A Fine Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  Felt a tug deep in her heart, followed by a painful wrench at the thought that this—this unexpected comfort and peace—might not continue to be hers.

  She might not yet be able to define where her life was headed, but one point was crystal clear.

  Things had changed.

  She had changed.

  Chapter 16

  Having again returned to the Bastion Club before dawn, Jack set out after breakfast, feeling in excellent health. Hailing a hackney, he hied himself to Brook Street, Benedict’s, and Boadicea.

  He found her in her suite, entertaining her brothers over the breakfast cups. He smiled genially at them all. Alton eyed his transparent content with suspicion. Clarice poured him a cup of coffee and handed it to him with a warning glance.

  “We were about to discuss how best to counteract any rumor, to ensure it’s dismissed out of hand, or at least denied any chance to spread and grow.” Clarice paused to sip as Jack drew up a chair beside her. “I think”—she glanced at Jack—“that raising the matter ourselves, before any whispers can gain hold, and stating, flatly, that such an outrageous notion is, quite obviously, untrue, might be our best approach. What do you think?”

  He considered, then nodded. Across the breakfast table, he met Alton’s eyes. “In most instances, I’d consider such a tack unwise, but in your case, you have the name, the status. It seems pointless not to use it.”

  “Precisely.” Clarice nodded decisively. “Especially as we know James is perfectly innocent. There’s no risk whatever in the family’s supporting him.”

  “And the fact that we are openly rallying behind him will give even the most inveterate gossipmongers pause,” Alton said.

  “That certainly worked with Lady Grimwade and Mrs. Raleigh.” Clarice set down her cup. “I saw them last night, and if their expressions were anything to judge by, they were still being extremely cautious.”

  “Actually”—Nigel pushed aside his empty plate—“I rather think old James will be safe enough, at least for the next week or so.” He glanced at Alton. “From what I saw and heard last night, the ton have found another Altwood to speculate about.”

  “Alton?” Clarice frowned.

  “No.” Nigel looked at her. “You.”

  “Me?” Clarice sat up. “Why on earth…” Her words trailed away, but her puzzled frown remained. She studied Nigel. “What are they saying?”

  “Not saying—speculating. Everyone’s wondering why you’re back, and regardless, who will, as many see it, pick up the gauntlet.”

  “What gauntlet?” Clarice asked, her tone tending dire.

  “The one you threw down last night,” Nigel replied. “When you waltzed with Warnefleet here down Mrs. Henderson’s ballroom.”

  When Clarice looked stunned, Nigel snorted. “Good God, you haven’t been out of town that long. You know what subject’s closest to the old biddies’ hearts. French spies and traitors will do in a pinch, but give them the prospect of a highborn spinster still handsome and weddable, still eminently well heeled and eligible, and they’re not going to bother with treason.”

  When Clarice continued to stare, apparently struck dumb, Nigel grinned. “At least you’ve solved the problem of them gossiping about James.”

  Clarice groaned, shut her eyes, and slumped back in her chair. “I don’t believe it!”

  But she did. As Nigel had said, her returning to the ton for the first time in seven years, and then waltzing in the arms of a handsome lord, himself a matrimonial target, was behavior guaranteed to capture the ton’s fickle interest.

  “Never mind.” Abruptly she sat up, opening her eyes. She wasn’t going to dwell on it. “What’s done is done, and as you say, it will help shield James.”

  “As long,” Alton said, “as you continue to feed the gossips.”

  Clarice looked at him, caught him exchanging a glance she couldn’t interpret with Jack beside her. “What do you mean?”

  Alton shrugged. “Just that, for James’s sake, it would be helpful if you continued to swan around in the evenings, being seen about generally, the usual sort of thing. While they’re focusing on you, they won’t be wondering about James.”

  Clarice expressed her deep antipathy to the notion with a disgusted and dismissive humph.

  Jack set down his coffee cup, drawing her attention; he caught her eye. “Think of it as achieving the objective you were aiming for, just by a different route. Just because you hadn’t planned it doesn’t mean it won’t work, and as Melton said, keeping the ton focused on you won’t require much effort.”

  Jack wasn’t surprised when her gaze turned considering. He kept his lips shut, slanted a sharp glance at Alton to ensure he did the same. Somewhat taken aback by the unvoiced directive, Alton did, and was rewarded when Clarice wagged her head from side to side, weighing the matter, then reluctantly conceded, “All right. But only if there’s nothing definite to do in furthering James’s defence.

  “Incidentally”—she looked at Alton—“before I forget, while I don’t imagine Moira will do anything truly drastic, like poison anyone, thinking back over her campaign to control you, I kept wondering why. She’s wealthy enough—as you said it’s not the money. So what else?”

  Roger looked at his brothers, then replied, “We don’t know. She’s a female. Does there have to be a ‘what else’?”

  Clarice narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes. There does. And I think I know what, or rather who, it is. Carlton.”

  Her brothers blinked at her. Jack had no idea who Carlton was.

  Alton frowned. “The succession?”

  Jack recalled hearing that Moira had borne the youngest of the previous marquess’s four sons.

  “Not precisely.” Clarice sat straighter “It would be amazing by any standard were he to inherit, with the three of you, all hale and whole, before him. However, while none of you are married, and there are no children in your nurseries, then…well, Carlton does have some claim. He’s third in line and is ten years younger than Nigel, after all. If the three of you go to your graves bachelors, then Carlton will inherit, no matter he might be old by that time. So as long as the knowledge that all three of you are about to marry remains secret, the perception that Carlton has some chance to eventually succeed to the marquisate continues unchallenged as the commonly held notion.”

  “So it is money. Moneylenders…” Alton broke off, frowning. “No, that won’t wash. If he’s deep in debt, I would have heard.”

  Clarice snorted. “I told you it wasn’t money—that’s not the point. Weddings are the point, on all fronts, Carlton’s included. While the three of you remain bachelors, Carlton can look reasonably high for a bride, but the instant even one of you marry, Carlton’s matrimonial stocks fall. If all three of you wed, Carlton’s standing falls to that of a mere younger son with no real prospects. Moira wants her daughter-in-law’s family to be as wealthy and influential as possible, so the last thing she wants is for you three to marry—or more specifically for the ton to realize all three of you are about to marry—before she can get Carlton wed.”

  Her brothers looked shocked. “He’s only twenty-one!” Roger protested.

  Clarice met his eyes. “Do you think that’ll stop Moira? Especially now she knows you’re all on the verge of making offers that, of course, will be accepted?”

  “Good God! I never thought I’d be sorry for the little twerp.” Nigel looked horrified. “Fancy being leg-shackled at the age of twenty-one.”

  Clarice, predictably, wasn’t impressed. “Never mind Carlton. Unless he’s changed mightily, I’d wager he has no intention of offering for any well-bred miss that Moira selects. He just won’t tell her until that point is reached. He never was one for unnecessary effort.”

  “True.” Roger frowned at Clarice. “So Moira doesn’t really care about whom we wed, just that we shouldn’t make our intentions public yet?”

  “That seems likely, so that gives you time to arrange your affairs. If you make offers all at once,
or rather if the announcements all appear in the Gazette on the same day, and Moira hears nothing from any other source until then, then all should be well.”

  Alton caught Roger’s eye. “We’ll have to be careful what we say, do, or even write inside Melton House. That maid of Moira’s is the very devil—she sneaks around all over the place, poking here and there.”

  “But it should be doable,” Nigel said. “We just have to get our affairs in order, make our offers formally and be accepted, then we can trump Moira all at once, and have done with this business.”

  Clarice nodded. “Indeed. That’s exactly what you should do, and meanwhile I’ll do my best to distract the ton from James. Regardless of all that, however, we still need to accomplish what I came to London to do—exonerate James of these nonsensical charges.”

  There was a note in her voice that made her brothers sit up. “Yes, of course,” Alton said. “What do you want us to do?”

  Clarice looked at Jack; her brothers followed her lead.

  He’d come prepared. “There are three specific meetings at which we want to prove James was not present.” Drawing a sheet of paper from his pocket, he handed it to Alton. “If you can check around the family and all James’s friends, his clubs, anywhere he might have been, and see if anyone remembers seeing him on those dates, at those times, we’ll have the first nails to drive into the coffin to bury these allegations.”

  Alton read the list, then nodded. “Right. We’ll get on with this.”

  “While you do, I’ll see what I can devise to free you and Sarah from Moira’s web. Just don’t do anything more until I tell you.” Clarice looked at Roger and Nigel. “Meanwhile, you two reprobates are free to make best use of your persuasive talents and get formal acceptance of your offers for Alice and Emily’s hands.”

  Both Roger and Nigel looked delighted.

  “But only after you help Alton with gathering information for James’s defence.”

  With a rumble of reassurances, the brothers rose, kissed Clarice’s cheek, glanced askance at Jack when she wasn’t looking, but left without challenging his presence.

  He felt for them, but…

  When Clarice closed the door behind them and turned back to him, he had a slim notelet in his hand. He waved it. “Lady Davenport and Lady Cowper request our presence at Davenport House.”

  She halted, wide-eyed. “When?” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  “Half an hour.”

  “Arrghh!” She glared at him. “Why is it that gentlemen never understand how long it takes to get dressed?”

  Given she swung on her heel and strode into the bedroom, he surmised the question was rhetorical. He followed more slowly; leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, he watched her strip off the morning gown she’d been wearing, then hunt through a wardrobe that appeared remarkably well stocked. Pulling out a bronze-and-ivory-striped silk confection, she donned it, then imperiously presented her back to him and demanded he do up her laces.

  Lips twitching, he complied, then watched as she redid her hair.

  He’d never before found observing such female primping all that interesting, but watching Clarice…every graceful movement, every feminine gesture, fascinated. Almost mesmerized. He watched her brush out her long hair, remembered what it felt like swirling about him in the night…meanwhile another, more grounded part of his mind trod a more serious path.

  He was increasingly certain he didn’t want her going about alone, even during the day in the heart of Mayfair. He hadn’t forgotten the incident with the two strange men in Bruton Street, nor the inherent threat of the round-faced man. And now, it seemed, her stepmother had good reason to wish Clarice elsewhere, removed from interfering in her schemes.

  Unlike Clarice, he wasn’t so ready to excuse Moira from any felonious intent; the harpy he’d seen would have scratched Clarice’s eyes out given half a chance. And losing her grip, a grip she’d probably thought secure, over Alton, his brothers, and the marquisate in general, would be galling. Especially if hand in hand with such a loss went a lessening of social standing. That last would definitely occur if Clarice returned permanently to the ton.

  She wasn’t planning to do so, but Moira didn’t know that, and probably wouldn’t believe it even if told by Clarice herself. From Moira’s perspective, the pleasures of Avening couldn’t hope to compete with those of London.

  Clarice tied a modish bonnet over her dark hair. Jack straightened. She would scoff at any warning of personal danger, at any request to take greater care. To take a footman or two as escort.

  He smiled charmingly as she swept toward him, and offered his arm. No point arguing; he’d escort her himself.

  “Lady Clarice, it’s a pleasure to welcome you.” Tall and imposing, handsome in a severe, well-bred way, Lady Davenport nodded approvingly and touched fingers with Clarice, then her gaze deflected to Jack, standing by Clarice’s elbow. “And you, too, Warnefleet. As it’s due to Lady Clarice that you’re here, I can only be grateful for her influence.”

  Jack summoned his most charming smile and bestowed it on his aunt.

  She humphed and turned to introduce Clarice to the small, round lady by her side. “I believe you’ll recall my sister?”

  “Indeed.” Serenely assured, Clarice smiled and bobbed a curtsy of nicely judged degree. Despite Emily, Lady Cowper’s, preeminence among the ton’s hostesses, Clarice was her better in terms of birth.

  Emily was more overtly expressive than her sister, more openly keen to embrace Clarice and all she promised; Jack read her enthusiasm with ease.

  “My dear Lady Clarice, I’m delighted to meet you again.” Smiling radiantly, Emily pressed Clarice’s hand, then waved to the third grande dame gracing the elegant drawing room. “And no doubt you’ll remember Lady Osbaldestone, too.”

  “Ma’am.” Clarice nodded, a touch reserved, rather careful, to the impressive and distinctly intimidating older lady who studied her, then Jack, with a sharply assessing black gaze.

  Then Lady Osbaldestone’s brows rose; her expression eased. She beckoned imperiously. “Come sit by me, gel, so I can see you better.” Sinking back onto the chaise, Lady Osbaldestone waited until Lady Davenport and Lady Cowper had resumed their seats, and Clarice had obeyed and sat beside her, before, shooting a saber-sharp glance at Jack, standing with one arm braced on the mantelpiece, she thumped her cane lightly on the polished floor, for all the world as if bringing some meeting to order. “Now, then,” she said. “What’s this I hear about your cousin James and treason?”

  Clarice drew in a breath, glanced briefly at Jack, then proceeded to outline in severely abbreviated form James’s, and by extension her family’s, difficulties. She avoided any mention of specifics, including how they knew James was innocent, only saying that they were working to prove it and were certain to succeed.

  During her recitation, Lady Osbaldestone and Jack’s aunts shared a number of meaningful looks, ones that pricked Jack’s instincts and left him alert. He and Clarice had agreed that if the three ladies had heard of the as yet insufficiently suppressed rumors, then they would have to appease their curiosities if they wanted their help in dealing with Moira.

  Smoothly, Clarice switched from the unjustified threat to the family name to the problems her brothers were facing in their pursuit of matrimony. Again, she didn’t explain fully, leaving it to the ladies’ imaginations to fill in the details she omitted, such as the substance of Moira’s threats. With three such ladies, there was no risk they wouldn’t leap to the correct conclusions.

  Unsurprisingly, all three ladies were even more interested in that subject; as Clarice told her tale, their eyes glowed with awakened zeal.

  “So,” Clarice concluded, glancing around at the three older faces, “I’m hoping that I can prevail on you to lend me your aid in assisting my brothers to achieve their ends. I’ve been absent from the ton for so long, and, given the events surrounding my leaving it, I’m well aware that I’ll require such
aid to successfully clear my brothers’ paths.”

  Again she glanced around; this time, she met each pair of eyes. “Will you help me?”

  The three ladies exchanged glances, an unspoken communication that held an element of excitement. Jack wasn’t surprised when, decision wordlessly reached, it was Lady Osbaldestone who delivered it.

  “My dear, we’re very pleased that you’ve returned to the ton, regardless of the reason. Of course you will have our help in whatever way seems best, but there’s two points we would like clarified. First, we take it that in terms of the charges of treason, that it’s not only the Altwoods, but ultimately Whitehall and the government who, should the matter proceed to a trial, would be…shall we say ‘inconvenienced’?”

  When Clarice blinked, and didn’t reply, Lady Osbaldestone looked at Jack. “Dalziel, I take it? A holy terror, but he does have his uses.”

  Jack felt his expression blank. From the other two ladies’ calmly inquiring looks, Lady Osbaldestone’s words came as no surprise to them. How the devil did they know about Dalziel? And if they knew about him, what else did they know?

  Lady Osbaldestone’s smile took on a distinctly evil edge. “You didn’t seriously imagine we were unaware of such things, did you?”

  Jack shifted, rapidly canvassing his options; remaining silent seemed the wisest course.

  Lady Osbaldestone’s expression grew cynical. “You might be relieved to know that, unlike some of our menfolk who fall prey to convoluted dilemmas over concepts of honor whenever the word ‘spy’ is uttered, most ladies of our station are only too relieved to know that others—those entrusted with the realm’s defence—are not so squeamish.”

  Her last word carried a distinctly censorious edge.

  Jack wasn’t sure her reference was as general as it had sounded, that she didn’t have some specific dilemma-afflicted male in mind. Regardless, he acknowledged, “Whitehall would, indeed, prefer to see the allegations against James Altwood rebutted in the bishop’s court rather than in a public one where details submitted in evidence would be widely desseminated.”