Caro shrugged. “We were both interested in attending.”
One of Therese’s brows quirked higher. “I see.”
Caro greatly feared she might.
However, after another pregnant pause, she merely said, “Camden’s estate? I would have thought such matters had been resolved long ago.”
“There was a question over the individual bequests.” Caro wasn’t keen to invite further discussion; her tone made that clear.
Therese seemed to accept it; mildly, she said, “I was glad to see you about this last Season, glad you’re not about to hide yourself away. To my mind”—her black eyes trapped Caro’s—“you have no excuse not to use your talents and experience where they will do most good.”
Safety assuredly lay in silence; Caro kept mum.
Therese’s lips twitched. “Now tell me, who of the diplomatic crowd was gallivanting in Hampshire?”
Caro told her, mentioning her Midsummer Revels and the fading contretemps between the Prussians and the Russians. In her time, Therese Osbaldestone had been a premier hostess in diplomatic circles; her husband had been variously a Minister, an ambassador, and an elder statesman. He’d died over a decade ago, but Therese remained closely linked with diplomatic and political circles, as influential there as she was in the ton at large.
She had a soft spot for Caro, and Caro had one for her. They had always understood each other, understood the challenges of diplomatic life as those outside it could not. “And the Portuguese were there, too—just part of the legation. The ambassador is at Brighton, I believe.”
Therese nodded. “I know him only vaguely, but you must know that whole crew well.” She snorted reminiscently. “The Portuguese were forever Camden’s specialty, even before he took up his post there.”
“Oh?” Caro pricked up her ears. Therese
was a contemporary of Camden’s.
“I don’t suppose you would have been told, but Camden was hand in glove with a veritable rabble of courtiers there. I always suspected they made him ambassador to force him to acquire some restraint in that regard—before he could get himself involved in anything regrettable.”
“Regrettable?” Caro gave her a look of unfeigned interest.
Therese shook her head. “I never knew any details—it was one of those things, an understanding running beneath a decision that one grasped without explanation or proof.”
Caro nodded; she understood what Therese meant. But Therese’s recollection was the first intimation they’d stumbled on that there could indeed be something in Camden’s past, in his papers, that some Portuguese might kill to suppress.
A chill touched her; she shivered.
“The breeze is rising—come inside.”
Therese led the way. Caro followed. There was no point questioning Therese further; if she knew anything more, she would have said.
After returning to Upper Grosvenor Street and taking luncheon with Magnus and Evelyn—Michael was still out doing the rounds of the political and diplomatic clubs—Caro retired to the upstairs parlor and settled to her task of plodding through Camden’s diaries.
Therese’s words had given her renewed purpose, making the likelihood of some entry buried in the accummulated papers being the reason behind the attempts on her life much more real. Her slow progress through the closely written diaries became increasingly frustrating.
Adding to that was a welling sense that the entire business of the attacks on her was merely a distraction, an irritating circumstance deflecting her from more important matters—such as what was happening between herself and Michael. Such as what she’d sensed and felt during her visit with Honoria, whether she should pursue the idea that had struck her with such force while holding Louisa.
All those things—ideas, concepts, and feelings—were new to her. She wanted to explore them, to think through them and understand, but solving the mystery of who was trying to kill her logically took priority.
Setting a diary on the pile beside her chair, she sighed; she looked at the row of boxes stacked along the wall. She’d finished two.
She needed help. Dare she summon Edward to town? He would come immediately; she could trust him to read Camden’s letters.
But Elizabeth would follow, of that she had no doubt, and that she would not allow.
Grimacing, she estimated how long it would take her to get through all the boxes. The answer was a depressing number of weeks. Again, she racked her brain for someone who could help, someone she could trust to go through Camden’s personal writings. There didn’t seem to be anyone…
“Yes, there is!” She sat up, enthused by the possibility that had popped into her mind. She examined it, developed it. Not the diaries—they contained highly personal comments and notes—but the letters…she could entrust those to him.
“Knowing him, he’s probably in town….”