He started back to the door. His stride hitched as he saw the group of three ladies and two gentlemen who had followed Jack outside; from the looks on their faces they’d seen enough to keep the gossips buzzing for the rest of the week. Then Warwick continued on, passing the group without acknowledging them in any way.
Jack turned to Clarice, met her eyes, and pulled a face. “My apologies. It seemed that was overdue, and no one else seemed likely to…” He shrugged.
To his relief, she smiled delightedly. “Thank you.” Her eyes said it even more than her words. Placing her hand on his sleeve, she turned to stand beside him, viewing the beauty of the garden at night as they sipped.
There were whispers behind them, but then the group, eager to share their news, scurried back into the ballroom.
Jack sighed. “I didn’t mean to create a scandal.”
Clarice chuckled. “I don’t mind. Indeed, since my aim is to distract the ton from James’s predicament”—she glanced up at him, lightly squeezed his arm—“I should thank you for your help.”
She caught his gaze as he glanced at her. “Thank you for hitting him for me. I’ve always wished I could do that.”
“Your way would have worked, too.” Jack turned her back to the ballroom. “But you don’t want to become predictable.”
She was laughing, smiling, as he led her back into the ballroom, back under the glare of the ton’s fervid gaze.
They didn’t leave immediately, but played the game, circulated once, then departed.
Back at Benedict’s, together alone in her suite, Clarice devoted herself to tendering her thanks in more tangible, much more sensual vein.
Later still, lying sated in the tangle of the bedcovers, Jack slumped beside her fast asleep, she found her mind drifting over recent events, over the changes in her life.
The unexpected shifts in her landscape, her unforeseen reactions.
That evening’s incident with Warwick flared in her mind. She had no doubt whatever that he’d been about to make her an improper offer, when Jack had returned, and without even knowing of that pending insult, had dealt with Warwick as he deserved.
For her. There was no other reason that might have driven him. He’d acted not just as her defender, but as her avenger.
She’d never had anyone act for her in that sense. Not her father or her brothers. She’d never expected it of them; she wasn’t even sure she’d have accepted such support from them.
Jack hadn’t asked, he’d simply acted as her champion, as if he had the right.
She wasn’t sure he didn’t. She certainly felt no qualms, no inner difficulties over accepting help from him, over letting him stand as her defender, her champion.
The news, of course, would be all over the ton by morning, yet she couldn’t summon any degree of care, of concern. She didn’t care if the whole world knew that she was willing to allow him into her life. Close.
She glanced across the pillow, watched him as he slept, let her eyes trace his face, the hard planes, the definite angles. The strength inherent there, and in the heavy body half-wrapped around hers.
Her lips curved; she looked up at the ceiling, unexpectedly basking in his instinctive possessiveness.
A possessiveness that had always been there, with her, an aspect of his nature he’d never sought to hide or conceal. She’d seen it from the first, but hadn’t felt threatened, still didn’t. In her heart, in her bones, in her soul she knew he posed no threat to her, that he never would.
She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was something to do with the connection that day by day, night by night, continued to grow between them. Perhaps that was why she didn’t feel vulnerable, because due to that connection, he was vulnerable, too.
In the same way, to the same degree.
A mutual binding.
Reaching out, she let her fingers play in the soft ends of his hair while she considered that, and what such a binding might mean.
Her mind couldn’t answer her questions. It drifted away to another change, another unforeseen reaction.
No one, herself included, could have known that, her position within the ton beyond her expectations reclaimed, she wouldn’t want it anymore. That tonnish life and the constant whirl of society would no longer hold any allure for her. She’d been away long enough for the spell to fade and die; perhaps she should thank her father for that? Not for banishing her, but for forcing her to choose.
Life, as Claire had said, was a matter of making choices, then living with the results. Of choosing a road, then going forward along it, seeing where it led, enjoying the adventures along the way.
Much as she and Jack had done from the moment they’d met.
When this was ended, when they’d exonerated James, and saved her brothers and seen them each to the altar, she’d face another choice. To retreat to her previous existence, to choose society’s road, or…
She tried to concentrate, but sleep fogged her mind and drew her down before she could decide whether she actually had another alternative, another unexpected road she could choose…or if she was simply dreaming.
“The bishop expects to convene his court tomorrow. I suggest we see him today.” Jack looked across the table on which he’d spread their accumulated evidence and met Clarice’s gaze.
It was after ten o’clock, and he’d returned from a morning conference with his colleagues at the Bastion Club to lay all they’d gathered before her.
“This”—he gestured to the documents arrayed before him—“is beyond convincing, proof positive that James never attended those three meetings, that the meetings never took place. With that established, the allegations no longer have any foundation. I discussed it with the others—we all feel that if there’s a chance to avoid the matter appearing even in the bishop’s court, we’d be wise to seize it.”
Clarice nodded slowly, thinking it through. “That way, no formal allegations will be recorded, not anywhere.”
“Precisely. So, shall we go and see the bishop?”
She met Jack’s eyes, and nodded. “Let’s.”
Arriving at the palace, they spoke first to Dean Samuels and Deacon Olsen. The dean conveyed their message, their thoughts, directly to the bishop’s ear. Ten minutes later, they were shown into a private audience.
“Well, then.” The bishop looked from Jack to Clarice. “The dean tells me you have news?”
From his expression, it was plain that he was looking to them to help him avoid what for him now loomed as a political quagmire. Jack smiled. Ably assisted by Clarice, he obliged, going through each alleged meeting, citing the witnesses Deacon Humphries had named, in each case proferring the signed and witnessed recanting of their stories and their tales of having been paid by the supposed courier to lie.
“The description of the man who has been meeting with Deacon Humphries, presumably giving him information, matches that of the man who paid the witnesses to swear that they’d seen James Altwood meeting with the courier in those taverns.” Jack paused, then continued, “In addition, we have at least three witnesses for each tavern who will swear no clergyman has ever crossed their threshold, at least not in the last two years.”
Looking up, he met the bishop’s eyes. “Furthermore, we have confirmed information from various persons within the ton placing James at social functions on the same evenings as the alleged meetings.”
Dropping the sheaf of statements onto the small table before him, Jack laid his hand on the last pile of documents. “Lastly, as to the information passed, while most of the details cited James did indeed have, and would be expected, military scholar that he is, to have, the specific information said to have been passed during one of the three recent meetings concerned details of demobilization.” Jack’s smile grew intent. “That, however, was information James Altwood didn’t have.”
Succinctly, he described the exhaustive search Dalziel had conducted. “All of which failed to find any avenue through which James Altwood accessed such information.
”
Clarice stepped forward. “Taken together, the evidence gathered proves conclusively that James did not attend the three meetings with any courier, indeed, was elsewhere at the time, and could not have had at least some of the information he is said to have passed to the enemy. In short, my lord, the allegations made against my relative appear entirely without foundation. More, they appear to have been constructed, either by this supposed courier or someone working through him, to ensnare the authorities, the Church included, in an unjustified trial.”
The bishop blinked, but he wasn’t disappointed. He nodded, his expression stern. “Indeed, Lady Clarice. Your point is well-taken.” From his expression, he was clearly aware of the pitfalls involved in unjustified trials, even in his court.
He looked at Jack. “Lord Warnefleet, the Church is indebted to you, your superiors, and the others who aided you in assembling this evidence so swiftly. You have our thanks. And Lady Clarice, as well. You may convey to your family, dear lady, that there will be no further action taken in this matter.” The bishop glanced at the stack of papers before Jack. “In light of all you’ve presented, I see no benefit in proceeding with a formal hearing. I intend to dismiss the allegations as unfounded. I will inform Whitehall of my decision.”
Clarice beamed. “Thank you, my lord.”
The formality preserved to that point dissolved. The dean and Deacon Olsen came forward to shake Jack’s hand and exclaim over the evidence. Clarice engaged the bishop, who asked rather wistfully after her aunt Camleigh, inquiries Clarice, somewhat to her surprise, was now in a position to satisfy.
Some fifteeen minutes later, in perfect accord, they parted, Jack, Clarice, and Olsen leaving the bishop and dean to explain matters to Humphries, a solution they agreed was best all around.
Olsen left them at the head of the main stairs; delighted, he staggered off to his office, the evidence exonerating James piled in his arms.
Smiling, Jack turned to Clarice. She wound her arm in his. Side by side, they descended the stairs.
“One matter successfully dealt with.” Clarice paused on the palace steps and lifted her face to the sun. “I suppose…” She looked at Jack. “Now we have James saved and that matter off our plate, we should concentrate on my brothers’ futures.” She eyed him appraisingly, assessing, subtly challenging. “Lady Hamilton is holding an al fresco luncheon today. Lady Cowper and Aunt Camleigh, entirely independently, mentioned it as an event I’d be well-advised not to miss.”
Jack raised his brows but said nothing.
Undeterred, Clarice led him down the steps. “Of course,” she confided, “they both want me there for the same reason.” She caught Jack’s eye. “Moira will be there, and so will the Haverlings and the Combertvilles. After Helen’s ball last night, I suspect our aunts want to ensure that Moira comprehends her revised position.”
She grimaced and looked down.
Jack studied her face, what he could see of it. “It’s political, isn’t it? The way the ladies jostle for position and influence, band together in this faction and that?”
She glanced at him, then wrinkled her nose. “It’s like politics, but more cutthroat. If you fail within the ton, you rarely get a second chance. Politics is more forgiving.”
Jack swallowed a snort; from what he’d seen, she was right. The ornate gates at the end of the palace drive loomed before them. “Would you like me to escort you to this luncheon?”
The porter bowed and swung the gate open. Clarice stepped through, waited until Jack joined her, then smiled. “If you can spare the time. I’m really not sure what I might encounter. Having someone I trust by my side would be comforting.”
Jack met her eyes, and bit back the words that he would always have time to be by her side—saw in the dark depths an awareness that mirrored his own. Boadicea wasn’t in the habit of wanting the comfort of another’s presence, let alone requesting it.
Lips curving, he raised her hand, kissed. “For you, I’d brave any danger, even the ladies of the ton.”
She laughed and accepted his gallant offer. He hailed a hackney; they climbed aboard, and set out on their next adventure.
“Moira isn’t here.” Clarice met Jack’s eyes, her puzzlement clear.
Scanning the gaily dressed horde thronging the riverside lawn of Hamilton House, Jack shrugged. “Perhaps she decided after last night that her presence was no longer required, that there was no longer any point. Her daughters are all married, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but that won’t wash. She’s definitely angling to arrange a good match for Carlton. Wild horses shouldn’t have been enough to keep her away from a gathering of this tone.”
Clarice saw her aunt Camleigh through the crowd, caught her eye, and raised her brows pointedly. Her aunt shrugged and lifted her hands in a gesture that plainly stated she had no idea why Moira wasn’t there either. Clarice grimaced and turned to view the crowd. “I suppose the truth is I just don’t trust her. Know thine enemy and all that.”
When Jack didn’t respond, she glanced up, and saw him transfixed. Strangely wooden. She followed his gaze to a haughty matron, two young ladies in tow, sweeping toward them with the unstoppable determination of a galleon under full sail. The lady’s gaze was fixed on Jack.
Sweeping to a halt before them, she smiled delightedly at Jack. “Lord Warnefleet, isn’t it?”
Clarice didn’t stop to think, simply acted; she stepped across Jack, forcing the lady, startled, to meet her eyes. Clarice smiled, thinly. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
The lady blinked, met Clarice’s eyes, then swallowed, stepped back, and curtsied. Clarice looked at her charges; they quickly did the same.
“Lady Quintin, Lady Clarice. Lady Hamilton is my aunt.”
“Ah, yes. I believe she mentioned you.” Clarice looked at the young ladies. “And these are your daughters?”
Lady Quintin was clearly torn—to be first to engage the eminently eligible Lord Warnefleet on behalf of her charges, or instead gain the approbation of a lady as powerfully connected as Clarice Altwood…who was standing between her and her target. Her ladyship bowed to the dictates of reason, and smiled. “Indeed, my lady. Amelia and Melissa.”
With a facility acquired through countless hours spent in similar pursuits, Clarice chatted with the three, then artfully dismissed them. Behind her, Jack was called on to do no more than bow. Distantly.
“Thank heavens!” He took Clarice’s elbow as the three moved away, and turned her toward the house. “Let’s—” He broke off, then swore beneath his breath. “Saints preserve me—there’s an army of them!”
“Saints won’t do you much good, not in this arena.” Smoothly, Clarice disengaged from his hold and instead wound her arm with his. Briefly, she caught his eye. “Stay close, and I promise to keep you safe.”
The fraught look he cast her made her smile.
She turned that smile forward, on the mamas and their charges lying in wait. “No sense in trying to avoid this. We’ll have to fight our way through.”
They did, steadily moving toward the house, but each yard was gained only at the expense of an exchange with some matron and her daughter or niece, if not both. Initially Clarice wondered at Jack’s reticence, at his clear wish to remain as aloof as possible rather than employ his customary effortless charm, but then she looked more definitely at him, into his eyes, and realized it was his temper he distrusted, not his glib tongue.
For some reason, the matrons pressing their charges on his notice touched some nerve…perhaps not surprising. They all seemed to imagine that they’d be able to manage him, to manipulate him into behaving as they wished. For a man such as he, with a background such as he, to be treated so—it was a form of contempt—had to be galling. Especially as social strictures forbade him to react as he undoubtedly wished.
People had tried to manipulate her once; at least she’d been able to say “no.” For him, “no” wasn’t an option; the ton didn’t permit gentleme
n to be so ruthless, not in public.
She, of course, could be as ruthless as she wished, but in deference to Lady Hamilton and the Altwood name, she played by the accepted rules, and repelled the predatory mamas one by one, with a smile, a swift and sure tongue, and an absolute refusal to release Jack’s arm.
One couple—a veritable gorgon and her pretty but strangely nervous charge—remained in her mind. Not because of anything they said, but because of the tension that tightened Jack’s muscles while they’d faced them.
It took more than half an hour to gain the terrace, then another fifteen minutes before they could fall back against the cushions in a blessedly silent hackney and heave sighs of relief.
Clarice glanced sideways at Jack, beside her. “That was ghastly. Was it like that when you were in town before?”
He let his head fall back against the squabs. “Yes. I told you I’d had enough of it, that that was one of the reasons I left.”
And hadn’t intended coming back. Clarice remembered. “The Cowley chit? You’d met her before.”
His expression grew grimmer. “Before, she and her aunt were my absolute last straw.” In a few words, he told her how they’d tried to entrap him. Even without him stating it, she could see what a near-run thing it had been.
“Dreadful! And then to so brazenly approach you again?” She narrowed her eyes. “I wish I’d known.”
He chuckled rather tiredly. “Perhaps it’s as well you didn’t. The ton’s focusing on you enough as it is.”
After a moment, she murmured, “I’m sorry. Helping me has put you back in the matchmakers’ sights.”
His lips twisted; he reached for her hand and closed his about it. “No matter. You saved me. And in the main, you and the unmarried young darlings don’t move in the same circles.”
Clarice nodded and let the subject die, distracted by yet another revelation, with trying to make sense of yet another unforeseen reaction.
She’d been perfectly prepared to socially annihilate any lady who had attempted to pressure Jack, to force him to interact with them and their charges. It was indeed fortunate she hadn’t known about the Cowleys at the time; heaven only knew what she might have done, how she would have made them pay. Faced with her determination, all the ladies had backed down, more than anything out of confusion; they were unsure what to make of her relationship with Jack. Unlike the more discerning males and the more experienced hostesses, most matrons saw her as unmarriageable, too old. So they’d bide their time and try again to engage Jack, who didn’t want to be engaged.
A Fine Passion Page 36
