“Indeed, my lord.” Clarice curtsied.
Jack bowed. “If you will excuse us, my lord, I believe I should take this information to Whitehall without delay.”
Reiterating his thanks, the bishop dismissed them.
Olsen and the dean followed them out. Jack assured them Humphries’ body would be delivered shortly to the palace. Teddy appeared as they crossed the front hall; he spoke briefly with Clarice, then stood on the steps with Olsen and the dean as Jack handed Clarice up into the carriage. With a salute to the three men, Jack joined her. The coachman flicked his whip and the carriage rolled smoothly down the palace drive.
Whitehall wasn’t far away.
Clarice, of course, had absolutely no intention of waiting in the carriage while Jack consulted with Dalziel. Jack was perfectly sure she wanted another look at his enigmatic superior, and he saw no reason to deny her; it might jog her memory over who Dalziel was.
He ushered her into the bowels of the building, into the anteroom that gave onto Dalziel’s office. He gave his name to the unassuming clerk, to whom it meant nothing. While the clerk went to inquire his master’s pleasure, Jack wondered if Dalziel constantly changed clerks; they were never the same.
The clerk returned almost immediately. “He will see you now, but the lady must remain here.”
Jack knew from the way the clerk very nearly quailed that Clarice had narrowed her eyes at him. Before she could cut the poor man to ribbons, he squeezed her hand. “No point. He’s a law unto himself. Wait here, I won’t be long.”
He left her muttering about the trumped-up behavior of scions of the nobility, of which she, of course, was one. She couldn’t see his smile as he walked down the short corridor to Dalziel’s room, the highly relieved clerk trotting before him. The clerk showed him in, then departed, closing the door.
Dalziel rose from behind his desk; he extended his hand and Jack shook it, a courtesy they wouldn’t have exchanged before, but Jack was no longer one of Dalziel’s subordinates. Now, they met more or less as equals, as gentlemen tying up the final untidy threads of a decades-long war.
Dalziel’s gaze had raked his face the instant he’d walked into the room. Now, waving him to the chair before the desk, Dalziel slumped heavily back into his. “I take it you bear no good news?”
Jack grimaced. “Humphries’ body washed up this morning in the Deptford marshes.”
Dalziel swore, violently and colorfully. He stared up at the ceiling. “Do we know anything about the man responsible?”
Jack related what they’d learned. “So it’s been the same man at every turn.”
Dalziel’s dark eyes met his. “No hint of anyone else?”
“Not a whisper.” Jack studied Dalziel’s impossible-to-read face, then baldly asked, “Have you no clue who the real traitor is?”
Dalziel held his gaze for a long moment, before replying, “Not who, but as to what…that’s become rather clearer. This episode unfortunately won’t lead us to the man—he’s been too clever for that. Whoever this foreigner is, he’s certainly not the mastermind behind the whole. However, the very nature of the charade has revealed that our traitor knows the ropes of government, the legal system, and society well. He made only one mistake—choosing James Altwood, who knew about you, as his target, and that was something he couldn’t have known. If it hadn’t been for that slip, we wouldn’t have been so sure of Altwood’s innocence so early in the piece, early enough to act decisively to avoid any trial.”
Dalziel shuddered. “I don’t want to think of what would have happened if the charges had progressed to a formal trial. The failure of the case would have been spectacular, and would have effectively ended any hope of bringing the real last traitor to justice. Any subsequent talk of traitors would have been completely discounted.” He paused, then added, “As a way of ensuring his own safety, this charade was inspired. Whoever he is, he knew to a nicety what he was doing.
“Of course, he didn’t expect to fail.” Dalziel’s expression subtly altered. He glanced at Jack. “For our troubles, we’ve learned that the last traitor is in fact real. Until now, he’s been little more than a shade, a postulated being. All I had were suspicions, instincts. But now you, Dearne, Deverell, Trentham, and I all know that the last traitor exists. No shade organized all this.”
Jack inclined his head. “True. So although we didn’t win this skirmish, we came away with improved intelligence.”
Dalziel smiled. “Aptly put.” He paused, clearly reviewing. “One last thing. Did anyone get a good look at this foreigner?”
“Anthony Sissingbourne—he saw the man’s face only briefly, but at closest range. And Lady Clarice Altwood—she saw him from a greater distance, but she saw the man walk, move.” Jack hesitated, then added, “Of the two, Clarice would be more likely to recognize the man than Anthony.”
Dalziel nodded. “It might prove worth our time to review the foreigners known to be of similar physical description, those in the embassies, the consulates, various diplomatic posts, that sort of thing. If we turn up any likely candidates, we may need Lady Clarice.”
Blank-faced, Dalziel met Jack’s eyes. “If you were still under my command, I’d order you to keep her close, and guard her well.” His mobile lips twitched. “However, from all I hear, you’ll be doing precisely that, order or no.”
His expression impassive, Jack merely inclined his head. “She says she intends returning to Gloucestershire. Regardless, I’ll remain with her.”
“Good.” Dalziel rose.
Jack did the same. He met Dalziel’s gaze, let a slight frown show. “I’d much prefer to imagine we won’t meet again.”
The faintest of self-deprecatory smiles curved Dalziel’s lips. “Unfortunately, our instincts are independently suggesting that’s unlikely to be the case.” He grimaced. “Which means this is no real parting.” He waved Jack to the door. “Take care of her.”
“I will.” Hand on the knob, Jack paused, then glanced back. “Incidentally, she hasn’t recognized you yet.”
Back in his chair, Dalziel met his gaze, then shrugged. “With luck, by the time she does, it won’t matter anymore.”
Picking up a pen, Dalziel gave his attention to a letter. Puzzled, Jack went out; closing the door, he walked back to where Clarice was waiting, pacing before the highly nervous clerk.
In the carriage, he told her all Dalziel had said; she merely humphed and frowned.
They returned to the Benedict to take stock. On the table in her sitting room, they found a note from Alton, with two tickets for that evening’s Royal Gala at Vauxhall.
“I thought tickets to such events were obtainable more or less only by royal decree.” Jack examined the gilt-edged vouchers.
Clarice humphed. “They are, but Alton can be as charming as some others I know when he wishes.” She perused the note. “He writes that the bishop has informed him that the charges against James have been dismissed outright, and that he, Roger, and Nigel thought to use the Gala for a combined celebration of their winning free of Moira, their pending engagements, and James’s exoneration, to which, of course, Alton bids us attend.”
Handing the note to Jack, Clarice smiled to herself. It was patently clear her brothers thought to use the Gala—the very epitome of tonnish entertainment—to demonstrate the benefits of returning to the family fold, hoping to sway her into wanting her life of old.
They wouldn’t succeed, but if she let them try their damnedest, if she attended and enjoyed, and then told them she was returning to Avening and her quiet country life, they would realize how futile it was to keep pressing her, that her decision was indeed final and absolute.
And Jack, too, would see and understand.
Smile deepening, she turned to him. He stood by the table, still staring at the vouchers in his hand.
“We’ll have to go, of course.”
Jack glanced at her, saw, very clearly, the soft light of anticipation glowing in her eyes. He inclined his head, and smi
led. Charmingly.
Nine hours later, he was still smiling charmingly, but the gesture had grown thin—almost too thin to hide his feelings, the increasingly fraught urge to drop his mask entirely, seize Clarice, and whisk her away.
Away from those who wanted her to remain here, in the glittering bosom of the ton, to help them, to be a part of their family, not just the old but the newly forming, too.
It wasn’t hard to see she’d be tempted.
The booth Alton had hired was in the best area, facing the rotunda with the main dance floor between. Sitting in one front corner, keeping still, being as inconspicuous as possible, Jack watched Clarice whirling through a polka in Nigel’s arms.
About them, the cream of the ton circled and strolled, chatting, exclaiming, laughing. Jewels flashed; silks and satins corruscated in the light thrown by the bobbing lanterns. Perfumes and the scents of wine and fine food blended, teasing the senses; the music and chatter combined in a pervasive blanket of sound that yet managed to remain within reasonable bounds.
Everyone present was determined to enjoy themselves; their host was known as the Prince of Pleasure, and they took their cue from him. With only the highest families in the land able to obtain vouchers, the social standing of the company was assured. Consequently, the event was largely unstructured, with less rigidity, less consciousness of importance, all of which contributed to a sense of freedom, of being able metaphorically to let their hair down and simply enjoy.
Even to his prejudiced eyes, the scene was fabulous, and made even more appealing by the lighthearted atmosphere.
Alton whirled past with Sarah in his arms. Jack fought an urge to scowl. Everyone was enjoying themselves except him, and it was hard not to think that Alton was to blame. Especially as the man had pulled out all stops to convince Clarice to adopt the mantle of Altwood matriarch.
Jack had been forced to stand beside Clarice and listen to her soon-to-be sisters-in-law tell her how much they would appreciate her help in setting up their households, in establishing their own positions within the ton. He’d had to smile and nod while grande dame after grande dame made haughty overtures to Clarice, inviting her to join their circles.
Admittedly, Clarice had merely smiled and avoided giving any assurances, but she hadn’t said “no.”
He would have much rather she’d said “no,” even though he knew such a plain and abrupt refusal wouldn’t have been socially acceptable.
He wasn’t feeling all that inclined to behave in socially acceptable ways.
And with every minute that passed, he only felt more driven.
More tortured.
Regardless of what she’d said, regardless of what he’d thought and hoped that morning, once she considered the evening and all it implied, plus all the arguments countless others had put to her, and most of all the persuasions of her family, would she change her mind and decide to return to this life?
It was what she’d been born and bred to.
If she did…it would be without him. He knew, had known for some time, that the only place he would ever call home, the only place at which he would feel at peace, was Avening. Yet…would he ever know real peace, real happiness, without her?
Her family wanted her; they appreciated her more with each passing day. But they didn’t appreciate her, know her, as he did. They didn’t fully understand Boadicea, couldn’t fully engage with her, with all she was, as he did.
They didn’t need or want her as much as he did.
He was watching her, as ever, when she abruptly stopped midwhirl, then stepped out of Nigel’s arms. She wasn’t looking at her brother, but to the side of the dancing area; Nigel appeared to be asking her what was wrong.
Jack stood. Over the heads, he watched Clarice push away from Nigel’s restraining hands. Following the line of her gaze, he scanned the revelers—until he came to a man’s very pale, round face.
Jack swore. He didn’t wait to see more, but vaulted over the waist-high front of the booth and plunged into the crowd. There were muted shrieks and exclamations, warnings to have a care as he shouldered through the crush. He had no concern over whose ruffle he ripped; Clarice had left Nigel and started after the man, their courier-cum-informer who had murdered Humphries.
The man saw Clarice, stared, then turned and weaved away through the crowd. With her height, Clarice could still see him; she continued to track him, her attention fixed.
Jack swore and redoubled his efforts to reach her, uncaring of what havoc he caused. But the music had ended and the dancers were streaming from the crowded floor, leaving him fighting against a human tide.
Clarice followed the man who had run Anthony off the road all those weeks before. She realized he’d glimpsed her, but by using the crowd to her advantage, she hoped he might think she’d lost him in the throng.
She wanted to see where he was going, and even more whom he was meeting. He had to be meeting someone; there was no other reason a person of his ilk would be at such a gathering.
Tacking through the crowd, she managed to keep the man in sight, gradually gaining on him. He was circling the rotunda, presumably looking for one particular booth; she was increasingly sure he thought she’d lost him.
Then he stopped. His back to the gardens, from the edge of the crowd, he looked around, as if checking one last time before he approached whomever he was there to meet.
Clarice ducked behind a group of people, thanked her stars she hadn’t worn plumes in her hair as so many other ladies had. She looked down, counted to ten, then shifted to peek at the man again—just as the group before her moved on.
Leaving her staring across a bare expanse of ten yards, directly at her quarry.
His small eyes opened wide. Then with a muffled curse she heard, he whirled and plunged down the path behind him.
Clarice picked up her skirts and hurried after him.
The path was a major one, well lit by lanterns strung between the trees. There were couples and groups strolling along, enough to reassure Clarice but not enough to hide her.
Or the man. He darted along, not quite running, trying, still, not to attract too much attention, glancing behind him every now and then. The idea of screeching “Thief!” and pointing at him flared in Clarice’s mind, just as he ducked down an intersecting path.
She swore, and rushed on. The distance between them had lengthened. She was almost running as she rounded the corner and started along the next path.
A minor path. An unlighted one.
Chapter 21
Clarice halted. She’d traveled less than ten yards along the path, but already she stood in dense shadow. The bustle of the crowd around the rotunda suddenly seemed far away, screened by thick bushes.
And she could no longer see her quarry.
“Damn!” She stood a moment more, debating, then did the sensible thing, turned on her heel and marched back to safety.
“Damn, damn, da—” She sucked in a breath and whirled as the man rushed toward her. He’d been hiding in the bushes a few paces farther on.
Lips pulled back in a snarl, he was on her. Before she could release the scream rising up her throat, he slapped a huge hand over her lips, trapped her against him, then started to drag her back down the path. Away from the lighted path with its occasional strollers, away from anyone who might glimpse her silvery gown.
Clarice struggled frantically. This was much worse than the previous night; this man had killed, and would cold-bloodedly kill again.
She kicked and fought, and managed to slow him, but she couldn’t break free. He was not only stronger than the man last night, he was also more intent, more set on his aim, more experienced. His hand was clamped so hard over her lips, she couldn’t move her jaw enough to bite.
Desperate, she used her weight, sagged in his hold, then kicked and wrestled when he swore and tried to juggle her.
She forced him to stop again, but they were too far from the other path; she wasn’t making enough noise to attract anyon
e’s attention.
The heavy arm around her middle tightened, compressing her lungs. Then the hand over her mouth shifted; he pinched her nostrils closed, simultaneously pressing hard against her mouth, sealing off all air.
Clarice stopped struggling; she went totally still. Before she could think what to do, how to pretend she’d fainted, a roaring filled her ears.
Her vision started closing in, narrowing to a central core of light…
Jack appeared within that halo.
She assumed she was dying, that his was the final image she would see, her biggest regret that she would take to her grave—
Her captor swore. He released her mouth, reached beneath his coat.
Clarice sucked in a huge breath. Blinking back to life, she realized Jack was truly there, rushing down the path toward them, her warrior-lord come to save her.
Simultaneously she realized her captor had drawn a wicked-looking knife from his pocket, that he was holding it down where in the deep shadows Jack wouldn’t see it.
She wrenched sideways, trying to force the man to raise the knife.
The man didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes from Jack, closing rapidly.
Clarice remembered she could speak. “He has a knife!”
Neither Jack nor the man seemed to hear.
Desperate, she lifted her feet and flung herself to the side, trying to pull the man off-balance.
She succeeded better than she’d expected. Her flailing foot connected with the man’s knee. With a grunt, he went down, his grip on her breaking as she tumbled to the ground.
Jack grabbed her, hauled her upright, thrust her back along the path behind him. She staggered back, gulping air.
The man surged up like a spring aimed at Jack. The knife glinted evilly as he drove it toward Jack’s throat.
Jack caught the man’s wrist, swung so his shoulder and back were against the man’s chest, holding him at bay as Jack fought to gain control of the knife or to make the man drop it.
The man drove his other fist low into Jack’s side; Jack grunted, shifted, caught the man’s free fist in his other hand, and held it away as he concentrated on the hand holding the knife. He put all his strength into breaking the man’s grip while holding the man trapped, stretched across his shoulders.
A Fine Passion Page 41
