A Fine Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  Teddy nodded. “I’ll do that.” He looked at Clarice. “How’s James taking this?”

  Clarice assured him that, in typical James fashion, James was somewhat less exercised than they were.

  Teddy grinned. “He always excelled at ignoring what he didn’t want to concern himself with.”

  Parting from Teddy, they went out of the gates, then turned toward Lambeth Bridge to find a hackney.

  Eyes down, frowning, Clarice paced beside Jack. “Why did you warn Teddy not to follow Humphries outside the grounds?”

  “Because we’ve already had one Altwood with a close to broken head.” Jack glanced around. The area surrounding the palace and its gardens was well-to-do, genteel, and stultifyingly neat, but just blocks away in multiple directions lay stews and squalid tenements where not even clerics would be safe. “I don’t want another one, and I don’t even want to think about what might occur if Teddy meets your almost-a-gentleman with a round face, and you and I aren’t there to scare him off.”

  “Ah.” Clarice lifted her head; her lips set in a determined line. “In that case, I suggest you and I repair to the Benedict and over luncheon sort out what we need to do to disprove these allegations.”

  A hackney came clattering over the bridge; Jack waved it down, then with a flourishing bow, waved Clarice into it. “Your charger awaits. Lead on.”

  The look she threw him as she entered the carriage was elementally superior. “Are you sure there’s not some deeper problem with your head?”

  Jack laughed and followed her.

  Chapter 13

  The following morning, Clarice sat at the little table before the window in her suite, sipped her tea, crunched her toast, and considered calling on her brother.

  She really should call on her modiste. If she was to go out among the ton at the height of the Season, she would need at least one or two new gowns.

  Glancing at the mantelpiece clock, she confirmed it was close to ten o’clock. She’d risen late, long after Jack had left her in a sated tangle of limbs and sheets at sometime close to dawn.

  Yesterday, they’d returned from their audience with the bishop and had immediately set to work, nibbling on luncheon dishes while they correlated the details of the three meetings cited in the allegations with James’s lists of journeys and interviews. Their first setback had occurred when they’d discovered that the dates of the three incidents did indeed align with three visits James had made to the capital, three visits during which he’d interviewed various soldiers and commanders.

  Her heart had temporarily sunk, but Jack, reading her expression, had remarked that it would have been more surprising if disproving the allegations had indeed been that easy.

  She’d acerbically replied that she would have been quite happy to be so surprised.

  With the meetings established as possible, they’d turned their attention to the people involved, both the witnesses and those James had interviewed. There seemed little correlation between those interviewed and the information James had allegedly passed on.

  “We’ll have to check,” Jack had said, “but even if the substance of the interviews doesn’t match the information supposedly passed, that won’t really help. James could have amassed the information by some other route, or through earlier interviews.”

  “But there does have to be reasonable cause to suppose James actually knew the information he passed, surely?”

  Jack had nodded. “True. So we’ll investigate both aspects—the witnesses and the information passed. We’ll need to learn the specific facts supposedly passed at those three meetings. So far, Humphries hasn’t revealed that, but that will be the most crucial point for James’s defence to attack.”

  It had taken them until dinnertime to decide precisely how they were going to refute the allegations, to list all the points they could challenge and then define every avenue that might lead to the contrary evidence they sought. All in all, the possibilities were extensive, but Jack cautioned that they would need more than one contrary fact, possibly more than two, for each of the three incidents to be sure of laying the allegations to rest.

  At eight o’clock, they’d called a halt and went down to dine in the hotel’s dining room, in an atmosphere more commonly found in the most august of the gentlemen’s clubs. Quiet conversation and total blindness as to the other occupants was the unwritten rule; even Jack, who’d initially balked on the grounds of calling unnecessary attention to their association, had had to admit there was no danger there.

  Returning to her suite, they’d reviewed their work and agreed that Jack would initially devote himself to finding and speaking with the witnesses. Clarice, meanwhile, would inform her family, rally them to James’s cause, and establish what connections they had that might prove useful in influencing the bishop, investigating the courier, and also in verifying James’s movements. And one way or another, they would extract from Humphries the details they required.

  That decided, Jack had risen and given every indication of departing. She’d quickly made plain, in the most effective manner she could devise, that she expected him to remain and share her bed. Aside from all else, as she’d astringently remarked, there was his injury to consider. In furthering James’s cause, it clearly behooved her to do all she could to ensure Jack’s brain was functioning as incisively as possible. She hadn’t wanted him spending another day with a throbbing head.

  He’d laughed, then whispered in her ear that while he fully intended to leave her and her room, and waltz out of the hotel by the front door, past the concierge who had noted his arrival hours earlier, he also fully intended to return by the side door, and the side stairs, to her room, and her.

  She’d let him go and waited, not patiently.

  He’d returned as promised, not fifteen minutes later, and she’d taken his hand and led him to her bed.

  She was quite sure, given all that had passed between then and this morning, that if any part of him was aching, it wouldn’t be his head.

  Lips quirking, she set down her teacup, and took a moment to savor the odd feeling of accomplishment, of having been able to successfully ease his injury, of being able to tend him in such a fashion…and the benefits that had ensued in the form of his thanks.

  His expert and all-too-knowing attentions.

  A tap on the door drew her back from her reverie and forced her to banish the silly smile from her face. Calling to the maid to enter, she returned to the bedchamber while her breakfast tray was cleared away.

  Sitting before the dressing table mirror, she tidied her hair.

  Her brother Melton, or her modiste?

  The clocks in the suite chimed, ten light pings.

  Fashionable gentlemen rarely left their beds before noon during the Season; clearly there was no point in calling on Melton too early in the day.

  Dilemma solved, she reached for her bonnet.

  Celestine had been her modiste for the last nine years. Initially a newcomer to Bruton Street, over the years Celestine had grown to be a name connoting the very haute of haute couture; Clarice now shared her services with the cream of the ton.

  And only the cream of the ton; no one else could now possibly afford the most minor of the modiste’s creations.

  There had been a time in her more scandalous days when Clarice had slipped into the salon at the unfashionable hour of nine o’clock to avoid the eyes of the censorious. Standing behind a screen in one corner of the salon allowing one of the modiste’s assistants to help her into a rather daring gown in her favorite plum silk, she reminded herself those days were long behind her.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock, and the tonnish matrons with their daughters in tow would be pulling on their gloves preparatory to making their first foray of the morning, to a morning tea or a fashionable at-home, or to Bruton Street. Despite her years away, she still sensed the ebb and flow of the hours, without thought knew what activities should fill each if she were still a fashionable lady.

  But she
wasn’t, so she could do as she pleased.

  Lifting her head, hands smoothing the silk down over her hips, she stood straight and tall as the assistant tightened the laces. That done, she half turned, then paraded before the long mirror, examining the fall of the skirts, the way the silk clung to her figure.

  Imagined what Jack would see, imagined how he would react.

  Lips curving, she was about to send the assistant to summon Celestine when the main door to the salon opened to admit what sounded like a gossipy horde. Clarice heard Celestine coolly greet the newcomers, Lady Grimwade and Mrs. Raleigh the elder, two eminently well connected old battle-axes who perennially vied for the title of most avid gossipmonger in the ton.

  “I tell you, Henrietta, it’s true!” Lady Grimwade paused to draw in a wheezy breath. “Just fancy!” Behind the screen, Clarice could easily envision the gleam in her ladyship’s beady black eyes. “What a comedown for that horrible woman to have a traitor in the family.”

  A sudden chill spread over Clarice’s shoulders.

  “I really find it difficult to credit, Amabelle.” Mrs. Raleigh’s quieter tones were mildly censorious. “This is the Altwoods, after all. One would want to be quite sure before one were heard whispering such tales.”

  “Indeed, Henrietta, but you may be sure I have it right. Apparently the Bishop of London has already referred the matter to the authorities.”

  Clarice didn’t wait to hear more. She was an expert on the advisability of nipping scandal in the bud; it was what she’d failed to do seven years ago. She whisked gracefully around the screen. “Celestine? If you would…”

  Across the expanse of the salon, she came face-to-face with Amabelle Grimwade and Henrietta Raleigh. Not one element in Clarice’s manner or demeanor suggested she’d heard their prattle. She stood relaxed, arms gracefully extended as if waiting for Celestine, frozen between the parties, to admire the fall of the gown. Both Lady Grimwade and Mrs Raleigh stared, initially Clarice suspected at the daringly glamorous gown with its deep decollete; it took a long-drawn silent moment before they recognized her.

  She knew when they did; their eyes grew round, then rounder; their sagging jaws sagged even farther. Satisfied, she looked at Celestine. “I rather think this gown will do.” She swirled so the even more daring back was presented to her goggle-eyed audience; she thought she heard a small gasp. “Don’t you think?”

  Celestine rose to the challenge. “It becomes you parfaitement. Now if you would, while you are here, I would like you to try the forest green satin.” Coming forward, she gestured to the area behind the screen.

  Clarice moved as if to retreat, but then halted, and looked back at the two harpies. “Incidentally, you might like to know that regarding the matter you were so recently discussing, I was speaking with the Bishop of London only yesterday. His understanding of his own mind seems curiously at odds with yours.” She paused, holding their startled gazes, then added, her tone dripping with icy hauteur, “You might recall that, expert though you might be, when it comes to scandal, few know the ropes more thoroughly than me.”

  With that parting shot, she swept behind the screen.

  Celestine followed on her heels. “Cherie, I am so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s useful that I heard of the rumors so soon.” With a wave, Clarice urged the assistant to hurry and unlace the gown. “I’ll take this incidentally. Send it to Benedict’s. I’ll return tomorrow morning to see what else you have.”

  Celestine sighed. “It was not you hearing those two beldames that I was apologizing for.”

  In the mirror, Clarice met Celestine’s eyes. “What, then?”

  “Why, that I mentioned the green satin.” Celestine shifted to glance out at the salon. “Those two have departed, but there are six others here who heard and saw. If you wish to quash this rumor, then you must try on the green satin, no?”

  It was Clarice’s turn to sigh. “Yes, you’re right.” She dipped her shoulders, wriggled them, then straightened; the plum silk gown slithered down to puddle at her feet. Interesting; at least she felt sure Jack would think so. “Bring on the forest green satin, then I really must go.”

  As usually occurred with any gown Celestine specifically recommended, the forest green satin became her admirably, so the time spent in trying it on could not be counted a real loss.

  But she’d spoken truly; she did know all there was to know about gossip within the ton. She might have temporarily gagged two of the foremost practitioners, but that wouldn’t be the end of it. If Grimwade and Raleigh had heard the news, others would have, too. No one seeded a rumor in just one ear. The situation called for immediate and decisive action.

  Further, Grimwade’s gloating over “that horrible woman’s” downfall, strongly suggested that her stepmother, Moira, had not grown more lovable or well respected with the years.

  The defense of the family might well fall to Clarice. She was clearly going to have to do her part and go out into the ton, which meant her new gowns would be as essential as armor on a battlefield. Nevertheless, as soon as she decently could, she left the salon and descended the stairs to the street.

  No more excuses, no more procrastination. Even if Melton was still abed, she’d simply order him dragged from it and make him listen.

  She sincerely hoped he wasn’t suffering the aftereffects of a night on the town.

  One of the assistants had hurried down to hold the door for her; smiling absentmindedly, Clarice stepped out onto the pavement. She paused for an instant, her eyes adjusting to the glare of the bright sunshine.

  “There you are, luv. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  She blinked, and nearly stepped back, but the door was directly behind her. Before her, on either side, not quite but almost hemming her in, stood two large men. Their clothes declared them workmen, not gentlemen. What on earth were they doing in Bruton Street?

  Why on earth did they think they were waiting for her?

  “I’m afraid you’ve made some mistake.”

  One of the men smiled and opened his mouth—

  “Clarice?”

  Turning her head, she saw Jack striding up from the corner. He was focused on the two men and didn’t look pleased.

  She smiled reassuringly and waved; she turned back in time to see the two men exchange a look. Then the one who’d been about to speak touched the brim of his cap. “You’re right, miss. Looks like a mistake. If you’ll excuse us.”

  The other touched his cap, too, and hurried around her. The pair strode off in the opposite direction to Jack. They reached a corner, and turned, disappearing from view.

  She raised her brows, then turned to greet Jack as he came up.

  He was scowling after the two men. “Who the devil were they?”

  “I have no clue. They were waiting for someone and mistook me for her…” Hearing her own words, she realized the unlikelihood, or rather the impossibility. She glanced up at Jack.

  The look he bent on her was disbelieving. A touch patronizing, too.

  “Regardless, we don’t have time for that.” Grasping his arm, she steered him around. “I take it you got my note.” She’d left a note of her whereabouts with the concierge just in case Jack needed to speak with her. “Unfortunately, matters have deteriorated. News of the allegations is out. Rumors are already spreading.” She drew breath and determinedly lifted her chin. “I have to go and beard my brother.”

  Jack glanced at her, at the angle of her chin, and swallowed the acid words burning his tongue; now was not the time to lecture her on the dangers that lurked on even the most fashionable streets. He could quiz her about the two men later and check with Deverell over whether seizing women off the streets had become more prevalent in recent years. Now, however…“I’ll come with you.”

  She shot him a sidelong glance, then looked ahead and walked on.

  He could almost hear the arguments passing through her head. If she tried to refuse, he would insist, but he’d much rather she
accepted his support, preferably in the vein in which it was offered—as her husband-to-be—although he was fairly certain she hadn’t yet realized his intent. They walked briskly along, heading into the heart of Mayfair. The farther they walked without her declining his escort, the more likely she was to agree.

  “Where does your brother live?”

  “Melton House. It’s in Grosvenor Street.”

  They’d circled the end of Berkeley Square and turned into Mount Street. Without speaking, Clarice turned up Carlos Place.

  “So what rumors have you heard? Where, and from whom?”

  She told him. Lightly frowning, she also related her suspicions regarding her stepmother. “Moira was seen as something of a social upstart when she married Papa, yet thinking back, I can’t recall any adverse behavior toward her, not when I used to go about with her.”

  “When you used to go about with her, you were there.” He glanced at her profile. “Those who might offer your stepmother a cold shoulder might not have done so in your presence.”

  Her frown grew more definite. “You’re right, of course. I wonder what’s been going on, how Moira has been managing in that respect since I’ve been gone.”

  “Not well by the sound of it.”

  They reached Grosvenor Street, and she pointed to a large mansion across the road, one door back from the square. “That’s it.” She paused, then drew breath. “Come on.”

  He took her elbow; together they crossed the street and climbed the steps to the narrow front porch. Releasing her, he reached out and jerked the doorbell. From deep within the house, they heard a loud jangle.

  Clarice stood facing the door, her father’s door, although he was now gone and her eldest brother Alton ruled in his stead. Behind her right shoulder, Jack stood, not exactly relaxed yet elegantly at ease, taller than she, stronger, able, and willing to, even likely to, step in should she need his aid.