A Fine Passion (33 page)

Jack smiled winningly. Then he doffed his cap, bowed extravagantly, and left the old crone cackling delightedly.

But when he stepped out of the tavern, his smile faded. The crone’s description shared too many similarities with Clarice’s description of the man who’d run Anthony off the road to doubt that it was, indeed, the same person. Which meant the crone was an excellent judge of character; that man was definitely dangerous.

Luck, he’d often noticed, visited in multiples. Heading for the club, he made for Westminister Bridge, intending to hail one of the hackneys constantly crossing back and forth. Reaching the road to the bridge, he turned and strode on, past a trio of urchins who were taking turns with a streetsweeper’s broom.

Jack stopped. Turning back, he ambled up to the urchins. Fishing out three pennies, he started juggling them. When he stopped before the trio, he had their undivided attention.

He glanced at their avid expressions, worded his question carefully. “A man hired urchins to deliver messages around here. He’s tallish—almost as tall as me—and he has a round, white face. And he’s a foreigner.” He infused the word with patent disgust and saw their lips twitch. “These pennies are for any boy who can tell me where they delivered a message from this man.”

The boys exchanged glances. Jack suddenly understood. He stopped juggling for a moment, drew out another three pennies, and teamed them with the first three. He juggled again, then looked down at the faces of his audience.

They still looked unconvinced. He stopped and added another three pennies, then they smiled.

He smiled, too. Three responses. Fate was pleased with him.

“The bishop’s palace, main gate,” one said.

“Same fer me.”

“He sent me to the porter’s lodge this end, not the front.”

Jack looked at all three, then tossed the three sets of three coins to them. They all snagged them out of the air, swift and sure.

“One other thing.” No sense leaving any stone unturned. “Can any of you read? Do you know who the message was for?”

Again they exchanged glances. Jack sighed and fished in his pocket, careful to draw out only the pennies. He counted them. “Tuppence each extra if any of you can tell me who the message they took was addressed to.”

“Some deacon.” One boy tried to grab the coins, but Jack was faster; closing his fist, he raised it high.

“Aw—c’mon, mister.”

Jack shook his head. “Try harder. Deacon who?”

The boy screwed up his face, frowned ferociously. His friends egged him on.

“First letter,” Jack said.

The boy’s eyes popped open. “An aitch—I remember that. And it was longish—an em and a pee and another aitch, a small one.”

Jack smiled. “That will do. Hands out.”

They promptly presented their palms and he gave each the promised tuppence more. They danced with delight; when he said good-bye and turned away, they sang back and waved him off.

Grinning, Jack reached the bridge, hailed a hackney, and rattled off back to the club.

“So the man who sent messages to Humphries, and the man Humphries met in a tavern more than once, was round-faced, white-skinned, tallish, heavily built, with a foreign accent?” Deverell looked at Jack.

Jack nodded. “And dresses well, but is not a gentleman. More, the same man ran Anthony, James’s cousin who was driving to Avening to warn James about the allegations, off the road, and most likely would have silenced him permanently if Clarice hadn’t appeared.”

The thought chilled him. If the man hadn’t decided that silencing Clarice as well wasn’t worth the risk…what he then would have found on rounding the last bend on his long journey home didn’t bear thinking about.

They’d all spent the day in various disguises; returning to the club, they’d used the upstairs rooms to return to their customary gentlemanly state, then gathered in the library to share what they’d thus far learned.

“My inclination,” Tristan said, once they’d recounted their news, “is to concentrate on establishing that these meetings never took place. While for each instance, each tavern, we know there are those prepared to swear Altwood met this courier there, we’ve all also found others equally believeable prepared to take their oaths Altwood never set foot there.”

Deverall nodded. “Once we have the contradictory evidence, it’ll be easier to shake those who’ve spoken falsely. I’ve had a quick look at the three so-called witnesses to the meeting I’m investigating, and all are known as perennially desperate for cash.”

“He’ll have paid them, no doubt about that.” Jack grinned, all teeth. “But where gold can buy lies, more gold can buy the truth.”

“True, but I gather there’s a reluctance to cross this courier. They’ll do it in a flash if they think they’ve been found out, but having taken his coin, they need the ‘excuse’ to change their stories.”

They grimaced; all understood the workings of the less-than-honest mind. “So,” Jack said, “we’ll move first to get our own, more believable witnesses.”

“Indeed.” Christian looked at Jack “Does James Altwood always wear the collar?”

Jack nodded. “He dresses better than your average clergyman—well-cut coats and trousers, good-quality boots—but he always wears the collar.”

Deverell smiled in anticipation. “Which is to say that if he ever was in those taverns, he would have made a not-inconsiderable impression.”

“And thus would have been remembered.” Tristan looked at Jack. “I’d say we’re well on the way to getting the evidence not just to challenge but to throw out as mistaken the three incidents central to these allegations. And with that done…perhaps it might be wise to explain to this Deacon Humphries on just what shaky grounds his charges now stand?”

Jack nodded. “That would seem the fastest and cleanest way to bring this charade to a quiet close. We’ve yet to meet Deacon Humphries, but hopefully that pleasure won’t be long denied…” Jack looked up as Gasthorpe entered. From the uncertain expression on the majordomo’s face, Jack guessed what he was about to say.

“My lord.” Gasthorpe addressed Jack. “The lady who called on you here once before has returned. I’ve left her in the parlor.”

Jack nodded and rose. “I’ll go down.” To the others, he said, “Lady Clarice Altwood.”

All three were on their feet in a flash.

“We’ll come down, too,” Deverell said.

“Just to lend you countenance.” A teasing glint lit Christian’s eyes.

Jack humphed, but could think of no good—no valid—reason to argue. Indeed, it might be wise for Clarice and his three colleagues to meet.

However, he made sure that when he entered the parlor his friends were at his heels, that they hadn’t dropped sufficiently far back for Clarice not to immediately notice them and behave as if he and she were alone.

As it was, her dark eyes deflected instantly to his entourage. He introduced them; with her usual self-possession, she gave them her hand, acknowledged their bows, and thanked them for their assistance in exonerating James.

Then her attention reverted to him, focused on him exclusively. “I came to tell you that we won’t be able to interview Humphries today.” Her expression grew colder. “Apparently, he’s arguing with the bishop over our involvement.”

Jack raised his brows, unperturbed. “He won’t get far with that.”

“No, but he is delaying us. The dean said he imagines the matter will be settled in our favor by tomorrow morning. He suggested we return then.”

Clarice looked at the four gentlemen arrayed before her. The room seemed much smaller with them in it. One glance had been enough to confirm that however urbane and sophisticated they might outwardly appear, underneath, they were very like Jack. She summoned her most encouragingly interested expression. “Jack mentioned you’re helping to overturn the evidence of the three incidents central to the allegations. Have you learned anything?”

She’d addressed the other three; they merely smiled and looked at Jack. Suppressing a sigh at their lack of susceptibility, she did, too. With a few brief words, he outlined what they’d gleaned thus far and their current tack.

“Hmm.” After a moment digesting their news, she met Jack’s eyes. “Given we can achieve nothing more at the palace, I’ve grasped the opportunity to be seen with Sarah Haverling at an afternoon tea. Later, there’s a dinner we should attend, and two balls after that.” She arched a brow at him.

He held her gaze, then nodded. “I’ll call for you at eight.”

She inclined her head regally, then glanced at the other men, silent witnesses doing their best to appear inconsequential, or at the very least uncomprehending. The moment replayed in her mind; she wondered what they made of it, then shook aside the uncertainty that followed that thought.

Graciously, she took her leave of them; smiling, they bowed and withdrew, leaving Jack to see her to the hackney she’d left waiting.

They paused on the pavement; he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, caught her gaze, wryly smiled. “Benedict’s at eight.”

With a nod, she allowed him to assist her into the carriage.

Jack closed the door and stepped back. He watched as the carriage rattled off down the street, heading back to Mayfair, taking her back to the charmed circle into which she’d been born, in which she belonged…

Turning, he walked back into the club and climbed the stairs to the library. He entered the room in time to hear Tristan ask Christian, “Are all marquess’s daughters like that?”

Jack joined them where they stood in a circle before the fireplace.

Christian raised his brows. “My sisters do have a similar…aura. Not, however, to quite the same extent as Lady Clarice.” Christian smiled at Jack. “I imagine turning her from her path would not be easy.”

Jack humphed. “Try ‘impossible’—you’ll be nearer the mark.”

“Never mind,” Tristan said. “At least you won’t have to put up with any feminine softheartedness when it comes to dealing with this villain.”

Jack snorted. “More likely I’ll have to keep her from visiting too final a retribution on the fellow.”

“Too final?” Deverell looked surprised. “He is a traitor, after all.”

Jack frowned. While they’d been chatting his brain had been turning over all they’d learned. “Actually, I don’t think he is. He’s not our man, Dalziel’s last traitor, but only his henchman. And he’s a foreigner. His loyalties lie with the other side.”

Christian nodded. “A subtle but meaningful distinction.”

“Catching him is one thing,” Jack said. “Keeping him alive might prove useful.”

Still standing, they discussed a few further speculations, then Christian and Tristan departed, at the last wishing Jack good luck in the ballrooms that evening. Chuckling, they left. Jack cast a speaking glance after them, then moved to sink into one of the deeply cushioned leather armchairs.

Deverell crossed to the tantalus and poured two glasses of brandy; returning, he handed one to Jack, then sat, facing Jack across a small table.

Deverell raised his glass to Jack, then sipped; Jack echoed the gesture.

“I’m impressed,” Deverell said, a not teasing so much as appreciative light in his eyes. “I take it that’s the way the wind now blows?”

Jack considered denying it, decided there was no point. “Yes, but for God’s sake don’t do anything to tip her the wink.”

Leaning back in his chair, Deverell blinked. “Why not?”

“Because…” Jack let his head loll back against the leather; eyes on the ceiling, he said, “Her view of gentlemen of our class is not generally favorable. Avoid unless in possession of sound reasons to do otherwise sums it up. If you add the word ‘marriage’ to ‘gentlemen of our class,’ matters turn seriously sour.”

“Ah.” Deverell’s tone was understanding. “Bad experiences?”

Jack nodded. After a moment, he continued, largely to himself, “I’m facing an uphill battle to convince her to change her mind.”

Deverell grinned.

From the corner of his eye, Jack noticed. He frowned. “What?”

“I noticed you didn’t say ‘a battle to change her mind.’ You’re not imagining you can, not directly. Another subtle but meaningful distinction.”

Jack thought, then pulled a face. “A lost cause to imagine otherwise. With her, I can’t decree. I can only make my case and pray she’ll believe it, and that ultimately she’ll regard my suit with favor.”

Raising his glass he sipped; he caught Deverell’s gaze as he lowered it. “Any sage advice would be welcome. This is not a battlefield on which I’ve had any experience.”

Deverell grimaced. “Nor I.”

Silence fell, then lengthened.

Eventually, Deverell stirred. “Surprise.” He caught Jack’s eyes. “Taking a tack she won’t expect, or better yet would
never
expect, might help. She seems like the sort of female you need to keep off-balance if you want the upper hand. Or even a guiding hand.”

Jack snorted softly. “Oh yes, that’s Boadicea.”

Deverell looked taken aback by the name, then realized and chuckled.

Sip by sip, Jack drained his glass.

Deverell was right. So…what was the last thing, the last action, the last approach that Boadicea would expect from him?

“G
ood evening, Lady Clarice.” Lady Winterwhistle, seventy if she was a day, regarded Clarice through unfriendly, beady eyes. “Quite a surprise to see you again.” Her ladyship glanced at Lady Davenport, whom Clarice and Jack had just left. “And in such company.”

Jack’s hackles had risen at the first spiteful syllable, but Clarice merely raised her brows faintly, ineffably regal, mildly returned the greeting, introduced him, then inquired as to her ladyship’s daughter’s health.

Lady Winterwhistle looked disgruntled, a harpy denied her prey. To Jack’s surprise, her beady eyes fixed on him, then again deflected to Lady Davenport. “Ah! I
see
.”

Jack doubted it, but the expressions crossing Lady Winterwhistle’s face suggested she was making a remarkable number of deductions.

Her ladyship fixed her gaze, almost gloating, on his face. “Your aunts like to think they can accomplish the impossible. Daresay Davenport dragooned you into this.” Jabbing her finger at him, Lady Winterwhistle turned away, dismissively contemptuous. “More fool you.”

His temper surged.

Clarice’s fingers bit into his forearm. “No—don’t react.”

Jack looked down to see her watching him. He searched her face; she seemed curiously unaffected.

Reading the puzzlement in his eyes, she sighed and looked away. “There are many in the ton like her. After last night, word has spread, and they’ve had time to polish their barbs.” She lifted a shoulder. “The best way to deal with them is simply to ignore them.”

At her urging, they strolled on, down Lady Maxwell’s crowded ballroom. Dinner at Lady Mott’s had been a more select affair; while some had certainly been surprised to discover Clarice in their ranks, none had stepped back, or reacted in any adverse way. In the main, they’d been welcoming, curious yet relaxed. But he and she were now strolling through more general waters; alerted, Jack watched more closely, more carefully assessing what lay behind the nods that came their way, most studiously polite, some wary, only a few honestly friendly.

Indeed, certain ladies, all of the older generation, stiffened at the sight of Clarice. None, however, dared cut her; cutting an Altwood under the noses of half the ton would be akin to social suicide. If Clarice was present, she’d been invited by their hostess, and almost certainly at the behest of some lady of even higher rank. Yet the looks, some mean, others frankly malicious, followed them.

After a while, he murmured, “It seems very unlike you to so mildly turn the other cheek.”

She glanced at him; amusement flared briefly in her eyes. “Their ability to disconcert me…that died a long time ago. Seven years ago, to be exact.” Looking ahead, she walked on, then murmured, her voice low so only he could hear, “Even at the time, I realized that part of what drove them—those who were so ready to crucify me for refusing to marry as directed—was that I’d dared to do what they had not.” Glancing up, she met his gaze. “There’s always a price to be paid for demonstrating to others what they might have accomplished if they’d only been strong enough.”

She looked ahead as they neared the end of the room. “My being here, once again walking among the ton, accepted into the circles into which I was born—to some that will seem like sacrilege, even now. To them, my banishment was a prescribed punishment. They couldn’t have borne it if I hadn’t been made to pay for my defiance.”

Head tilting, she considered, then her lips curved. “But if you think my reaction uncharacteristically mild, just think of what they’re feeling. The fact their censure is unable to touch me in any way, because I won’t allow them any say in my life, won’t recognize or acknowledge their spitefulness and so deny them all power…that, to them, is the ultimate rebuff.”

It took a moment for him to see not just that point, but her strategy in its totality. Summoning a smile, he squeezed her fingers and met her eyes as she glanced up. “My apologies—I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

The look she shot him was vintage Boadicea. “In this sphere, I should think not.”

They spotted Alton and Sarah and spent ten minutes in their company, then Roger fetched them to meet Alice’s aunt. As Moira was not present, they grasped the opportunity to strengthen the connection.

After that, they continued strolling, stopping and chatting here and there, but only when others approached them. Most such approaches were purely curious; only a few had any deeper intent. Nevertheless, Jack detected a thread in the comments, especially those from the censorious, when, realizing Clarice was beyond the reach of their malicious disapproval, they instead suggested, in the most elliptical fashion, that the fact she was still unmarried proved that little about her had changed.

Knowing her as he did, male as he was, it took him a good fifteen minutes before the penny dropped.

They were, in his presence, accusing her of being fundamentally uninteresting to men, that males had no sincere interest in her.

He was so incensed, and not just on her part, that he’d escorted her back to the front hall, handed her into the town carriage Alton had placed at her disposal, and they were on their way to the second ball of the night before his temper subsided enough for him to think.

To plan.

By the time they were strolling down Lady Courtland’s ballroom, and meeting with a similar reaction from certain members of the assembled throng, he’d decided on their response—his, and through that, hers.

One glance at her expression, at the coolly superior, faintly distant hauteur she deployed as a shield, suggested that explaining his strategy would be a waste of time; she most likely would refuse to agree to it, preferring to hold to her untouchable, dismissive stance.

Her strategy was working well against straightforward disapproval, however, he felt certain his plan would deal more effectively with that other, potentially more hurtful thread.

They hadn’t bothered dancing at Lady Maxwell’s; the dance floor had been crammed with eager young ladies and their partners, an uninviting crush. Now, however, the instant the strains of a waltz floated out above the milling crowd, he grasped Clarice’s hand, with his usual charm excused them to the two ladies with whom they’d been chatting, and led her to the dance floor.

Clarice inwardly frowned as Jack determinedly steered her onto the floor, but, assuming him to be bored witless and perhaps wanting to stretch his legs, she made no protest. With his customary commanding confidence, he drew her into his arms; she went readily, willing enough to grasp the moment, to refresh herself, her senses, with the exhilaration of waltzing with him.

He drew her close, set them revolving, his hand heavy at her back, warming through the silk of her mint green gown. Her skirts shushed against his black trousers; her thighs briefly caressed his, slid away, returned…

His lips lifted lightly, then his hand tightened and he swung them into a turn. Exhilaration swelled, tightening her lungs, leaving her giddy even though, courtesy of the crowded floor, their movements were restricted, the progressive revolutions less physically charged, less powerful. Her senses still leapt, then sighed, luxuriating in the closeness, the subtle sensual empathy of the dance.

She drank it in, for those moments let all else fall away, let her eyes, her mind, focus solely on him, on them, and the attraction that pulsed between them. Warm, alive, oddly reassuring. Comforting.

He was with her, they were together, and nothing else mattered.

The music ended; she stifled a sigh as he released her, and she returned to the world. To Lady Courtland’s ballroom and the inquisitive horde still waiting to interrogate her.

Her coolly collected smile in place, Jack by her side, she let them have at her. Moira was present somewhere in the crowd, which made her even more determined to carry the evening off as Lady Cowper, also present, would expect, with a high and supremely confident hand.

She was chatting to Lady Constable, the third lady to waylay her since the waltz, before she realized—realized just how revealing that waltz must have been. Lady Constable’s eyes flitted back and forth from her to Jack; the particular speculation in her expression, as with the two earlier ladies, hadn’t immediately registered with Clarice, but now she saw and understood.

Her practiced smile never wavered, but the instant they were free of Lady Constable, and she was strolling once more on Jack’s arm, she caught his eye. “I’m not at all sure that was wise.”

Any suspicion that he hadn’t intended it, that he hadn’t deliberately let some suggestion of the nature of their friendship show, was slain by the look in his eyes, hard and uncompromising. “Trust me.” His voice was low, his diction precise. “Correcting that particular misconception was definitely necessary.”

He sounded more than sure…indeed, she wasn’t sure just what to make of his tone, but before she could question him, he added, “I can’t help you with the rest, not actively, but that’s one aspect I can personally address.” Looking down, he met her gaze. “And I believe you’ll find it won’t harm your standing in the least.”

She searched his eyes, that enticing medley of greens and golds, noted his satisfaction, and decided to leave well enough alone. With a light shrug, she looked ahead. “I daresay you’re right.”

He was. If there was one thing Jack could happily take an oath on, it was that the ton would treat her with far greater respect if they understood just how interested in her he was. How deeply she held him in thrall. A gentleman’s enthrallment was a sure measure of a lady’s power; his surrender would vouch for hers more convincingly than anything else.

Admitting to enthrallment. That hadn’t, of course, been his intention, but he hadn’t foreseen how matters would evolve. Yet if displaying his enslavement made her difficult road easier, so be it; he was, curiously, content. No matter what he wished, he couldn’t slay the dragons of her past for her—as Lady Osbaldestone had so sapiently remarked, that was for her and her alone to do—but he could clear her path.

Grimly satisfied, he surveyed the outcome of their public display. A goodly number of the gossipmongers were now viewing them with eyes on stalks, understanding lighting their eyes. That Lady Clarice Altwood had made at least one notable conquest would be the latest morsel of juicy gossip passed over the ton’s teacups tomorrow.

Nothing scandalous, but it would serve to slay any notion that she was doomed to die an aging spinster, that her interests, her abilities, didn’t encompass snaring a husband and raising a family.

Indeed, given who she was, a dynasty.

His mind was happily exploring that notion, leaving the conversation largely to her, keeping nothing more than a watching brief on the reactions of those around, when a well-dressed gentleman pushed through the crowd to reach them, waited, openly impatient, for the lady and gentleman conversing with Clarice to move on, then stepped forward to claim her attention.

“My dear Clarice.”

Clarice hesitated for a heartbeat before regally offering her hand. “Emsworth.”

The chill in her tone would have alerted Jack even if he hadn’t recognized the name. So this was the bounder who’d caused her so much heartache. Jack watched him straighten from his bow.

Clarice retrieved her hand, and gestured at Jack. “Allow me to present Lord Warnefleet. Viscount Emsworth, my lord.”

She’d uttered the last two words in subtle but provocative fashion. Jack shook hands with Emsworth, who met his gaze with barely concealed dislike.

Something of Jack’s thoughts must have shown in his eyes; Emsworth’s eyes widened, and he abruptly broke the contact.

He looked at Clarice, and smiled, a stiff gesture that marked him as one who didn’t smile often. “My dear Clarice, I’m delighted to see you back among the ton. If you would honor me with this dance?”

Jack inwardly swore. Emsworth had timed his approach well, but as the musical summons floated over the crowd, Jack relaxed. A cotillion. He glanced at Clarice, and sensed her inward shrug. He resigned himself to letting her dance with Emsworth.

“If you wish.” Clarice gave Emsworth her hand. It was, perhaps, not a bad thing for her to be seen interacting civilly with him. He was a part of her past she’d buried long ago; she discovered she felt very little toward him, not even true anger, just a mild annoyance that he wished to take up her time.

But she would be gracious and spare him the next few minutes. That, to her mind, would lay that part of her past to permanent rest.

He led her to the dance floor, and they took up their positions in the nearest set. The music swelled, and they dipped, twirled. Throughout, Emsworth tried to catch her eye; Clarice delighted in denying him even that much notice. The figures of the complicated dance returned to her without thought. She smiled at the other dancers, perfectly content to have them see her nonchalantly dancing with Emsworth.

When the music ceased, and she rose from her final curtsy, Emsworth tightened his grip on her hand. “My dear Clarice, there’s a matter I wish to discuss with you, a matter, as it were, from our shared past.”

She met Emsworth’s gray eyes, tried to fathom just what matter that might be.

He glanced around, over the crowd’s heads. “Come out onto the terrace. We can talk there.”

Without waiting for any agreement, he steered her toward the glass doors opening to a terrace that ran the length of the ballroom. Resigned, Clarice went; she’d never approved of him, of the way he treated her, but she wanted to hear what he had to say. It might give her something else she could use to spike the pistol Moira had trained on Alton and Sarah, and that definitely would be worth a few more minutes of her time.

Reaching the doors, Emsworth guided her through; just before she crossed the threshold, Clarice glanced back, and spotted Jack’s burnished head moving purposefully through the crowd in their direction. The sight was reassuring; she could admit that much to herself.

Once on the terrace, Emsworth looked around, then, his fingers about her elbow, he urged her away from the knot of guests conversing just beyond the doors. They strolled to where shadows from nearby trees flickered over the flagstones, and there were no others near enough to hear.