“Can we go?” Elizabeth asked, eyes shining, eagerness transparent. “It’s a perfect day.”
“Of course we’ll go.” Caro glanced again at the invitation. “Crabtree House.” To Edward, she explained, “That’s the other side of Eyeworth Wood. It’ll take half an hour by carriage. We should leave at noon.”
Edward nodded. “I’ll order the barouche.”
Caro nibbled her toast, then finished her tea. They all rose from the table together; once in the hall, they went their separate ways—Geoffrey to his study, Edward to speak with the coachman. Elizabeth went to practice her piano pieces—more, Caro suspected, so Edward would know where to find her and have an excuse to linger than from any desire to improve her playing.
The cynical assessment had floated into her mind without conscious thought; it was almost certainly accurate, yet…she shook her head. She was becoming too jaded, too scheming—far too much like Camden in her dealings with the world.
Regretfully she dismissed the desperate notion that had blossomed in her mind. There was no situation she could conjure to ensure that Michael would be otherwise engaged for the afternoon.
Reblocking the stream was out of the question.
They turned into the drive of Crabtree House just after half past twelve. Another carriage was ahead of them; they waited while Ferdinand descended and handed the countess down. Then the carriage rumbled on and theirs took its place before the front steps.
Handed down by Edward, Caro went forward, smiling, to greet their hostess. She shook hands with Lady Kleber, answered her polite queries and made Geoffrey’s excuses, then greeted the countess while Elizabeth curtsied and Edward made his bow.
“Come, come.” Lady Kleber waved them along the front of the house. “We will go onto the terrace and be comfortable while we await the others.”
Caro strolled beside the countess, engaging in the usual pleasantries. Elizabeth walked with Lady Kleber; Edward and Ferdinand brought up the rear. Glancing back as she gained the terrace, Caro saw Edward explaining something to Ferdinand. She’d been surprised Ferdinand hadn’t sought her attention—clearly he’d remembered Edward had been Camden’s aide.
Cynically amused, she followed the countess. Tables and chairs had been set to allow the guests to enjoy the pleasant vista of the semiformal rear garden ringed by the deeper green of Eyeworth Wood.
She sat with the countess; Elizabeth and Lady Kleber joined them. The general emerged from the house; after genially greeting all the ladies, he joined Edward and Ferdinand at another table.
The conversation was brisk; Lady Kleber, the countess, and Caro discussed impressions gained during the recent Season. Their subjects ranged from diplomatic suspicions to the latest fashions. Exchanging observations, Caro wondered, as she had increasingly over the past hours, if Michael had been invited.
She’d half expected him to appear at Bramshaw House and claim a place in the carriage, but such an action would have surprised even Geoffrey—Eyeworth Manor was closer to Crabtree House than Bramshaw was. To join them, he’d have ridden in quite the wrong direction; clearly he’d decided against that tack.
Assuming he’d been invited.
She glanced across as footsteps heralded further arrivals—but it was the Polish chargé d’affaires with his wife, son, and daughter. Caro appreciated Lady Kleber’s forethought in inviting the younger pair—they made a natural foursome with Elizabeth and Edward, much to Ferdinand’s transparent disgust; he had to swallow it, bow to the ladies, and let Edward escape.
She continued to chat and watch as others arrived. No Russians, of course, but the Swedish ambassador, Verolstadt, his wife, and their two daughters joined them, followed by two of the general’s aides-de-camp and their wives.
Caro inwardly frowned. Lady Kleber was an experienced diplomatic hostess, unfailingly correct; she possessed none of her more famous relative’s eccentricities. So she should have invited Michael. Not only was he the local Member, but she must have heard the rumors….
The minutes ticked by; surrounded by glib conversation, Caro grew increasingly concerned. If Michael was to move to the Foreign Office, he needed to be present at affairs such as this—the more informal, relaxed, private entertainments at which personal links were forged. He needed to be here—he ought to have been invited…she tried to think of some excuse to inquire….
“Ah—and here is Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby!” Lady Kleber rose, a patently delighted smile wreathing her face.
Swinging around, Caro saw Michael walking up from the stables. She hadn’t heard the crunch of hooves on the drive—he’d ridden over through the forest. She watched him greet Lady Kleber, and felt distinctly irritated over her earlier worry; he clearly needed no champion in the diplomatic sphere. When he wished, he could be disgustingly charming; she watched him smile at the countess and bow over her hand, and inwardly humphed.
Quietly handsome, assured, subtly dominant, his brand of charm was far more effective than Ferdinand’s.
Her gaze flicked to Ferdinand; he was edging her way, positioning himself so he’d be able to claim her side when the party descended to the lawn. Glancing around, she looked for escape…and realized there wasn’t any—other than…
She looked at Michael; had he lost interest in pursuing her?
Him or Ferdinand—which would be wiser? Lady Kleber had told them the picnic was to be held in a clearing a little way into the forest; Caro knew the way there—a gentle stroll, and they would hardly be alone….
The decision was taken out of her hands. Via a maneuver she had to admit was masterful, she was the last person Michael greeted.
“Good, good! Now we are all here, we may go and enjoy our picnic, ja?” Beaming, Lady Kleber waved to the lawn, then circled, determinedly shooing them off the terrace.
Having just shaken Caro’s hand, Michael retained it. Looking into her eyes, he smiled. “Shall we?” Smoothly, he drew her to her feet.
Her senses flickered, and it wasn’t, this time, simply due to his nearness. There’d been a glint of steel behind the blue of his eyes, and his grip on her hand, the restrained power behind his claiming of her company…he definitely hadn’t given up the chase.
He anchored her hand on his sleeve, then looked at Ferdinand. “Ah, Leponte—do join us.”
Ferdinand did, very readily, yet it was Michael who had her arm. As they descended to the lawn, then set out in train with the others to stroll to the clearing, she wondered what he was up to—what new tack he was taking with Ferdinand.
They entered the trees following a well-beaten path. She caught the movement as Michael glanced over her head at Ferdinand.
“I understand you’re something of a disciple of Camden Sutcliffe?”
Direct attack—more usually a political than a diplomatic gambit, perhaps in this instance to be expected. She glanced at Ferdinand, saw color tinge his olive skin.
He nodded, a touch curtly. “As you say. Sutcliffe’s career is a pattern card for those of us who seek to make our way in the diplomatic arena.” Ferdinand met Michael’s steady regard. “Surely you would agree? Sutcliffe was, after all, your countryman.”
“True.” Michael let his lips curve. “But I’m more politically inclined than diplomatically so.”
That, he felt, was fair warning; there was a great deal of ruthless cut-and-thrust in politics, while diplomacy was by definition more a matter of negotiation. Looking ahead, he nodded toward the Polish chargé d’affaires. “If you truly want to learn about Sutcliffe and what shaped him, you’re in luck—Sutcliffe’s first appointment was to Poland. Kosminsky was a junior aide in the Polish Foreign Ministry at the time; his professional acquaintance with Sutcliffe dates from ’86. I understand they remained in touch.”
Ferdinand’s gaze had locked on the dapper little Pole chatting with General Kleber. There was a fractional hesitation while he manufactured a suitably delighted mien. “Really?”
His features lit, his eyes didn’t. They were curiousl
y flat when he met Michael’s gaze.
Michael smiled, and didn’t bother to make the gesture charming—or even all that pleasant. “Really.”
Caro understood his meaning; she surreptitiously pinched his arm. He glanced down at her, a silent What? in his eyes.
Hers flared warningly, then, apparently distracted, she looked into the trees. She pointed. “Look! A jay!”
Everyone stopped, looked, peered, but of course no one else except Edward saw the elusive bird. Which only confirmed that Edward was both loyal and exceedingly quick-witted.
On the other hand, he’d had five years to grow used to his employer’s little tricks.
She had more than her fair share of them, Michael had to grant her that. By the time she’d explained to Ferdinand what jays were, and why spotting one was so exciting—something he himself hadn’t fully appreciated—they’d reached the picnic site.
It was instantly apparent that the English vision of a picnic—hampers of food spread on cloths with rugs strewn about on which to sit—had not translated directly into Prussian. Various chairs had been grouped about the clearing; along one side, a trestle table groaned beneath numerous silver dishes and a complement of plates, cutlery, glassware, wines, and cordials that would have done a formal luncheon proud. There was even a silver epergne set in the center of the display. A butler and three footmen hovered, ready to serve.
Despite the relative formality, the party achieved a pleasantly relaxed ambience, due largely to Lady Kleber’s efforts, ably assisted by Caro, Mrs. Kosminsky and, surprisingly, the countess.
That last put him on guard; there was something going on, some ongoing connection between the Portuguese and Camden Sutcliffe, although of what nature he couldn’t yet guess. The countess’s uncharacteristically cheery behavior made him even more determined to keep his eye on Ferdinand—her nephew.
He pretended not to see the countess’s first two attempts to attract his notice. Sticking to Caro’s side—something she seemed to be growing more accustomed to—plate in hand, he moved with her as she circulated, group to group, while they all savored the meats, fruits, and delicacies Lady Kleber had provided.
Caro’s agenda quickly became clear; personally, she didn’t have one—her application was entirely on his behalf. She was patently intent on using her considerable contacts and even more formidable talents to smooth his way, to give him a step up into what had been her world, a world in which she still, if not reigned, then at least wielded a certain power. Her unsolicited support warmed him; he tucked the feeling away to savor later and focused his attention—more than he most likely would have if left to his own devices—on making the most of the opportunities she created for him to make those personal connections that were, at bedrock, what international diplomacy most surely relied on.
The company had disposed of the last strawberry and the footmen were packing away the plates when he felt a gentle touch on his arm. Turning, he looked into the countess’s dark eyes.
“My dear Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby, dare I claim a few minutes of your time?”
Her smile was assured; he couldn’t very well deny her. With an easy gesture, he replied, “You perceive me all ears, Countess.”
“Such a strange English saying.” Claiming his arm, she waved to two chairs set at one side of the clearing. “But come—I have messages from my husband and the duke, and must discharge my duty.”
He had his doubts about the importance of her messages, yet her citing of duty struck an oddly true note. What was going on?
Regardless of his curiosity, he was acutely conscious of being led away from Caro. He would have made some effort to include her, even in the teeth of the countess’s clear wish for a private discussion, but when he glanced around, he saw Ferdinand deep in conversation with Kosminsky.
The little Pole was in full flight; Ferdinand was presently engaged.
Relieved on that score, he went without argument, waiting while the countess settled in one chair, then sitting in the other.
She fixed her dark eyes on his. “Now…”
Caro glanced at Michael, leaning forward, relaxed yet focused on whatever the countess was telling him.
“Sure you won’t come?”
She looked back at Edward. He met her eyes, flicked his gaze to Ferdinand and back, then raised his brows.
“Ah—no.” Caro looked past him at the youthful group heading down the path that led to a pretty dell.
The afternoon had grown warm; the air beneath the trees was heavy, redolent with the scents of the forest. Most of the older guests were showing definite signs of settling for a postprandial nap, all except Mr. Kosminsky and Ferdinand, and Michael and the countess, who were absorbed with their discussions.
“I’ll…sit with Lady Kleber.”
Edward looked unimpressed by her strategy. “If you’re sure?”
“Yes, yes.” She flicked her hands, shooing him toward where Elizabeth and Miss Kosminsky dallied, waiting for him. “Go and enjoy your ramble. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with Ferdinand.”
Edward’s last look plainly said, In this setting? but he knew better than to argue. Turning, he joined the girls; within minutes, the group had disappeared along the path through the trees.
Caro rejoined Lady Kleber, Mrs. Kosminsky, and Mrs. Verolstadt. Their talk, however, quickly became desultory, then faded altogether. A few minutes later, a gentle snore stirred the air.
All three older ladies had their eyes closed, their heads back. Caro glanced swiftly around the clearing; most others, too, had succumbed—only Kosminsky and Ferdinand and Michael and the countess were still awake.
She had a choice—pretend to fall asleep, too, and fall victim to whichever of the two men pursuing her first came, like Sleeping Beauty’s prince, to wake her—as she would wager her best pearls they would—or…
Quietly rising, she drifted around the chairs—and kept drifting, silent, wraithlike, until the trees closed around her, and she was out of sight.
Quite what she’d hoped to achieve—by the time she reached the stream, sanity had returned.
Sinking onto a flat rock nicely warmed by the sunshine, she frowned at the rippling stream and decided it had been her vision of Sleeping Beauty, trapped, forced to wait and accept the attentions of whichever handsome prince turned up to press a kiss to her lips…it really had been too reminiscent of her own situation, so she’d done what any sane woman would have—even Sleeping Beauty if she’d had the chance. She’d upped stakes and run.
The problem was that she couldn’t run far, and was therefore in danger of being run to earth by one or the other of her princes—pursuers. On top of that, one knew this piece of forest even better than she.
Worse still, if she was destined to be caught by one, and had to choose, she wasn’t sure which of them she should opt for. In this setting, Ferdinand would be difficult to manage; Edward had been right there. However, regardless, Ferdinand had little chance of sweeping her off her feet and into any illicit embrace. Michael, on the other hand…
She knew which of the two was more truly dangerous to her. Unfortunately, he was the one with whom she felt immeasurably safer.
A conundrum—one for which her considerable experience had not prepared her.
The distant snap of a twig alerted her; concentrating, she heard a definite footfall. Someone was approaching along the path she’d taken from the clearing. Quickly, she scanned her surroundings; a thicket of elder growing before an ancient birch offered the best hope of safe concealment.
Rising, she hurriedly climbed the bank. Circling the thicket, she discovered the densely growing elder did not extend to the trunk of the massive birch, but instead formed a palisade screening anyone standing under the birch from the stream. Beyond the birch the ground rose steadily; she might be visible from higher on the bank, yet if she stood in front of the birch…
Slipping into the screened space, she took up a position before the huge birch trunk and peered toward the
stream. Almost immediately, a man came striding along the bank; all she glimpsed through the elder leaves was a shoulder, the flash of a hand—not enough to be certain who he was.
He halted; she sensed he was looking around.
Stretching this way and that, she tried to get a better sight of him—then he moved and she realized he was scanning the bank, the area where she stood, simultaneously realized the coat she’d glimpsed was dark blue. Ferdinand; Michael was wearing brown.
She held her breath, still, eyes locked on where Ferdinand stood…childhood games of hide-and-seek had never felt so intense.
For long moments, all was silent, unmoving, the heavy heat beneath the trees a muffling blanket. She became aware of her breathing, of the beat of her heart…and, suddenly, a disconcerting ruffling of her senses.
Those senses abruptly flared; she knew he was there before she actually felt him, moving silently toward her from around the tree. Knew who he was before his large hand slid around her waist; he didn’t urge her back against him—her feet didn’t move—yet suddenly he was there, all heat and strength at her back, his hard body, his solid masculine frame all but surrounding her.
She hadn’t been breathing before; she couldn’t now. A rush of warmth flooded her. Giddiness threatened.
Raising a hand, she closed it over his at her waist. Felt his grip firm in response. He bent his head; his lips traced the sensitive skin below her ear. Suppressing a reactive shiver, she heard his whisper, low, deep, yet faintly amused, “Stay still. He hasn’t seen us.”
She turned her head, leaned back into him, intending to tartly tell him “I know”—instead, her gaze collided with his. Then lowered to his lips, mere inches from hers…
They were already so close their breaths mingled; it seemed strangely sensible—meant to be—that they shifted, adjusted, closed the distance, that he kissed her and she kissed him even though they were both highly conscious that mere yards away Ferdinand Leponte searched for her.
The Ideal Bride Page 14