A Fine Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  That knowledge was a very real comfort, and that surprised her. Even unnerved her, just a little. She’d never been one to lean on others, and had learned long ago that it was better not to have witnesses if things went wrong. She’d never liked others seeing her weaknesses, seeing her vulnerabilities. Yet with Jack…somehow, he was different.

  Aside from all else, he was very like her. She trusted him to react as she would, to know how to react as she needed and wanted.

  It seemed surpassingly strange to be standing on her father’s stoop with a gentleman like Jack beside her.

  Ponderous footsteps approached on the other side of the door, then the sound of a heavy latch lifting reached them.

  The door swung slowly wide. “Yes?”

  Head high, Clarice looked into her father’s butler’s face, and watched his expression change from a hauteur to rival her own to beaming welcome.

  “Lady Clarice! My lady—come in!” Edwards contorted his ancient frame into a sweeping bow; he beamed as she stepped over the threshold onto the black-and-white tiles. “It does my old eyes good to see you again, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Edwards. This is Lord Warnefleet.” She paused while Edwards bowed to Jack. “Is Alton in?”

  “Indeed, my lady, and thrilled he’ll be to see you after all these years. He’s in the library.”

  Clarice hid a frown as she turned to the corridor to the left of the grand staircase. Alton in the library at this hour? At any hour? Clearly things weren’t as they used to be.

  She hadn’t set foot in this house for seven years, not since she’d left it on her way to family-decreed banishment at Avening. Over the years, she’d fallen into the habit of not approaching her family, not even her brothers; although she probably could have done so once her father and his decree against all mention of her had died, after five years of no contact, she’d grown accustomed to the lack.

  Presumably so had they, for they’d never written or traveled down to see her, even after her father’s demise. During her visits to town, she’d therefore made no effort to reestablish contact, and as she’d eschewed the drawing rooms and ballrooms, she hadn’t met them at social events.

  She halted before the library door, and was surprised to find within her nothing more exercising than a slightly puzzled curiosity over what, for her and James, lay beyond the dark panels. Alton, perennially good-natured, had always been somewhat frivolous, lighthearted, with an insouciant smile that accurately protrayed his outlook on the world. And he was arguably the most serious of her brothers. Her father’s three sons by his first marriage had been feted and indulged from birth; although blessed with good health and even tempers, the outcome, nevertheless, had been predictable.

  Edwards had preceded them down the corridor. She allowed him to set the door wide and announce them; Edwards would have been hurt if she’d waved him away. The instant he intoned, “Lady Clarice, my lord, and Lord Warnefleet,” she swept into the room.

  And saw Alton sitting behind the huge desk, more haggard than she’d ever seen him, lifting his head from his hands where he’d been clutching it—apparently in something close to despair—his expression turning dazed as he focused on her. His gaze deflected to Jack, but almost instantly returned to her.

  Clarice blinked, and seven years vanished. “Good God, Alton! Surely you’re not foxed at this hour?”

  She hadn’t thought it possible, but his too-pale face grew paler.

  “No! Of course not! Haven’t touched a drop, not since yesterday. I swear…” His words faded; for one instant, he stared at her, then he surged to his feet and rounded the desk. “Clary! Dear Heaven, it’s so good to see you!”

  Hauled into a crushing embrace, squeezed tight as if she were some lifeline, Clarice felt thoroughly disoriented. She returned the hug, albeit rather more weakly, and patted Alton’s shoulder. “I’m…ah, back for the moment.”

  Alton released her and stepped back, but caught her hands and, smiling delightedly, studied her. His dark eyes, not quite as dark as her own, all but burned with unabashed happiness and, equally clearly, with massive relief.

  Before she could speak, Alton, still grinning fit to split his face, turned to Edwards. “A celebration, Edwards! Bring something—not champagne”—his gaze swung to Clarice—“it’s too early, isn’t it? How about some ratafia or orgeat, or is it sherry the ladies like now? I never know that sort of thing.”

  He was like a child, eager and wanting to welcome, to impress.

  “Perhaps tea and cakes, my lord?” Edwards suggested.

  Like a hopeful puppy, Alton looked inquiringly at Clarice.

  “Thank you, Edwards. Tea and cakes will do admirably.” She had a sudden premonition she was going to need the sustenance. What was going on here?

  “Oh, and Edwards?” Alton met the aged butler’s eye. “No need to tell her ladyship that Lady Clarice is here.”

  “No, indeed, my lord.” Some silent communication passed between master and servant, then Edwards bowed majesterially to Clarice. “My lady, permit me to convey the welcome of all the staff, and to say how very pleased we are to see you once more beneath this roof.”

  Clarice inclined her head regally. “Thank you, Edwards. Please remember me to those I knew from before.”

  They waited while Edwards retreated; as he closed the door, Clarice introduced Jack.

  “Lord Warnefleet was kind enough to accompany me to town. He’s a close friend of James’s.”

  Transparently happy to greet anyone who’d shown his sister a kindness, Alton grasped Jack’s hand readily, but almost instantly his attention diverted to Clarice. “We’ll have your old room prepared, just like old times. No one’s been in there since you left. Roger heard Hilda and Mildred planning to steal things from it, so he locked the door, and we hid the key, so I expect there’ll be a bit of dust, but Mrs. Hendry will be thrilled to have you home again, so—”

  “Alton.” Clarice waited until he met her eyes. “I’m staying at Benedict’s, as I always do.”

  He blinked, then looked faintly hurt. “Always do?” He studied her face. “Do you often come up to town, then?”

  His tone made her inwardly frown. “I come up at least twice a year. I may live in the country, but I still need gowns. But I wrote and told you. You never replied, and none of you ever came to see me—”

  “I’ve never received any letter from you, not since you left.” The hollow note in Alton’s voice left no doubt he was speaking the truth. “I never knew that you came to town, and Roger and Nigel didn’t, either.”

  Clarice let her frown materialize, let a hint of disgust into her voice. “Papa, I suppose. I had wondered…but I wrote again after he died.” Alton shook his head. “You didn’t get that either?”

  “We had no idea you were ever in town. We thought you’d buried yourself in the country, made a new life and forgotten us. You were so disgusted with us all when you left.”

  She patted his arm, then moved past him to a chair. “Not you three. I knew what Papa was like, remember. I never blamed you.”

  Sinking into the armchair, she sat back and looked up at Alton, who had turned to face her; Jack watched her eyes trace her brother’s face. “But you never came to Avening to see me, either.”

  Alton waved. “When you didn’t reply to our letters…” He broke off, then looked at Clarice, who shook her head. “You never got them?”

  “I assume you left them on the salver in the hall for Papa to frank?”

  Alton swore beneath his breath, swung back around the desk, and flung himself heavily into his chair. “I didn’t think the old goat would go so far. He refused to allow anyone to mention your name, but he never said anything about us writing to you.”

  “He didn’t bother saying, he just acted.”

  Leaning on his elbows, Alton frowned across the room. Calmly seating himself in the other armchair facing the desk, Jack saw what he hadn’t until that moment, a fleeting touch of Clarice’s steel in her brother
’s brooding eyes. After a moment, Alton looked at Clarice. “I wrote again after he died.”

  Brother and sister shared a long look, then Clarice raised her brows. “I see.”

  Jack presumed that meant someone else—his money was on their stepmother—had ensured that the conduit between brothers and sister remained broken. The question that instantly arose was: why?

  The same question filled Clarice’s dark eyes. He was getting much better at reading their expression, at sensing her feelings, her thoughts. From the moment she’d walked into the library, she’d been…groping, knocked off-balance by a welcome that had been very different from what she’d anticipated. He was beginning to understand she’d expected coolness at the very least, even from her brothers, beginning to understand why, beginning to appreciate the depth of the wound she’d carried for so long.

  But, like him, she was starting to sense just how far from the expected matters really were.

  “Alton”—she trapped her brother’s dark gaze with her own—“I came here to ask for your help for James, on a matter that concerns the whole family. But before we discuss that, I think you’d better tell me exactly what’s going on here.”

  Alton held her gaze for a moment, then heaved a huge sigh, scrubbed both hands over his face, then drew his fingers back through his hair, as he’d been doing when they’d entered. Then he lowered his hands, slumped back in the chair, and looked at Clarice. “That’s why I was so glad to see you. What’s happening here is very simple. Moira’s in charge. She pulls the strings, and we—all of us—dance to her tune.”

  Clarice frowned. Before she could ask her next question, a tap on the door heralded Edwards with a tray, followed by the housekeeper carrying the teapot. They had to wait while Clarice greeted Mrs. Hendry, smiled, accepted the housekeeper’s welcome, and gently but firmly dashed all hopes that she would be staying at Melton House. When the door eventually closed behind butler and housekeeper, Alton had recalled Jack’s presence.

  Alton cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should leave this discussion until after Lord Warnefleet has left us.”

  Jack caught the glance Clarice sent him—a warning—before she smoothly said, “Lord Warnefleet won’t be leaving, not without me at any rate.” Ignoring Alton’s frown, she calmly went on, simultaneously pouring tea into their cups, “I told you he’s a close friend of James’s. He’s also a close friend of mine. Jack knows all about the family. His assistance will be critical in helping James, which will equate to helping all the Altwoods. If he doesn’t hear what you’re about to tell me directly, then I’ll need to relate it to him anyway. So stop quibbling, and explain this to me.” She handed Alton his cup; Jack reached across and lifted his own.

  Sitting back with hers, Clarice fixed Alton with her most inquisitorial gaze. “You’re Melton—you now run the marquisate, this house, and all the others, too. What has Moira to say to anything?”

  Alton glanced at Jack, then looked at Clarice. “Figuratively speaking, she has us by the short and curlies.”

  The look Clarice flashed him rebuked him for his crudeness and simultaneously urged him to go on.

  “I’m thirty-four, Roger’s thirty-three, and Nigel’s thirty-one.” Alton held up a staying hand when Clarice opened her mouth to remind him she knew that. “Even before Papa died, we’d each of us found the lady we wanted to marry. All perfectly aboveboard and all that. But…Moira knew, of course. She told us there was no rush, that there was plenty of time, given who we were, to declare our choice, and that we should take the time to make sure we’d chosen correctly…” A slight flush rose to Alton’s pale cheeks. “Looking back, I can see she played to our own uncertainties, but…one thing and another, we all held off mentioning the matter to Papa, and then he died before anything had been said or any formal announcement made.”

  “But then you were the head of the family. You don’t need anyone else’s approval.”

  Alton’s lips curled in cynical disgust. “That, unfortunately, is the rub. After Papa died, Moira took over. It’s her approval I now need, and she’s not about to give it, not easily. Not, I suspect, anytime soon.”

  Clarice studied his face, then calmly asked, “What is she holding over your head?”

  “Our own pasts, of course.” Alton glanced briefly at Clarice, then fell to examining the liquid in his cup. “You know what we’re like…what Papa was like. We were all but encouraged to dally with whoever took our fancy, especially at Rosewood.”

  Her voice even and entirely nonjudgmental, Clarice asked, “You’re talking of maids, laundresses, milkmaids?”

  Alton nodded without looking up. “It was always so easy, and even when the inevitable happened, as, of course, it did with all three of us, Papa never turned a hair, but just arranged to have the girl taken care of, the babe raised within one of our worker’s families…you know how it’s done.” Lips thin, he grimaced. “What none of us knew—not even Papa, I suspect—was that Moira not only knew of each incident, she kept track. More, when we—me, Roger, and Nigel—came up to town, she somehow kept track here as well.” Alton looked up and met Clarice’s eyes. “For each of us she has a list of every encounter, every affair.”

  He drew breath, with one hand made a helpless gesture. “For each of us, there’s at least one association, one liaison, that if it became known could…scupper our plans to marry, or at least marry the ladies we’ve chosen.”

  Holding his gaze, Clarice murmured, “We do tend to move in a very small circle…”

  Alton’s lips twisted; he nodded. “Precisely. You can see how it might be.”

  Jack frowned. When neither Clarice nor Alton said more, he asked, “So Moira uses the information to do what? Drain money from the marquisate?”

  A large diamond winked in Alton’s cravat; a smaller stone was embedded in the heavy gold signet ring on his right hand. His coat was by Schultz, his linen impeccable. Despite his haggardness, he was perfectly—and expensively—turned out.

  Alton’s expression lightened; he laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Oh, no. That’s not her bent at all. Indeed, she’d be the first to encourage us to spend more, to make an even bigger splash. She would never want us to appear as anything less than as wealthy as we are. She delights in her role as the Marchioness of Melton. She continues to entertain lavishly as my hostess. We always have to be seen to be top of the tree.” Alton paused, the bitterness in his tone reflected in his face. “No, for her it’s not money. It’s control—of us.” He glanced at Jack. “The power to make us dance to her tune.”

  After a moment, Alton looked at Clarice. “Moira tried to control you, and that backfired, but she got rid of you nevertheless. With the three of us, she was much more careful. By the time we realized, after Papa had died, she already had us in thrall. Worse, we’d handed her the ropes ourselves by telling her of our intentions to wed. She gets an unholy joy from knowing she can jerk our strings, make us obey her at any time, and that our futures—for each of us our future happiness—will only be granted at her whim.”

  Clarice said nothing, yet her disgust with Moira was a palpable thing. “What have you done about it?” When Alton blinked, she rephrased, “Have any of you challenged her, tested her will, or have you simply accepted her threat as real?”

  Alton’s haggard expression, temporarily eased, returned. “Roger tried. He said he’d tell Alice—Alice Combertville, Carlisle’s daughter—tell her all and throw himself on her mercy, and he did. At first, it seemed he’d triumphed. Alice was incensed at Moira’s game and swore she wasn’t concerned…but then two days later, Roger got a note breaking off their understanding. He tried to see Alice, to find out why she changed her mind, to persuade her…” Alton looked faintly ill. “That was last November. He still hasn’t been able to speak with her.”

  “He’s still trying?”

  “Yes! What else can he do? It’s driving him out of his mind. She’s been dancing with Throgmorton, and Dawlish. He’s terrified she’ll accept on
e of them, and then it’ll be all over…”

  Clarice regarded Alton steadily, then calmly said, “Tell Roger he needs to speak with Alice, even if he has to abduct her to do it. He has to ask her what Moira told her.”

  Alton frowned. “It wasn’t Moira, but Roger himself who told her.”

  Clarice made a dismissive sound and set down her tea cup. “Tell Roger I’ll make him a wager—that after he’d spoken with Alice, she, incensed, approached Moira and took her to task. But Moira retaliated with something—some fabrication, something truly horrendous—that Alice couldn’t overlook. That’s why she changed her mind and broke things off with Roger.” The look she cast Alton was one of fond exasperation. “You really are too easily manipulated.”

  She sat back. “Now what about Nigel?”

  “He and Emily—Emily Hollingworth—well, I suppose you could say that in typical Nigel fashion, he’s toeing the line in the hope that everything will somehow resolve itself, meaning that either Roger or I will discover some way around Moira.” Alton grimaced. “Emily’s just twenty. They have time.”

  Clarice raised her brows. “But you don’t?”

  Alton lifted his eyes and met her gaze. “No.” He gestured helplessly. “That’s what I was wrestling with when you came in.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “I have no idea what to do.”

  “Who?” Clarice asked.

  “Sarah Haverling, old Conniston’s eldest daughter.”

  Clarice pursed her lips, then nodded slowly. “An excellent choice.” She focused on Alton. “You have an understanding, but you’ve made no formal offer yet?”

  “I haven’t even hinted at such a thing, not to her father.”

  “I take it something’s made the matter pressing?”

  “Yes! Sarah’s twenty-three, nearly twenty-four. This will be her last Season. We’ve been talking of marrying for the last year, but with Moira holding what she is over my head…” Hopelessness deepened the lines in Alton’s face. “Her father and stepmother are encouraging her to marry, hardly surprisingly. They’ve lined up Farleigh and Bicknell, both seem increasingly smitten. If either makes an offer…if I can’t make a counteroffer, Sarah will be pressured to accept them.”