But she would be gracious and spare him the next few minutes. That, to her mind, would lay that part of her past to permanent rest.
He led her to the dance floor, and they took up their positions in the nearest set. The music swelled, and they dipped, twirled. Throughout, Emsworth tried to catch her eye; Clarice delighted in denying him even that much notice. The figures of the complicated dance returned to her without thought. She smiled at the other dancers, perfectly content to have them see her nonchalantly dancing with Emsworth.
When the music ceased, and she rose from her final curtsy, Emsworth tightened his grip on her hand. “My dear Clarice, there’s a matter I wish to discuss with you, a matter, as it were, from our shared past.”
She met Emsworth’s gray eyes, tried to fathom just what matter that might be.
He glanced around, over the crowd’s heads. “Come out onto the terrace. We can talk there.”
Without waiting for any agreement, he steered her toward the glass doors opening to a terrace that ran the length of the ballroom. Resigned, Clarice went; she’d never approved of him, of the way he treated her, but she wanted to hear what he had to say. It might give her something else she could use to spike the pistol Moira had trained on Alton and Sarah, and that definitely would be worth a few more minutes of her time.
Reaching the doors, Emsworth guided her through; just before she crossed the threshold, Clarice glanced back, and spotted Jack’s burnished head moving purposefully through the crowd in their direction. The sight was reassuring; she could admit that much to herself.
Once on the terrace, Emsworth looked around, then, his fingers about her elbow, he urged her away from the knot of guests conversing just beyond the doors. They strolled to where shadows from nearby trees flickered over the flagstones, and there were no others near enough to hear.
Emsworth released her. Clasping his hands behind his back, he took up a stance Clarice recognized as signifying he was about to make some priggish pronouncement while pretending to gaze out at the dark gardens.
She half expected him to say something disparaging about her interaction with Jack, and their unnecessarily close waltz—
“I’m really very glad to see you back in town, my dear. You’ve paid the price for your reckless behavior in refusing me. Clearly those hostesses who matter have deemed that incident can now be forgotten.”
He’d noticed the support Jack’s aunts and Lady Osbaldestone were marshaling behind her. Good—
“Of course the fact remains that you can never hope to make a suitable marriage, yet clearly you have…missed the pleasures of the marriage bed. I would, were it possible, renew my previous offer, however, as I am now wed”—turning, Emsworth met Clarice’s stunned gaze—“I suggest that it would be best for you to become my mistress. I command a reasonable income—you would not find me ungenerous.” He paused as if consulting his inner importance, then, thin nose elevating, he refocused on her. “Accepting my offer will see you safe from men such as Warnefleet and his kind.”
Clarice had placed her features under the severest control the instant she’d understood his drift; now she let abject contempt flame in her eyes, let fury color her expression.
She stepped across Emsworth, backing him against the balustrade, leaving them eye to eye. “You’re a nauseating specimen, Emsworth. Regardless of what pleasures I might have missed, I wouldn’t agree to be your anything were you the last man on this earth.”
His eyes widened as he leaned back from her wrath.
Before he could react, she brought her knee up, fast.
His eyes crossed. His lips twisted.
She stepped back, watched as he crumpled to his knees, for good measure boxed his ears as he doubled over before her, disguising the act as solicitiously reaching to help him.
Sensing someone behind her, she glanced over her shoulder, and found Jack, grim-faced yet with unimpaired satisfaction watching Emsworth collapse to the flags.
“It seems Viscount Emsworth’s been taken ill.” She caught Jack’s gaze.
He grinned fleetingly, then reached for her and shifted her to the side. “Bad health and ill luck seem to dog the viscount’s family.”
Jack’s hands remained, reassuring on her shoulders. Between them, they largely screened the fallen Emsworth from the others on the terrace. “The viscount’s first wife, for instance, pitched to her death from the top of the stairs in his house. The servants have no idea how such a thing could have happened. And his second wife is often so poorly she doesn’t leave her room for days. Some unexplained illness leaves bruises all over her.”
Jack leaned over Emsworth. His voice lowered and took on a hard edge. “A word of warning, Emsworth. If you don’t want me and my kind to visit much-deserved retribution on you, you’d be well-advised not to show your face in London, or indeed anywhere in the ton, again.”
Emsworth was quivering; his nose was running, his mouth open as he struggled to breathe. Jack met his dilated eyes. “I trust I make myself plain?”
Emsworth looked into Jack’s face; what little color had remained in his drained.
Jack smiled, not amiably; straightening, he reached for Clarice’s arm. “Come, we should return to the ballroom. We can send two footmen to assist the viscount to his carriage.”
Clarice glanced down at Emsworth. He was all but sniveling, still unable to draw a proper breath. Entirely satisfied, she allowed Jack to turn her toward the ballroom. “I always wanted to do that, to see if it really worked.”
Jack looked at her. “It works. Because you’re so tall it works very well.”
“Hmm.”
In the matter of Emsworth’s ultimate routing—being carried by two footmen around the house and deposited directly into his carriage—Clarice stood back and let Jack arrange all. His glib tale of Emsworth’s being taken ill was outwardly swallowed whole, but many had witnessed Emsworth dancing with her, then leading her out onto the terrace, and her subsequent relaxed return on Lord Warnefleet’s arm. Many waited for Emsworth to return to the ballroom; when he didn’t, speculation ran rife.
In distracting the ton from the allegations against James, she, aided by Jack, was succeeding admirably.
They spent the next half hour circulating among the now-intrigued guests, then departed, leaving all the avid questions unanswered.
As she settled on the carriage seat, Clarice smiled into the shadows. She had never before allowed anyone to help her in dealing with a problem such as Emsworth, yet sharing such an enterprise with Jack seemed oddly right.
Something else about her that had changed.
Glancing at him, seated beside her, relaxed and confident, she wondered how he’d known about Emsworth. How he’d known to know, for he would have had to have asked; he hadn’t been in London, a part of the ton, for the past thirteen years.
Looking ahead, she frowned. She was certain she hadn’t mentioned Emsworth. So how…?
James? She knew James’s opinion of Emsworth and that episode in her life. If Jack had asked, James would have told him.
Which meant Jack had asked. And not only had he been interested enough to ask, he’d then cared enough to learn more.
Through the shadows that flickered as they drove through the streets, she studied his profile. Then she smiled, faced forward, and thought of what lay ahead. Of how they would spend the rest of the night in her suite at Benedict’s.
“I’m perfectly certain my information is correct.” Deacon Humphries all but glared across the narrow table at Jack.
Jack studied the good deacon. The crone’s description had been accurate; his mouth was womanish, and when he pursed his lips, as he was wont to do, the effect was indeed a feminine pout.
It was noon; Humphries had resisted speaking with them as far as he’d dared, but had ultimately bowed to the bishop’s decree and met Jack, Clarice, and Olsen in a small cell-like office deep in the palace.
“We understand, Deacon Humphries, that you believe your information to
be the truth, but simply stating that doesn’t constitute proof.” From where she stood before the window, Clarice swung to confront Humphries; they’d all taken seats around the table, with her next to Jack, but then, apparently too exercised to keep still, she’d risen and started pacing.
Much to Humphries’ disquiet. As he looked up at her, his priggish antipathy to being lectured by a woman shone clear in his face. “I will produce my proofs to the bishop in good time.”
Before Clarice could utter the withering retort forming on her tongue, Jack cut in. “As you’ve heard, the bishop himself, in the interests of administering swift but sure justice, wishes you to explain to us the details of your case. Whitehall, too, wishes to know specifically what evidence you have, beyond the accounts of the witnesses you’ve listed, that you believe conclusively proves that James Altwood passed secrets to the enemy.”
Humphries fixed his gaze on Jack’s face, clearly trying to ignore Clarice. Once again Jack was grateful for her distracting, somewhat overpowering persona; it was rare that those he interviewed saw him as the softer touch. Humphries subjected him to a careful study. “I understand you’re a longtime acquaintance of Reverend Altwood.”
Jack inclined his head. Before he could reply to the unstated challenge, Clarice did.
“If Whitehall, knowing of Warnefleet’s association with James, nevertheless deems it safe to assign the government’s interests into Warnefleet’s hands, then I hardly think his loyalties are open to question by anyone.” Her tone declared that avenue of discussion was closed.
Humphries’ lips thinned; without looking at her, he inclined his head in her direction. To Jack, he said, “The tale the witnesses tell is consistent. Taken together, they paint a convincing picture of Altwood’s meetings with the courier.”
Jack debated how much to reveal; in fairness to Humphries, he felt forced to say, “I’ve already received evidence that a number of your witnesses are unreliable. There are others, more credible, who are willing to swear James Altwood has never set foot in those taverns. Lastly, it seems likely we’ll succeed in gaining unimpeachable evidence that on those dates, at the times specified, he was elsewhere.”
Humphries’ lip curled; his expression stated he placed no faith in such assertions.
Evenly, Jack continued, “All that aside, however, the allegations must stand not on any evidence of meetings—that at best is circumstantial—but on evidence of secrets actually being passed. My question for you, from Whitehall specifically, is: what is that evidence?” Jack glanced at the sheaf of papers Olsen had laid on the table. “To this point, you’ve failed to produce any details beyond asserting that such evidence exists.”
Humphries did not appreciate being pressured. His narrow chin tightened; he clasped his hands, before him on the desk, more firmly. “My evidence for the actual secrets passed comes from the only reliable source there could be. The person Altwood handed the secrets to.”
“And this person is?”
Humphries’ lips set in a thin line. “I’m not prepared to divulge this person’s identity prior to the hearing. However, as Whitehall is demanding, the information passed included the disposition and strengths of our forces prior to the seige of Badajoz, the same prior to the rout at Corunna, and more recently, the details of the deployment to Belgium some weeks prior to Waterloo.”
Jack kept his face expressionless, briefly flicked his eyes to Clarice to warn her to keep silent. Although two of the subsequent battles had been won, the three engagements cited had each resulted in heavy losses. As a student of military matters, Humphries would know that better than most.
“The three recent meetings you’ve cited, what was passed at them?” They’d supposedly occurred over the early months of 1815.
Humphries hesitated, then replied, “At those meetings, Altwood passed information on, respectively, the details of the demobilization, the strengths of our troops left standing, and our ability to remobilize and the order of same. Such information would have been vital in planning Napoleon’s return.”
Jack inclined his head. “Have you seen any evidence yourself—lists in Altwood’s hand, maps—that he passed on to this courier?”
Humphries pouted. “I haven’t seen them myself, but I’ve been assured they exist. The courier has copies.”
“Copies.” Jack stilled. “Not the originals?”
“He had to hand the originals to his masters.”
Clarice couldn’t restrain herself. “How fortunate.”
Humphries frowned but refused to meet her eye.
Jack pressed again for the courier’s name, but Humphries held firm; Jack called a halt before Clarice could use her tongue to flay him. The meeting broke up; Humphries departed. After confirming to Olsen that what he’d said about contradictory evidence was true, and asking him to stress to Humphries that that was indeed the case, Jack, with Clarice beside him, walked back to the front hall and out of the palace.
As they strolled down the drive, Jack glanced back at the towering edifice. “He honestly believes he’s doing the right thing, that he’s been called on to carry Justice’s sword.”
Clarice humphed. “He needs to remember she carries scales, too, and why.” After a moment, she added, “And she’s a woman.”
Jack smiled, but the gesture faded as he paced beside Clarice. “Whoever set this up—Dalziel’s last traitor—has tied Humphries up tight. Prodded by his jealousy of James, and with what must have initially appeared perfectly plausible evidence, he’s gone out on a limb. Now, even though we’re demolishing that evidence, he’s not going to back down, at least not before the hearing in the bishop’s court.”
Clarice glanced at him. “Are we going to have enough evidence gathered by then?” Olsen had told them the bishop, anxious to get the sensitive matter laid to rest with all speed, had scheduled the hearing for five days hence.
Jack grimaced. “It won’t be easy, but it’s possible.” They reached the gate, and he halted. “Apropos of that, I must get back to the club and the others. We need to consider the order of our attack.”
Clarice hid a smile at his phrasing and the distant expression in his eyes. Then he refocused on her; she felt her heart flutter, but then it settled into its normal, reliable rhythm. She grimaced lightly up at him. “I have to attend a slew of afternoon teas. Your aunts made me promise. It’ll be perfectly ghastly, but”—she shrugged—“it probably is necessary. We have to make it clear I’m back, to everyone, including Moira. She’s expected at two of the teas.”
Jack grinned, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. Kissed. “I’d back you over Moira in any battle.”
She laughed. A hackney rolled toward them; Jack hailed it, handed her up, then told the driver to return her to Benedict’s. Sitting back on the cushions, Clarice watched the posts of Lambeth Bridge slide past; imagining the afternoon ahead of her, full of the social whirl, she wished instead she could remain with Jack.
She’d rather be with him than anyone else in the ton.
Over the next three days, Jack, Deverell, Christian, and Tristan worked solidly to undermine Humphries’ allegations.
They first took statements, sworn in the presence of Jack and one of the others, from three witnesses from each of the three taverns named—the barman, and two regulars acknowledged as near-permanent fixtures in each case. Each swore they had never known any clergyman to set foot in their establishment; given the dates and times of the supposed meetings, they would have been present and would have seen James, if he’d been there.
That done, the four club members turned their persuasive talents on the less-reputable crew who had agreed in exchange for coins to swear that James Altwood had been present at the same three meetings. Faced with the sworn statements of the others, especially those of the barmen, and assured they would be excused from appearance before any court should they now elect to tell the truth, all recanted. And signed statements to that effect.
Jack and his three comrades were celeb
rating their success in the club’s library when Alton arrived. Shown up by Gasthorpe, he looked around, intrigued, then reported that he and his brothers had identified at least one social event James had attended on the evening of each of the meetings, and had found ladies with diaries who could vouch that he’d been present at all three events.
“Given the times”—Alton held out his list to Jack—“it’s difficult to see how James could have been dining with these people yet simultaneously in some tavern in Southwark.”
Alton was invited to join the celebration.
Ten minutes later, Gasthorpe summoned Jack; a messenger from Whitehall had arrived. Jack went down, accepted the package, briefly checked the sheets of paper it contained, then, grinning, returned to the library.
Closing the door, he waved the sheets. “Not just the final nail but the hammer as well. We’re ready to bury the allegations.”
“What is it?” Alton asked. The others looked the same question.
Jack dropped back into his chair. “When we interviewed him, we managed to drag from Humphries the specific information the courier said James had passed at these three meetings. Much of it James would have known—troop strengths and deployments are precisely the things he researches. However, there was one piece of information I couldn’t imagine James knowing—ever bothering to learn—namely the details of demobilization. As a military strategist, he’s interested in battles and the preparations for those. What happens afterward holds no interest for him. Why would he have researched the specifics of demobilization?”
Christian grinned. “I take it that sheaf of papers proves he didn’t?”
“Indeed.” Jack smiled fondly at the papers in his hand. “I sent that friend of ours in Whitehall a list of all the military personnel James had interviewed between the fall of Toulouse and Waterloo. This is the result. Statements from all those interviewed stating that their discussions with James at no time touched on demobilization, plus statements from the staff at the War Office and Army Headquarters who managed the demobilization stating that they at no time had any contact whatever with James Altwood.”
A Fine Passion Page 34
