released it, she confidently tucked it in his arm, swirling to stand beside him as she surveyed the guests. “I suspect you know most, but I doubt you’ll have met the Portuguese contingent.” She slanted him a glance. “Shall we?”
“By all means.” He allowed her to steer him toward the group she’d recently left.
She leaned close, murmured, “The ambassador and his wife are dancing attendance at Brighton, but both couples here are, if anything, even more influential.”
She smiled as they joined the group. “The Duke and Duchess of Oporto.” With a gesture she indicated a dark gentleman with a cadaverous face and a tall, equally dark and haughty matron. “The Count and Countess of Albufeira.” Another dark-haired gentleman, but quite different from the first—a portly soul with twinkling eyes and the high color of one who was fond of his wine—and a brown-haired, handsome but severe lady. “And this is Ferdinand Leponte, the count’s nephew. Allow me to present Mr. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby. Michael is our local Member of Parliament.”
Everyone exchanged bows, murmured polite greetings. Relinquishing Michael’s arm, Caro placed a hand on the duke’s sleeve. “I think it would be wise for you to get to know each other.” Eyes gleaming, she glanced at Michael. “I’ve heard a whisper that in future Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby will be spending more time in our diplomatic circles as distinct from the purely political.”
He met her gaze, arched a brow, not entirely surprised she’d heard the rumors. She hadn’t, however, revealed such knowledge earlier in the day.
Interpreting their interplay as confirmation, the count quickly engaged him; within minutes, the duke had joined in. Their wives were equally interested, with a few well-directed questions quickly establishing his background and connections.
He was content to encourage them, to listen to their views on what they saw as the most important aspects in the relationship between their two countries. They were keen to sow the right seeds, to influence his opinions before he’d truly formed them—or more particularly before he heard the views of the Foreign Office mandarins.
Caro gently touched his arm and excused herself. Although he continued to give his attention to the duke and count, he was aware that Ferdinand Leponte followed her, claiming the position by her side.
Other than exchanging greetings, Ferdinand, unlike his countrymen, had evinced not the smallest interest in him. Ferdinand looked to be around thirty years old; he was black-haired, olive-skinned, and outrageously handsome, with a brilliant smile and large dark eyes.
A womanizer almost certainly—there was something about him that left little room for doubt. He was typical of many foreign embassy aides“; relatives of those such as the count, their positions were little more than passports into diplomatic circles. Ferdinand was definitely a hanger-on, but it wasn’t the count on whom he was intent on hanging.
When Caro returned ten minutes later, swooping in to artfully extract him and lead Michael to meet her other guests, Ferdinand was still trailing at her heels.
Excusing himself to the other Portuguese, Michael met Ferdinand’s eyes. He bowed as if in farewell. Ferdinand smiled ingenuously. As Caro took his arm and led him to the next group, Ferdinand fell in on her other side.
“You are not to twit the general,” Caro hissed.
He glanced at her, and realized she was speaking to Ferdinand.
Ferdinand grinned, all Latin charm. “But it is so difficult to resist.”
Caro threw him a repressive glance, then they reached the group before the long windows, and she launched into introductions.
Michael shook hands with General Kleber, a Prussian, then the Hapsburg ambassador and his wife, both of whom he knew.
The general was an older
“By all means.” He allowed her to steer him toward the group she’d recently left.
She leaned close, murmured, “The ambassador and his wife are dancing attendance at Brighton, but both couples here are, if anything, even more influential.”
She smiled as they joined the group. “The Duke and Duchess of Oporto.” With a gesture she indicated a dark gentleman with a cadaverous face and a tall, equally dark and haughty matron. “The Count and Countess of Albufeira.” Another dark-haired gentleman, but quite different from the first—a portly soul with twinkling eyes and the high color of one who was fond of his wine—and a brown-haired, handsome but severe lady. “And this is Ferdinand Leponte, the count’s nephew. Allow me to present Mr. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby. Michael is our local Member of Parliament.”
Everyone exchanged bows, murmured polite greetings. Relinquishing Michael’s arm, Caro placed a hand on the duke’s sleeve. “I think it would be wise for you to get to know each other.” Eyes gleaming, she glanced at Michael. “I’ve heard a whisper that in future Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby will be spending more time in our diplomatic circles as distinct from the purely political.”
He met her gaze, arched a brow, not entirely surprised she’d heard the rumors. She hadn’t, however, revealed such knowledge earlier in the day.
Interpreting their interplay as confirmation, the count quickly engaged him; within minutes, the duke had joined in. Their wives were equally interested, with a few well-directed questions quickly establishing his background and connections.
He was content to encourage them, to listen to their views on what they saw as the most important aspects in the relationship between their two countries. They were keen to sow the right seeds, to influence his opinions before he’d truly formed them—or more particularly before he heard the views of the Foreign Office mandarins.
Caro gently touched his arm and excused herself. Although he continued to give his attention to the duke and count, he was aware that Ferdinand Leponte followed her, claiming the position by her side.
Other than exchanging greetings, Ferdinand, unlike his countrymen, had evinced not the smallest interest in him. Ferdinand looked to be around thirty years old; he was black-haired, olive-skinned, and outrageously handsome, with a brilliant smile and large dark eyes.
A womanizer almost certainly—there was something about him that left little room for doubt. He was typical of many foreign embassy aides“; relatives of those such as the count, their positions were little more than passports into diplomatic circles. Ferdinand was definitely a hanger-on, but it wasn’t the count on whom he was intent on hanging.
When Caro returned ten minutes later, swooping in to artfully extract him and lead Michael to meet her other guests, Ferdinand was still trailing at her heels.
Excusing himself to the other Portuguese, Michael met Ferdinand’s eyes. He bowed as if in farewell. Ferdinand smiled ingenuously. As Caro took his arm and led him to the next group, Ferdinand fell in on her other side.
“You are not to twit the general,” Caro hissed.
He glanced at her, and realized she was speaking to Ferdinand.
Ferdinand grinned, all Latin charm. “But it is so difficult to resist.”
Caro threw him a repressive glance, then they reached the group before the long windows, and she launched into introductions.
Michael shook hands with General Kleber, a Prussian, then the Hapsburg ambassador and his wife, both of whom he knew.
The general was an older
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