The Ideal Bride (58 page)

 
She frowned. “I didn’t take much notice of Camden’s collecting— he’d been doing it for decades before I met him. It was simply something that was always going on. That said, I know he dealt with the same people constantly, that those associations went back many years. He only dealt with people he trusted.” She met his eyes. “He’d learned to be very careful.”

 
“Be that as it may, do you have any objection to Lucifer’s looking around the house?”

 
She shook her head. “No. Indeed, I think it might be wise. The more things we can reassure ourselves are not in question…”

 
He squeezed her hand. “Precisely.”

 
Recalling their other lines of inquiry, Caro said, “Incidentally, I remembered an old, very trusted friend of Camden’s—I called on him today and asked him to read Camden’s letters. He agreed.”

 
The carriage rocked to a halt before the steps of the Corsican consulate; a waiting footman opened the door. Michael nodded, indicating he’d heard her, stepped down, then handed her down.

 
Their hostess was waiting just beyond the open door; they both smiled and climbed the steps to be welcomed with a great deal of delight and Corsican camaraderie. The crowd was small and select; while superficially the customary formalities held sway, beneath, a more informal atmosphere reigned. Everyone knew everyone else, what they did, what their current aims were; the usual games were still played, but openly.

 
Caro was the only one there who did not have a defined role. While the stage was familiar, she felt rather strange not having any clear part to play. The lack made her more aware of others’ roles, especially Michael’s. Although the evening was a diplomatic affair, there were numerous civil servants present, those with whom the consular staff interacted in promoting their country’s interest. Every such gentleman made a point of stopping by Michael’s side, making sure he knew who he was, his present position, and his role in foreign affairs.

 
In no other sphere, not even the haut ton, was the grapevine more efficient.

 
Her presence by his side was remarked by all, but none knew what to make of it. They presented themselves as old family friends, and were accepted as such, at least on the face of it. Yet as the evening wore on, she found herself aiding him much as she had at Muriel’s supper— it was so much a habit, so easy for her to do, it seemed churlish not to assist. Especially when he was so busily assisting her on so many other fronts.

 
When a member of the Spanish legation bowed before them, she instinctively knew Michael couldn’t place him. Smiling, she gave Senor Fernandes her hand; while he was bowing and complimenting her on her appearance, she glibly dropped his name, position, and a little of his past into the conversation. Without a blink, Michael took things from there.

 
Later, when the conversation had parted them, she glanced over, alerted by some sixth sense, and saw the wife of a senior Foreign Office mandarin cutting Michael out from the knot of diplomats with whom he’d been speaking.

 
That was dangerous—the possible future Foreign Minister speaking too privately with the wife of one who would be jockeying for position beneath him. A fast way of creating rancor among the ranks. From her one brief glance, she realized Michael was aware of the unwisdom, yet was having trouble extricating himself from the lady’s clutches.

 
She smiled at the Corsican deputy consul. “Do excuse me. I must have a word with Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby.”

 
The deputy consul glanced at Michael and needed no further explanation. He returned her smile and bowed. “Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby is a lucky man.‘

 
Caro smiled easily. Leaving the deputy consul, she glided around to come up on Michael’s free side.

 
“There you are!” She slid her hand onto his arm as she rounded him, apparently only then noticing his companion. “Lady Casey. She smiled. ”It’s been some time since I’ve had the pleasure.“

 
She held out her hand; Lady Casey met her gaze, clearly wished her elsewhere, but had to take her hand, press fingers, and smile in return.

 
“My dear Mrs. Sutcliffe.” Lady Casey twitched her shawl higher. “I had thought you’d retired from the fray.”

 
“I may no longer be an ambassador’s wife, but you know what they say… Why,” she artlessly continued, “I’ve already been lectured once today that I absolutely must not hide myself away. I was given to understand that it’s my duty to continue to participate in diplomatic activities.”

 
Lady Casey looked as if she’d like to argue the point, however, ex-ambassador’s wife or no, Caro outranked her by several rather telling degrees. Deciding retreat was the better part of valor, Lady Casey inclined her head. “If you’ll excuse me, I must join my husband.”

 
They parted amicably.

 
The instant Lady Casey was out of earshot, Michael exhaled. “Thank you—she was trying to bully me into accepting a dinner invitation.”

 
“Quite out of order,” Caro declared. “Now, have you spoken privately with Monsieur Hartinges?”

 
Michael glanced at her. “Monsieur Hartinges being?”

 
“One of the French ambassador’s senior aides. He’s clever, he’ll go far, and he’s well disposed.”

 
“Ah.” He closed his hand over Caro’s, anchoring it on his sleeve— anchoring her by his side. “Obviously he’s someone I should know.”

 
“Indeed. He’s standing by the windows, and he’s been watching you all evening, waiting for his moment.”

 
He grinned. “Lead on.”

 
She did; he spent the next twenty minutes talking to the Frenchman, one inclined to let bygones be bygones and deal more effectively in trade—one of the most important issues that would face the next Foreign Minister.

 
Parting most cordially from Monsieur Hartinges, they circulated again, this time with a view to leaving.

 
“I should speak with Jamieson before we leave—he’s just come in.” Michael nodded to a lanky, faintly harassed-looking gentleman bowing over their hostess’s hand, clearly making obsequious apologies for his tardiness.

 
“Odd that he’s so late,” Caro murmured.

 
“Indeed.” He steered her to intercept Jamieson, an undersecretary at the Foreign Office. Jamieson saw them as he parted from the consul’s wife, and came their way.

 
He bowed to Caro, whom he knew of old, and nodded deferentially to Michael. “Sir.”

 
Michael held out his hand; relaxing a trifle, Jamieson shook it. “Anything amiss?”

 
Jamieson grimaced. “Strangest thing. There’s been a break-in at the office—that’s why I’m late. Two of our storerooms holding nothing but old archives were searched.” He looked at Caro. “The strange thing is they’re the Lisbon files.”

 
Caro frowned. “Why is that particularly strange?”

 
Jamieson glanced at Michael, then back at her. “Because we just received word that our place in Lisbon was burgled two weeks ago. The packet was delayed by storms, but, well, there it is. First them, now us. Nothing like it ever happened in Camden’s day.” Jamieson focused on Caro. “Have you any notion who might be behind it?”

 
Caro kept her eyes wide and shook her head. “What were they after? Was anything taken, either here or there?”

 
“No.” Jamieson glanced at Michael. “Every sheet in our files is numbered, and none are missing. It’s clear the files were searched, but beyond that…” He shrugged. “There isn’t anything remotely useful, diplomatically speaking, in there. The Lisbon station’s in my sector, but the files searched date from before my time. However, Roberts, my predecessor, was precise in the extreme—I can’t imagine anything would have slipped past him.”

 
“What period,” Caro asked, “did the files that were searched cover?”

 
“They span the years before and after Camden took up his position there. We’re inclined to think someone’s looking for information on some activity Camden put a stop to.” Jamieson grimaced. “I’m glad I bumped into you—I would have called in the next few days to ask if you knew anything. If you do think of any possibility that might account for this, do let me know.”

 
Caro nodded. “Of course.”

 
They parted from Jamieson, and shortly afterward left the consulate.

 
“You know,” Michael said as, later, having joined Caro in her room, he drew her into his arms, “I’m starting to wonder if someone’s panicking over nothing. If there’s nothing in the Foreign Office files…”

 
“That,” Caro admitted, winding her arms about his neck, “is entirely possible.”

 
Gripping her waist, anchoring her, he held back against her tug, and studied her face in the dimness. “I detect a ‘but.’”

 
Her lips curved, not so much in humor as in resignation over his perspicacity. “Knowing Camden and his love of intrigue, and his deep connections with Portugal’s elite, it’s equally possible there’s something quite explosive buried somewhere in his papers.”

 
She studied his eyes, then continued, “Therese Osbaldestone reminded me how personally involved with the Portuguese Camden was, even before his appointment to Lisbon. Given that, it’s perfectly possible there’s nothing in the Foreign Office files—Camden might have considered the matter as something outside the office if the contact had come before he took up the position.”

 
“You mean he buried all mention of it?”

 
“If nothing came of it that subsequently affected the office for which he was responsible, then yes,” she nodded, “I can see that he might have.”

 
“But mention might remain in his papers.”

 
“Indeed.” She sighed. “I had better put more effort into reading them, but at least now I know over which period I need to search.”

 
At that moment, however, in the shadows of the night, standing within Michael’s arms, Camden’s papers were not uppermost in her mind. She tightened her arms, stretched up against his hold. “Kiss me.”

 
Michael smiled, and did, taking full advantage of her invitation— making a mental note to later ask who the old friend she’d entrusted with Camden’s letters was—but then her invitation deepened, broadened, sensual horizons expanding… capturing him, his thoughts, his body, his mind.

 
Ultimately his soul.

 
With no other woman had he shared such a connection; with no other could he imagine doing so. With every passing night, every day, every soiree, every hour in their mutual world, they seemed to become more definitely, ever more clearly the compatible halves of a powerful whole.

 
The knowledge shook him, and thrilled him. Sent impatient exultation surging through him. No matter that she hadn’t yet recanted her opposition and agreed to their wedding, he couldn’t see—had no intention of countenancing—any other outcome. The path between now and then might be shrouded in impenetrable shadow, uncertain both in length and events, yet their eventual destination remained fixed and unwavering.

 
Later, sated and replete, he gathered her, boneless and drowsy, against him, settling them comfortably in the billows of her bed. He’d meant to ask her something… couldn’t quite focus his mind… “Who lectured you on your duty?” He hoped it hadn’t been Magnus.

 
“Therese Osbaldestone.‘ Caro sleepily rubbed her cheek against his arm. ”She’s pleased I’m not hiding myself away.“