Michael had wondered how she’d react; his guess proved accurate—she started to smile reassuringly. Her lips curved, her eyes started to light—then the transformation paused. Faded as she read his face, and realized he was serious.
Eventually, she frowned. “Why do you think that?”
Inwardly, he gave thanks his marital lust had settled on an intelligent woman. “Consider these facts. One—that day when your horse, Henry, was spooked and you nearly came to grief in your gig, Hardacre found evidence that Henry had been hit with pellets, most likely from a slingshot.”
Her jaw fell. “What?”
“Indeed. There seemed little point in worrying you at the time—
Hardacre and I both reasoned it was some nonlocal lads larking about. Highly unlikely it would happen to you again.“ He nodded. ”And it didn’t. Something else did, or almost did.“
She blinked, thinking back.
He watched, then told her, “Those men who attacked Miss Trice.”
She focused on his face. “You think they were after me}”
“Think back. You were the first to leave the drawing room. If it hadn’t been for me arguing, detaining you in the hall until Miss Trice had gone out, and then taking you up in my curricle, you would have been the first lone female walking down the village street. And there wouldn’t, in normal circumstances, have been anyone close behind to aid you.”
Realization sank in, chilling her; Caro shivered and pulled the coverlet closer. “But if they were intending to attack me—and I still can’t see why”—she looked at him—“how could they have known I was about to leave, and that I’d be walking alone?”
“You’d walked there alone—reasonable to imagine you’d walk home alone, too, as, indeed, you’d‘intended. And the doors to the back garden were open—easy enough for anyone to have crept close and kept watch. ”He held her gaze steadily. “You made your farewells to Muriel, then headed for the front hall—the signs were clear.”
She grimaced.
He went on, “And now we have an arrow striking a tree in precisely the spot where you’d been resting a mere instant before.”
She studied his face, knew all his facts were true. “I still can’t credit it. There’s no point, no possible reason.”
“Be that as it may, I believe there’s no alternative but to conclude that someone, for what reasons we have no clue, is set on, if not killing you, then at the very least, causing you serious harm.”
She wanted to laugh, to push the idea aside, to flippantly dismiss it. But his tone, and even more what she saw in his face, made that impossible.
When she said nothing, he nodded, as if acknowledging her acceptance, and drained his glass. He looked at her. “We need to do something about it.”
She noted the royal “we.” Some part of her felt she should be bothered by it, yet she wasn’t. She wasn’t convinced, either, yet knowing he would be by her side in dealing with whatever was going on reassured rather than unsettled her. Yet… her mind rapidly took stock, then she looked up and met his eye. “The first thing we need to do is get back to the fete.”
They dressed; somewhat to her surprise, assuming their outward guise of tonnish lady and gentleman did not diminish the newfound sense of closeness, not just physical but more profound, that had infected not just her, but him, too. She experienced it as a heightened awareness of his body and his thoughts, his reactions; she sensed it in his gaze as it rested on her, in the light touch of his hand on her arm as they left his bedchamber, in the more definite, possessive engulfing of her hand by his as they threaded through the orchard.
Presumably three hours of naked play rendered reverting to any socially acceptable distance impossible. Not that she cared. Their new closeness was far more appealing, far more intriguing, and there was no one around to be shocked.
At her insistence, he harnessed his gig and drove her back to the fete in more conventional style. Leaving the gig in the secondary clearing, they rejoined the crowds still ambling about the stalls, now largely engaged in last-minute purchases and protracted farewells.
No one, it seemed, had missed them. Or if any had, none sought to remark on their mutual absence. Caro deemed that just as well; she had enough to do to appear normal, to keep a silly, far-too-revealing smile from her face. She kept banishing it, yet if she relaxed her vigilance, it crept back; on top of that, while she could walk well enough, she felt oddly exhausted, as if every muscle in her body had unraveled.
For the first time in her life, swooning delicately away—or at least pretending to—held considerable appeal. Instead, she applied her formidable skills to putting on a good show, chatting here and there as if she and Michael had, indeed, been present the entire afternoon.
Michael remained by her side, her hand anchored on his sleeve; although he was attentive to all those with whom they spoke, she was conscious that he was, if anything, being even more protective, alert to all around them as if on guard.
He confirmed that last when they moved away from the wood-carver’s stall, murmuring, “The Portuguese have left.”
She raised her brows. “The others?”
“No Prussians or Russians visible, but the Verolstadts are just leav-ing.” With a nod, he indicated the small group gaily gathering to one side. Together, they strolled across to make their farewells.
The Swedish ambassador and his family had been delighted with their day; they were effusive in their thanks and good wishes, promising to meet in town later in the year.
They parted; Michael again scanned the clearing. “No more foreigners, nor any of the diplomatic crowd.”
It had to be close to five o’clock, the accepted end of the day. Caro sighed happily, delighted that all had gone so well—on multiple counts. “I should go and help pack up the Ladies’ Association stall.” She glanced at Michael. “You can come and help.”
He raised his brows at her, but followed her without complaint.
Muriel appeared as they reached the stall. She frowned at them. “There you are—I’ve been looking for you for some time.”
Caro opened her eyes wide.
Michael shrugged. “We’ve been circulating—farewelling the foreign delegations and so on.”
Muriel somewhat grudgingly conceded, “They all came, as far as I could tell.”
“Indeed, and they enjoyed themselves hugely.” Caro was too happy to take umbrage; she was perfectly prepared to spread the joy. “They all sent their compliments.” She smiled at the other ladies folding unsold wares into baskets.
“And what’s more,” Mrs. Humphreys said, “they weren’t above buying things. Those two young Swedish misses were buying up presents for their friends back home. Just think! Our embroideries on Swedish dressers.”
A general discussion of the benefits of Caro’s novel idea ensued; she helped stack tray covers and doilies, agreeing that if she was in residence at Bramshaw when next year’s fete rolled around, she would consider hosting some similar dual event.
Standing a little behind Caro, Michael kept an eye on the clearing in general while scanning the thinning crowd. Eventually he spotted Edward and beckoned him over.
Stepping away from the ladies, he lowered his voice. “Earlier, someone shot an arrow at Caro.”
His appreciation of the younger man’s talents deepened when Edward only blinked, then returned, equally sotto voce, “Not an accident from the contest… ?” Reading the truth in his face, Edward sobered. “No—of course not.” He blinked again. “Could it have been Ferdinand?”
“Not personally. I doubt he’d have the skill and regardless, he’d be more likely to hire someone to do the job. The arrow came from the direction of the butts, but had to have been fired from within the forest.”
Edward nodded, his gaze on Caro. “This is starting to look very strange.”
“Indeed. And there’s more. I’ll come around tomorrow morning and we can discuss the whole, and decide what we need to do.”