She nodded. “Easy enough to call at Bramshaw House, ask for me, and learn I’d left for town.”
He reached for his glass. “I didn’t learn anything more of interest. Did you turn up anything?”
Caro grimaced and shook her head. “It’s all very colorful, but there’s no hint of anything nefarious—any item that could now be dangerous to know.”
They looked at Evelyn; she’d pulled a note from her pocket and was smoothing it out.
“I made a list of who’s entertaining tonight.” She passed it to Caro. “That should get you started.”
Glancing up from perusing the list, Caro smiled gratefully. “Thank you—this is perfect.” Across the table, she met Michael’s eyes. “Your aunt Harriet is giving a soirée this evening.”
Although nothing showed in his face, she was sure he was thinking of his last meeting with his aunt, and Caro’s subsequent encounter with Harriet. Harriet thought he was pursuing Elizabeth.
Caro smiled. “Quite obviously we should attend.”
A faint grimace crossed his face, but he inclined his head.
When they rose from the luncheon table and dispersed, Caro paused in the hall, tapping Evelyn’s note in her hand, planning.
Returning from helping Magnus back to the library, Michael found her there. Paused to take in her slender figure, erect, head high, her absorbed yet focused expression, before strolling to join her. “Are you heading back to the diaries, then?”
She glanced at him, smiled. “No—if we’re to plunge back into the whirl, I need new gloves and more stockings. I think I’ll go to Bond Street.” Fleetingly, she pulled a face. “I’ve had enough of Camden’s writings for one day.”
He could detect no sadness in her, yet would he? Would she let such a reaction show? He had no idea what manner of revelations Camden might have set down in his diaries.
“I’ll come with you.” The words, and his intention, were instinctive; he hadn’t needed to—didn’t need to—think.
She blinked at him. “You want to go to Bond Street?”
“No. But if that’s where you’re heading, then that’s where I’ll go.”
For what seemed like a full minute, she looked into his eyes, then a faint smile curved her lips; she turned to the stairs. “We may as well go now, but I’ll have to change.”
He stifled a sigh. “I’ll wait in the library.”
He was reading a treatise on the recent history of Portugal when she opened the library door and looked in. He rose; Magnus glanced up from his own researches, on much the same topic, grunted, and waved them off.
Joining Caro in the corridor, he ran an appreciative eye over the creation she’d selected, a gown in spotted voile of a delicate ice-blue. The vision of ice on a hot summer’s day flashed into his mind; his mouth watered. With a smile, she led the way back to the hall and the front door, transparently oblivious of the effect the sight of her swaying hips, clothed in such fantasy, was having on him.
When she paused by the door Hammer was holding open and, haloed by the sunshine outside, looked back at him, waiting, expectant, he hesitated—for one second toyed with the notion of inveigling her back upstairs…realized she wouldn’t immediately understand, that despite all they’d thus far shared, she didn’t yet truly comprehend the depth of his desire for her. She wouldn’t necessarily react accordingly, not immediately.
Dragging in a breath, forcing his features to relax into an expression of indulgent ease, he reached for her arm. “The carriage should be waiting.”
It was; he handed her up, then sat beside her as they rattled through the streets. Bond Street wasn’t far; soon they were strolling arm in arm past the fashionable shops. Caro entered only two establishments—one for gloves, one for stockings. He waited on the pavement in both instances, giving mute thanks that she wasn’t one of those females who had to look through every shop she passed.
The street was far less crowded than during the Season. It was pleasant enough to walk along, nodding to this lady and that. The bulk of society was absent, cavorting in the countryside; those of the haut ton presently in town were there because they needed to be—because they were involved in one or other arm of government, or were essential players in some similar sphere.
Caro drew eyes, both male and female. She had a style that was elegant and exclusive—exclusively hers. Today the attention she attracted often resulted in recognition; many of the ladies currently in Bond Street were the more senior hostesses who regarded her as one of their own.
Parting from Lady Holland, the hostess of note they’d encountered, he arched a brow as Caro reclaimed his arm. “Just gloves and stockings?”
She smiled. “It was an obvious opportunity. If we’re to rejoin the pack, then these ladies are the first who need to know.”
“Speaking of obvious opportunities, I forgot to mention”—glancing down, he caught her eyes as she looked up inquiringly—“Honoria asked that I bring you to tea today. I gathered it was to be private—I think, entertainingwise, she’s lying low at present.”
Caro’s face lit. “I haven’t seen her—not to talk to—in years. Not since your parents died. I only glimpsed her a few times this last Season in the ballrooms—we never had a chance to really talk.” She met his eyes. “What’s the time?”
He pulled out his watch, consulted it; she peeked. Slipping it back into his pocket, he looked around. “If we stroll to the corner, then return to the carriage, we can go straight there—our timing will be perfect.”