s name is Fenella—she’s fluent in English. If you could show her my room, I’ll be up shortly to bathe and change for dinner.”

 
Hammer bowed. Inclining her head gracefully, Caro turned to Michael and slid her hand onto his arm. “Now you had better present me to your grandfather.”

 
Michael led her toward the library, his grandfather’s sanctum. ‘You have met him, haven’t you?“

 
“Years ago—I’m not sure he’d remember. It was at some Foreign Office function.”

 
“He’ll remember.” Michael felt sure of that.

 
“Ah—Mrs. Sutcliffe!” Magnus boomed the instant Caro entered. “Do forgive me for not rising—demmed gout, y’know. It’s a trial.” Seated in a huge wing chair angled before the empty hearth, his swaddled foot propped on a stool, Magnus fixed her with a sharp, shrewd blue gaze as she walked across the room to greet him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again, m’dear.”

 
He held out a hand; determinedly serene and unshakable, she placed her fingers in it and curtsied. “It’s a pleasure to renew our acquaintance, sir.”

 
Magnus glanced at Michael, his gaze, shaded by thick overhanging brows, penetrating. Meeting that searching glance, Michael merely smiled.

 
Clasping her hand, Magnus patted it lightly. “My grandson tells me we’re to have the pleasure of your company for a week or so.”

 
Releasing her, he sat back in his chair, his attention fixing on her.

 
She inclined her head. “If you’re so disposed, of course.”

 
A fleeting smile touched Magnus’s lips. “My dear, I’m an ancient, and only too thrilled to have my declining years enlivened by the presence of wit and beauty.”

 
She had to smile. “In that case”—sweeping her skirts about her, she sat on the chaise—“I’ll be delighted to accept and enjoy your hospitality.”

 
Magnus studied her, taking in her self-confidence, her calm, unruffled serenity, then he grinned. “Right then, now we’ve got the social niceties out of the way, what’s this all about, heh?”

 
He glanced at Michael. Pointedly, Michael looked at her.

 
Understanding that he was leaving the decision to include Magnus entirely to her, she realized with faint astonishment that since they’d resolved to come to London, she hadn’t had time to dwell on their reasons.

 
Refocusing on Magnus, considering his vast experience, she met his gaze. “Someone, it seems, is not well disposed toward my continuing existence.”

 
Magnus’s brows lowered; after a moment he barked, “Why?”

 
“That,” she informed him, pulling off her gloves, “is what we’ve come to London to discover.”

 
Between them, she and Michael explained; it was reassuring to find Magnus reacting much as they had. His experience of their world was profound; if he thought as they did, they were most likely correct.

 
Later that night, when Fenella had finally left her, Caro stood before the window in the elegant bedchamber decorated in shades of green, and looked out as the night wrapped London in its sultry arms. So different from the country, yet she was equally at home here, the constant if dim sounds of nighttime activity as familiar as the deep stillness of the countryside.