A Fine Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  After that…

  Watching her, he couldn’t deny the unsettling uncertainty that had taken root in his mind. Would she return to Avening and quiet country life, or had tonnish society and her family not just reclaimed but recaptured her?

  She saw him and frowned. “Come along. You aren’t going to escape either.”

  He smiled, easily, charmingly, and ambled over to do her bidding.

  They spent the next two hours immersed in engineered chaos. Only Clarice seemed to know what came next. Her sisters-in-law-to-be arrived and joined the discussions, after which Clarice sent them home armed with lists of questions for their parents. Her aunts stopped by and gave their regal blessing, promising to send a list of the more influential members of the ton to be included among the guests.

  Throughout, Clarice kept him and her brothers busy inscribing invitations in their best copperplate.

  Finally, she glanced at the clock, and called a halt. “We need to dress for dinner.”

  Alton stretched and groaned. “I’m going to collapse at my club.”

  Clarice narrowed her eyes at him. “No, you are not. You’re going to join Sarah and squire her about.” She raked her other two brothers. “And you are going to do the same with Alice and Emily. As of now, you are affianced gentlemen, and you need to act the part. If you want your engagement ball to be a success, you’ll start sowing the right seeds tonight.”

  Nigel snorted. “Three Altwoods announce their engagements all on the same night, with their recently returned-from-banishment sister as hostess. The ball won’t be a success, it’ll be a riot. Everyone in London will want to attend.” He caught Clarice’s glare and held up his hands. “All right, all right, we’ll do as you say, but there’s no chance of this ball being anything other than a horrible crush.”

  “Actually”—Alton leaned forward and fixed his dark gaze on Clarice’s face—“speaking of hostesses, you will return here now, won’t you, Clary? Moira’s gone, and Sarah certainly won’t mind—she sees you as an older sister already. She’d welcome your help, and indeed, no one is better suited to dealing with this sort of thing.” He waved at the clutter of invitations surrounding them. “There’s no reason you need to return to Avening, not now. James doesn’t need you, but we do. You will stay, won’t you?”

  Jack’s heart seized.

  Before Clarice could utter a word, Roger and Nigel leapt in to add their entreaties. This time, the three were more persuasive; they’d had time to plan and polish their arguments. They painted a picture of Clarice’s life as it should have been, as it could now be if she wished, the life she was born to, one of privilege, wealth, and position.

  Jack managed not to react, not to stiffen, not to draw anyone’s attention as he sat back and listened. Calling on the skills of his past, he let himself fade into the background until the other four had forgotten he was there.

  He watched Clarice. She hadn’t yet suceeded in saying a word; she seemed resigned to letting her brothers put forward every last argument they could muster, pulling every string they could think of to convince her to return to the family fold.

  Keeping silent and still was an effort, a battle. He felt like his heart was in his throat, but still he waited. It was her decision, and only hers.

  Finally, when Nigel had at last run out of words and an expectant silence fell, Clarice smiled at them. “Thank you, but no.”

  Jack breathed out. He felt faintly giddy.

  Clarice held up a hand to cut off her brothers’ protests. “No. Don’t argue. You’ve argued quite enough, and I must return to the hotel and get ready for the evening.”

  Calm and serene, she rose and turned to Jack.

  Rising, too, he met her eyes, but could read nothing beyond fond exasperation with her brothers in the dark depths.

  She kissed them as they farewelled her. “I’ll see you all tonight.”

  Cloaking his feelings in his customary geniality, Jack bade the brothers good-bye, led her into the hall and out to Alton’s town carriage, waiting to carry them to Benedict’s. Settling onto the seat beside her, head back as the carriage lurched, then rumbled on its way, he told himself she’d said “no.”

  Unfortunately, it hadn’t been a very convincing “no.”

  It hadn’t convinced her brothers; he’d seen the glances they’d exchanged. It hadn’t convinced him either.

  Things had changed dramatically, unexpectedly. She’d been welcomed back into the ton, her stepmother had been defeated and banished, her brothers were all to marry soon. And they’d succeeded in exonerating James.

  When she’d had time to consider, to think of how much had altered, would she still wish to return to Avening, a quiet country backwater, or would she choose to remain in town and live the life she always should have had?

  He wasn’t going to give her up. Not easily; not without a fight.

  Arm braced against the mantelpiece, boot propped on the fender, Jack stared into the fire in the sitting room of Clarice’s suite. She was still dressing for the evening; he had a little time.

  Her brothers’ renewed push to have her rejoin the family had been an unwelcome shock. He was grimly aware of how significant a threat their suggestion posed to his vision of the future, the vision he’d been nurturing for the past weeks, that of him living quietly at Avening with Clarice by his side.

  At no stage had he imagined winning her would be easy. Unlike with other females, he couldn’t ride up and slay her dragons for her and claim her hand as his reward. With her, he could only clear the way, at most empower her so she could slay said dragons herself. She was that sort of woman. He could stand by her side, his hand over hers on her sword and help her, but as with vanquishing Moira, it was she who had to perform the crucial act.

  Being self-determining was a part of who she was; he couldn’t in any way take that from her. Not if he wanted her, and he did.

  Through their time in the ton, his admiration for her had only grown. He’d seen more of her strengths, and while those dominated everyone’s view of her, he’d glimpsed vulnerabilities, too. And noted them. Not to exploit, but to support, to protect.

  In his heart, he was convinced she needed him every bit as much as he needed her. But how to bring that to her attention?

  The only answer he’d been able to conjure was to unstintingly give her the support she needed, which wasn’t always what one might suppose. She didn’t need or want to be protected in the same way other women did, but assisted. Treated as an equal, not set in a gilded cage.

  But he’d been doing precisely that for weeks, and while she definitely appreciated his help, he suspected she viewed it more or less as her due, which, indeed, it was. How, then, was he to shake her, to open her eyes so she saw him as him, and not just as a male who had the sense to deal with her correctly?

  Deverell’s advice returned to him. Surprise. He’d thought the idea worthy of consideration at the time; now, it held promise.

  If he wanted to woo her, then it had to be suitably, which meant unconventionally. Others had tried conventional approaches in the past; it was no real wonder they hadn’t succeeded.

  Not jewels; too easy, too predictable, and she already had a horde. Something more meaningful.

  “Right then.”

  He turned to see the object of his thoughts gliding toward him encased in a seductive confection of shimmering cerise gossamers and matching silks.

  She caught his eye, and twirled. “Do you approve?”

  He met her gaze, and smiled, with perfectly sincere intent. “You look…superb.” Taking her cloak from the maid who’d followed her from the bedroom, he draped it over her shoulders. As he did, he murmured, voice low, just for her, “Quite delectable, in fact.”

  From close quarters, her eyes, a trifle wide, touched his, briefly scanned, then her lips lifted, and she looked ahead. “We’d better go.”

  Before he shocked the maid. He smiled, inclined his head, and followed her from the room.

 
Jack came down to a late breakfast at the Bastion Club, still smiling at the fond memories he now possessed of a warrior-queen writhing in naked ecstasy upon a bed of shimmering cerise silk.

  The color of the silk against her skin, ruby against the ivory white, just like rose petals, had given him an idea of one gift he could give her that she wouldn’t expect, but, he suspected, would appreciate.

  He mentioned his requirements to Gasthorpe, who undertook to send a footman to scour the city and surrounds for what he needed.

  He’d just finished a plate of ham and saugages and was savoring Gasthorpe’s excellent coffee, when a sharp knock on the club’s front door was followed by an inquiry in a clear voice he knew well, in a tone that brought his protective instincts surging to life. Rising, he walked out without waiting for Gasthorpe to summon him.

  Clarice met his eyes, signaled toward the dean, standing beside her. “There you are. I fear we bring bad news.”

  Jack took one look at the dean’s ashen face, and ushered them both into the parlor. “Perhaps a little brandy, Gasthorpe.”

  “Indeed, my lord. At once.”

  Jack saw the dean into one armchair. Clarice watched, then sank into the other. Although shocked, she was by no means overcome.

  “What’s happened?” Jack looked at the dean; the man suddenly seemed his age, much frailer than before.

  “Humphries.” The dean met Jack’s eyes. “He hasn’t returned.”

  Gasthorpe arrived with a tray loaded with brandy, tea and coffee. Jack gave the dean a stiff tot of brandy, then helped himself to coffee while Clarice poured herself a cup of tea.

  The dean sipped, coughed, sipped again, then cleared his throat. “I wanted to send word last night, when Humphries didn’t appear at dinner, but the bishop…I think he was hoping against hope. He’s in a terrible state. We’ve asked all the porters, but they haven’t seen Humphries since he left the palace yesterday afternoon, soon after he spoke with the bishop.”

  Jack glanced at Clarice, met her dark eyes. “We can hope, but I fear we should expect the worst.”

  He looked at the dean, who nodded, defeated. “I’ll send word to my colleagues, and get a search under way.” He hesitated, then asked, “Has the bishop notified Whitehall?”

  The dean frowned. “I don’t know…I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll send word there, too.”

  After a few minutes, when some color had returned to the dean’s parchmentlike cheeks, Jack suggested he return to the palace. “Tell the bishop we’ll do all we can, but if something serious has befallen Humphries, it’s possible we’ll never know. And if by chance Humphries does return, do let me know immediately.”

  “Yes, of course.” The dean stood.

  Clarice got to her feet. “I’ll take the Dean back to the palace in my carriage.” She met Jack’s gaze. “I’ve canceled all my appointments today. I’ll be spending the entire day at Melton House, organizing.”

  Jack nodded. “I’ll send word there, and to the palace, if we have any news. That said, I’m not expecting to learn anything soon.”

  He saw the dean and Clarice back to Alton’s town carriage, then strode swiftly back to the house.

  “Gasthorpe?”

  “Yes, my lord—I have the footmen waiting.”

  He sent word to Dalziel, Christian, and Tristan, and roused Deverell from his bed upstairs. All of them went to work, activating a network of eyes and ears, concentrating on the areas south and east of the palace, and all along the Thames, searching for any sighting of Humphries, alone or with someone else.

  The Bastion Club became their base; Dalziel sent word he’d have his men report there, too.

  After lunch, Jack changed into merchant garb and went down to the river. Finding a team of bargemen with no work, he sent them to search the marshes at Deptford as far east as Greenwich Reach, the traditional place for bodies put into the river close to the city to wash up. That done, he returned to the club to receive any reports and coordinate their efforts.

  The day wore on, and they heard nothing. Although he hadn’t expected anything else, Jack wondered if they’d ever learn what had happened to Humphries.

  As the hours ticked by, he was glad Clarice was occupied, safely ensconced in the bosom of her family, surrounded by others and with too much to do to think too much about the missing deacon. To wonder if there’d been anything they could have done differently that might have deflected the sadly driven man from his determined course.

  Jack knew there wasn’t. That when people like Humphries were caught in a web of intrigue and treason, they were too weak to break free. In this case, the spider—the last traitor—would devour Humphries, even if, as Jack suspected, it wouldn’t be he himself who did the deed.

  When afternoon edged toward evening, and there was still no word, Jack left the reins in Gasthorpe’s capable hands and headed for Benedict’s. Finding Clarice absent, he went on to Melton House.

  She was still there. He walked into the drawing room and saw her seated on a chaise surrounded by her sisters-in-law-to-be, her aunts, and a small army of female helpers. She looked like nothing so much as a general directing her troops.

  Distracted, she looked up; across the room, she met his eyes. Swiftly read his expression. She didn’t need to ask whether they’d heard anything.

  She glanced at the clock, blinked, then turned to her helpers. “Great heavens! We’ve forgotten the time!”

  The observation triggered a torrent of exclamations, of orders for carriages to be brought around. The female gathering broke up. Jack surmised Clarice’s brothers had taken refuge in their clubs.

  The departing ladies smiled shyly up at him as they trooped past him into the front hall. Clarice brought up the rear. Reaching him, she lifted a hand and lightly touched his cheek, then let her hand fall to grip his arm before moving past him.

  Comforted by that fleeting touch, by the understanding and empathy it conveyed, he followed her into the hall. He nodded to her aunts as they kissed Clarice’s cheek and turned to leave.

  “We’ll see you later,” Lady Bentwood told Clarice.

  Jack wanted nothing more than a peaceful evening alone with Boadicea.

  When the door closed behind the last of the ladies, she walked back to him. With a sigh, she halted before him.

  He looked into her dark eyes. “Do we have to go out tonight?”

  She studied his eyes, then grimaced. “I’m afraid so. It’s Lady Holland’s bal masque.”

  Lady Holland was one of the ton’s foremost hostesses.

  Taking his hand, Clarice led him into the drawing room. Inside, she turned into his arms; behind him, he pushed the door closed.

  “We have to go. It’s an annual event, one of those must-attend events of the Season, at least among the haut ton.”

  He pulled a face. “And it’s a masked ball?”

  She leaned into him, smiled as he settled his arms about her. Raising her hands, she framed his face. “We have to go, but we don’t have to stay long.”

  He searched her eyes. “Where am I going to get a domino?”

  “I’ve asked Manning, the concierge, to organize one. He’s terribly efficient, and for some unfathomable reason, he’s decided he approves of you.”

  Jack humphed. “Very well. If we must, we must.” That she’d spoken of “we” throughout mollifed him somewhat.

  She stretched up and kissed him. Gently, lightly, a promise of things to come.

  He accepted the caress, but made no move to take it further.

  Ending it, she drew back, lifting one brow in patent surprise.

  With his head, he indicated the door. “It has a lock, but no key.”

  Her expression lightened. She laughed and stepped out of his arms. “In that case, it’s clearly time to leave. Let’s go back to Benedict’s. We can dine there.”

  They did, then she dressed for the evening, and they took the carriage to the Bastion Club. Jack donned his evening clothes while Gasthorp
e relayed the results of the day’s search, an uninspiring negative all around.

  Jack grimaced and dismissed Gasthorpe with a nod. Swirling the black domino Manning had had waiting for him around his shoulders, he tied the ties across his chest, made a horrendous face in the mirror, then picked up the black mask that completed the prescribed outfit, and went down to fetch Clarice from the parlor.

  During the drive to Holland House, he told her of their lack of success.

  Returning the clasp of his fingers, she leaned lightly against his shoulder. “You’ve done all you can.”

  Their carriage joined the line of conveyances waiting to deposit their occupants before the arched entrance to the gardens of Holland House. Eventually, the carriage rocked to a complete halt; putting on their masks, they descended, then followed the graveled path beneath a stand of old trees to the conservatory where the Hollands stood waiting to receive their guests. Her ladyship’s famed bal masque was always held in the gardens rather than in Holland House itself.

  The terrace onto which the conservatory opened was long, and lit by numerous lamps; when, after being warmly welcomed by Lady Holland and her much quieter spouse, Jack and Clarice emerged onto its flags, the wide expanse running the length of the house was already crammed with the cream of the ton, a strange sight in their crowlike dominos, with the bright colors of gowns flashing here and there, like jewels hidden beneath, while the genuine jewels garlanding ladies’ throats and winking from gentlemen’s cravats glowed with liquid fire.

  The impression of a gathering of fantastical birds was heightened by the masks, some with long feathers adorning their upper edges, others with jeweled or gilt nosepieces very like beaks.

  At this stage of the night, masks were compulsory, as were the black dominos. In a well-lit ballroom, it would be relatively easy to penetrate such an incomplete disguise, but in the Holland House gardens, neither the flickering terrace lamps, the moon that shed a gentle radiance, nor the small lanterns scattered about the gardens cast enough illumination to do anything other than veil every figure in mystery.