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 Señor 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.