A Fine Passion (37 page)

Clarice nodded. “And?”

“Humphries was…well,
confused
. It wasn’t that he questioned your findings, more that he couldn’t see how they could be. He was insistent,
very
insistent that his charges were justified, that the information his informer would personally provide would prove more than convincing on its own. He’d intended to call the informer as a witness, if such confirmation was needed. He, Humphries, was still keen to present the man’s evidence before the bishop. Humphries argued that without hearing that evidence, any move to let the charges fall would be premature. In short, he argued for leave to bring this man before the court.”

Jack leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “We—Whitehall—would be very keen to meet this gentleman. Did Humphries tender his name?”

“No.” The dean seemed increasingly agitated. “I asked, the bishop asked, but Humphries held that he’d given his word not to divulge the courier’s name without his permission, because of course, as an ex-courier for the enemy, the man would be incriminating himself…although within the confines of an ecclessiastical court, that’s not quite so clear. However.” The dean drew in a deep breath. “I was called out of the room. While I was gone, Humphries pressed for, and the bishop granted him, leave to speak with the courier first, before revealing the man’s name and calling him as a witness.”

The dean met Jack’s eyes. “Humphries has gone off to meet with the man.”

Jack held the dean’s gaze. “That’s not at all wise.”

The dean wrung his hands. “I felt so, too. I came as soon as I heard. The bishop’s not pleased with Humphries, but he wants this matter settled, buried. We can all see it’s a…well, a distraction, if not worse.”

“Indeed.” Clarice shifted forward; leaning across, she clasped her hands comfortingly about the dean’s fretful ones. “But you’ve done all you can. We’ll have to hope that Humphries returns soon and comes to the same conclusions as we have.”

Under her dark gaze, the dean steadied. He nodded. “You’re right. I’d best get back.” He stood; the others followed suit. “I’ll send word the instant Humphries returns.”

After the dean had left the room, Clarice looked at Jack. “Did Dalziel know we were going to speak with the bishop this morning?”

Jack nodded. “I sent word. It’s possible Dalziel has someone watching Humphries. He, Dalziel, would certainly have been expecting to trace this courier via Humphries, but he might not have expected Humphries to go tearing off today.” Jack moved to Alton’s desk and reached for paper and pen. “I’d better alert Dalziel that Humphries has gone to meet the man.”

Alton watched him scrawl a quick note and seal it, then Alton summoned a footman. Jack gave him the note and directions to Dalziel’s office, buried in the depths of Whitehall.

Once the footman had gone, Alton looked at Jack. “This is truly serious, isn’t it? You fear for Humphries’ life.”

Jack grimaced. “Whether it’s reached that stage I don’t know, but in this game, life and death are the usual rewards.”

Clarice stirred. “Do you think Humphries knows that?”

Jack met her eyes. “No. I think he’s an innocent caught unknowingly in a web spun by Dalziel’s ‘last traitor.’”

Clarice nodded. She saw Alton, puzzled, open his mouth to ask more questions; before he could, she asked, “What progress have you and the other two made with your proposals?”

A question certain to distract Alton. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, then rose to tug the bellpull. “Let’s have some tea and cakes, and the others can tell you themselves.”

Edwards came in; Alton ordered tea and sent for Roger and Nigel, who wonder of wonders were both in the house. Clarice noted a certain spring in Edwards’s step, detected an unusual ease in Alton, too, but she decided to let them answer the questions she’d already posed first.

Roger came striding in, and she didn’t need words to know how his romance was faring; his eyes were alight, his stride carefree, his whole manner a testament to joyous expectation. He caught her hands, hauled her up, and waltzed her around the desk.

“Alice agreed. Her parents agreed. Everything is
wonderful!
” Halting once more before her chair, he planted smacking kisses on both her cheeks, then released her and heaved a contented sigh. “All is well!”

Clarice opened her eyes wide at him. “I’m delighted to hear that. However—”

“As for me—” Nigel appeared, caught her about her waist and swung her up and around, laughing when she swore and thumped his shoulder. He set her back on her feet, still grinning like a fool. “Emily thinks I’m a god. Her parents are a trifle more serious about it, but I know they think I’m remarkable, too.” His eyes danced; he squeezed Clarice’s hands and released her, letting her sink back into her chair. “So everything’s set for the big announcement.”

“Tea, my lords, my lady.” Edwards, still beaming, swept in with the tea tray.

Clarice swallowed her pithy question: what about Moira? and waited while Edwards set out the teapot and cups, and a plate of cakes that her brothers and Jack fell upon like starving wolves. The instant the door closed behind Edwards she looked at Alton. “What about you and Sarah?”

Alton was struggling to keep a boyish grin from his face. “I haven’t had a chance to speak with her today—she was out at some luncheon—but of course I’ve asked, and she’s agreed. And”—he paused to draw a portentous breath—“I had an interview with Conniston at noon. He’s accepted my offer—Claire had paved the way quite nicely, I must say—and so everything’s now set.”

He looked at Clarice; she was aware her other brothers were also looking expectantly her way. “It’s really quite lucky the matter with the dean brought you here. We were wanting to ask you how soon we could hold a ball to make our formal announcements. Two days? Three? I know it’ll be a rush, but we’ll all help, and so will—”

“Wait!” Clarice set down her teacup, then looked at each of their faces. Not one showed any hint of a cloud on their horizon. She had to wonder…“What’s happened to Moira?” She looked from one grinning face to the other. “Where
is
Moira?”

Alton smiled beatifically. “At the moment, she’s on her way to Hamleigh House.”

“
What?
” Clarice was stupefied.

A state her brothers seemed to relish. Nigel chortled. “It was really something, you know. Vesuvius erupting at the breakfast table, fireworks exploding—pity you missed it.”

Roger grinned, unrepentant but understanding. “Alton’s banished her.”

Clarice couldn’t speak. Couldn’t find words, couldn’t get her tongue around them. She stared at Alton. He grinned back, so transparently pleased with himself she didn’t like to ask, but she had to know. “Why? And how?”

She wasn’t entirely surprised when they all sobered. They exchanged glances; she held up a hand. “Just tell me. No roundaboutation, if you please.”

Alton grimaced. “She waltzed into the breakfast parlor this morning in high dudgeon. She wanted—no, she
insisted
—that I banish you again.”

“She screamed and moaned and gnashed her teeth,” Nigel supplied.

Alton nodded. “Over the family, about how they were treating her now you were back, and so on.”

“Helen’s ball was the last straw, it seemed,” Roger put in.

“That I can understand,” Clarice returned. “But surely you didn’t banish her for a little ranting.”

Alton frowned. “It wasn’t just a little.”

“Well, you can imagine what she said about you,” Nigel said.

“But anyway, that wasn’t all. When I refused to banish you, she threatened us, but not just us. She threatened Sarah and the others, but Sarah most of all…” Alton grimaced sheepishly. “I lost my temper.”

“He
roared
at her.” Nigel’s expression clearly stated he’d enjoyed every minute.

Clarice blinked.

“Didn’t know he had it in him,” Roger put in. “Not at that volume, anyway.”

Alton glared at his brothers. “Regardless, it couldn’t go on, her constantly threatening us, trying to manage everything to benefit her darling Carlton.” His voice hardened. “She pushed me too far, and I pushed back. I told her that, given all she’d said about our three wives-to-be, she was no longer welcome at any of the family’s major estates. I told her she could go to Hamleigh”—Alton glanced at Jack—“it’s a small manor the family own in Lancashire—and I’d pick up the household bills and she could live off her jointure, or she could go and stay with her daughters and their husbands if she chose, but she was not to set foot in any of the family’s other houses again, and not to show her face in London again, either.”

Clarice couldn’t believe it. “And she agreed?”

Nigel grinned even more. “That was the best part. I thought she was going to have an apoplexy right there over the breakfast table.”

Alton frowned him down. “Of course she didn’t agree. She ranted and raved and threatened some more, until I informed her that we understood she wanted Carlton to marry well, but that that was hardly likely to occur if we let it be known that he wasn’t Papa’s get.”

C
larice knew her mouth was falling open, but she couldn’t seem to stop it. She gaped at Alton, finally managed to find breath enough to say, “You
knew?
”

Alton frowned. “No. That is, I only learned of it last evening when I dropped by Gribbley and Sons to check the figures for the settlements. Old Gribbley had heard of my plans—he called me into his office to congratulate me and reminisce about how Papa would have seen the match. While doing that, he let fall Papa’s views on Carlton’s parentage.”

“
Papa
knew?” Clarice stared even more.

“Apparently. I gathered it was more than suspicion, but according to Gribbley, with Carlton fourth in line, Papa didn’t care to make a point of it—which sounds like Papa.” Alton shrugged. “I daresay, if he hadn’t died so suddenly, he would have mentioned it to me. As it was, I didn’t know, but Gribbley thought I did.”

Clarice blinked. “But Moira knew you didn’t. After Papa died, she felt perfectly safe in forcing you to dance to her tune.”

“Indeed.”

“But
you
knew.” Head tilted, Roger was studying her. “How?”

Clarice grimaced. “I was seven at the time, and Moira and I were already at loggerheads. Meeting your lover in your own house with an antagonistic young stepdaughter about was hardly wise.”

“But you never let her know you knew,” Nigel said.

“No, but if she’d kept on as she was, I would have.” Clarice looked at Alton. “I intended to confront her with exactly that if she didn’t give way over your marriages.” She smiled. “But now I don’t have to, for you’ve taken care of it yourself.”

Alton’s lips twisted wryly. “Just as well I did. Conniston asked about Moira, so I told him what I’d done. Later, after he’d given his blessing, he told me he wouldn’t have if Moira had still been about. He thinks she’s a viper. He congratulated me for, in his words, ‘coming of age.’”

Clarice studied him for a moment, then let her smile deepen. “In some ways that’s true, and I have to say it’s something of a relief.”

All three of her brothers made rude sounds, but she merely smiled at them all.

“Now,” Alton said, leaning forward, “what about our engagement ball?”

They spent the rest of the afternoon sorting out the arrangements. Jack watched Clarice rise to the occasion, even though she still seemed a trifle dazed.

James was safe, exonerated, his name unimpugned. True, Humphries had yet to withdraw the charges, but as the dean had said, that was only a minor holdup; all would soon be well.

As for Humphries, Jack entertained the gravest concerns, although he said nothing to dampen Clarice’s mood. While she was rattling off instructions regarding the guest list and the invitations, the footman sent to Whitehall returned with a reply from Dalziel; Jack stepped into the front hall to read it.

Dalziel had indeed dispatched a minion to watch and follow Humphries; on reaching the palace and realizing how many exits from the grounds there were, said minion had sent for reinforcements. Unfortunately, before they could arrive and throw a proper net around the palace, Humphries left by a rear gate and disappeared.

For Humphries, the future did not bode well. Dalziel wrote that he would keep Jack informed and requested that Jack reciprocate.

Tucking the note into his pocket, Jack turned to go back into the library, only to find Alton had followed him out and was regarding him evenly.

Jack raised his brows.

Alton studied his face, then nodded toward the note. “That man in Whitehall—was he the one you worked for during the war?”

Jack hesitated; the impulse to veil his past was ingrained, still real.

Alton colored. “I—we—checked. You were a major in the Guards, but no one in your regiment remembers you at all. Yet you’re hardly the forgettable type.”

Jack smiled, entirely sincerely. “Actually, you’ll find that I’m totally forgettable when I wish to be.” He walked closer, halting before Alton so no one else could overhear. “That was my particular talent, always being able to merge in, to appear as if I belonged.” He met Alton’s eyes steadily. “And yes, the gentleman in Whitehall was my superior for over a decade.”

Alton nodded, then smiled. “We just wanted to know.”

Jack returned his smile easily. “Entirely understandable.”

“Alton? Where the devil are you?”

They turned as Clarice appeared at the library door. She frowned at Alton. “Don’t think to escape.”

Alton looked innocent. “I was just going to send for Sarah.”

Clarice nodded. “Do. And while you’re at it, send for Alice and Emily, too, and Aunt Camleigh and you’d better ask Aunt Bentwood, as well. We’ll need everyone to do their part if we’re to arrange a major ball in five days.”

“It could just be an ordinary ball,” Alton said. “We wouldn’t mind.”

Clarice bent a look of withering scorn upon him. “Don’t be an ass! You’re the Marquess of Melton—your engagement ball, by definition,
cannot be
anything other than major! Now come on.” She turned back into the room. “You and the others can make a start on the invitations.”

Alton followed her in. Jack followed more slowly in his wake. He paused just inside the threshold and watched Clarice bustle about, setting her brothers to the task of penning invitations.

James was saved, her brothers’ engagements secured and shortly to be appropriately announced to the fashionable world. All she’d come to London to do, they’d achieved. She’d decreed the ball would be held as soon as possible; he’d interpreted that as a wish to have everything done and finished with.

After that…

Watching her, he couldn’t deny the unsettling uncertainty that had taken root in his mind. Would she return to Avening and quiet country life, or had tonnish society and her family not just reclaimed but recaptured her?

She saw him and frowned. “Come along. You aren’t going to escape either.”

He smiled, easily, charmingly, and ambled over to do her bidding.

They spent the next two hours immersed in engineered chaos. Only Clarice seemed to know what came next. Her sisters-in-law-to-be arrived and joined the discussions, after which Clarice sent them home armed with lists of questions for their parents. Her aunts stopped by and gave their regal blessing, promising to send a list of the more influential members of the ton to be included among the guests.

Throughout, Clarice kept him and her brothers busy inscribing invitations in their best copperplate.

Finally, she glanced at the clock, and called a halt. “We need to dress for dinner.”

Alton stretched and groaned. “I’m going to collapse at my club.”

Clarice narrowed her eyes at him. “No, you are not. You’re going to join Sarah and squire her about.” She raked her other two brothers. “And you are going to do the same with Alice and Emily. As of now, you are affianced gentlemen, and you need to act the part. If you want your engagement ball to be a success, you’ll start sowing the right seeds tonight.”

Nigel snorted. “Three Altwoods announce their engagements all on the same night, with their recently returned-from-banishment sister as hostess. The ball won’t be a success, it’ll be a riot. Everyone in London will want to attend.” He caught Clarice’s glare and held up his hands. “All right, all right, we’ll do as you say, but there’s no chance of this ball being anything other than a horrible crush.”

“Actually”—Alton leaned forward and fixed his dark gaze on Clarice’s face—“speaking of hostesses, you will return here now, won’t you, Clary? Moira’s gone, and Sarah certainly won’t mind—she sees you as an older sister already. She’d welcome your help, and indeed, no one is better suited to dealing with this sort of thing.” He waved at the clutter of invitations surrounding them. “There’s no reason you need to return to Avening, not now. James doesn’t need you, but we do. You will stay, won’t you?”

Jack’s heart seized.

Before Clarice could utter a word, Roger and Nigel leapt in to add their entreaties. This time, the three were more persuasive; they’d had time to plan and polish their arguments. They painted a picture of Clarice’s life as it should have been, as it could now be if she wished, the life she was born to, one of privilege, wealth, and position.

Jack managed not to react, not to stiffen, not to draw anyone’s attention as he sat back and listened. Calling on the skills of his past, he let himself fade into the background until the other four had forgotten he was there.

He watched Clarice. She hadn’t yet suceeded in saying a word; she seemed resigned to letting her brothers put forward every last argument they could muster, pulling every string they could think of to convince her to return to the family fold.

Keeping silent and still was an effort, a battle. He felt like his heart was in his throat, but still he waited. It was her decision, and only hers.

Finally, when Nigel had at last run out of words and an expectant silence fell, Clarice smiled at them. “Thank you, but no.”

Jack breathed out. He felt faintly giddy.

Clarice held up a hand to cut off her brothers’ protests. “No. Don’t argue. You’ve argued quite enough, and I must return to the hotel and get ready for the evening.”

Calm and serene, she rose and turned to Jack.

Rising, too, he met her eyes, but could read nothing beyond fond exasperation with her brothers in the dark depths.

She kissed them as they farewelled her. “I’ll see you all tonight.”

Cloaking his feelings in his customary geniality, Jack bade the brothers good-bye, led her into the hall and out to Alton’s town carriage, waiting to carry them to Benedict’s. Settling onto the seat beside her, head back as the carriage lurched, then rumbled on its way, he told himself she’d said “no.”

Unfortunately, it hadn’t been a very convincing “no.”

It hadn’t convinced her brothers; he’d seen the glances they’d exchanged. It hadn’t convinced him either.

Things had changed dramatically, unexpectedly. She’d been welcomed back into the ton, her stepmother had been defeated and banished, her brothers were all to marry soon. And they’d succeeded in exonerating James.

When she’d had time to consider, to think of how much had altered, would she still wish to return to Avening, a quiet country backwater, or would she choose to remain in town and live the life she always should have had?

He wasn’t going to give her up. Not easily; not without a fight.

Arm braced against the mantelpiece, boot propped on the fender, Jack stared into the fire in the sitting room of Clarice’s suite. She was still dressing for the evening; he had a little time.

Her brothers’ renewed push to have her rejoin the family had been an unwelcome shock. He was grimly aware of how significant a threat their suggestion posed to his vision of the future, the vision he’d been nurturing for the past weeks, that of him living quietly at Avening with Clarice by his side.

At no stage had he imagined winning her would be easy. Unlike with other females, he couldn’t ride up and slay her dragons for her and claim her hand as his reward. With her, he could only clear the way, at most empower her so she could slay said dragons herself. She was that sort of woman. He could stand by her side, his hand over hers on her sword and help her, but as with vanquishing Moira, it was she who had to perform the crucial act.

Being self-determining was a part of who she was; he couldn’t in any way take that from her. Not if he wanted her, and he did.

Through their time in the ton, his admiration for her had only grown. He’d seen more of her strengths, and while those dominated everyone’s view of her, he’d glimpsed vulnerabilities, too. And noted them. Not to exploit, but to support, to protect.

In his heart, he was convinced she needed him every bit as much as he needed her. But how to bring that to her attention?

The only answer he’d been able to conjure was to unstintingly give her the support she needed, which wasn’t always what one might suppose. She didn’t need or want to be protected in the same way other women did, but assisted. Treated as an equal, not set in a gilded cage.

But he’d been doing precisely that for weeks, and while she definitely appreciated his help, he suspected she viewed it more or less as her due, which, indeed, it was. How, then, was he to shake her, to open her eyes so she saw him as him, and not just as a male who had the sense to deal with her correctly?

Deverell’s advice returned to him. Surprise. He’d thought the idea worthy of consideration at the time; now, it held promise.

If he wanted to woo her, then it had to be suitably, which meant unconventionally. Others had tried conventional approaches in the past; it was no real wonder they hadn’t succeeded.

Not jewels; too easy, too predictable, and she already had a horde. Something more meaningful.

“Right then.”

He turned to see the object of his thoughts gliding toward him encased in a seductive confection of shimmering cerise gossamers and matching silks.

She caught his eye, and twirled. “Do you approve?”

He met her gaze, and smiled, with perfectly sincere intent. “You look…superb.” Taking her cloak from the maid who’d followed her from the bedroom, he draped it over her shoulders. As he did, he murmured, voice low, just for her, “Quite
delectable
, in fact.”

From close quarters, her eyes, a trifle wide, touched his, briefly scanned, then her lips lifted, and she looked ahead. “We’d better go.”

Before he shocked the maid. He smiled, inclined his head, and followed her from the room.

Jack came down to a late breakfast at the Bastion Club, still smiling at the fond memories he now possessed of a warrior-queen writhing in naked ecstasy upon a bed of shimmering cerise silk.

The color of the silk against her skin, ruby against the ivory white, just like rose petals, had given him an idea of one gift he could give her that she wouldn’t expect, but, he suspected, would appreciate.

He mentioned his requirements to Gasthorpe, who undertook to send a footman to scour the city and surrounds for what he needed.