“There must be something else you can do.” From under beetling brows, Magnus looked at Michael.
Faintly smiling, Michael glanced at Caro. “The Portuguese are firm suspects—it seems likely Leponte was behind the burglary at Sutcliffe Hall. We know he searched Bramshaw House. I think it would be wise to discover if he, or any of his family, have come up to town.”
“And if they haven’t,” Magnus growled, “we need to set a watch.”
“Indeed.” Michael returned his gaze to Caro. “We need to pool our sources—what’s the best way to learn who among the Portuguese delegation are in London?”
They tossed around names of aides and other officials in various capacities. Michael eventually assembled a short list. “I’ll do the rounds tomorrow morning and see what they can tell me.”
“It occurs to me”—leaning on one elbow, her chin propped in her hand, Caro studied him from across the table—“that between us, we have numerous contacts in diplomatic and political circles we could exploit—not officially so much as socially. They might be able to help us, not just with news of who is in town, but with memories and also with current changes, any shifts in power in Portugal or elsewhere.”
She glanced at Magnus. “We have no idea how far back the connection with Camden goes, nor do we know why it’s suddenly assumed importance.” She looked back at Michael. “Someone might know more, although how we’re to approach the issue I can’t yet see.”
Magnus was nodding his shaggy head. “A sensible way forward, even if you can’t yet see precisely how it might help. The first thing you need to do is let it be known you’re back in town.”
“Given it’s midsummer, the circles are smaller and correspondingly more elite.” Caro tapped the table. “It shouldn’t be hard to wave the flag, put ourselves about—learn what we can regarding the Portuguese, and at the same time explore any other avenues that offer.”
Michael studied her face, wondered if she’d realized why Magnus was so keen on them going about together among their social set. Yet it was she who’d suggested it. “Why don’t we meet again over lunch tomorrow and see how far we’ve progressed, then we can make more definite plans to step back into the limelight.”
Evelyn pushed back her chair; using her cane, she got to her feet. “I’ll be out to both morning and afternoon teas tomorrow.” She smiled. “We might be old, but we know what’s what—and what’s going on, what’s more. I’ll take note of which hostesses are entertaining in the next few days.”
“Thank you.” With a smile, Caro rose, too. Going around the table, she linked her arm in Evelyn’s. “That would indeed help.”
Together she and Evelyn left for the drawing room and the tea trolley; in an hour or so, they’d retire to their rooms.
Michael, who had also risen, sat again. He waited for Hammer to set out the decanters, then filled Magnus’s glass and his. When Hammer had retreated and they were alone, he sat back, sipped, and looked speculatively at Magnus.
Perfectly aware, Magnus raised a shaggy brow. “Well?”
Michael savored his grandfather’s excellent brandy, then asked, “What do you know about Camden Sutcliffe?”
An hour and a half later, having helped Magnus to his room, Michael returned to his own—to undress, don his robe, and join Caro in hers.
Pulling the gold pin from his cravat, he considered the picture Magnus had painted of Camden Sutcliffe. Magnus had, of course, known Camden, but not well; Magnus was over eighty, more than ten years older than Camden, and although throughout his long political career Magnus had frequently been involved in diplomatic events, none of those had involved Portugal during Camden’s tenure.
Nevertheless, Magnus was a shrewd and acute observer; he’d painted Camden with a few deft strokes, leaving Michael with a clear vision of a gentleman born and bred, one who, like them, took his station for granted and saw no need to impress it on others. Camden, however, had been, as Magnus put it, exquisitely charming, a man who knew just the right degree of gloss to apply for whomever he was dealing with. A man who combined that lethal charm with a pleasant temperament and easy, well-bred manners in the service of his country—and of Camden Sutcliffe.
The picture Magnus had created was of a supremely self-centered man, but one who, simultaneously, had been a recognized patriot. A man who unstintingly put his country above all else, who held his service and loyalty to it inviolate, but who otherwise thought, first and last, of himself.
That vision fitted well with Caro’s revelation that Camden had married her solely for her hostessly talents. It sat well with Edward’s insights, too, and those Michael himself had gleaned over the years, not only from personal experience, but from Geoffrey, George Sutcliffe, and others who had known Camden well.
It did not, however, explain the house in Half Moon Street.
Michael shrugged on his robe, belted it. Inwardly shaking his head, putting aside the as yet inexplicable conundrum of Camden’s relationship with Caro, he opened his door and set out to join her.
Camden’s widow—his wife-to-be.
By lunchtime the next day, he’d learned that Ferdinand Leponte was in London. Returning to Upper Grosvenor Street, he joined the others about the luncheon tab
le. Taking his seat, he glanced at Caro.
She caught his gaze. Her eyes opened wide. “You’ve learned something. What?”
He was surprised; he knew he wasn’t that easy to read. But he nodded, and told them his news. “Neither the duke, duchess, count, or countess are with him—apparently they’re still in Hampshire. Ferdinand, however, has left his yacht and the lure of the Solent in summer, and come up to London—he’s staying in rooms attached to the embassy.”
“When did he come up?” Magnus asked.
“Yesterday.” Across the table, Michael exchanged a glance with Caro.