A Fine Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  Lady Osbaldestone nodded. “Just so.” She looked again at Clarice. “Our other question is, with the matter of your brothers, do you intend to fully nullify your stepmother’s influence for all time, or do you think simply to help your brothers to the altar, leaving them to manage otherwise on their own?”

  Clarice looked into Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes, and couldn’t tell which answer the old ladies wanted, yet it seemed clear her response would determine the degree of help they would give. She needed their help. Without it, returning to the ton and countering Moira’s schemes would be exceedingly difficult. But they were matriarchs all, absolute rulers within their homes and families; would they disapprove if she told them the truth?

  Lifting her chin, she grasped the nettle. “I can’t see any prospect of freeing my brothers without in the main eliminating Moira’s influence. Not just over their marriages, but in general, and more permanent, terms.” She refocused on Lady Osbaldestone’s eyes. “It would be neither realistic nor fair to expect my prospective sisters-in-law to deal with Moira. I have more insight, and a great deal more standing and experience behind me, at least in terms of countering her.”

  Only when her last word had faded did Lady Osbaldestone smile—with relish. “Excellent! When it comes to that upstart, it must be you who puts her in her place—or rather, displaces her from the position she’s been abusing for so long.”

  Glancing at Lady Davenport and Lady Cowper, Clarice found a similarly approving and determined light in their eyes.

  Lady Cowper’s chin was unusually firm as she nodded. “Indeed, my dear. Therese is quite right. We—not just us but the rest, too, all the hostesses and those of us who guide the ton—have had quite enough of Moira, but it isn’t in our power to oust her, not without affecting the entire family. Our dilemma has been quite excoriating for some years—indeed, since shortly after you left. Achieving something in that regard will be a considerable relief.”

  The glint in Lady Cowper’s eye, the hard note in her usually soft voice, confirmed that Moira’s unrestrained use of power had spread far wider than within the family.

  “Indeed.” Lady Davenport’s expression suggested she could hear the call to battle and was very willing to answer. “We’re so glad, my dear Clarice, that you see it as we do, that you understand and appreciate the role your family now needs you to play.”

  The rest of their visit was taken up with discussions of how best to throw a spoke, permanently, in Moira’s wheel. As Jack had hoped, the three older and eminently wise ladies took Clarice and her quest to their hearts. In controlling the ton’s collective mind, they spoke as generals deploying on a battlefield. From Clarice’s expression, she was enthralled; from her comments, she was learning quickly.

  Despite the success of his plan to gain her the aid she needed, Jack felt a certain disquiet, a faint-yet-pervasive ruffling of his instincts, but of what they were warning him he couldn’t say. At the first opportunity, he excused them on the grounds that they were due at Lambeth Palace at noon and whisked Clarice off. Once they left his aunt’s house, his instincts settled.

  They reached the palace to discover that despite the bishop’s brother’s intercession, Deacon Humphries was not available to be interviewed.

  “At least, not yet,” Olsen explained. “He went out this morning before the bishop could speak with him, and won’t be back until late this afternoon.”

  Clarice grimaced. Their meeting with Jack’s aunts and Lady Osbaldestone had gone so well, she’d felt buoyed and ready to take on the world, and Humphries, too. Stymied, she glanced at Jack. “Perhaps we should go over the details of the allegations with Deacon Olsen, and explain how we believe they can be disproved?”

  Jack looked at Teddy, who’d joined them; she’d be safe with him and Olsen. “Why don’t you explain our approach to Deacon Olsen and Teddy, too, if he has the time?”

  Bright-eyed, Teddy nodded. “I’d like to hear what’s going on.”

  “Meanwhile,” Jack said, “I should check with those working on gathering our proofs. The faster we can assemble all we need, the better.”

  Clarice blinked, then nodded. “Very well. I take it you’ll be at your club if Humphries returns earlier than expected?”

  “Yes.” Jack caught her eye. “But don’t interview him without me.”

  Clarice smiled and reassured him; he listened cynically, insisted she promise, then bowed over her hand. He took his leave of the others. She watched him stride away, broad shoulders square, then allowed Deacon Olsen and Teddy to escort her to Olsen’s study.

  Two hours later, Jack slouched into a tavern behind Lambeth Palace. Slumping into a not overly grimy booth, then ordering a mug of porter when the barmaid sauntered up and asked his pleasure, he glanced, apparently vacantly, around, in reality taking swift stock of the other occupants.

  They were as down-at-the-heels, as uncouth as he now appeared. In his rough workman’s garb, cloth cap to worn boots, he doubted Clarice would recognize him, much less his aunts and Lady Osbaldestone, no matter how aware of such affairs they imagined they were.

  While Deverall, Christian, and Tristan pursued witnesses for contradictory accounts of the three supposed meetings, he’d elected to pursue a set of meetings that didn’t feature in the allegations yet impinged upon them most powerfully.

  Humphries had to have met his ex-courier-cum-informer somewhere—somewhere other than Lambeth Palace. Teddy had learned that the porters had never admitted any visitor for Humphries but had ferried messages delivered to him courtesy of a random selection of street urchins.

  Never the same urchin twice, which confirmed that the ex-courier-cum-informer was a man who knew the requisite ropes. The porters saw all urchins as interchangeable; they couldn’t identify any of them. The odds of, by luck, stumbling across one of the urchins in question in a district that teemed with them were exceedingly long.

  After receiving some of the messages, Humphries had left the palace, always on foot. The meeting place had most likely been near. Jack had reconnoitered, strolling up and down the thoroughfares about the palace. There were no coffeehouses or large inns in that area. Putting himself in the ex-courier’s shoes, Jack made a short list of watering holes that met the obvious criteria—not too far from the palace, not busy, not successful, not the place to find rowdy crowds who might remember a clergyman and whom he met.

  He’d already been to two other taverns; both had fitted his bill, but neither had held the type of person he sought. The Bishop’s Mitre, in which he now sat, was tucked away down a narrow lane off Royal Street, about ten minutes’ walk from the palace, most of that through the extensive grounds.

  Of the three taverns he’d been in, this held the most promise. The interior was dim and shadow-filled even in early afternoon; the clientele were all but somnolent, evincing no interest in their fellow man. But there were two sets of sharp and watchful eyes—the barmaid, more wide-awake than the norm, and an old crone nursing a mug of ale in the inglenook beside the fireplace.

  Both had noted him when he’d entered; the barmaid had accepted him as the workman he appeared to be, but the crone was still watching, eyes alert behind her bedraggled fringe.

  Jack assumed that, as with the urchins, the ex-courier would have used different meeting places, but he only needed one clear sighting, one good description.

  Rising, he picked up his glass of porter. Taking a long swallow, he walked to the small fireplace in which a fire struggled beneath a wad of peat. He took up a stance as if staring into the faltering flames; after a silent moment, he glanced swiftly at the crone on the bench tucked beside the chimney, and caught the rapid shift of her eyes as she looked away.

  He looked back at the flames, took another swallow of porter, then spoke, his voice pitched low so only she could hear. “I’m looking for anyone who can tell me about a man who met and talked with a clergyman here some time in the last few months. I’m prepared to pay handsomely for anyone who can describe this ma
n—not the clergyman but the other.”

  He waited patiently as a full minute ticked by, then the crone cackled softly. “How’s will you know I’m describing your man? I could tell you anythin’. You’d be none the wiser, and I’d have your gold to keep me warm.”

  Without shifting his head, Jack looked at her, caught the bright gleam of her eyes. “If you can describe the man I want, you’ll also be able to describe the clergyman.”

  The bright eyes widened, then the crone nodded. “A smart one, you are. If that’s the way of it then, the clergyman’s tallish, but not as tall as you. He’s got precious little hair left, but what there is is plain brown and stringy. He’s a fretful sort, always frowning, not a jolly soul as some of them can be. He’s not fat, nor yet scrawny, and his lips pout like a woman’s.”

  Quelling a surge of anticipatory triumph—her description of Humphries was too detailed to be false—Jack grinned encouragingly. “Right enough. Now what of the other?” If she could describe the ex-courier with the same exactitude, she’d be worth every penny he had on him.

  The crone screwed up her face; she stared across the room. “Similar height, maybe a touch taller, but heavier build. Barrellike. Looked like a fighter though he was too well dressed fer that. Mind you, he weren’t a gentleman, but he weren’t no servant, either.” She paused, then added, “Not one of those business agents, neither—not the right look fer that at all.”

  Jack’s gut clenched; a chill whispered across his shoulders. “What of his face?”

  “Pale, whiter skin than most, pasty, you might say. And round—heavy and round. Eyes round and pale, smallish, broad nose. And he spoke with an accent, not one of ours. Something foreign. I didn’t hear enough to say more.” The crone looked up at Jack. “That enough fer you?”

  Jack nodded. He reached into his pocket, reached past the pennies and found a sovereign. He drew it out, held it out.

  The crone’s eyes gleamed. She took it carefully, examined it, then looked up at Jack as her hand and the coin disappeared beneath her tattered clothes. “Fer that,” she said, eyes narrowing as if she was revising her view of him, “you get a warning, too.”

  “Warning?”

  “Aye. The gent you seek, the other one. He’s dangerous. They met here twice. Both times, the clergyman left first. I saw the other’s face once the clergyman was out the door. He was planning something, and it weren’t good. Dangerous he looked, evil, too. So if you’re thinking to find him, have a care.”

  Jack smiled winningly. Then he doffed his cap, bowed extravagantly, and left the old crone cackling delightedly.

  But when he stepped out of the tavern, his smile faded. The crone’s description shared too many similarities with Clarice’s description of the man who’d run Anthony off the road to doubt that it was, indeed, the same person. Which meant the crone was an excellent judge of character; that man was definitely dangerous.

  Luck, he’d often noticed, visited in multiples. Heading for the club, he made for Westminister Bridge, intending to hail one of the hackneys constantly crossing back and forth. Reaching the road to the bridge, he turned and strode on, past a trio of urchins who were taking turns with a streetsweeper’s broom.

  Jack stopped. Turning back, he ambled up to the urchins. Fishing out three pennies, he started juggling them. When he stopped before the trio, he had their undivided attention.

  He glanced at their avid expressions, worded his question carefully. “A man hired urchins to deliver messages around here. He’s tallish—almost as tall as me—and he has a round, white face. And he’s a foreigner.” He infused the word with patent disgust and saw their lips twitch. “These pennies are for any boy who can tell me where they delivered a message from this man.”

  The boys exchanged glances. Jack suddenly understood. He stopped juggling for a moment, drew out another three pennies, and teamed them with the first three. He juggled again, then looked down at the faces of his audience.

  They still looked unconvinced. He stopped and added another three pennies, then they smiled.

  He smiled, too. Three responses. Fate was pleased with him.

  “The bishop’s palace, main gate,” one said.

  “Same fer me.”

  “He sent me to the porter’s lodge this end, not the front.”

  Jack looked at all three, then tossed the three sets of three coins to them. They all snagged them out of the air, swift and sure.

  “One other thing.” No sense leaving any stone unturned. “Can any of you read? Do you know who the message was for?”

  Again they exchanged glances. Jack sighed and fished in his pocket, careful to draw out only the pennies. He counted them. “Tuppence each extra if any of you can tell me who the message they took was addressed to.”

  “Some deacon.” One boy tried to grab the coins, but Jack was faster; closing his fist, he raised it high.

  “Aw—c’mon, mister.”

  Jack shook his head. “Try harder. Deacon who?”

  The boy screwed up his face, frowned ferociously. His friends egged him on.

  “First letter,” Jack said.

  The boy’s eyes popped open. “An aitch—I remember that. And it was longish—an em and a pee and another aitch, a small one.”

  Jack smiled. “That will do. Hands out.”

  They promptly presented their palms and he gave each the promised tuppence more. They danced with delight; when he said good-bye and turned away, they sang back and waved him off.

  Grinning, Jack reached the bridge, hailed a hackney, and rattled off back to the club.

  “So the man who sent messages to Humphries, and the man Humphries met in a tavern more than once, was round-faced, white-skinned, tallish, heavily built, with a foreign accent?” Deverell looked at Jack.

  Jack nodded. “And dresses well, but is not a gentleman. More, the same man ran Anthony, James’s cousin who was driving to Avening to warn James about the allegations, off the road, and most likely would have silenced him permanently if Clarice hadn’t appeared.”

  The thought chilled him. If the man hadn’t decided that silencing Clarice as well wasn’t worth the risk…what he then would have found on rounding the last bend on his long journey home didn’t bear thinking about.

  They’d all spent the day in various disguises; returning to the club, they’d used the upstairs rooms to return to their customary gentlemanly state, then gathered in the library to share what they’d thus far learned.

  “My inclination,” Tristan said, once they’d recounted their news, “is to concentrate on establishing that these meetings never took place. While for each instance, each tavern, we know there are those prepared to swear Altwood met this courier there, we’ve all also found others equally believeable prepared to take their oaths Altwood never set foot there.”

  Deverall nodded. “Once we have the contradictory evidence, it’ll be easier to shake those who’ve spoken falsely. I’ve had a quick look at the three so-called witnesses to the meeting I’m investigating, and all are known as perennially desperate for cash.”

  “He’ll have paid them, no doubt about that.” Jack grinned, all teeth. “But where gold can buy lies, more gold can buy the truth.”

  “True, but I gather there’s a reluctance to cross this courier. They’ll do it in a flash if they think they’ve been found out, but having taken his coin, they need the ‘excuse’ to change their stories.”

  They grimaced; all understood the workings of the less-than-honest mind. “So,” Jack said, “we’ll move first to get our own, more believable witnesses.”

  “Indeed.” Christian looked at Jack “Does James Altwood always wear the collar?”

  Jack nodded. “He dresses better than your average clergyman—well-cut coats and trousers, good-quality boots—but he always wears the collar.”

  Deverell smiled in anticipation. “Which is to say that if he ever was in those taverns, he would have made a not-inconsiderable impression.”

  “And thus wou
ld have been remembered.” Tristan looked at Jack. “I’d say we’re well on the way to getting the evidence not just to challenge but to throw out as mistaken the three incidents central to these allegations. And with that done…perhaps it might be wise to explain to this Deacon Humphries on just what shaky grounds his charges now stand?”

  Jack nodded. “That would seem the fastest and cleanest way to bring this charade to a quiet close. We’ve yet to meet Deacon Humphries, but hopefully that pleasure won’t be long denied…” Jack looked up as Gasthorpe entered. From the uncertain expression on the majordomo’s face, Jack guessed what he was about to say.

  “My lord.” Gasthorpe addressed Jack. “The lady who called on you here once before has returned. I’ve left her in the parlor.”

  Jack nodded and rose. “I’ll go down.” To the others, he said, “Lady Clarice Altwood.”

  All three were on their feet in a flash.

  “We’ll come down, too,” Deverell said.

  “Just to lend you countenance.” A teasing glint lit Christian’s eyes.

  Jack humphed, but could think of no good—no valid—reason to argue. Indeed, it might be wise for Clarice and his three colleagues to meet.

  However, he made sure that when he entered the parlor his friends were at his heels, that they hadn’t dropped sufficiently far back for Clarice not to immediately notice them and behave as if he and she were alone.

  As it was, her dark eyes deflected instantly to his entourage. He introduced them; with her usual self-possession, she gave them her hand, acknowledged their bows, and thanked them for their assistance in exonerating James.

  Then her attention reverted to him, focused on him exclusively. “I came to tell you that we won’t be able to interview Humphries today.” Her expression grew colder. “Apparently, he’s arguing with the bishop over our involvement.”

  Jack raised his brows, unperturbed. “He won’t get far with that.”

  “No, but he is delaying us. The dean said he imagines the matter will be settled in our favor by tomorrow morning. He suggested we return then.”