He shook his head. “Patience, I know, is a virtue, but…”
She grinned; looking down, she returned to her reading.
He sat and watched her, oddly pleased that she did not feel the need to entertain him as any other lady would. It was a comfortable feeling, to be accepted with such ease, to simply be together without any of the customary social barriers between them.
The simple togetherness soothed his aggravation, stroked his impatient irritation away.
In the distance, the front doorbell pealed. Hammer’s muffled steps crossed the tiles; a moment passed, then the front door closed. An instant later, they heard Hammer ascending the stairs, heading their way.
Hammer appeared in the open doorway. He bowed to them both, then advanced to offer his salver. “A note for you, ma’am. The boy expected no reply.”
Caro took the folded sheet. “Thank you, Hammer.”
With a bow, Hammer departed. Michael watched Caro’s face as she opened the missive and read. Then she smiled, glanced at him as she laid the single sheet aside. “It’s from Breckenridge.”
Michael stared. “Breckenridge?” Had he heard aright? “Viscount Breckenridge—Brunswick’s heir?”
“The same. I told you I asked an old and trusted friend of Camden’s to read his letters. Timothy’s just written to say he hasn’t found anything yet.” Her gaze on the note, her expression turned affectionate. “I daresay he was worried I’d call to ask in person, so he sent word instead.”
Timothy? Call in person? Michael felt poleaxed. “Ah…you wouldn’t, would you?” Caro looked at him, puzzled. He cleared his throat. “Call on Breckenridge in person.” His voice faded as he took in her increasingly puzzled expression.
She blinked. “Well, I had to take him the letters. Or rather, have two footmen carry the letters into his house. Then I had to explain what I needed him to do, what he should look for.”
For a suspended moment, he simply stared. “You entered Breckenridge’s establishment alone.” His voice sounded strange; he was struggling to take it in.
She frowned at him. Severely. “I’ve known Timothy for more than a decade—we danced at my wedding. Camden knew him for nearly thirty years.”
He blinked. “Breckenridge is barely thirty.”
“He’s thirty-one,” she tartly informed him.
“And one of the foremost rakes in the ton—if not the foremost!” Abruptly, he stood. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked down at Caro.
She fixed him with a narrow-eyed silver gaze and crisply advised, “Don’t start.”
He took in the increasingly mulish set of her lips, the militant light in her eyes—felt his own jaw set. “For God’s sake! You can’t simply…call to see a man like Breckenridge as if you’re visiting for morning tea!”
“Of course I can—although now you mention it, he didn’t offer tea.”
“I can imagine,” he growled.
Caro arched her brows. “I seriously doubt you can. You’re starting to sound as bad as he, what with insisting I leave via the mews. Unnecessarily exercised for no cause at all.”
Fixing him with a very direct look, she continued, “As I reminded him, let me remind you—I am the Merry Widow. My widowhood is established—no one in the ton imagines I will readily succumb to the blandishments of any rake.”
Michael simply stood and stared down at her—pointedly.
She felt faint heat rise in her cheeks. Lightly shrugged. “Only you know about that—and anyway, you’re no rake.”
His eyes narrowed along with his lips. “Caro…”
“No!” She held up a hand. “Hear me out. Timothy is an old and dear friend, one I trust implicitly, without reservation. I’ve known him for an age—he was an associate—well, more a connection—of Camden’s, and while I know what he is, what his reputation paints him, I assure you that I am in absolutely no danger from him. Now!” She glanced at the pile of diaries. “While I’m very glad Timothy sent around a note because I don’t have time to call to see how he’s faring, I likewise have no time to waste in silly arguments.”
Picking up a diary, she looked up at Michael. “So rather than scowling at me for no reason and to no avail, you can help, too. Here—read this.”
She tossed the book at him.
He caught it. Frowned at her. “You want me to read it?”