She’d half expected him to appear at Bramshaw House and claim a place in the carriage, but such an action would have surprised even Geoffrey—Eyeworth Manor was closer to Crabtree House than Bramshaw was. To join them, he’d have ridden in quite the wrong direction; clearly he’d decided against that tack.
Assuming he’d been invited.
She glanced across as footsteps heralded further arrivals—but it was the Polish chargé d’affaires with his wife, son, and daughter. Caro appreciated Lady Kleber’s forethought in inviting the younger pair—they made a natural foursome with Elizabeth and Edward, much to Ferdinand’s transparent disgust; he had to swallow it, bow to the ladies, and let Edward escape.
She continued to chat and watch as others arrived. No Russians, of course, but the Swedish ambassador, Verolstadt, his wife, and their two daughters joined them, followed by two of the general’s aides-de-camp and their wives.
Caro inwardly frowned. Lady Kleber was an experienced diplomatic hostess, unfailingly correct; she possessed none of her more famous relative’s eccentricities. So she should have invited Michael. Not only was he the local Member, but she must have heard the rumors….
The minutes ticked by; surrounded by glib conversation, Caro grew increasingly concerned. If Michael was to move to the Foreign Office, he needed to be present at affairs such as this—the more informal, relaxed, private entertainments at which personal links were forged. He needed to be here—he ought to have been invited…she tried to think of some excuse to inquire….
“Ah—and here is Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby!” Lady Kleber rose, a patently delighted smile wreathing her face.
Swinging around, Caro saw Michael walking up from the stables. She hadn’t heard the crunch of hooves on the drive—he’d ridden over through the forest. She watched him greet Lady Kleber, and felt distinctly irritated over her earlier worry; he clearly needed no champion in the diplomatic sphere. When he wished, he could be disgustingly charming; she watched him smile at the countess and bow over her hand, and inwardly humphed.
Quietly handsome, assured, subtly dominant, his brand of charm was far more effective than Ferdinand’s.
Her gaze flicked to Ferdinand; he was edging her way, positioning himself so he’d be able to claim her side when the party descended to the lawn. Glancing around, she looked for escape…and realized there wasn’t any—other than…
She looked at Michael; had he lost interest in pursuing her?
Him or Ferdinand—which would be wiser? Lady Kleber had told them the picnic was to be held in a clearing a little way into the forest; Caro knew the way there—a gentle stroll, and they would hardly be alone….
The decision was taken out of her hands. Via a maneuver she had to admit was masterful, she was the last person Michael greeted.
“Good, good! Now we are all here, we may go and enjoy our picnic, ja?” Beaming, Lady Kleber waved to the lawn, then circled, determinedly shooing them off the terrace.
Having just shaken Caro’s hand, Michael retained it. Looking into her eyes, he smiled. “Shall we?” Smoothly, he drew her to her feet.
Her senses flickered, and it wasn’t, this time, simply due to his nearness. There’d been a glint of steel behind the blue of his eyes, and his grip on her hand, the restrained power behind his claiming of her company…he definitely hadn’t given up the chase.
He anchored her hand on his sleeve, then looked at Ferdinand. “Ah, Leponte—do join us.”
Ferdinand did, very readily, yet it was Michael who had her arm. As they descended to the lawn, then set out in train with the others to stroll to the clearing, she wondered what he was up to—what new tack he was taking with Ferdinand.
They entered the trees following a well-beaten path. She caught the movement as Michael glanced over her head at Ferdinand.
“I understand you’re something of a disciple of Camden Sutcliffe?”
Direct attack—more usually a political than a diplomatic gambit, perhaps in this instance to be expected. She glanced at Ferdinand, saw color tinge his olive skin.
He nodded, a touch curtly. “As you say. Sutcliffe’s career is a pattern card for those of us who seek to make our way in the diplomatic arena.” Ferdinand met Michael’s steady regard. “Surely you would agree? Sutcliffe was, after all, your countryman.”
“True.” Michael let his lips curve. “But I’m more politically inclined than diplomatically so.”
That, he felt, was fair warning; there was a great deal of ruthless cut-and-thrust in politics, while diplomacy was by definition more a matter of negotiation. Looking ahead, he nodded toward the Polish chargé d’affaires. “If you truly want to learn about Sutcliffe and what shaped him, you’re in luck—Sutcliffe’s first appointment was to Poland. Kosminsky was a junior aide in the Polish Foreign Ministry at the time; his professional acquaintance with Sutcliffe dates from ’86. I understand they remained in touch.”
Ferdinand’s gaze had locked on the dapper little Pole chatting with General Kleber. There was a fractional hesitation while he manufactured a suitably delighted mien. “Really?”
His features lit, his eyes didn’t. They were curiousl
y flat when he met Michael’s gaze.
Michael smiled, and didn’t bother to make the gesture charming—or even all that pleasant. “Really.”
Caro understood his meaning; she surreptitiously pinched his arm. He glanced down at her, a silent What? in his eyes.
Hers flared warningly, then, apparently distracted, she looked into the trees. She pointed. “Look! A jay!”