The Ideal Bride

Chapter 19

He returned to Upper Grosvenor Street just before three o’clock, still no further along, either with his inquiries or his cogitations on Caro’s needs. Putting both aside, he took the stairs two at a time; opening the parlor door, he beheld Caro, seated in an armchair and deep in one of Camden’s diaries.

She looked up. Her fine hair formed a nimbus about her head; the sun striking through the window gilded each strand, a quiveringly alive filigree halo for her heart-shaped face with its delicate features and tip-tilted silvery eyes.

Those eyes lit at the sight of him. “Thank God!” Shutting the diary and setting it atop the pile, she held out her hands. “I sincerely hope you’re here to rescue me.”

Smiling, he walked in, took her hands, and pulled her up—and into his arms. Closing them about her, he bent his head; she lifted her lips.

They kissed. Long and slowly, deeply, yet both aware that they had to hold passion at bay, had to keep the flames suppressed.

Their lips parted only to meet again, to taste, take, give.

Eventually, he raised his head.

She sighed. Opened her eyes. “I suppose we must go.”

Her transparent reluctance delighted him. Yet… “Unfortunately, we must.” Releasing her, he stepped back. “Lucifer will be waiting.”

They’d agreed to show Lucifer around the Half Moon Street house that afternoon at three. When they arrived, he was lounging, tall, dark, and rakishly handsome, against the front railings.

Grinning, he straightened and stepped forward to hand Caro down from the hackney, then bowed gracefully. “Your servant, Mrs. Sutcliffe. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She smiled. “Thank you—but please call me Caro.”

Lucifer nodded to Michael, then waved up the steps. “I confess I’m agog to view the collection.”

Opening the door, Caro led them into the front hall. “I hadn’t realized Camden was such a well-known collector.‘’

“He wasn’t, but once I started asking around, he was definitely known, mostly for his eccentricity in collecting as he had.” Lucifer studied a sideboard and the vase that stood upon it. “Most people collect one type of thing. Sutcliffe collected all sorts of things, but for one house—this house.” He gestured at the round table in the hall, at the mirror on the wall. “Everything was chosen specifically to fill a particular place and function in this house. Everything is unique—the collection itself is unique.”

“I see.” Leading the way into the drawing room, she crossed to the windows and dragged back the heavy drapes, letting light spill across the gorgeous furniture, fracture and refract through crystal, gleam across gilt and beaten silver. “I hadn’t thought of it as strange.” She turned. “So what do you need to see?”

“Most of the major rooms, I suspect. But tell me, do you know who he dealt with? I have some names, but wondered which other dealers he used.”

“Wainwright, Cantor, Jofleur, and Hastings. No others.”

Lucifer looked up. “You’re certain of that?”

“Yes. Camden refused to deal with anyone else—he once told me he wasn’t interested in getting bilked, and that’s why he insisted on dealing only with men he trusted.”

Lucifer nodded. “He was right about those four, which means we can forget any likelihood of forgery. If any of them discovered they’d sold him a fake, they would have offered him his money back. If he dealt solely with them, that’s one scam we don’t need to imagine was involved here.”

“One scam.” Michael raised his brows. “There’s another possibility?”

“One that’s looking more likely every minute.” Lucifer glanced around. “Wait until I’ve seen more, then I’ll explain.”

Caro dutifully guided him about the ground floor, answering his questions, confirming that Camden had kept excellent records of all his purchases. In the dining room, waiting while Lucifer studied the contents of a glass-fronted cabinet, she noticed a candlestick normally in the center of the sideboard now stood to the left. She centered it again; thinking back to when she’d glanced in when she and Michael had come to fetch Camden’s papers, she was sure the candlestick had been in its accustomed place.

Mrs. Simms must have called; the housekeeper must have been distracted not to have replaced the candlestick precisely. Nothing was missing, nothing else had been moved. Making a mental note to send a message to let Mrs. Simms know she was back in town, she turned as Lucifer straightened. “Come—I’ll show you upstairs.”

Michael followed in their wake, listening with half an ear, otherwise looking about him. Not as Lucifer was doing, examining individual objects, not as he himself had done the last time he was here, but looking to learn what the house could tell him of Caro, what hints it might give him of what she needed, what she might covet that she didn’t already have. What was missing in this apparently wonderful house?

Children leapt to mind, but, as he looked and considered and compared, it wasn’t simply little people with grubby fingers thundering pell-mell down the corridors, sliding with whoops down the elegantly carved banister, that were missing.

This house was empty. Truly empty. Camden had created it for Caro—that Michael no longer doubted—yet it lay cold, without a heart, without the life, that indefinable pulse of family, that should have enlivened it and filled it with joy. It was presently an exquisitely beautiful shell, nothing more.

The one thing needed to bring the house to life was the one gift Camden had not given Caro. Either he’d neglected to do so, or it hadn’t been in him to give.

What was it that brought a house to life, that didn’t just create a family residence, but transformed it into a home?

Michael was standing in the upstairs corridor when Caro and Lucifer came out of the study.

Lucifer waved to the stairs. “Let’s go down.” He looked a touch grim.

In the hall, he faced them. “There’s a danger here that could account for the attacks on Caro. The collection as a whole is no tempta-tion, but individual pieces are. Sutcliffe had an eye for the highest quality—many pieces here are beyond superb. More than enough to tempt a rabid collector, one of those who, having once seen, absolutely must have.”

Lucifer looked at Caro. “Given Sutcliffe’s reason for assembling such a collection, I doubt he could have been induced to sell any piece once he acquired it. Is that right?”

Caro nodded. “He was approached on numerous occasions over different pieces, but as you say, once he had the perfect piece for a certain spot, he wasn’t interested in selling it. For him, there wasn’t any point.”

“Indeed. And that’s my point.” Lucifer glanced at Michael. “There are those among the rabid collectors who will, in pursuit of a particular piece, ignore all rules and laws. They grow obsessed, and simply must have that piece regardless of what they have to do to get it.”

Michael frowned. “Why not simply buy the piece from Caro?”

Lucifer looked at her. “Would you sell?”

She met his gaze. After a long moment, said, “No. This was Cam-den’s creation—I couldn’t pull bits out of it.”

Lucifer looked at Michael. “That’s why; they’d assume she wouldn’t sell, that she would be as obsessed with the item as they were.”

“Why not break in and steal it?” Michael gestured about them. “The locks may be sound, but a determined thief—”

“Would achieve little in terms of what rabid collectors want. They want the provenance, too, and that they can only legitimately claim via a sale.”

Caro stared at him. “They’re trying to kill me to force a sale?”

“Whoever inherits if you die—would they feel as you do about this place? Or, if they were quietly and honorably approached, would they, after a suitable period had elapsed, feel they might as well sell at least bits of the contents?”

She blinked, then looked at Michael.

He didn’t need to read her eyes. “Geoffrey, Augusta, and Angela would sell. Not immediately, but after a time.”

She nodded. “Yes. They would.”

“When I asked around, I was surprised how many people were aware of this place, of individual pieces in it.” Lucifer once again glanced around. “There’s definitely enough motive here for murder.”

Instead of narrowing, their net seemed to be widening, the reasons to murder Caro piling up rather than diminishing. After joining them in Upper Grosvenor Street for tea, Lucifer went off to further investigate, first the list of those who’d received bequests, and then more widely through his contacts in the antiquarian underworld for any whisper of one he termed a “rabid collector” with designs on any of the more obvious pieces in the Half Moon Street house.

Over dinner, they discussed the situation with Magnus and Evelyn; Magnus humphed, clearly chafing that he couldn’t do more to assist, that in this case his contacts, these days all political, were of no help. It was Evelyn who suggested Magnus and she should call on old Lady Claypoole.

“Her husband was the ambassador to Portugal before Camden— Lord Claypoole is long gone, but Ernestine might recall something useful. She’s in town at present, visiting her sister. No reason we can’t call and see what she has to say.”

They all agreed that was an excellent idea; leaving Magnus and Evelyn making plans, Michael and Caro left for their evening rounds— two small soirees, the first at the Belgian embassy, the other at Lady Castlereagh’s.

Entering the Belgian embassy drawing room, Caro glimpsed a dark head through the shoulders. On Michael’s arm, she leaned close. “Is that Ferdinand by the windows?”

Michael looked. His lips thinned. “Yes.” He glanced at her. “Shall we ask him what he’s doing in town?”

She smiled, with her lips but not her eyes. “Let’s.”

But by the time they wove their way through the crowd, chatting and greeting, and finally gained the windows, Ferdinand had gone. Lifting his head, Michael scanned the room. “He’s no longer here.”

“He caught sight of us and beat a hasty retreat.” In such company, Caro was careful not to frown, but her gaze when she met Michael’s was severe. “What does that say of his conscience, I wonder?”

Michael arched a brow. “Does he have one?”

Eloquently shrugging, Caro turned to greet Lady Winston, the Ja-macian governor’s wife, who came bustling up to talk with them.

She introduced Michael, remained by his side, then and later as they circled the room. That done, they traveled on to Lady Castlereagh’s; again, they worked the room together. Caro wasn’t sure if their unvoiced decision to act as a team owed more to her reaction to Michael’s need—a need she more and more clearly perceived, a need it was all but instinctive for her to fill—or to his desire to keep her close, protected and within reach; his hand lay heavy over hers on his sleeve, communicating that desire without words.

The evening revealed nothing regarding any long-buried secret the Portuguese might be keen to bury even deeper, but she did become aware—more aware—of other things.

Later, when they’d returned to Upper Grosvenor Street, when Michael had joined her in her bed, when they’d shared and indulged, bathing in an ocean of mutual pleasure to finally lay slumped, limbs tangled, sated and relaxed in her bed, with their heartbeats slowing and sleep drifting ever nearer… she let herself think of all she’d seen, all she’d become conscious of, all she now knew.

Of Michael. Of his need for her, not just the physical need they’d so recently slaked, not his professional need, even though she was coming to realize that was far more acute than she’d supposed, but that other need that lingered in the way his arms closed around her, in the way, sometimes, his lips touched her hair. In the way his arm lay heavy over her waist even in sleep. In the way he tensed and came alert, ready to step forward and shield her from danger, physical or otherwise.

The need he revealed through his compulsion to protect her.

He’d said he wanted to marry her, that the offer remained so that all she had to do was agree and it would happen. She hadn’t believed anything could make her change her mind, make her rethink her aversion to matrimony, especially to another politician, yet his elusive need had. It possessed a power against which even her hardened heart—the heart she’d deliberately hardened—wasn’t immune. While she was no longer so young, so innocent and naive as to take anything at face value, by the same token the years had taught her the wisdom of not unthinkingly rejecting fate’s gifts.

Such gifts weren’t offered frequently. When they were…

Was she prepared to again face the risk of loving a politician? A man to whom charm was intrinsic, to whom the facility for glib persuasiveness was a necessary skill?

Yet it wasn’t Michael’s words that were persuading her. It was his actions, his reactions. And the emotions that drove them.

Sleep slunk into her mind and weighed heavily, pressing her down, wiping out her thoughts. Beckoning her dreams.

The last whisper of consciousness of which she was aware was the sensation of Michael’s body, hot, naked, heavy with the languor of satiation, wrapped protectively about hers, a tacit statement—he wasn’t Camden.

Sunk beside her in the bed, Michael felt sleep take her; for himself, he tried to hold it at bay—to wrestle with his problem, to try to see further, to identify what her heart most desired, what were her most secret dreams.

A home, a family, a husband, the position of a political and diplomatic hostess, a Minister’s wife—a stage on which her highly polished skills would be most highly regarded and appreciated… all that he could give her, but what was the key—what was the one thing that would persuade her to marry him?

Sleep wouldn’t be denied; ruthlessly, it caught him and dragged him down, and left him still searching for his answer.

Over the next days, Caro devoted herself assiduously to Camden’s diaries. Other than attending the most select soirees with Michael every evening, she remained indoors, in the parlor, and read.

If the clue to what was behind the threat to her lay in Camden’s papers, then it clearly behooved her to apply herself to discovering it.

Magnus and Evelyn thoroughly enjoyed their excursion to interrogate Lady Claypoole, although other than confirming via vague recollection that there had been some political turmoil in Lisbon toward the close of her husband’s tenure, her ladyship proved of little help. However, the outing improved both Evelyn’s and Magnus’s moods, so that much at least was gained.

Michael continued playing the part of a soon-to-be-Minister very likely to be appointed to the Foreign Office for all it was worth, exploiting the readiness of others to impress him to glean all he could on current Portuguese affairs. He laid seige not only to the relevant British offices, but to the Spanish, French, Corsicans, Sardinians, Belgians, and Italians, too. Everyone had their sources—someone had to know something of use.

And then there was Ferdinand.

Michael didn’t forget him, or the Portuguese embassy staff. But he couldn’t act directly there; with Devil’s assistance, he organized others to infiltrate and see what they could learn, but such operations necessarily took time.

Time he was increasingly worried they might not have.

Returning to Upper Grosvenor Street late one afternoon, still no further along and running out of useful avenues to explore, he climbed the stairs, paused in the parlor doorway to watch Caro read. When she glanced up and smiled, he joined her.

With a sigh, he sank into the armchair that was the mate of the one she occupied.

She raised a brow. “Nothing?”

He shook his head. “Patience, I know, is a virtue, but…”

She grinned; looking down, she returned to her reading.

He sat and watched her, oddly pleased that she did not feel the need to entertain him as any other lady would. It was a comfortable feeling, to be accepted with such ease, to simply be together without any of the customary social barriers between them.

The simple togetherness soothed his aggravation, stroked his impatient irritation away.

In the distance, the front doorbell pealed. Hammer’s muffled steps crossed the tiles; a moment passed, then the front door closed. An instant later, they heard Hammer ascending the stairs, heading their way.

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 impossible 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.

Was frightening, given the man on whom it had laid its mark.

Honoria’s words replayed in his ears. The one thing… that gave me all that was truly important to me.

He’d thought she’d meant on the physical plane, had searched for what was important to Caro on that basis. Yet perhaps Honoria had meant something else—something simpler, more ethereal, and much more powerful.

The one thing on which all else depended.

“Ah, Harriet! Well met, my dear.”

Michael refocused to find Liverpool greeting his aunt Harriet. Martinbury nodded and stepped away. Canning bowed over Harriet’s hand as Liverpool turned to Michael. “Opportune as ever, Harriet—I was about to have a word with Michael here.”

The three—Liverpool, Harriet, and Canning—all turned to him and drew closer; for one fanciful instant, Michael felt as if they’d cornered him. Then Liverpool smiled, and he was no longer sure the impression was such a fantasy.

“Wanted to let you know, m’boy, that George here is moving on sooner rather than later.” Liverpool nodded to Canning, who took up the tale.

“The extended negotiations with the Americans rather took it out of me, what?” Canning tugged down his waistcoat. “It’s time for fresh blood, new energy. I’ve done my best, but it’s time I handed the baton on.”

Harriet was watching with an eagle eye, ready to step in if anything showed any signs of going awry.

Liverpool huffed out a breath and looked over the room. “So we’ll have a vacant seat at the cabinet table, and at the F.O., in a matter of weeks. Wanted you to know.”

His features impassive, Michael inclined his head. “Thank you, sir.”

“And Caro Sutcliffe, heh?” Liverpool’s gaze found Caro; his eyes lit with something close to delight. “Quite a find, m’boy—a supremely capable lady.” His gaze returning to Michael’s face, Liverpool was as close to jovial as he ever became. “Glad to see you took my hint to heart. Difficult thing these days, promoting an unmarried man. The party doesn’t have the stomach for it just now. And you couldn’t have chosen better. I’ll look forward to receiving the wedding invitation in the next few weeks, what?”

Michael smiled, made the right noncommittal response; he suspected only Harriet picked up his sleight of words, the subtle evasion. Nevertheless, when with the usual comments and assurances the group broke up, Harriet merely smiled and went off on Canning’s arm.

Relieved, Michael escaped, strolling to join another group, eventually circling around to come up with Caro.

Caro looked up and smiled when he joined her. With a word and a look, she drew him into the conversation she’d been having with Mr. Collins from the Home Office.

She was glad Michael had come to her; there were a number of people she thought he should speak with before the evening was over.

With a smile, they parted from Mr. Collins. Her hand on Michael’s arm, she deftly guided him on.

As was usual at such affairs, the night wore on, the conversation undimmed. They continued circulating; Caro caught more than one intrigued look, more than one interested glance. Gradually, she realized that the reality of the connection between her and Michael must show; Therese Osbaldestone was clearly not the only one to have seen past their facade.

Therese’s words, ringing with undeniable wisdom, replayed in her mind… slowly sank deeper to wind about her heart. As she stood beside Michael and effortlessly played her role, some part of her studied the prospect, detached, impassively—almost unemotionally—assessing.

It was the life, the position, the purpose she wanted, indeed needed. At functions like these, the truth shone clearly; this was where she belonged.

She glanced at Michael, at his strong profile as he spoke with others. Wondered if he knew, if he’d seen that reality, too.

In a way, it was about power—feminine power; she’d had it once in her life, and had grown accustomed to wielding it, to gaining satisfaction from all it could achieve. That was what Camden had taught her, his greatest and most enduring legacy to her. To be involved in the political and diplomatic game was now essential to her continuing happiness, her fulfillment. Therese Osbaldestone had been right.

She glanced again at Michael, acknowledged that Therese had been right there, too. With Camden, she’d always been in his shadow—he’d been the great man, the celebrated ambassador. Michael was a different proposition—a completely different man. A relationship between them would be—and would be seen and accepted as being—a full partnership, a coming together of equals, each needed by the other.

Oh, yes, Therese had been right. Caro felt the inward surge of recognition, of the desire to step into the position that was there before her. The tug of the flood tide.

It could be so different, this time.

She looked at Michael; when he glanced at her, she merely smiled and tightened her hold on his arm. Felt, an instant later, his hand close more firmly over hers as they excused themselves and moved on.

They’d just joined the next group when they saw Liverpool beckon.

Michael stepped back, tried to draw her with him, but she stood firm. “No.” She spoke softly. “You go. It might be confidential.”

He hesitated, then nodded and left her.

Two minutes later, while she was quietly following the group’s discussion, she felt a touch on her arm, turned to see Harriet smiling.

“A quick word, Caro, then I really must go.” Harriet glanced across the room at Michael. “It’s been a long evening.”

Murmuring agreement, Caro stepped aside, joining Harriet by the wall.

Harriet spoke quickly; happiness threaded through her words. “I just wanted you to know how thrilled I am—well, we all are, really, not only that you’re back, but on Michael’s arm.” Harriet put a hand on Caro’s wrist, a reassuring touch. “It’s such a relief—I can’t tell you how worried I was that he wouldn’t bestir himself.”

Harriet’s assumption was obvious. One glance at her face reassured Caro that Harriet wasn’t attempting to pressure her; Harriet’s bright eyes and open expression made it abundantly clear she’d taken a wedding between Michael and Caro for granted, a decision already made if not announced.

Harriet rattled on, “My main concern, of course, was the time!”

Caro blinked; Harriet continued without prompting, “Now that Canning has all but officially vacated the F.O., then the appointment has to be made in September, and it’s already August.” She blew out a breath, her gaze going to Michael. “He always was one to leave things until the last minute, but really!”

Then she smiled, and looked at Caro. “At least from now on, it’ll be your job to keep him up to the mark.”

Giving silent thanks for her years of training, she managed a smile.

Harriet continued chatting; one part of Caro’s mind monitored her words. Most of her mind was fixed on one fact: September was only weeks away.