The Ideal Bride (54 page)

 
Michael studied her face, wondered if she’d realized why Magnus was so keen on them going about together among their social set. Yet it was she who’d suggested it. “Why don’t we meet again over lunch tomorrow and see how far we’ve-progressed, then we can make more definite plans to step back into the limelight.”

 
Evelyn pushed back her chair; using her cane, she got to her feet. “I’ll be out to both morning and afternoon teas tomorrow.” She smiled. “We might be old, but we know what’s what—and what’s going on, what’s more. I’ll take note of which hostesses are entertaining in the next few days.”

 
“Thank you.” With a smile, Caro rose, too. Going around the table, she linked her arm in Evelyn’s. “That would indeed help.”

 
Together she and Evelyn left for the drawing room and the tea trolley; in an hour or so, they’d retire to their rooms.

 
Michael, who had also risen, sat again. He waited for Hammer to set out the decanters, then filled Magnus’s glass and his. When Hammer had retreated and they were alone, he sat back, sipped, and looked speculatively at Magnus.

 
Perfectly aware, Magnus raised a shaggy brow. “Well?”

 
Michael savored his grandfather’s excellent brandy, then asked, “What do you know about Camden Sutcliffe?”

 
An hour and a half later, having helped Magnus to his room, Michael returned to his own—to undress, don his robe, and join Caro in hers. Pulling the gold pin from his cravat, he considered the picture

 
Magnus had painted of Camden Sutcliffe. Magnus had, of course, known Camden, but not well; Magnus was over eighty, more than ten years older than Camden, and although throughout his long political career Magnus had frequently been involved in diplomatic events, none of those had involved Portugal during Camden’s tenure.

 
Nevertheless, Magnus was a shrewd and acute observer; he’d painted Camden with a few deft strokes, leaving Michael with a clear vision of a gentleman born and bred, one who, like them, took his station for granted and saw no need to impress it on others. Camden, however, had been, as Magnus put it,
exquisitely
charming, a man who knew just the right degree of gloss to apply for whomever he was dealing with. A man who combined that lethal charm with a pleasant temperament and easy, well-bred manners in the service of his country—and of Camden Sutcliffe.

 
The picture Magnus had created was of a supremely self-centered man, but one who, simultaneously, had been a recognized patriot. A man who unstintingly put his country above all else, who held his service and loyalty to it inviolate, but who otherwise thought, first and last, of himself.

 
That vision fitted well with Caro’s revelation that Camden had married her solely for her hostessly talents. It sat well with Edward’s insights, too, and those Michael himself had gleaned over the years, not only from personal experience, but from Geoffrey, George Sutcliffe, and others who had known Camden well.

 
It did not, however, explain the house in Half Moon Street.

 
Michael shrugged on his robe, belted it. Inwardly shaking his head, putting aside the as yet inexplicable conundrum of Camden’s relationship with Caro, he opened his door and set out to join her.

 
Camden’s widow—his wife-to-be.

 
By lunchtime the next day, he’d learned that Ferdinand Leponte was in London. Returning to Upper Grosvenor Street, he joined the others about the luncheon table. Taking his seat, he glanced at Caro.

 
She caught his gaze. Her eyes opened wide. “You’ve learned something. What?”

 
He was surprised; he knew he wasn’t that easy to read. But he nodded, and told them his news. “Neither the duke, duchess, count, or countess are with him—apparently they’re still in Hampshire. Ferdinand, however, has left his yacht and the lure of the Solent in summer, and come up to London—he’s staying in rooms attached to the embassy.”

 
“When did he come up?” Magnus asked.

 
“Yesterday.” Across the table, Michael exchanged a glance with Caro.

 
She nodded. “Easy enough to call at Bramshaw House, ask for me, and learn I’d left for town.”

 
He reached for his glass. “I didn’t learn anything more of interest. Did you turn up anything?”

 
Caro grimaced and shook her head. “It’s all very colorful, but there’s no hint of anything nefarious—any item that could now be dangerous to know.”

 
They looked at Evelyn; she’d pulled a note from her pocket and was smoothing it out.

 
“I made a list of who’s entertaining tonight.” She passed it to Caro. “That should get you started.”

 
Glancing up from perusing the list, Caro smiled gratefully. “Thank you—this is perfect.” Across the table, she met Michael’s eyes. “Your aunt Harriet is giving a soiree this evening.”

 
Although nothing showed in his face, she was sure he was thinking of his last meeting with his aunt, and Caro’s subsequent encounter with Harriet. Harriet thought he was pursuing
 
Elizabeth .

 
Caro smiled. “Quite obviously we should attend.”

 
A faint grimace crossed his face, but he inclined his head.

 
When they rose from the luncheon table and dispersed, Caro paused in the hall, tapping Evelyn’s note in her hand, planning.

 
Returning from helping Magnus back to the library, Michael found her there. Paused to take in her slender figure, erect, head high, her absorbed yet focused expression, before strolling to join her. “Are you heading back to the diaries, then?”

 
She glanced at him, smiled. “No—if we’re to plunge back into the whirl, I need new gloves and more stockings. I think I’ll go to Bond Street.” Fleetingly, she pulled a face. “I’ve had enough of Camden’s writings for one day.”

 
He could detect no sadness in her, yet would he? Would she let such a reaction show? He had no idea what manner of revelations Camden might have set down in his diaries.

 
“I’ll come with you.” The words, and his intention, were instinctive; he hadn’t needed to—didn’t need to—think.

 
She blinked at him. “You
want
to go to Bond Street?”

 
“No. But if that’s where you’re heading, then that’s where I’ll go.”

 
For what seemed like a full minute, she looked into his eyes, then a faint smile curved her lips; she turned to the stairs. “We may as well go now, but I’ll have to change.”

 
He stifled a sigh. “I’ll wait in the library.”

 
He was reading a treatise on the recent history of Portugal when she opened the library door and looked in. He rose; Magnus glanced up from his own researches, on much the same topic, grunted, and waved them off.

 
Joining Caro in the corridor, he ran an appreciative eye over the creation she’d selected, a gown in spotted voile of a delicate ice-blue. The vision of ice on a hot summer’s day flashed into his mind; his mouth watered. With a smile, she led the way back to the hall and the front door, transparently oblivious of the effect the sight of her swaying hips, clothed in such fantasy, was having on him.

 
When she paused by the door Hammer was holding open and, haloed by the sunshine outside, looked back at him, waiting, expectant, he hesitated—for one second toyed with the notion of inveigling her back upstairs… realized she wouldn’t immediately understand, that despite all they’d thus far shared, she didn’t yet truly comprehend the depth of his desire for her. She wouldn’t necessarily react accordingly, not immediately.

 
Dragging in a breath, forcing his features to relax into an expression of indulgent ease, he reached for her arm./‘The carriage should be waiting.“

 
It was; he handed her up, then sat beside her as they rattled through the streets. Bond Street wasn’t far; soon they were strolling arm in arm past the fashionable shops. Caro entered only two establishments—one for gloves, one for stockings. He waited on the pavement in both instances, giving mute thanks that she wasn’t one of those females who had to look through every shop she passed.

 
The street was far less crowded than during the Season. It was pleasant enough to walk along, nodding to this lady and that. The bulk of society was absent, cavorting in the countryside; those of the haut ton presently in town were there because they needed to be—because they were involved in one or other arm of government, or were essential players in some similar sphere.

 
Caro drew eyes, both male and female. She had a style that was elegant and exclusive—exclusively hers. Today the attention she attracted often resulted in recognition; many of the ladies currently in Bond Street were the more senior hostesses who regarded her as one of their own.

 
Parting from Lady Holland, the hostess of note they’d encountered, he arched a brow as Caro reclaimed his arm. “Just gloves and stockings?”

 
She smiled. “It was an obvious opportunity. If we’re to rejoin the pack, then these ladies are the first who need to know.”

 
“Speaking of obvious opportunities, I forgot to mention”—glancing down, he caught her eyes as she looked up inquiringly—“Honoria asked that I bring you to tea today. I gathered it was to be private—I think, entertaining wise, she’s lying low at present.”

 
Caro’s face lit. “I haven’t seen her—not to talk to—in years. Not since your parents died. I only glimpsed her a few times this last Season in the ballrooms—we never had a chance to really talk.” She met his eyes. “What’s the time?”

 
He pulled out his watch, consulted it; she peeked. Slipping it back into his pocket, he looked around. “If we stroll to the corner, then return to the carriage, we can go straight there—our timing will be perfect.”

 
“Excellent.” Settling her hand on his arm, she stepped out. “Let’s see who else we meet.”

 
Two more hostesses, then, to their surprise, Muriel Hedderwick appeared in their path.

 
“Caro.” She directed a nod Caro’s way, then looked at Michael.

 
He reached for her hand and bowed over it. Muriel returned his polite greeting, then turned to Caro.

 
“Have you come up for a meeting?” Caro knew Muriel rarely came to town for anything else.

 
“Indeed,” Muriel replied. “The Older Orphans’ Temperance Society. The inaugural meeting was yesterday. Our aim, of course…” She launched into an impassioned description of the society’s predictable aims.

 
Michael shifted; Caro pinched his arm. There was no point interrupting; Muriel would say what she would say. Any attempt to distract her would only prolong the exercise.

 
Muriel’s eloquence finally ended. She fixed her gaze intently on Caro. “We’re holding a steering committee meeting tonight. As you’re now residing in England, I should think it’s the sort of association to which you would wish to devote some of your time. I would most strongly urge you to attend—the meeting will be held at eight o’clock.”

 
Caro smiled. “Thank you for the invitation—I’ll make every effort to attend.” From experience she knew this was a case in which a simple prevarication worked to everyone’s advantage. If she demurred and said she was already committed elsewhere, Muriel would feel compelled to argue her case until Caro broke down and agreed to attend. She made a mental note to make her excuses when next they met.