“He wouldn’t have if you hadn’t asked—how did you know?”
“He was uncomfortable the moment Harris mentioned the subject—there had to be a reason.” She glanced up, met his eyes. “And there was.”
He acknowledged her astuteness with an inclination of his head, and steered her on to fresh fields.
As usual with such gatherings, the time in the drawing room before the meal was extended, and even after they were all seated about the long board, the conversation remained scintillating and sharp. At such a dinner, food wasn’t the main course. Information was.
Ideas, suggestions, observations—all had their place; in this company, all were treated with respect. Visually, the scene was glittering, gorgeous, subtly and pervasively elegant, outrageous only in its undeniable worth, the gold-plated cutlery, the Sevres dishes, the crystal flashing in poor imitation of the diamonds circling the ladies’ throats.
They all noticed, yet were barely aware. To a person, their attention remained riveted on conversation—on why they were there.
Caro found it tiring, yet exhilarating. It had been more than two years since she’d attended such an event. To her surprise, her enthusiasm, her enjoyment of the rapierlike cut-and-thrust of comment and dialogue, of witty repartee, all swirling and dipping and connecting, hadn’t died; if anything, her delight in participating and succeeding had grown.
Toward the end of the meal, when for a moment she sat back and sipped her wine, and caught her breath after an extended and quite hilarious exchange with George Canning, she caught Lady Osterley’s eye. Seated at the far end of the table, her ladyship, one of the great hostesses, smiled, inclined her head, and lifted her glass in a silent toast of patent approval.
Caro smiled back, wondered, then allowed her gaze to travel the table. Realized, confirmed, that each recognized hostess—each recognized power—was spread among the guests so that each could command a section of the table, ensuring no group did the unthinkable and let conversation die.
She had been included in the roster of female powers.
Her heart tripped, gave a definite jump of joy, of very real satisfaction.
Five minutes later, Lady Osterley rose and led the ladies back to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to discuss parliamentary business over their port.
The ladies had other issues to address, ones equally relevant.
Entering the drawing room toward the rear of the female crowd, Caro found Therese Osbaldestone waiting to waylay her. Taking her arm, Therese nodded to the long windows left open to the balcony. “I need some air—come and walk with me.”
Intrigued, Caro matched her steps to Therese’s slower ones as they crossed the wide room. As always, Therese was supremely well dressed in a high-necked maroon silk gown. Rings flashed on her gnarled fingers as she moved her cane; she used it sparingly.
Content with her own appearance, with her skillfully draped eau de nil silk and the carved green amber set in silver that adorned her throat and wrists, Caro followed Therese onto the narrow balcony. They had the space to themselves, as, she was certain, Therese had intended.
Hooking the ornate silver head of her cane over one arm, Therese gripped the balcony rails and studied her. Consideringly.
Caro met that black stare, one she knew disconcerted others—indeed, was intended to disconcert—with unruffled serenity.
Therese’s lips curved; she looked out over the darkened gardens. “Most others would be apprehensive, but of course you’re not. I wished to compliment you on your good sense.”
Good sense in what? Before Caro would voice the question, Therese continued, “I think too often we forget to tell others when they take the right road. Then, when hurdles appear and they falter, we criticize, quite forgetting we hadn’t taken the time to encourage when, perhaps, we should have. You may consider my comments in that light, if you please—while I have no wish to manage your life, in your case”—glancing at her, Therese caught her eye—“I suspect a few encouraging words will not go amiss.”
Caro waited.
“You may not recall, but I was not one of those who applauded your marriage to Camden.” Therese faced the gardens once more. “To me, it seemed very much a case of socially sanctioned cradle-snatching. But then, as time went on, I changed my mind. Not because I thought Camden an appropriate husband for you, but because I realized he was most definitely a highly suitable mentor for you.”
Caro let her gaze drift out over the gardens, black in the night. She felt Therese’s gaze on her face, but didn’t meet it.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Therese continued, her voice low, her tone dry, “the concept of tutor and pupil most closely describes your relationship with Camden. Consequently, I wished to enthusiastically applaud your return to the fray.” Her voice strengthened. “You have a great deal of skill, of honed talent and experience—and believe me, this country needs them. There are turbulent times ahead—we’ll need men of integrity, commitment, and courage to weather them, and those men will need the support of…”
Therese paused. When Caro glanced at her and met her eyes, she smiled faintly. “Ladies like us.”
Caro let her eyes flare with surprise; being classed with Therese Osbaldestone—by Therese Osbaldestone—was astounding. And an honor.
Of that, Therese herself was fully aware; she inclined her head, lips lifting self-deprecatingly. “Indeed, but you know that I mean what I say. Your ‘right road,’ dear Caro, lies in evenings such as these. There are only so many of us who can cope at this level, and you are one. It’s important to us all, and yes, I speak for the others, too, that you continue within our circle. We all sincerely hope you will marry again, and be there to specifically support one of the upcoming men, but regardless, this—our circle—is where you most definitely belong.”
Caro found it difficult to draw breath. Therese held her gaze; there could be no doubt of the sincerity with which she spoke, equally no doubt of the power she still wielded. “This, my dear, is your true life—the circle, the position that will most satisfy you, that will afford you the greatest fulfillment.” Therese’s lips quirked. “If I was given to the melodramatic, I would declare this your destiny.”
Therese’s black eyes were impossible to r
ead; her expression, Caro knew, showed only what she wished it to. Yet the impression she received as Therese regarded her was one of fond kindness.