“Not directly, no. However, there were an unusual number of bequests to unrelated individuals. Devil asked if you’d mind if he had two of his cousins quietly look over the legatees.”
She frowned. “Which cousins? And why?”
“Gabriel and Lucifer.”
“Who?”
Michael had to stop and think. “Rupert and Alasdair Cynster.”
Caro cast her eyes heavenward. “Such nicknames.”
“Appropriate, or so I’ve been told.”
“Indeed? And how are these two supposed to help us?”
“Gabriel is the Cynsters’ investment expert—no one within the ton has better contacts in finance, business, and banking. Lucifer’s interest is antiques, principally silver and jewelry, but his knowledge and expertise are wide.”
After a moment, she inclined her head. “I can see that in this case such talents might be useful.”
Michael considered her expression. “I didn’t think you’d mind, so I agreed on your behalf. Given Gabriel’s and Lucifer’s backgrounds, discretion is assured.” He caught her gaze. “Are you comfortable with that?”
Caro studied his eyes—and thought it more a question of whether such an investigation made him more comfortable. She’d accepted that someone—to her mind some nebulous person she’d never met—wanted her dead, presumably so she couldn’t relate something they thought she knew; she couldn’t see the house or any piece it contained as a likely reason for murder.
He, however, had without hesitation volunteered to brave the terrors of Bond Street. What had prompted his request that she didn’t leave his grandfather’s house without him wasn’t hard to guess. Never before had anyone so concertedly focused on her safety; she couldn’t help but be touched and grateful, even though to her mind pursuing the bequests would prove wide of the mark.
Smiling, she settled back against the seat. “If they wish to investigate discreetly, I can see no harm in that.”
That evening, she walked into Harriet Jennet’s salon on Michael’s arm. They hadn’t been invited, yet as a family member, Michael had permanent entree there; as a celebrated diplomatic hostess, Caro could claim the same.
She’d expected to detect at least mild surprise behind Harriet’s eyes; instead, Harriet greeted her with her usual hostessly aplomb touched, if anything, by faintly amused understanding. Seeing Caro arrive on her nephew’s arm had been precisely what she’d been expecting.
“Did you send word?” Caro pinched Michael’s arm as, leaving Harriet, they moved into the salon in which the crème de la crème of political society mingled.
He glanced at her. “Not I.”
She humphed. “Magnus, then. I was so looking forward to seeing Harriet blink. I don’t think anyone has managed that in years.”
They spent a pleasant evening circulating among the political elite, a milieu in which they both blended with ease. Her appearance with Michael undoubtedly raised questions, but among that crowd, no one would leap to any conclusions; they were who they were because they knew better than to make unwarranted assumptions.
At twelve, they returned to Upper Grosvenor Street, content to have so easily established their presence in London among the political crowd. Diplomatic circles were more varied; climbing the stairs by Michael’s side, Caro mulled over the most efficient way forward there.
Later, as was fast becoming habit, Michael joined her in her room, and in her bed. She found his continuing desire, his continuing hunger for her glorious and enthralling, yet amazing, too; she couldn’t bring herself even to consider, let alone believe, that it would last.
So she enjoyed it while she could, took all he offered and returned it fullfold. The liaison remained a source of wonder; it had happened so fast—her initial, unexpected trust in giving herself to him, and all that had followed so easily, so naturally from that. She still hadn’t come to grips with it, with what it meant, what she felt and why…it seemed as if she were another person, some other woman, when in his arms.
The following morning, Honoria took her up in her carriage and they went to call on Lady Osbaldestone at her daughter’s house in Chelsea.
The house was old, its terrace overlooking the river. The assembled ladies of the haut ton—all matrons or widows—sat in the sunshine, sipped tea, and spoke of their world.
It was, she had to admit, another perfect venue in which to advertise her return to the capital. Over wafer-thin sandwiches and biscuits, she informed the many who asked that she was presently residing with the Anstruther-Wetherbys in Upper Grosvenor Street.
The only difficult moment occurred, predictably, when Therese Osbaldestone cornered her.
“Honoria tells me you’re staying with that old fool, Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby.” Therese fixed her with a interrogatory look. “Now why is that?”
No one else would dare ask such a question in such an outrageous way. Then again, no one else would refer to Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby as “that old fool.” Caro gestured airily. “I was in Hampshire with my brother and had to come up to town—some matters to do with Camden’s estate. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby is our neighbor—as he was coming to town on business, he accompanied me.” Caro prayed her expression was as innocent as it needed to be. “As I haven’t opened up the Half Moon Street house, and Angela is still in the country, Michael suggested I stay in Upper Grosvenor Street.”
For a long moment, Therese Osbaldestone studied her, then both her brows rose. “Indeed? So there was nothing particular behind your appearing at Harriet’s last evening on Michael’s arm?”