A Fine Passion (38 page)

He’d just finished a plate of ham and saugages and was savoring Gasthorpe’s excellent coffee, when a sharp knock on the club’s front door was followed by an inquiry in a clear voice he knew well, in a tone that brought his protective instincts surging to life. Rising, he walked out without waiting for Gasthorpe to summon him.

Clarice met his eyes, signaled toward the dean, standing beside her. “There you are. I fear we bring bad news.”

Jack took one look at the dean’s ashen face, and ushered them both into the parlor. “Perhaps a little brandy, Gasthorpe.”

“Indeed, my lord. At once.”

Jack saw the dean into one armchair. Clarice watched, then sank into the other. Although shocked, she was by no means overcome.

“What’s happened?” Jack looked at the dean; the man suddenly seemed his age, much frailer than before.

“Humphries.” The dean met Jack’s eyes. “He hasn’t returned.”

Gasthorpe arrived with a tray loaded with brandy, tea and coffee. Jack gave the dean a stiff tot of brandy, then helped himself to coffee while Clarice poured herself a cup of tea.

The dean sipped, coughed, sipped again, then cleared his throat. “I wanted to send word last night, when Humphries didn’t appear at dinner, but the bishop…I think he was hoping against hope. He’s in a terrible state. We’ve asked all the porters, but they haven’t seen Humphries since he left the palace yesterday afternoon, soon after he spoke with the bishop.”

Jack glanced at Clarice, met her dark eyes. “We can hope, but I fear we should expect the worst.”

He looked at the dean, who nodded, defeated. “I’ll send word to my colleagues, and get a search under way.” He hesitated, then asked, “Has the bishop notified Whitehall?”

The dean frowned. “I don’t know…I don’t think so.”

“I’ll send word there, too.”

After a few minutes, when some color had returned to the dean’s parchmentlike cheeks, Jack suggested he return to the palace. “Tell the bishop we’ll do all we can, but if something serious has befallen Humphries, it’s possible we’ll never know. And if by chance Humphries does return, do let me know immediately.”

“Yes, of course.” The dean stood.

Clarice got to her feet. “I’ll take the Dean back to the palace in my carriage.” She met Jack’s gaze. “I’ve canceled all my appointments today. I’ll be spending the entire day at Melton House, organizing.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll send word there, and to the palace, if we have any news. That said, I’m not expecting to learn anything soon.”

He saw the dean and Clarice back to Alton’s town carriage, then strode swiftly back to the house.

“Gasthorpe?”

“Yes, my lord—I have the footmen waiting.”

He sent word to Dalziel, Christian, and Tristan, and roused Deverell from his bed upstairs. All of them went to work, activating a network of eyes and ears, concentrating on the areas south and east of the palace, and all along the Thames, searching for any sighting of Humphries, alone or with someone else.

The Bastion Club became their base; Dalziel sent word he’d have his men report there, too.

After lunch, Jack changed into merchant garb and went down to the river. Finding a team of bargemen with no work, he sent them to search the marshes at Deptford as far east as Greenwich Reach, the traditional place for bodies put into the river close to the city to wash up. That done, he returned to the club to receive any reports and coordinate their efforts.

The day wore on, and they heard nothing. Although he hadn’t expected anything else, Jack wondered if they’d ever learn what had happened to Humphries.

As the hours ticked by, he was glad Clarice was occupied, safely ensconced in the bosom of her family, surrounded by others and with too much to do to think too much about the missing deacon. To wonder if there’d been anything they could have done differently that might have deflected the sadly driven man from his determined course.

Jack knew there wasn’t. That when people like Humphries were caught in a web of intrigue and treason, they were too weak to break free. In this case, the spider—the last traitor—would devour Humphries, even if, as Jack suspected, it wouldn’t be he himself who did the deed.

When afternoon edged toward evening, and there was still no word, Jack left the reins in Gasthorpe’s capable hands and headed for Benedict’s. Finding Clarice absent, he went on to Melton House.

She was still there. He walked into the drawing room and saw her seated on a chaise surrounded by her sisters-in-law-to-be, her aunts, and a small army of female helpers. She looked like nothing so much as a general directing her troops.

Distracted, she looked up; across the room, she met his eyes. Swiftly read his expression. She didn’t need to ask whether they’d heard anything.

She glanced at the clock, blinked, then turned to her helpers. “Great heavens! We’ve forgotten the time!”

The observation triggered a torrent of exclamations, of orders for carriages to be brought around. The female gathering broke up. Jack surmised Clarice’s brothers had taken refuge in their clubs.

The departing ladies smiled shyly up at him as they trooped past him into the front hall. Clarice brought up the rear. Reaching him, she lifted a hand and lightly touched his cheek, then let her hand fall to grip his arm before moving past him.

Comforted by that fleeting touch, by the understanding and empathy it conveyed, he followed her into the hall. He nodded to her aunts as they kissed Clarice’s cheek and turned to leave.

“We’ll see you later,” Lady Bentwood told Clarice.

Jack wanted nothing more than a peaceful evening alone with Boadicea.

When the door closed behind the last of the ladies, she walked back to him. With a sigh, she halted before him.

He looked into her dark eyes. “Do we have to go out tonight?”

She studied his eyes, then grimaced. “I’m afraid so. It’s Lady Holland’s
bal masque
.”

Lady Holland was one of the ton’s foremost hostesses.

Taking his hand, Clarice led him into the drawing room. Inside, she turned into his arms; behind him, he pushed the door closed.

“We have to go. It’s an annual event, one of those must-attend events of the Season, at least among the haut ton.”

He pulled a face. “And it’s a masked ball?”

She leaned into him, smiled as he settled his arms about her. Raising her hands, she framed his face. “We have to go, but we don’t have to stay long.”

He searched her eyes. “Where am I going to get a domino?”

“I’ve asked Manning, the concierge, to organize one. He’s terribly efficient, and for some unfathomable reason, he’s decided he approves of you.”

Jack humphed. “Very well. If we must, we must.” That she’d spoken of “we” throughout mollifed him somewhat.

She stretched up and kissed him. Gently, lightly, a promise of things to come.

He accepted the caress, but made no move to take it further.

Ending it, she drew back, lifting one brow in patent surprise.

With his head, he indicated the door. “It has a lock, but no key.”

Her expression lightened. She laughed and stepped out of his arms. “In that case, it’s clearly time to leave. Let’s go back to Benedict’s. We can dine there.”

They did, then she dressed for the evening, and they took the carriage to the Bastion Club. Jack donned his evening clothes while Gasthorpe relayed the results of the day’s search, an uninspiring negative all around.

Jack grimaced and dismissed Gasthorpe with a nod. Swirling the black domino Manning had had waiting for him around his shoulders, he tied the ties across his chest, made a horrendous face in the mirror, then picked up the black mask that completed the prescribed outfit, and went down to fetch Clarice from the parlor.

During the drive to Holland House, he told her of their lack of success.

Returning the clasp of his fingers, she leaned lightly against his shoulder. “You’ve done all you can.”

Their carriage joined the line of conveyances waiting to deposit their occupants before the arched entrance to the gardens of Holland House. Eventually, the carriage rocked to a complete halt; putting on their masks, they descended, then followed the graveled path beneath a stand of old trees to the conservatory where the Hollands stood waiting to receive their guests. Her ladyship’s famed
bal masque
was always held in the gardens rather than in Holland House itself.

The terrace onto which the conservatory opened was long, and lit by numerous lamps; when, after being warmly welcomed by Lady Holland and her much quieter spouse, Jack and Clarice emerged onto its flags, the wide expanse running the length of the house was already crammed with the cream of the ton, a strange sight in their crowlike dominos, with the bright colors of gowns flashing here and there, like jewels hidden beneath, while the genuine jewels garlanding ladies’ throats and winking from gentlemen’s cravats glowed with liquid fire.

The impression of a gathering of fantastical birds was heightened by the masks, some with long feathers adorning their upper edges, others with jeweled or gilt nosepieces very like beaks.

At this stage of the night, masks were compulsory, as were the black dominos. In a well-lit ballroom, it would be relatively easy to penetrate such an incomplete disguise, but in the Holland House gardens, neither the flickering terrace lamps, the moon that shed a gentle radiance, nor the small lanterns scattered about the gardens cast enough illumination to do anything other than veil every figure in mystery.

As more guests arrived, those already present spilled down the terrace steps and spread out along the lower walks and lawns; like a wave, they rippled expectantly across the paved court, an improvised dance floor. Descending the steps at Clarice’s side, Jack admitted, “It really is a magical sight.”

Hidden in a leafy grotto, the musicians set bows to strings, and the first haunting strains of a waltz floated out above the gleaming heads. Clarice turned into his arms and he gathered her in, then set them revolving.

She smiled. “It’s a magical night.”

At such a ball, until the unmasking at midnight, it was possible to dance with one partner exclusively without causing a scandal; with everyone masked and cloaked, how could any of the beady eyes watching possibly be sure, sure enough to risk comment? So they waltzed, and talked quietly as they moved through the crowd. Some guests, mainly the younger crew, grasped the opportunity of anonymity to indulge in rather more risque behavior than they would normally dare, yet the gathering was generally benign, a pleasant way to spend a spring evening.

Later, once dominos were put back and masks removed, the glitter and glamour of a ton ball would take hold, but until then, a sense of subtle mystery held sway.

“That’s Alton.” Clarice leaned close to Jack, indicating a couple standing nearby, totally oblivious to all about them. “At least he’s behaving. I haven’t sighted the other two, yet.”

“They’re here.” Jack steered her away from Alton and Sarah.

Clarice blinked up at him. “Have you seen them? How did you recognize them?”

He grinned. “They saw you. I recognized their reaction.”

She studied his eyes, confirmed he wasn’t joking, then humphed and looked away. Being taller than the average, she was relatively easy to recognize; spotting her through the crowd, Roger and Nigel had both headed in the opposite direction. Jack smiled, and turned her toward the dance floor; the musicians were getting ready to start playing again.

They were at the edge of the floor, waiting to step into the dance, when a younger couple, laughing, presented themselves before them.

The lady playfully wagged her finger at them. “Her ladyship says you’ve been dancing together far too much. You must mingle.”

“Indeed.” Her companion, tall and darkly handsome, grinned. “You are
commanded
to mingle.” He bowed flourishingly before Clarice. “My lady?”

Clarice shot an amused glance at Jack, then gave the gentleman her hand. “If you insist, my lord.”

Jack watched her step into the gentleman’s arms, quelled a pang of jealousy and patently irrational concern. He looked down at the pretty blond lady, who all but bobbed before him expectantly. He smiled. “Ma’am, if you would honor me with this dance?”

She laughed, a light sound that held a measure of triumph, then gave him her hand and let him lead her to the floor.

There was nothing unusual about the encounter; the same had been happening to other couples about them for the last half hour. Nevertheless, out of habit, Jack kept a distant eye on Clarice as he whirled his partner around the floor.

Keeping track of Clarice should have been easy, yet when the dance ended and, parting from his companion, who curtsied prettily then bobbed away into the crowd, doubtless searching for her next victim, Jack focused on the lady he’d thought was Clarice, the woman turned and proved to be someone much older. A chill touched his nape. He scanned the shifting crowd, but could see no other tall and regal female.

The last he’d glimpsed of her, and been sure it was her, she and her partner had been revolving down the other side of the floor. Reminding his prickling instincts that they were in the private gardens of Holland House, enclosed within stone walls, and that the chances of anything untoward occurring were surely slight, he started quartering the crowd.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that anyone with any connection to the ton would have known that Clarice would be there tonight. Dancing with him in the poor light.

And that everyone would be masked and cloaked, indistinguishable—that no matter how he prodded his memory, he would never be able to identify either the gentleman who had whisked Clarice away or the lady who had distracted him.

When he reached the other side of the dance floor, and had still not found Clarice, he was ready to panic.

“Unhand me, you oaf!” Clarice struggled frantically, trying to break free of the rough hands that had grabbed her and hauled her back through shrubs and bushes into a dark clearing.

Her partner—the bounder!—had whirled her to an unexpected halt at the far edge of the dancing area, indeed, just a little beyond, where the paved court was bounded by thick shrubbery.