A Fine Passion (27 page)

Clarice studied his face, then calmly asked, “What is she holding over your head?”

“Our own pasts, of course.” Alton glanced briefly at Clarice, then fell to examining the liquid in his cup. “You know what we’re like…what Papa was like. We were all but encouraged to dally with whoever took our fancy, especially at Rosewood.”

Her voice even and entirely nonjudgmental, Clarice asked, “You’re talking of maids, laundresses, milkmaids?”

Alton nodded without looking up. “It was always so easy, and even when the inevitable happened, as, of course, it did with all three of us, Papa never turned a hair, but just arranged to have the girl taken care of, the babe raised within one of our worker’s families…you know how it’s done.” Lips thin, he grimaced. “What none of us knew—not even Papa, I suspect—was that Moira not only knew of each incident, she kept track. More, when we—me, Roger, and Nigel—came up to town, she somehow kept track here as well.” Alton looked up and met Clarice’s eyes. “For each of us she has a list of every encounter, every affair.”

He drew breath, with one hand made a helpless gesture. “For each of us, there’s at least one association, one liaison, that if it became known could…scupper our plans to marry, or at least marry the ladies we’ve chosen.”

Holding his gaze, Clarice murmured, “We do tend to move in a very small circle…”

Alton’s lips twisted; he nodded. “Precisely. You can see how it might be.”

Jack frowned. When neither Clarice nor Alton said more, he asked, “So Moira uses the information to do what? Drain money from the marquisate?”

A large diamond winked in Alton’s cravat; a smaller stone was embedded in the heavy gold signet ring on his right hand. His coat was by Schultz, his linen impeccable. Despite his haggardness, he was perfectly—and expensively—turned out.

Alton’s expression lightened; he laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Oh, no. That’s not her bent at all. Indeed, she’d be the first to encourage us to spend more, to make an even bigger splash. She would never want us to appear as anything less than as wealthy as we are. She delights in her role as the Marchioness of Melton. She continues to entertain lavishly as my hostess. We always have to be seen to be top of the tree.” Alton paused, the bitterness in his tone reflected in his face. “No, for her it’s not money. It’s control—of us.” He glanced at Jack. “The power to make us dance to her tune.”

After a moment, Alton looked at Clarice. “Moira tried to control you, and that backfired, but she got rid of you nevertheless. With the three of us, she was much more careful. By the time we realized, after Papa had died, she already had us in thrall. Worse, we’d handed her the ropes ourselves by telling her of our intentions to wed. She gets an unholy joy from knowing she can jerk our strings, make us obey her at any time, and that our futures—for each of us our future happiness—will only be granted at her whim.”

Clarice said nothing, yet her disgust with Moira was a palpable thing. “What have you done about it?” When Alton blinked, she rephrased, “Have any of you challenged her, tested her will, or have you simply accepted her threat as real?”

Alton’s haggard expression, temporarily eased, returned. “Roger tried. He said he’d tell Alice—Alice Combertville, Carlisle’s daughter—tell her all and throw himself on her mercy, and he did. At first, it seemed he’d triumphed. Alice was incensed at Moira’s game and swore she wasn’t concerned…but then two days later, Roger got a note breaking off their understanding. He tried to see Alice, to find out why she changed her mind, to persuade her…” Alton looked faintly ill. “That was last November. He still hasn’t been able to speak with her.”

“He’s still trying?”

“Yes! What else can he do? It’s driving him out of his mind. She’s been dancing with Throgmorton, and Dawlish. He’s terrified she’ll accept one of them, and then it’ll be all over…”

Clarice regarded Alton steadily, then calmly said, “Tell Roger he needs to speak with Alice, even if he has to abduct her to do it. He has to ask her what Moira told her.”

Alton frowned. “It wasn’t Moira, but Roger himself who told her.”

Clarice made a dismissive sound and set down her tea cup. “Tell Roger I’ll make him a wager—that after he’d spoken with Alice, she, incensed, approached Moira and took her to task. But Moira retaliated with something—some fabrication, something truly horrendous—that Alice couldn’t overlook. That’s why she changed her mind and broke things off with Roger.” The look she cast Alton was one of fond exasperation. “You really are too easily manipulated.”

She sat back. “Now what about Nigel?”

“He and Emily—Emily Hollingworth—well, I suppose you could say that in typical Nigel fashion, he’s toeing the line in the hope that everything will somehow resolve itself, meaning that either Roger or I will discover some way around Moira.” Alton grimaced. “Emily’s just twenty. They have time.”

Clarice raised her brows. “But you don’t?”

Alton lifted his eyes and met her gaze. “No.” He gestured helplessly. “That’s what I was wrestling with when you came in.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “I have no idea what to do.”

“Who?” Clarice asked.

“Sarah Haverling, old Conniston’s eldest daughter.”

Clarice pursed her lips, then nodded slowly. “An excellent choice.” She focused on Alton. “You have an understanding, but you’ve made no formal offer yet?”

“I haven’t even hinted at such a thing, not to her father.”

“I take it something’s made the matter pressing?”

“Yes! Sarah’s twenty-three, nearly twenty-four. This will be her last Season. We’ve been talking of marrying for the last year, but with Moira holding what she is over my head…” Hopelessness deepened the lines in Alton’s face. “Her father and stepmother are encouraging her to marry, hardly surprisingly. They’ve lined up Farleigh and Bicknell, both seem increasingly smitten. If either makes an offer…if I can’t make a counteroffer, Sarah will be pressured to accept them.”

Watching Clarice, Jack saw her stiffen; Sarah Haverling’s immediate future was exceedingly reminiscent of Clarice’s past.

“The worst part,” Alton went on, his voice lower, his gaze fixed on his tightly clenched hands, “is that Sarah doesn’t understand why I won’t speak. She’s not enamored of either of the others, and they’re older, too. She keeps looking to me, and I have to keep making excuses…” His voice wavered; he drew in another huge breath. “I haven’t slept for days. I don’t know what to do.”

A moment ticked by, then Clarice softly asked, “What is it that Moira holds over you?” When Alton looked up, she met his gaze. “If you don’t tell me, I can’t advise you.”

Alton stared at her for a moment, then his eyes cut to Jack.

“Don’t worry about Jack.” Clarice’s tone was dry. “His discretion is assured, and indeed, you’re liable to get more sympathy from him than me.”

Alton didn’t smile. He looked at Clarice. “I had an affair with Sarah’s stepmother, Claire.”

Clarice raised her brows. “How very unwise. But I take it this was before you took up with Sarah?”

Alton looked irritated. “
Years
before. She was still in the schoolroom.”

“Indeed. In that case, I’d advise you to confess. Unless Claire has changed greatly in the last seven years, I seriously doubt she’ll make any waves.”

Alton looked directly at Clarice; Jack could suddenly see a stronger resemblance. “I can’t confess. After Roger tried, Moira told me that if I did, she’d speak, not to Sarah, but to Conniston himself. We may all know that Claire has been taking lovers for years, but Moira will assure Conniston that if he allows me to marry Sarah, then she’ll ensure that the tale of Conniston meekly handing over his daughter to a man who’d cuckolded him will be spread the length and breadth of the ton.”

Clarice held Alton’s dark gaze, then grimaced. “Oh.”

That, Jack thought, summed it up perfectly. He was starting to develop a very real interest in meeting Clarice’s old nemesis—now, it appeared, her brothers’ nemesis, too. He was curious to see just what sort of female could, and would, so brazenly run such nasty, sticky coils around people of the caliber of Clarice and Alton. Despite Alton’s state, Jack was catching enough glimmers of steel and hard arrogance to guess that on a good day, Alton was no weakling. His inner steel might not yet be tempered to quite the same saber-edged hardness as Clarice’s, but it seemed Moira was working on that.

To his mind, that might prove a very dangerous game. Especially for Moira. The woman must be blind not to know with what manner of people she was dealing.

He’d barely finished the thought when the library door burst open.

They all looked. A blond harpy stood on the threshold, blue eyes flaming, heavy breasts heaving with uncontrolled fury.

“Alton!” The voice was shrill, barely controlled. “How
dare
you entertain this…” The harpy’s eyes cut to Clarice and spat flames. “This
female
in your father’s house?”

I
t was like watching a chrysalis crack and a new life-form emerge.

Alton didn’t stand; he didn’t actually move, yet he seemed to grow. His face hardened, stripped of all humor; his dark eyes burned. When he spoke, anger growled, barely restrained beneath his words. “Leave us, Moira.”

Shock showed briefly on the harpy’s face, almost as if he’d slapped her. Then she hauled in a breath and marched over the threshold. “I most certainly will not! How dare you permit
that woman.
” Advancing, she jabbed a finger at Clarice. Jack glanced at Clarice, and had to fight to keep his lips straight.

After that first glance, she’d apparently decided she didn’t need to accord her furious stepmother any further attention; Clarice had calmly served herself another cake and now sat in her chair, the very picture of ladylike decorum eating the cake off a delicate china plate, to all appearances deaf and blind to the fraught scene being enacted before her.

Enraged, Moira drew in another breath. “That
scandalous female
into this house! Your father
forbade
it.”

Jack suspected he should follow Clarice’s lead, but the temptation was too great. He sat back, watching both Moira and Alton.

Moira flung to a raging halt by the desk. She was over forty years old, her too-white face starting to show the first lines. Her figure was full but she was rather short, her hair a brassy shade, her eyes a stormy blue sparking with vindictiveness. She all but vibrated with fury as she glared at Clarice.

Jack’s eyes narrowed as his senses informed him there was a great deal of fear behind Moira’s furious facade.

He glanced at Clarice as with awful control, Alton stated, “My father is dead. This is now my house. Within it, I will see whomever I please.”

Moira turned to stare at him. For an instant, she seemed struck speechless. Then she stiffened. “I believe, Alton, that you’ve forgotten—”

“I haven’t forgotten anything, but I have remembered one or two things.
I
am master here. I suggest you leave this room.”

Moira’s jaw fell, then it snapped shut. “If you think—”

“
Edwards
!”

“Yes, my lord?” The butler answered so quickly it was clear he’d been hovering just outside the door.

“Please escort her ladyship to her room. I believe she needs to lie down until dinnertime.” Alton’s eyes, hard and beyond furious, locked on Moira’s. “If you encounter any difficulties, summon a footman or two to help.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Quivering with outrage, Moira stiffened. “If you think I’ll let you get away with this,” she hissed, “you’d better think again.”

Edwards touched her arm and she uttered a furious shriek. Jerking away, she glared at the butler, then flung around and stormed from the room. The butler turned to follow. “In her bedchamber, my lord?”

Alton nodded.

“Edwards.” Without looking up, Clarice said, “If there’s any nastiness over this, do let Alton know.”

Edwards bowed to her. “Indeed, my lady.”

When the door shut, Alton exhaled heavily; the tension in his shoulders and arms visibly eased.

“There.” Clarice set down her empty cake plate. “You see how easy reclaiming your life can be?”

Alton snorted, but his expression turned thoughtful. “I never thought of shouting before.”

Clarice humphed, the sound suggesting he should have thought of it long ago.

“Well, Papa always shouted and ranted enough for everyone.”

“Precisely. So if you want Moira to understand that you now wear his shoes…”

Alton frowned. “I never thought of it like that.” After a moment, he glanced at her. “You were the only one of us—not just the four of us but any of us—to stand up to him. Until he died, he rode roughshod over us all whenever he had a mind to.” He uttered a short laugh. “As for Roger, Nigel, and me, he never let us forget what he called his leniency in listening to us over sending you to James.”

An awkward flush rose to Alton’s cheeks; he caught Clarice’s eyes. “That wasn’t said to make you feel you owe us anything. You don’t. We should have protected you better…somehow.”

“I’m not sure you could have, or that I’d have let you,” Clarice calmly replied. “But regardless, that’s the past. It’s the present we have to deal with, and the future to protect. Which is why Jack and I are here.”

Briskly she informed Alton of the allegations against James, succinctly outlining the ramifications to the family name. She appealed to Jack; he confirmed the seriousness of the allegations. Alton was a quick study; they didn’t have to spell out the likely effect an Altwood being tried for treason would have on his and his brothers’ matrimonial hopes.

Alton looked from Jack to Clarice. “What do you want me to do?”

“Is there any way you can influence the Bishop of London?” Clarice asked.

Alton thought, then nodded. “I know his older brother. He’s a member of White’s and was a crony of Papa’s. I could approach him.”

“Good,” Jack said. “What we need is permission for me as the family’s agent to question Deacon Humphries, not as prosecutor of the case but as the bringer of the original allegations. We already have access to the information thus far made available to the bishop’s court, but it’s by no means all Humphries knows. We need to ask him about details he’s omitted before he presents them at the hearing, so we’ll know what evidence we need to refute the allegations
in toto
, not just to chip away at the edges and cast doubt, but to quash them whole.”

“It’s urgent,” Clarice added.

Alton nodded, busily jotting notes. “I’ll see what I can manage.” He paused, then added, his tone grim, “Heaven knows, there’s precious little else I’m likely to accomplish.”

Clarice watched him for a moment, then rose and rounded the desk. Pausing by Alton’s chair, she laid a hand on his shoulder, bent, and kissed his cheek.

Jack saw Alton’s expression as he glanced up, surprise blended with achingly sweet memory. He looked up to see Clarice smile at her brother. She patted his shoulder. “I’ll put my mind to your problem with Moira. There has to be a way. Say hello to Roger and Nigel for me, and don’t forget to give Roger my message.” Leaving Alton, she headed for the door; with a nod to Alton, Jack rose, and followed her.

“Incidentally”—Clarice paused just before the door to look back at Alton—“you might try telling Sarah you love her to distraction and fully intend moving heaven and earth to wed her. Then tell her of Moira’s threat. Being trusted with the truth might make her more inclined to do all she can to
avoid
receiving an offer from anyone else.”

With that, she turned to the door. Jack opened it for her, then followed her from the room; the last sight he had of Alton Altwood, Marquess of Melton, was of him sitting at his desk, faintly stunned, but with the light of hope dawning in his eyes.

They returned to Benedict’s, and had lunch in Clarice’s suite. The meal passed in unusual silence. Clarice was transparently digesting all she’d learned at Melton House, and not approving of any of it. Jack watched her face, appreciating the frown she didn’t bother to hide. That she no longer sought to conceal her worries and emotions from him was, he felt, an encouraging sign.

After they’d finished and the dishes had been cleared away, Clarice sat back in her armchair, met Jack’s eyes as he sat in its mate, and grimaced. “I fear I’m going to have to go back into the ton in a much more
emphatic
manner than I’d planned.”

He studied her. “I’d thought you were set on riding to James’s social rescue.”

“I was. I am. And I will. But it seems I’m going to have to intercede, and act, too, on my brothers’ behalfs.” She gestured. “You saw Moira. She’s thoroughly devious, and she knows them—all four of us—well.”

“You don’t think Alton can manage on his own, with your support? He seemed to come alive this morning, simply because you were there.”

Clarice frowned more deeply. Eventually, she conceded, “You’re right in a way. Alton has it in him to rule as he should. I know he has. Unfortunately, previously he was always in Papa’s shadow, and with Moira’s manipulation, Alton hasn’t fully realized Papa’s shoes are now his, that he can step into them and take control.” A moment passed, then she murmured, “It wasn’t so much my being there as Moira attacking me that spurred Alton to action.”

Jack held up a staying hand. “If you imagine setting yourself up as a target for that frightful woman to spur your brothers into acting as they ought, then I strongly advise
you
to think again.”

Clarice met his eyes, read the warning therein; a subtle glow warmed her, but she humphed dismissively. “I wasn’t about to suggest any such thing. Self-sacrifice isn’t my style. However, I will, clearly will, need to go about in society more widely than if I’d had just James’s defence on my plate.
That
I can accomplish by making contact with a few key people. Nullifying Moira’s manipulation will require much more. For a start, I’m going to have to meet with my brothers’ chosen ladies, and, I hope, ease the strain there. Meeting Conniston himself, and perhaps Claire—I know her of old—might help….”

Steepling her fingers, she rested her chin on the tips. Staring across the room, she continued to frown. “The major difficulty is how. How can I, quickly and acceptably, step back into the fray I turned my back on so decisively seven years ago?”

After a moment, Jack asked, “Just how decisively did you dismiss the ton?”

She shifted her gaze to meet his. “Totally. I was disgusted with them all, and made no bones about it.”

He grimaced, then added, “However, you’re an Altwood.”

“Indeed. If after seven years I wish to swan back”—she shrugged—“I doubt many would attempt to cut me.”

She noted Jack’s swift grin, could imagine the vision flitting through his mind, of her depressing the pretensions of any who might try. As indeed she would. She’d suffered the adverse aspects of being a marchioness’s daughter; she wasn’t about to deny herself the benefits. “I can, and will, return to the ton, but I need advice of a sort that’s not easy to gain.”

A minute went by, then Jack shifted, drawing her attention. He met her eyes. “I have two aunts. They’ll help if I ask.”

Clarice raised her brows; it was the first mention she’d heard of any family beyond his father. “And they are?”

“Lady Cowper and Lady Davenport.”

She stared at him. “Just like that, you can command the support of
two
of the most formidable hostesses in the ton?”

He grinned. “‘Command’ might be stating the matter a trifle strongly, but they know I fled town recently, at the height of the Season. They’ll be only too pleased to assist you once they learn it was you who brought me back.”

She considered him, searched his hazel eyes, but couldn’t tell whether there was anything more than the obvious, anything ambiguous, in his smooth words. Slowly, she nodded. “Lady Cowper and Lady Davenport would indeed be useful allies in combating Moira. As for James…”

Jack pulled a face. “My aunts have a close friend, a lady I tend to avoid. She’s terrifying. However, when it comes to wielding influence in the upper echelons of power, I doubt there are many her equal. Chances are, if I send word to my aunts, when we visit, she’ll be there, too.”

She could read his uncertainty over this other lady. “She who?”

“Lady Osbaldestone.”

She sat up. “Therese Osbaldestone?”

He nodded.

She blinked, recalled. “She was a close friend of Mama’s—Papa’s sisters told me that—but I didn’t meet Lady Osbaldestone until the day I was presented. She was there, and spoke kindly to me, but then Moira came up, and Lady Osbaldestone looked down her nose and left us.”

Jack raised his brows. “Sounds as if she might be inclined to assist in lifting Moira’s paw from your brothers’ throats.”

Clarice grinned. “What an image.”

A knock on the door had them both turning. “Come!” Clarice called.

The door opened to admit a footman carrying a silver salver. He crossed and offered the salver to Clarice.

She picked up the three cards lying on it, read them, then smiled a touch ruefully. Over the ivory rectangles, she met Jack’s eyes. “My brothers. All three of them.”

Dropping the cards on the tray, she looked at the footman. “Show the gentlemen up.”

When the door closed behind the footman, she looked at Jack. “I wonder…?”

She didn’t have to wonder for long. Barely a minute passed before her brothers, led by Alton, came striding into the room. Roger and Nigel, beaming in patent delight, dragged her from her chair and hugged her exuberantly, blithely ignoring her warnings not to crush her gown.

For one instant, she could almost believe nothing had changed, that the years had vanished, and they were again the slightly older-in-years brothers she’d forever had to keep in line, to guide and in some ways protect. But then she saw them glancing at Jack, sensed their reaction, and his, and knew things would never again be as they’d been.

“Lord Warnefleet escorted me to London. He’s a close friend of James.” She made the introductions, deftly steering the conversation away from herself and Jack, sitting so patently at ease in her suite, and doing not one damned thing to look any less predatory than he was. Her brothers’ overt suspicions seemed to evoke a blatantly possessive stance in him, even more possessive than he normally was.

She longed to kick them all. Hard. “Alton, have you done anything yet about influencing the bishop in our favor?”

“Yes.” He grinned at her, suddenly very much the Alton of her memories. “I remembered that old Fotheringham often settles to snooze in White’s library after lunch—a good place to corner him, I thought, and so it proved. He’s always grumbling about his brother the bishop, about the Church getting above itself, and so on. He was very ready to pen a letter to his brother pointing out the, as he put it, advisability of acceding to the Altwoods’ perfectly reasonable request to have a private agent examine the evidence to be presented to the bishop’s court prior to the official hearing.”