A Fine Passion (16 page)

“These allegations are nonsense,” Clarice stated, haughty censure coloring her tone, “but if the bishop is so misguided as to give them any credence, then clearly the best person to refute them is James himself.”

Seated in one of the armchairs in James’s study, his fingers steepled defensively before him, Dean Halliwell carefully inclined his head her way. “Be that as it may—”

“To suggest anything else would, I feel sure, be tantamount to a miscarriage of justice.” Seated regally in the other armchair, Clarice speared the hapless dean with her gaze. “It could hardly be construed as fair were my cousin not to know of the charges brought against him, nor be given the opportunity to defend himself against them.”

Dean Halliwell drew in a tight breath. “The Church has its own procedures in such matters, Lady Clarice.”

Clarice’s expression grew even more stony. She raised her brows. Before she could utter the blistering setdown forming on her lips, Jack shifted in his chair, set beside hers, drawing the dean’s attention.

“Perhaps,” Jack said, his tone even and unthreatening, “you might explain those procedures.”

As he’d hoped, Dean Halliwell was eager to offer whatever he could in the hope of appeasing the irate personage on Jack’s right.

“I believe the matter will be heard by the bishop himself in the first instance, purely within the palace, you understand.” Halliwell hurried to add, “Regardless, the procedures are the same as a full ecclesiastical court. There will be a prosecutor and a defender appointed.”

“And who will those individuals be?” Clarice asked.

Her accents were arctic; Dean Halliwell tried not to shiver. “I understand the prosecutor will be the deacon who first brought the allegations to the bishop’s notice.”

Clarice opened her lips, doubtless on a withering denunciation of Deacon Humphries; Jack evenly cut in, “And the defender?”

He ignored Clarice’s fulminating glare.

“Another deacon named Olsen.” Dean Halliwell appeared grateful for Jack’s intervention; he looked at James. “I understand Dean Samuels himself wished to defend you, but the bishop ruled that such overt partisanship on his principal advisor’s part was unwise.”

From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Clarice’s narrow. She’d no doubt interpreted that last comment as he had; unwise for the Church, not unwise for James. He was relieved that, although her lips thinned, she kept them shut.

After his initial disbelief at the bishop’s edict effectively confining him at Avening, James had grown increasingly subdued, leaving all subsequent questions to Clarice and Jack. Jack continued to probe, to glean all they could from Dean Halliwell, ably assisted by Clarice, although her contributions were primarily nonverbal.

Eventually, Dean Halliwell made his excuses and fled, Clarice’s saber-edged gaze fixed between his shoulder blades. Once his carriage had rattled away down the drive, the three of them returned to the study.

James sank into the chair behind his desk slowly, as if he still couldn’t quite believe the turn events had taken. His gaze was distant, fixed on the opposite wall, his mind far away.

While Jack could certainly sympathize—two hours ago James had had no idea there were any clouds on his horizon, let alone a storm of this magnitude—Jack’s reaction was more in tune with Clarice’s.

She paced back and forth, arms folded beneath her breasts. Her skirts swished as she turned. A definite frown drew down her fine brows; she was clearly wrestling with the problem of what next, of how best to react. How to proceed to clear James’s name.

“Well!” James blew out a breath. His gaze remained distant.

Jack caught Clarice’s eye and raised a brow; she frowned at him for a moment, then waved dismissively. “Oh, sit, for heaven’s sake. This is hardly the time for standing on ceremony.”

Of course, she’d held to every iota of ceremony while poor Dean Halliwell had been there; suppressing a smile, Jack sank into one of the armchairs. He studied James.

This was James’s battle; while Jack had every intention of doing all he could to assist, he needed to know James’s mind.

“I’ll have to go to London and rally the family.”

Clarice’s statement, delivered in a tone that brooked no dissension, let alone argument, brought James’s head up.

“Oh, no, my dear. There’s really no need…The bishop will see sense, I’m sure.” James looked at Jack. “Don’t you think, m’boy?”

Jack didn’t, but was saved from explaining by Clarice.

“If the bishop is ready to waste his time, and that of numerous others, in convening a private court to hear this matter, then there’s no grounds to suppose he won’t be swayed by whatever trumped-up arguments were laid before him in the first place.”

Precisely.
“I think,” Jack said, once again grateful to be able to take the even, reassuring tack, taking the sting from the acerbic truth Clarice so unflinchingly dispensed, “that we do need to respond to this, James.”

James frowned at him, then at Clarice. She ceased her pacing and met James’s stare steadily. After a long moment, James seemed to shake aside his thoughts. “No.” He leaned back to look at them both. “This is a storm in a teacup, no doubt whipped up by Humphries’ regrettable envy. The most appropriate response is to ignore it. The less said, the soonest mended.”

Above her arms, Clarice’s breasts swelled.

“No, James. Not with this.” Jack’s voice was no longer reassuring, an edge of steel creeping in. “If you don’t challenge and defeat these ‘allegations,’ and the bishop determines you have a case to answer, then the charge that will go before any secular court will be one of treason.”

James smiled. “But that’s just it, dear boy. No one in his right mind would accuse an Altwood of treason.”

Clarice’s snort was eloquent. “For goodness sake, James! The only reason the bishop has convened a private court is because of the family, but
he’s still convened that court.
He’s still investigating the allegations.”

“But the allegations are false.”

Clarice looked at the ceiling so James wouldn’t see the exasperation in her eyes. “The bishop doesn’t know that. Indeed, it’s clear he doesn’t know what to believe, and without you or anyone else acting in your best interests, he might never see the evidence that will show the allegations to be false, only evidence that leaves a large question mark over your integrity.”

“Over your honor, James.” Jack caught James’s gaze as it swung his way. “Clarice is right. You need someone more devoted to your interests than just an appointed cleric looking into this on your behalf. Do you know this man Olsen?”

A glimmer of uncertainty passed through James’s eyes. He looked down; reaching out, he lifted a paperweight. “I have met him.”

They waited, Clarice by Jack’s chair, staring down at James, then she prompted in a tone that held clear demand, “And?”

James grimaced, sighed. “He’s young. He was only appointed last year. He was a chaplain with the army, one of the regiments. The bishop took him on when he returned after Waterloo.”

Jack felt the flare of Clarice’s temper even though she wasn’t directing it his way.

“So your defense rests in the hands of some wet-behind-the-ears whelp—”

“Actually,” Jack said, “Olsen might be useful.” He glanced at Clarice. “A man with experience of a battlefield—better, in this case, than one with none.”

She met his eyes, then shut her lips and nodded. “True.” Swinging around, she started pacing again. “Regardless, as you yourself can no longer attend, James, you need supporters who will ensure this Olsen has all the right arguments and whatever proofs he needs to reveal these allegations for the fabrications they are.”

After a moment, she added, “I’ll leave for London in the morning.”

“My dear!” James looked distressed. “Truly, there’s no need.”

“Yes, there is.” She didn’t stop her pacing. “Regardless of how
private
the bishop’s court is, the story will out, of that you may be sure. The family will be horrified.” She glanced at James. “I’m perfectly aware of what sort of reception I can expect from the family were I to approach them on my behalf. On
your
behalf, by way of quashing a potential scandal—in such a case I’m sure they’ll not only listen, but act in whatever way is necessary.”

“No.” James started to look mulish. “I won’t have you subjecting yourself—”

“She’s right, James.” Jack was treated to a surprised but approving look from Clarice. He didn’t know why James thought she’d be subjected to anything untoward, but he knew she was right, and the way his plans were unfurling in his head, she wouldn’t be subjected to anything untoward, either.

“Precisely.” Clarice nodded decisively. “I’ll leave at first light—”

“However”—without raising his voice, Jack spoke over her—“before I leave for London, I’ll want all the relevant facts. Dates, James, and a list of all the papers you’ve published in the last decade—indeed, a summary of all you’ve researched over that time, whom you’ve corresponded with, and when, what dates you traveled and to where, and whom you spoke with while there, all the soldiers you’ve interviewed…once I have all that, I’ll go up to London.”

He wasn’t surprised to hear Clarice state, “I’ll wait and go with you.”

Looking up, he met her dark eyes. “As James said, there’s really no need, and I do have the right contacts to do what needs to be done.”

Clarice read the calm certainty in his eyes, took a moment to consult her instincts, all too reckless as she’d been told often enough. But she’d never be able to sit and wait, wondering what was happening. “No doubt. Regardless, I’ll accompany you to London.”

She glanced warningly at James, her decision clear in her face. She would listen to no argument. She was her own person; neither James nor any other had any authority over her. “The family will need to know.” She looked at Jack. “They don’t know you, but, for my sins, they definitely know me.”

Jack had merely inclined his head—whether in true acceptance of her decision, or with some vain hope that she might later change her mind she didn’t know—but he’d let the matter slide.

James hadn’t, but had only succeeded in wasting his breath, and pricking her temper to boot.

She knew what she was doing.

Both in that, and in this.

Calmly, Clarice walked through the night’s shadows, crossed the bridge and climbed the stile, then headed through the meadow toward the hill and the folly.

And Jack. His arms, his body, and the excitement she’d found with him.

She wasn’t sure it would be the same, as absorbing the second time—more accurately the second night—but she was keen to find out.

He’d excused himself soon after her declaration that she’d go to London with him. She’d escorted him to the front door; following close behind her, he’d whispered in her ear. She’d had to fight a reactive shiver, but had calmly agreed to meet him again tonight.

The folly rose before her, the door once again left enticingly open. Anticipation leapt in her veins; smiling to herself, at herself, she quickened her pace and strode eagerly on.

From behind the wide windows of the folly, Jack looked down, watching as Clarice left the shadows of the trees and, with an easy, confident stride, crossed to the stairs. And started up them, to him.

Expectation rose through him, definite and unusually powerful, strangely compelling. Not simply the expectation of sensual delight, but of a chance to engage more fully with her, of another opportunity he would grasp to woo her, another step in his campaign to win her.

He knew what he wanted; what he didn’t truly understand was why. What he felt was beyond question; what he wanted and needed—what he had to have—was crystal clear. But he saw her clearly, and knew himself well; he couldn’t comprehend what had given rise to the connection that already existed, that was already so strong, at least for him.

Strong enough to bind him, to compel him.

He turned as she came through the door. She saw him, smiled with her customary assurance, then closed the door and crossed the room to him.

He waited for her to come to him through the dappled shadows, her gown, a pale, fine evening gown, flirting about the long line of her legs. She let her shawl slide from her arms to trail across the head of the daybed. Her head tilting slightly, studying his face in the poor light, she came steadily on, slowing to a halt only when she was breast to chest with him.

He closed his hands about her waist as she lifted her arms and draped them over his shoulders.

She examined his face from closer quarters. “Did you want to talk about James?”

“No.” He held her dark gaze, marveled at the feel of her between his hands, supple, warm, strong in a quintessentially female way, marveled at what she made him feel. “I don’t want to talk, not even about James…at least, not yet.”

His voice was low, rough, gravelly with the promise of passion.

Her lips curved as he bent his head. “Good.”

Then she kissed him. And he kissed her.

For one long moment, they wrestled for sensual supremacy, then, with a soft sigh he felt to his bones, she gave way, willingly ceded him the right to script their play.

As she had last night.

It was that, that willing, not surrender but trust, that struck him, that provoked such a primitive response in him, that spurred him to take all she offered, consume, want, and demand more.

Having her could easily become an addiction.

As he closed his hand about one sumptuous breast and kneaded possessively, and felt her flaring response—a response she was helpless not to make, but one she brazenly made no attempt to deny—he felt the talons of his need sink deeper and knew he was already lost.

No sense in trying to fight it, not her or the powerful surge of feeling she evoked in him.

He surrendered, too, simply gave himself up to the passion that rose so readily between them. They stood by the window and swiftly yet unhurriedly shed their clothes. Naked, they stood locked in each other’s arms, lips tempting, tongues enticing, mouths melding only to part on a sigh, skins heating, brushing, hands touching, exploring, explicitly caressing.