A Fine Passion (40 page)

Shared endeavors, shared aims, shared accomplishments, shared successes, shared joys. All those together, everything that made up shared lives.

This, she knew, was what she’d been made for, what she’d waited all the long years for.

His was the life she was on earth to share, and hers was his rightful sphere.

Lying on her back, her fingers trailing lightly through his hair as he lay slumped across her, his head pillowed on her breasts, she blinked, then squinted down at him. “What did you call me?”

He didn’t open his eyes, but his lips curved against her skin. “Boadicea.” After a moment, he added, “It’s my nickname for you.”

She stared at him, speechless, totally unsure how to respond, how she should or wanted to respond.

Apparently realizing he’d accomplished a feat few ever had, he opened his eyes and lifted his head the better to view her wordless state.

What she saw in his eyes, the soft glow that lit the gold and green, only stunned her more, left her even more bereft of words.

She knew what he was, always had known, had recognized the steel, the hardness, the shields. That he would be this vulnerable, and allow her to see it—that he would call her Boadicea, his warrior-queen—simply took her breath away.

He caught her hand, touched his lips to her fingers.

The touch anchored her, helped her feet find earth. She blinked, managed a weak frown. “Boadicea was painted blue.”

Still smiling, he shook his head. “Not blue for you—pink and white. If you need anything to cover your nakedness”—he looked down and surveyed her breasts—“it can only be apple blossom.”

There was a smug, supremely male expression on his face.

She couldn’t help it—she laughed.

Saw answering laughter spark in his eyes, and realized that was the right response, that nothing more was needed between them.

Reaching for him, she drew his face to hers and kissed him. Then he kissed her.

Eventually, he drew away. “It’s already dawn. I have to go.”

She looked into his eyes, mere inches away. “Stay.”

He searched her face, confirmed what she was saying, hesitated, then grimaced. “No, not yet. Not until this is over.”

She sighed and let him go. His face had set; her warrior-lord was back. Her reputation was his to guard, or so he saw it.

Lying amid the apple blossoms, feeling them shift silkily against her skin, she watched him dress and knew she’d never want him to change. “I’ll come to the club later in the morning. You’ll be meeting with your colleagues, I expect.”

He looked at her, nodded. Then he returned to the bed, kissed her witless, and slipped out of the room while her head was still spinning.

She arrived at the club at eleven o’clock and was met with grave faces all around.

“Some bargemen I’d hired found Humphries’ body washed up on the morning tide.” Jack glanced at Christian and Deverell, then turned back to Clarice. “We—you and I—should take the news to the bishop.”

Clarice nodded.

“Meanwhile,” Christian said, his tone flat and steely, “we’ll check with our sources and get Tristan to do the same. Someone may have seen Humphries along the riverbanks or bridges. We might jog someone’s memory now we know where to concentrate.”

Solemn and serious, they parted. Jack handed Clarice into Alton’s carriage, and they rattled around to Lambeth. But once admitted to the palace, they had to kick their heels for over an hour; the bishop, dean, and Deacon Olsen were all officiating in the cathedral.

Finally, the dean returned. Hearing their news, his face fell, but he quickly organized a private audience with the bishop.

His lordship was appalled. Jack realized that, however much he’d been told that Humphries had been drawn into a dangerous game, the bishop hadn’t, until that moment, comprehended the life-and-death nature of that game.

“I…oh, my heavens!” Pasty-faced, the bishop stared at him. “How…? Do you know?”

“It seems he was coshed, most likely knocked unconscious, then tossed into the water. He would have drowned quickly.”

The bishop glanced at Clarice. Although pale, she was holding up better than he. The sight seemed to stiffen his spine. “Yes, well, we will, of course, do all that’s necessary. If you could have the body delivered here—”

A knock fell on the door. The bishop scowled. “What is it?” His tone was querulous; he was deeply shaken.

Olsen looked in. “I apologize for interrupting, my lord, but a message has arrived for Lord Warnefleet.”

Jack crossed to meet Olsen. Taking the note, he glanced at the seal, then broke it. Unfolding the note, he glanced at the bishop. “It’s from Christian Allardyce—Dearne.”

The bishop blinked. “He’s one of you, too?”

Jack didn’t answer. Scanning the note’s contents, he returned to where the bishop, Clarice, and the dean waited, Olsen at his heels. “Two evenings ago, Humphries was seen walking along the river bank near Tower Bridge. He was with another man—a large man, soberly dressed, with a pale, very round face.” He looked up.

Clarice met his eyes. “The same man—the courier-cum-informer we’ve been tripping over all along, from Avening to here.”

Jack nodded.

“But…why kill poor Humphries?” The bishop looked bewildered.

“Presumably because Humphries knew this man too well and could identify him.” Jack sighed. “I suspect we’ve reached a dead end with our investigations. Unless Humphries has left any information in his room?”

He looked at Olsen and the dean; both shook their heads.

“When he didn’t return,” the dean said, “we searched everywhere hoping to find the name of some meeting place, some address or way of contacting this person, but there was nothing in Humphries’ papers.”

Jack grimaced. “Standard practice. Nothing ever to be written down.”

A moment passed as they absorbed the fact that not only was Humphries dead, but that his murderer would almost certainly escape justice.

Clarice stirred. “What about the charges against James?”

The bishop blinked, refocused, then waved his hand. “Consider them erased.” He met Clarice’s eyes. “I’m exceedingly glad I forbade James to leave Avening. Bad enough I’ve lost one good man to this…this charade of someone’s making. If I’d lost James, too, I would have been extremely unhappy. I will, of course, write to him, but I would be greatly obliged if, when you see him, you would assure him of my continued support and that we look to see him when next he ventures to the capital for his studies.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Clarice curtsied.

Jack bowed. “If you will excuse us, my lord, I believe I should take this information to Whitehall without delay.”

Reiterating his thanks, the bishop dismissed them.

Olsen and the dean followed them out. Jack assured them Humphries’ body would be delivered shortly to the palace. Teddy appeared as they crossed the front hall; he spoke briefly with Clarice, then stood on the steps with Olsen and the dean as Jack handed Clarice up into the carriage. With a salute to the three men, Jack joined her. The coachman flicked his whip and the carriage rolled smoothly down the palace drive.

Whitehall wasn’t far away.

Clarice, of course, had absolutely no intention of waiting in the carriage while Jack consulted with Dalziel. Jack was perfectly sure she wanted another look at his enigmatic superior, and he saw no reason to deny her; it might jog her memory over who Dalziel was.

He ushered her into the bowels of the building, into the anteroom that gave onto Dalziel’s office. He gave his name to the unassuming clerk, to whom it meant nothing. While the clerk went to inquire his master’s pleasure, Jack wondered if Dalziel constantly changed clerks; they were never the same.

The clerk returned almost immediately. “He will see you now, but the lady must remain here.”

Jack knew from the way the clerk very nearly quailed that Clarice had narrowed her eyes at him. Before she could cut the poor man to ribbons, he squeezed her hand. “No point. He’s a law unto himself. Wait here, I won’t be long.”

He left her muttering about the trumped-up behavior of scions of the nobility, of which she, of course, was one. She couldn’t see his smile as he walked down the short corridor to Dalziel’s room, the highly relieved clerk trotting before him. The clerk showed him in, then departed, closing the door.

Dalziel rose from behind his desk; he extended his hand and Jack shook it, a courtesy they wouldn’t have exchanged before, but Jack was no longer one of Dalziel’s subordinates. Now, they met more or less as equals, as gentlemen tying up the final untidy threads of a decades-long war.

Dalziel’s gaze had raked his face the instant he’d walked into the room. Now, waving him to the chair before the desk, Dalziel slumped heavily back into his. “I take it you bear no good news?”

Jack grimaced. “Humphries’ body washed up this morning in the Deptford marshes.”

Dalziel swore, violently and colorfully. He stared up at the ceiling. “Do we know anything about the man responsible?”

Jack related what they’d learned. “So it’s been the same man at every turn.”

Dalziel’s dark eyes met his. “No hint of anyone else?”

“Not a whisper.” Jack studied Dalziel’s impossible-to-read face, then baldly asked, “Have you no clue who the real traitor is?”

Dalziel held his gaze for a long moment, before replying, “Not who, but as to what…that’s become rather clearer. This episode unfortunately won’t lead us to the man—he’s been too clever for that. Whoever this foreigner is, he’s certainly not the mastermind behind the whole. However, the very nature of the charade has revealed that our traitor knows the ropes of government, the legal system, and society well. He made only one mistake—choosing James Altwood, who knew about you, as his target, and that was something he couldn’t have known. If it hadn’t been for that slip, we wouldn’t have been so sure of Altwood’s innocence so early in the piece, early enough to act decisively to avoid any trial.”

Dalziel shuddered. “I don’t want to think of what would have happened if the charges had progressed to a formal trial. The failure of the case would have been spectacular, and would have effectively ended any hope of bringing the
real
last traitor to justice. Any subsequent talk of traitors would have been completely discounted.” He paused, then added, “As a way of ensuring his own safety, this charade was inspired. Whoever he is, he knew to a nicety what he was doing.

“Of course, he didn’t expect to fail.” Dalziel’s expression subtly altered. He glanced at Jack. “For our troubles, we’ve learned that the last traitor is in fact real. Until now, he’s been little more than a shade, a postulated being. All I had were suspicions, instincts. But now you, Dearne, Deverell, Trentham, and I all know that the last traitor exists. No shade organized all this.”

Jack inclined his head. “True. So although we didn’t win this skirmish, we came away with improved intelligence.”

Dalziel smiled. “Aptly put.” He paused, clearly reviewing. “One last thing. Did anyone get a good look at this foreigner?”

“Anthony Sissingbourne—he saw the man’s face only briefly, but at closest range. And Lady Clarice Altwood—she saw him from a greater distance, but she saw the man walk, move.” Jack hesitated, then added, “Of the two, Clarice would be more likely to recognize the man than Anthony.”

Dalziel nodded. “It might prove worth our time to review the foreigners known to be of similar physical description, those in the embassies, the consulates, various diplomatic posts, that sort of thing. If we turn up any likely candidates, we may need Lady Clarice.”

Blank-faced, Dalziel met Jack’s eyes. “If you were still under my command, I’d order you to keep her close, and guard her well.” His mobile lips twitched. “However, from all I hear, you’ll be doing precisely that, order or no.”

His expression impassive, Jack merely inclined his head. “She says she intends returning to Gloucestershire. Regardless, I’ll remain with her.”

“Good.” Dalziel rose.

Jack did the same. He met Dalziel’s gaze, let a slight frown show. “I’d much prefer to imagine we won’t meet again.”

The faintest of self-deprecatory smiles curved Dalziel’s lips. “Unfortunately, our instincts are independently suggesting that’s unlikely to be the case.” He grimaced. “Which means this is no real parting.” He waved Jack to the door. “Take care of her.”

“I will.” Hand on the knob, Jack paused, then glanced back. “Incidentally, she hasn’t recognized you yet.”

Back in his chair, Dalziel met his gaze, then shrugged. “With luck, by the time she does, it won’t matter anymore.”

Picking up a pen, Dalziel gave his attention to a letter. Puzzled, Jack went out; closing the door, he walked back to where Clarice was waiting, pacing before the highly nervous clerk.

In the carriage, he told her all Dalziel had said; she merely humphed and frowned.

They returned to the Benedict to take stock. On the table in her sitting room, they found a note from Alton, with two tickets for that evening’s Royal Gala at Vauxhall.

“I thought tickets to such events were obtainable more or less only by royal decree.” Jack examined the gilt-edged vouchers.

Clarice humphed. “They are, but Alton can be as charming as some others I know when he wishes.” She perused the note. “He writes that the bishop has informed him that the charges against James have been dismissed outright, and that he, Roger, and Nigel thought to use the Gala for a combined celebration of their winning free of Moira, their pending engagements, and James’s exoneration, to which, of course, Alton bids us attend.”

Handing the note to Jack, Clarice smiled to herself. It was patently clear her brothers thought to use the Gala—the very epitome of tonnish entertainment—to demonstrate the benefits of returning to the family fold, hoping to sway her into wanting her life of old.

They wouldn’t succeed, but if she let them try their damnedest, if she attended and enjoyed, and
then
told them she was returning to Avening and her quiet country life, they would realize how futile it was to keep pressing her, that her decision was indeed final and absolute.