A Fine Passion (32 page)

Clarice drew in a breath, glanced briefly at Jack, then proceeded to outline in severely abbreviated form James’s, and by extension her family’s, difficulties. She avoided any mention of specifics, including how they knew James was innocent, only saying that they were working to prove it and were certain to succeed.

During her recitation, Lady Osbaldestone and Jack’s aunts shared a number of meaningful looks, ones that pricked Jack’s instincts and left him alert. He and Clarice had agreed that if the three ladies had heard of the as yet insufficiently suppressed rumors, then they would have to appease their curiosities if they wanted their help in dealing with Moira.

Smoothly, Clarice switched from the unjustified threat to the family name to the problems her brothers were facing in their pursuit of matrimony. Again, she didn’t explain fully, leaving it to the ladies’ imaginations to fill in the details she omitted, such as the substance of Moira’s threats. With three such ladies, there was no risk they wouldn’t leap to the correct conclusions.

Unsurprisingly, all three ladies were even more interested in that subject; as Clarice told her tale, their eyes glowed with awakened zeal.

“So,” Clarice concluded, glancing around at the three older faces, “I’m hoping that I can prevail on you to lend me your aid in assisting my brothers to achieve their ends. I’ve been absent from the ton for so long, and, given the events surrounding my leaving it, I’m well aware that I’ll require such aid to successfully clear my brothers’ paths.”

Again she glanced around; this time, she met each pair of eyes. “Will you help me?”

The three ladies exchanged glances, an unspoken communication that held an element of excitement. Jack wasn’t surprised when, decision wordlessly reached, it was Lady Osbaldestone who delivered it.

“My dear, we’re very pleased that you’ve returned to the ton, regardless of the reason. Of course you will have our help in whatever way seems best, but there’s two points we would like clarified. First, we take it that in terms of the charges of treason, that it’s not only the Altwoods, but ultimately Whitehall and the government who, should the matter proceed to a trial, would be…shall we say ‘inconvenienced’?”

When Clarice blinked, and didn’t reply, Lady Osbaldestone looked at Jack. “Dalziel, I take it? A holy terror, but he does have his uses.”

Jack felt his expression blank. From the other two ladies’ calmly inquiring looks, Lady Osbaldestone’s words came as no surprise to them. How the devil did they know about Dalziel? And if they knew about him, what else did they know?

Lady Osbaldestone’s smile took on a distinctly evil edge. “You didn’t seriously imagine we were unaware of such things, did you?”

Jack shifted, rapidly canvassing his options; remaining silent seemed the wisest course.

Lady Osbaldestone’s expression grew cynical. “You might be relieved to know that, unlike some of our menfolk who fall prey to convoluted dilemmas over concepts of honor whenever the word ‘spy’ is uttered, most ladies of our station are only too relieved to know that others—those entrusted with the realm’s defence—are not so squeamish.”

Her last word carried a distinctly censorious edge.

Jack wasn’t sure her reference was as general as it had sounded, that she didn’t have some specific dilemma-afflicted male in mind. Regardless, he acknowledged, “Whitehall would, indeed, prefer to see the allegations against James Altwood rebutted in the bishop’s court rather than in a public one where details submitted in evidence would be widely desseminated.”

Lady Osbaldestone nodded. “Just so.” She looked again at Clarice. “Our other question is, with the matter of your brothers, do you intend to fully nullify your stepmother’s influence for all time, or do you think simply to help your brothers to the altar, leaving them to manage otherwise on their own?”

Clarice looked into Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes, and couldn’t tell which answer the old ladies wanted, yet it seemed clear her response would determine the degree of help they would give. She needed their help. Without it, returning to the ton and countering Moira’s schemes would be exceedingly difficult. But they were matriarchs all, absolute rulers within their homes and families; would they disapprove if she told them the truth?

Lifting her chin, she grasped the nettle. “I can’t see any prospect of freeing my brothers without in the main eliminating Moira’s influence. Not just over their marriages, but in general, and more permanent, terms.” She refocused on Lady Osbaldestone’s eyes. “It would be neither realistic nor fair to expect my prospective sisters-in-law to deal with Moira. I have more insight, and a great deal more standing and experience behind me, at least in terms of countering her.”

Only when her last word had faded did Lady Osbaldestone smile—with relish. “Excellent! When it comes to that upstart, it must be
you
who puts her in her place—or rather, displaces her from the position she’s been abusing for so long.”

Glancing at Lady Davenport and Lady Cowper, Clarice found a similarly approving and determined light in their eyes.

Lady Cowper’s chin was unusually firm as she nodded. “Indeed, my dear. Therese is quite right. We—not just us but the rest, too, all the hostesses and those of us who guide the ton—have had quite enough of Moira, but it isn’t in our power to oust her, not without affecting the entire family. Our dilemma has been quite excoriating for some years—indeed, since shortly after you left. Achieving something in that regard will be a
considerable
relief.”

The glint in Lady Cowper’s eye, the hard note in her usually soft voice, confirmed that Moira’s unrestrained use of power had spread far wider than within the family.

“Indeed.” Lady Davenport’s expression suggested she could hear the call to battle and was very willing to answer. “We’re so glad, my dear Clarice, that you see it as we do, that you understand and appreciate the role your family now needs you to play.”

The rest of their visit was taken up with discussions of how best to throw a spoke, permanently, in Moira’s wheel. As Jack had hoped, the three older and eminently wise ladies took Clarice and her quest to their hearts. In controlling the ton’s collective mind, they spoke as generals deploying on a battlefield. From Clarice’s expression, she was enthralled; from her comments, she was learning quickly.

Despite the success of his plan to gain her the aid she needed, Jack felt a certain disquiet, a faint-yet-pervasive ruffling of his instincts, but of what they were warning him he couldn’t say. At the first opportunity, he excused them on the grounds that they were due at Lambeth Palace at noon and whisked Clarice off. Once they left his aunt’s house, his instincts settled.

They reached the palace to discover that despite the bishop’s brother’s intercession, Deacon Humphries was not available to be interviewed.

“At least, not yet,” Olsen explained. “He went out this morning before the bishop could speak with him, and won’t be back until late this afternoon.”

Clarice grimaced. Their meeting with Jack’s aunts and Lady Osbaldestone had gone so well, she’d felt buoyed and ready to take on the world, and Humphries, too. Stymied, she glanced at Jack. “Perhaps we should go over the details of the allegations with Deacon Olsen, and explain how we believe they can be disproved?”

Jack looked at Teddy, who’d joined them; she’d be safe with him and Olsen. “Why don’t you explain our approach to Deacon Olsen and Teddy, too, if he has the time?”

Bright-eyed, Teddy nodded. “I’d like to hear what’s going on.”

“Meanwhile,” Jack said, “I should check with those working on gathering our proofs. The faster we can assemble all we need, the better.”

Clarice blinked, then nodded. “Very well. I take it you’ll be at your club if Humphries returns earlier than expected?”

“Yes.” Jack caught her eye. “But don’t interview him without me.”

Clarice smiled and reassured him; he listened cynically, insisted she promise, then bowed over her hand. He took his leave of the others. She watched him stride away, broad shoulders square, then allowed Deacon Olsen and Teddy to escort her to Olsen’s study.

Two hours later, Jack slouched into a tavern behind Lambeth Palace. Slumping into a not overly grimy booth, then ordering a mug of porter when the barmaid sauntered up and asked his pleasure, he glanced, apparently vacantly, around, in reality taking swift stock of the other occupants.

They were as down-at-the-heels, as uncouth as he now appeared. In his rough workman’s garb, cloth cap to worn boots, he doubted Clarice would recognize him, much less his aunts and Lady Osbaldestone, no matter how aware of such affairs they imagined they were.

While Deverall, Christian, and Tristan pursued witnesses for contradictory accounts of the three supposed meetings, he’d elected to pursue a set of meetings that didn’t feature in the allegations yet impinged upon them most powerfully.

Humphries had to have met his ex-courier-cum-informer somewhere—somewhere other than Lambeth Palace. Teddy had learned that the porters had never admitted any visitor for Humphries but had ferried messages delivered to him courtesy of a random selection of street urchins.

Never the same urchin twice, which confirmed that the ex-courier-cum-informer was a man who knew the requisite ropes. The porters saw all urchins as interchangeable; they couldn’t identify any of them. The odds of, by luck, stumbling across one of the urchins in question in a district that teemed with them were exceedingly long.

After receiving some of the messages, Humphries had left the palace, always on foot. The meeting place had most likely been near. Jack had reconnoitered, strolling up and down the thoroughfares about the palace. There were no coffeehouses or large inns in that area. Putting himself in the ex-courier’s shoes, Jack made a short list of watering holes that met the obvious criteria—not too far from the palace, not busy, not successful, not the place to find rowdy crowds who might remember a clergyman and whom he met.

He’d already been to two other taverns; both had fitted his bill, but neither had held the type of person he sought. The Bishop’s Mitre, in which he now sat, was tucked away down a narrow lane off Royal Street, about ten minutes’ walk from the palace, most of that through the extensive grounds.

Of the three taverns he’d been in, this held the most promise. The interior was dim and shadow-filled even in early afternoon; the clientele were all but somnolent, evincing no interest in their fellow man. But there were two sets of sharp and watchful eyes—the barmaid, more wide-awake than the norm, and an old crone nursing a mug of ale in the inglenook beside the fireplace.

Both had noted him when he’d entered; the barmaid had accepted him as the workman he appeared to be, but the crone was still watching, eyes alert behind her bedraggled fringe.

Jack assumed that, as with the urchins, the ex-courier would have used different meeting places, but he only needed one clear sighting, one good description.

Rising, he picked up his glass of porter. Taking a long swallow, he walked to the small fireplace in which a fire struggled beneath a wad of peat. He took up a stance as if staring into the faltering flames; after a silent moment, he glanced swiftly at the crone on the bench tucked beside the chimney, and caught the rapid shift of her eyes as she looked away.

He looked back at the flames, took another swallow of porter, then spoke, his voice pitched low so only she could hear. “I’m looking for anyone who can tell me about a man who met and talked with a clergyman here some time in the last few months. I’m prepared to pay handsomely for anyone who can describe this man—not the clergyman but the other.”

He waited patiently as a full minute ticked by, then the crone cackled softly. “How’s will you know I’m describing your man? I could tell you anythin’. You’d be none the wiser, and I’d have your gold to keep me warm.”

Without shifting his head, Jack looked at her, caught the bright gleam of her eyes. “If you can describe the man I want, you’ll also be able to describe the clergyman.”

The bright eyes widened, then the crone nodded. “A smart one, you are. If that’s the way of it then, the clergyman’s tallish, but not as tall as you. He’s got precious little hair left, but what there is is plain brown and stringy. He’s a fretful sort, always frowning, not a jolly soul as some of them can be. He’s not fat, nor yet scrawny, and his lips pout like a woman’s.”

Quelling a surge of anticipatory triumph—her description of Humphries was too detailed to be false—Jack grinned encouragingly. “Right enough. Now what of the other?” If she could describe the ex-courier with the same exactitude, she’d be worth every penny he had on him.

The crone screwed up her face; she stared across the room. “Similar height, maybe a touch taller, but heavier build. Barrellike. Looked like a fighter though he was too well dressed fer that. Mind you, he weren’t a gentleman, but he weren’t no servant, either.” She paused, then added, “Not one of those business agents, neither—not the right look fer that at all.”

Jack’s gut clenched; a chill whispered across his shoulders. “What of his face?”

“Pale, whiter skin than most, pasty, you might say. And round—heavy and round. Eyes round and pale, smallish, broad nose. And he spoke with an accent, not one of ours. Something foreign. I didn’t hear enough to say more.” The crone looked up at Jack. “That enough fer you?”

Jack nodded. He reached into his pocket, reached past the pennies and found a sovereign. He drew it out, held it out.

The crone’s eyes gleamed. She took it carefully, examined it, then looked up at Jack as her hand and the coin disappeared beneath her tattered clothes. “Fer that,” she said, eyes narrowing as if she was revising her view of him, “you get a warning, too.”

“Warning?”

“Aye. The gent you seek, the other one. He’s dangerous. They met here twice. Both times, the clergyman left first. I saw the other’s face once the clergyman was out the door. He was planning something, and it weren’t good. Dangerous he looked, evil, too. So if you’re thinking to find him, have a care.”