“I take it the countess is an acquaintance of old?”

She glanced at him, then nodded. “I’ve known her for years. She’s a member of the inner court—very influential.”

“You were in Lisbon for what? Ten years?”

“More or less.” Determined to steer matters back on track, she looked ahead and smiled at Elizabeth. “Elizabeth visited us on several occasions.”

Michael’s gaze went to Edward. “Over the last few years?”

“Yes.” Caro saw the direction of his glance; before she could decide if he actually meant anything by his comment—had deduced anything she’d rather he didn’t—he looked at her and captured her gaze.

“I imagine the life of an ambassador’s wife would have been one of constant and giddy dissipation. You must feel quite adrift.”

She bridled, felt her eyes flash. “I assure you the life of an ambassador’s wife is hardly a succession of relaxing entertainments.” She lifted her chin, felt her color, along with her temper, rise. “A constant succession of events, yes, but—” She broke off, then glanced at him.

Why on earth was she reacting to such an unsubtle jibe? Why had he, of all men, made it? She continued rather more circumspectly. “As you must be aware, the organization of an ambassador’s social schedule falls largely to his wife. During the years of our marriage, that was my role.”

“I would have thought Campbell would have handled much of it.”

She felt Edward’s glance, his offer to intervene; she ignored it. “No—Edward was Camden’s aide. He assisted with legal, governmental, and diplomatic details. However, the arena in which most important decisions are actually made, the venues at which such matters are most directly influenced is, as it always has been, in embassy drawing rooms, ballrooms, and salons. In other words, while the ambassador and his aides may execute the battle plan, it’s the ambassador’s wife who secures for them the field on which they may maneuver.”

Looking ahead, she drew a calming breath, reached for her customarily unshakable social poise, surprised that it had temporarially deserted her. There was, after all, an obvious reason for Michael’s probing. “If rumor speaks true and you’re shortly to find yourself at the Foreign Office, you’ll need to remember that without the right wife, an ambassador, no matter how able, will be hamstrung.”

Coolly, she turned her head and met his blue eyes.

His lips curved, but his self-deprecating smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been told the same holds true for government ministers.”

She blinked.

Michael looked forward, the curve of his lips deepening as he saw Elizabeth and Edward had pulled ahead; the lane had narrowed, allowing only two horses abreast. “Everyone knows,” he murmured, voice low so only Caro would hear, “that Camden Sutcliffe was a master ambassador.”

He brought his gaze back to her face. “Doubtless he understood—” He broke off, startled to see some hurt, some fleeting expression so painful it stopped his breath, flash through her silver eyes. What he’d been about to say vanished from his head; he’d been baiting her, wanting to provoke some reaction and learn more…

“Caro?” He reached for her hand. “Are you all right?”

She refocused, abruptly shifted her mount away, avoiding his hand, and looked ahead. “Yes. Perfectly.”

Her voice was cool, distant; he didn’t—couldn’t bring himself to— test her again. Although her tone was even, he sensed it had cost her an effort to achieve it. He felt he should apologize, but wasn’t sure for what. Before he could think of any way to put right whatever had gone wrong, Edward and Elizabeth kicked up their mounts and drew ahead as the lane opened into a wide clearing.

Tapping her heels to her mare’s flanks, Caro went forward to join them; increasingly frustrated, he sent Atlas after her.

The clearing was as wide as a field, dotted here and there with oaks. Close to the middle stood the Rufus Stone, a monument erected by Earl De La Warr some eighty years before to mark the spot where William II, due to his red hair known as Rufus, had fallen on August 2, 1100. Although commemorating a pivotal moment in history, the stone, inscribed with the bare facts, stood relatively unadorned or in any way celebrated, surrounded by the deep stillness of the forest.

Edward and Elizabeth had reined in under the spreading branches of an ancient oak. Edward dismounted and tied his reins to a branch. He turned, but before he could go to where Elizabeth waited to be helped from her saddle, Caro rode up; with an imperious gesture—for her, out of character—she summoned Edward to her side.

Without hesitation, Edward went.

Reining Atlas in, Michael dismounted, watched Edward lift Caro to the ground. Securing Atlas’s reins, he went to Elizabeth and lifted her down.

Smiling brightly, Caro pointed to the stone and made some comment to Edward; they set out across the sward toward it. With an easy smile for Elizabeth, Michael fell in beside her as they followed the other two to view the monument.

That moment set the pattern for the following hour. Caro seemed bent on enjoyment; she smiled, laughed, and encouraged them all to do the same. So subtle was her performance—never overdone, totally believable with not so much as a word to jar anyone’s suspicions— Michael had to admit it was instinct alone that insisted it was a performance, all for show.

After admiring the monument and revisiting the tale of how William had been slain by an arrow fired by Walter Tyrrell, one of William’s hunt-ing party, and how that had led to the younger Henry’s seizing the throne over his older brother, Robert, and after exclaiming over how the loosing of a single arrow had resounded through the centuries, they retired to spread a rug and investigate the morsels packed in the saddlebags.

Caro directed them as was her wont. He behaved as she wished, more to placate her, to calm her, than for any other reason. Deploying his own mask, he smiled and charmed Elizabeth, sat by her side— opposite Caro—and talked to her of whatever she wished. Today, Elizabeth didn’t try to convince him she was a featherbrain interested only in balls and dancing, yet although he sensed she was being her genuine self, and was far more attractive without her assumed traits, he was acutely aware she did not possess sufficient depth or complexity in her character to fix his interest, not on any level.

Throughout the interlude, from behind his mask, his attention remained riveted on Caro.

Across the rug, separated from him and Elizabeth by the assembled feast, she and Edward talked easily, exchanging comments with the rapport of old friends. He judged Edward to be about four years Caro’s junior; although he watched closely, he detected not the smallest hint of any loverlike connection. Campbell clearly admired and respected Caro’s abilities; more than any other person, he would have seen the evidence on which to base such an assessment. In Michael’s experience, political and diplomatic aides were the shrewdest and most accurate judges of their masters’ talents.

Edward’s attitude to Caro, and the impression Michael received that he viewed her as a mentor and was happy with, indeed felt grateful for, the opportunity to learn from her, dovetailed with the picture Michael himself was forming of Caro.

That, however, was not what he was waiting to learn, not why he remained so intensely focused on her.

Something he’d said had hurt her, and she’d retreated behind the highly polished persona she showed to the world.

It was, he reminded himself as he searched for cracks and found none, a persona she’d perfected over a decade under the most exacting circumstances. Like a highly polished metal mask, that facade was impenetrable; it gave nothing away.

By the time they packed up the remnants of their feast and shook out the rug, he’d accepted that the only way he would learn more about Caro was if she consented to tell him. Or consented to let him see her as she truly was.

He mentally paused, wondering why learning more about her, the real Caro who hid behind the mask, was suddenly so vitally important. No answer came, yet…

They reached the horses and milled about, retying the saddlebags. Caro was having difficulties; he circled behind her intending to help— her mare shifted, bumping Caro back—into him.

Her back met his chest, her bottom his thighs.

His hands went to her waist, instinctively gripping and steadying her against him. She stiffened; her breath had caught. He released her and stepped back, acutely aware of his own reaction.

“Whoops! Sorry.” She smiled up at him ingenuously but didn’t meet his eyes as, moving to her side, he reached up to take the laces she was struggling to tie.

She drew her hands away too swiftly, but he caught the laces before they unraveled.

“Thank you.”

He kept his gaze on the laces as he tied them. “That should hold it.”

His expression easy, he stepped back. And turned to help Elizabeth into her saddle, leaving Edward to lift Caro to hers.

Walking to where Atlas stood waiting, he glanced back at the others. “There’s still hours of sunshine left.” He smiled at Elizabeth. “Why don’t we ride through the forest, skirt around Fritham, and stop by the Manor for afternoon tea?”

They exchanged glances, brows rising.

“Yes, let’s.” Elizabeth faced him, simple pleasure in her smile. “That will be a lovely ending to a pleasant day.”

Michael looked at Caro. One of her charming smiles curving her lips, she nodded. “An excellent suggestion.”

He swung up to Atlas’s saddle and they turned into the forest. He, Caro, and Elizabeth knew the way. They rode through the glades, sometimes galloping, then slowing to amble along the path to the next open ride. Whoever was in the lead steered them. The sun filtered down through the thick canopies, dappling the track; the rich forest scents rose around them, the quiet punctuated by birdcalls and the occasional rustle of larger beasts.