“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 soirée, 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.”
He made a mental note to keep an eye on Lady Osbaldestone. He didn’t need her queering his pitch, pressuring Caro in any way whatever.
If he’d harbored any reservations that he needed her—specifically her—by his side, the past two evenings would have put the matter beyond doubt. Yet that was his professional life; while such considerations provided a major impetus—an increasingly powerful motive for him to marry her with all speed—the very same arguments were those she would most distrust…and he couldn’t fault her in that.