A Fine Passion (20 page)

Anthony frowned. “I’ve heard that at the time it was all rather dreadful. The elders were in the main shocked to their toes. Melton’s sisters—the Countess of Camleigh and Lady Bentwood—were livid. Clarice’s maternal aunts and uncles were also furious. You can imagine the refrains—that she was blackening the family name, that she was insulting her mother’s memory, and so on.” Anthony looked somber. “All pretty awful stuff.”

Jack waited a moment, then prompted, “But…?”

“But while I can’t speak for the immediate family, as far as I’ve ever known, within the wider family the whole matter blew over long ago.” Anthony met Jack’s eyes. “I really don’t think even the elders of the wider family would cut Clarice, would care to cut her if she returned to town now.” He smiled. “I know the younger generation wouldn’t.”

Jack grinned. “I gathered Teddy, and you, too, don’t view her in any unfavorable light.”

“Good God, no!” Anthony met his eyes. “If you’d ever met Melton, her father, you’d understand. Anyone who stood up to him and walked away the victor—well, that’s the sort of deed that guarantees instant hero status, and Clarice is a female, what’s more.”

Jack studied Anthony’s open face. “So within the wider family, Clarice’s returning to town won’t pose any difficulties.”

Anthony nodded. “The only group I’m unsure of is the principal line. They hold themselves aloof these days, mostly thanks to Moira, Clarice’s stepmother. Clarice’s father may have died, but Moira’s still a force within the marquisate. The present Melton, Clarice’s brother, allows Moira’s wishes to hold sway. Well, he hasn’t married yet, so Moira’s his hostess, and the senior lady of the house.”

Jack considered. After a moment, he asked, “So you can’t tell me how Clarice’s immediate family—Melton, her other brothers, her half sisters and half brother—will react if she reappears in town.”

Anthony grimaced, and shook his head. “Perhaps Teddy…but no. He sees them less than I do.” He frowned. A moment passed, then he said, “I can’t think of anyone who could tell you how her immediate family view Clarice now. Her father died two years ago, and while he was alive no one dared mention her name in his house or his hearing. That I do know.”

“But what the real feelings are now, you can’t say?”

“Other than for Moira.” Anthony met Jack’s eyes. “Moira was always jealous of Clarice. You might say she hates Clarice—she certainly acts like it—but it’s hate driven by jealousy.”

“Jealousy of the weak for the strong?”

“Precisely. I’ve never heard that Clarice did anything to account for Moira’s hatred.”

“Other than being Clarice?”

Anthony grinned. “Other than that.” After a moment, he ruefully admitted, “She didn’t trounce me at chess. She wiped me off the board, and I’m not even sure she was paying all that much attention.”

Jack smiled and rose. “I did warn you.” With a salute, he turned to the door. “My thanks for the information. I’ll see you at dinner.”

He headed downstairs and returned to the library. Sitting in the chair behind his desk, leaning back, eyes fixed unseeing on the far wall, he went over all Anthony had told him, creating a framework of expectations of what they would meet when he and Clarice went to London.

By the time the gong for dinner sounded and he rose and headed for the door, he had a better notion of what she—they—would face.

Gaps, blanks, still covered crucial areas, but he could see enough to realize and appreciate Clarice’s courage in, without hesitation, insisting on going to London on James’s behalf.

Even though she’d known it would mean bearding the dragons of her past. Even though going back would almost certainly mean dealing with a woman who hated her, and who very possibly still possessed the means to hurt her deeply.

Much later that night, Clarice stood at the folly windows, looking out over the sleeping countryside. Sprawled on the daybed, sated to his toes, Jack watched her. She wasn’t brooding—she rarely brooded; she was thinking, planning.

Turning, she looked through the heavy shadows at him. After a moment, she asked, “When do you think we should leave for London?”

He considered her phrasing, then evenly replied, “The day after tomorrow.”

Enough moonlight spilled in for him to see her blink. She stared at him, unmoving, for a long moment, then pushed away from the window. On bare feet, she padded closer; stopping by the daybed’s side, she looked into his face. There was a frown in her eyes. “I said ‘we’—you heard me.”

Not a question, so he made no response, merely lay there, looking up at her, at her long, curvaceous, luscious body, totally bare, his to savor.

Her frown materialized. “Aren’t you going to argue?”

Lifting his gaze to her face, he settled his head more comfortably on the daybed’s back. “Is there any point?”

She studied him; gradually, a smile replaced her frown. “You’re a strange man, Jack Warnefleet.”

Her voice had lowered to that intimate tone that never failed to arouse him, that hinted of the sultry, more deep-throated purr that acted on his libido like a sharpened spur.

His lips curved in blatant anticipation rather than humor. He made no reply, just reached for her hand and drew her down to him.

Drew her into his arms, and turned his mind to her conquest, even though he knew the truth. He wasn’t strange, he was addicted. To the taste of her, the smell of her, the warmth of her. He wasn’t strange, he was committed.

To having all that for the rest of his days.

Two evenings later, Clarice looked about her as Jack handed her down from James’s traveling carriage. “I told you I usually stay at the Crown and Anchor in Reading.”

“And I usually stay at the Pelican, also in Reading.” Unperturbed, Jack looked around.

Clarice looked up at the sign swinging above the inn’s side door. “The Maiden & Sword” was neatly lettered on it.

Reading was half an hour behind them. They’d made good time from Avening, and Jack had suggested they should travel on, only to stop a little farther along in the much smaller town of Twyford.

Taking her arm, he turned her toward the inn’s door. “I rather think this place will be more comfortable for us.” He caught her eye, faintly raised a brow.

She realized. “Oh.” She looked ahead and allowed him to guide her up the steps.

“Indeed.” His voice was low, pitched just for her. “The fewer who see us, the less chance of being recognized.”

She’d forgotten that by tonnish standards, an unmarried female of her station traveling alone with a gentleman such as he would be fodder for scandal. Having turned her back on tonnish life she truly didn’t care, but given her intention of appealing to her family, avoiding further scandal at that point would unquestionably be wise.

Absence from society had made her rusty; she made a mental note to exercise greater care.

Ostlers were unharnessing the horses; two boys had hurried out to fetch their bags. The innkeeper, beaming, swung his door wide and bowed them through. She swept in, then turned to speak with the innkeeper—only to hear Jack, charm to the fore, smoothly engage the man.

“I’m Warnefleet. My wife and I require your best room.”

She managed to keep her jaw from falling. Jack didn’t even glance her way, but kept his persuasive gaze fixed on the innkeeper.

“Of course, my lord.” Short, rotund, and irrepressibly genial, the innkeeper bowed to them both. “My lady. Our best chamber is always kept ready and aired, and my wife will be pleased to serve you dinner. We have a private parlor if you wish?”

Clarice thought of the lack of any ring on her left hand, then remembered she was wearing gloves. She nodded regally, and found her voice. “That will suit admirably. I wish to wash away the dust of the day. We’ll be ready to dine in an hour.”

“Excellent!” The innkeeper gestured to a set of well-polished stairs. “If you’ll come this way?”

Clarice followed him up the stairs, supremely conscious of Jack climbing steadily after her. The inn was on a side street off the London road; although the large room the innkeeper led them to was set above the front of the inn with wide windows looking out on the cobbled street, with only trees and fields beyond, it was quiet.

It was also comfortably furnished with a dressing table, dresser, washstand, wardrobe, and a large four-poster bed.

Clarice swept across the room and set her traveling reticule down on the dressing table. The ewer and basin on the washstand were spotless, as were the towels neatly folded on the dresser. Tugging the ribbons of her bonnet loose, she turned to the innkeeper. “This will do nicely. If you could have some hot water sent up?”

“Of course, my lady.” The innkeeper bowed low. “At once!” He turned to Jack.

Jack nodded easily. “Dinner in the private parlor in an hour.”

“Indeed, sir. I’ll have your boxes brought up immediately.” Beaming, the innkeeper backed out of the door, closing it behind him.

Clarice caught Jack’s eye. “Wife?” She kept her voice low.

He shrugged, all graceful elegance as he crossed the room. “Do you have a better idea?”

She didn’t, not one that would pass muster. Setting her bonnet on the dressing table, she sat before the mirror to tuck the wayward strands of hair that had escaped through the long day back into her chignon.

A knock on the door heralded the boys with her traveling trunk and Jack’s large bag. He let them in, then shut the door behind them. Shrugging out of his greatcoat, he dropped it on a straight-backed chair by the wall, then crossed to the armchair angled before the windows and dropped into it with a sigh, stretching out his long, booted legs.

Going to her trunk, Clarice unbuckled the straps, then opened the lid.

“We’re not dressing for dinner.”

She cast him a repressive glance. “Of course not. One doesn’t dress for dinner at an inn. But I do want my brushes, and one or two other things.”

She’d wrapped her brushes and comb in her nightgown; she pulled out the bundle and set it on the dressing table.

“No point dressing for bed either.”

She glanced at him again, then looked at her nightgown. “That’s as may be.”

He snorted softly; she ignored him.

A tap on the door announced a maid with a pitcher of steaming water. Clarice relieved her of it, and assured her she didn’t require any assistance, then or later.

Shutting the door with her hip, she carried the pitcher to the washstand. Ignoring the lounging figure in the armchair, she poured water into the basin, washed her face and hands, then blotted them dry. And felt considerably better.

Lowering the towel, she looked at Jack. His eyes were closed. He appeared to have fallen asleep. His chest rose and fell in a slow, regular rhythm; his hands lay lax, long fingers relaxed on the chair’s broad arms.

She glanced at the bed. It had a dimity-covered comforter spread over crisp white sheets. The pillows were plump and plentiful. The bed-curtains gathered at each post with wide ribbons matched the comforter; once released, they’d cocoon the bed in spring clouds of tiny blossoms.

Just like the apple blossom in the orchards at Avening.

The idea of rolling in that cushioning expanse, naked, with Jack, filled her mind; the mental vision she conjured stole her breath.

“Just think of it as an extrawide daybed.”

Jack watched her gaze flash to him. He lifted his lids fully and met it.

She hesitated for a heartbeat, then, chin lifting, she walked to the bed, with a swish of her skirts, turned, and sat on the end. “What are we going to do once we reach London? What should we do first?”

He noted the change of subject, noted, too, her defiant stance. He’d foreseen the need for them to share a room, to pretend to be man and wife. That didn’t mean they had to share a bed, yet it wasn’t in his nature to pass up such an opportunity to steer her in the direction he wished.

“First, you should explain the situation to your family and see what support they’re prepared to give, what connections and contacts they have to exploit. I, meanwhile, will alert my own contacts and see what I can learn, what’s known from outside the Church.” He hesitated, then added, “I sent a letter a few days ago to someone who should know what’s going on.”

She studied him. “To the man you used to work for—that ‘certain gentleman in Whitehall’?”

He recalled she’d been present when James had used that phrase, their private code for Dalziel. “Yes. He was in command of His Majesty’s covert operations on foreign soil for years. He’s still in the position, but now in the sense of tying up loose ends.”

“Loose ends like traitors as yet uncovered?”

He heard the rising concern in her voice. “I told him about James because there’s one fact that more than any other proves James is no traitor, one my ex-commander in particular won’t miss.”

She looked her question.

He smiled. “Me. The very fact I’m here, alive, proves beyond doubt that James is not a traitor.”

“He knew what you were doing?”

“Not only what I was doing, but where I was. And I’d lay odds my ex-commander knew that James had that information. Very little escapes him.”

She frowned. “But surely that means James is in no real danger?”

“Not of being
convicted
of treason, no. But neither you, your family, nor I, nor my ex-commander, and even less the government, would want this business to go to a public trial. The current charges against James are private, entirely within the Church. If they can be dealt with and dismissed within that forum, all will be well. But unfortunately, with the case being within the Church, the secular authorities can’t simply intervene and quash it. All we can do is provide information and evidence to James’s defender. However…”

He stopped, visited by an urge to keep the more dangerous aspects from her.

Too late. Lightly frowning, she studied him, then said, “We know James isn’t guilty, which means someone is going to considerable lengths to fabricate these charges. Why? There has to be a reason.”

He grimaced. “That’s the point I imagine my ex-commander will find most interesting.”

A knock on the door brought a summons to dinner.