A Fine Passion (24 page)

They would become a threat to the last traitor.

And that would be dangerous.

His instincts had already been stirring, awakening; now, they quietly switched to full alert. Regardless of all else, he was going to be keeping his eyes wide open and trained most especially on her.

Clarice glanced up, met his eyes, studied their expression, but couldn’t read it. She raised her brows, faintly haughty. “Well, shall we go?”

Nearly two hours had passed since Dalziel had departed. Jack knew how fast his ex-commander acted; the bishop should have received Dalziel’s missive by now. He rose and held out his hand; she placed her fingers in his, and he drew her to her feet. “Indeed, let’s make a start.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury’s London residence, Lambeth Palace, sited in its own extensive gardens, lay just over Lambeth Bridge. The Bishop of London was currently residing there, together with his administration and household. They took a hackney to the impressive front gates, then walked up the graveled drive. At the porticoed entrance, a footman took their names and conducted them to a small waiting room.

They didn’t have long to wait. Dean Samuels, whom James had mentioned as the Bishop’s right-hand man, appeared in less than five minutes.

White-haired with a round, rather careworn face, he smiled, introduced himself, then ushered them out of the room and toward the towering stairs. “I’m extremely glad you’ve come.” Climbing the stairs beside them, he glanced sidelong at Jack. “The bishop has received a communication from Whitehall. I have to say, from my own perspective, it’s reassuring to have someone with a professional background involved.”

Jack inclined his head. Before he could ask, the dean went on, his gaze flicking up the stairs ahead of them, “I should perhaps warn you that the bishop is nevertheless in two minds over allowing the details of the allegations against James to pass beyond Church walls at this stage.” The dean heaved a small sigh. “I hope, once he meets you, he’ll change his mind.”

Thus alerted, they were shown into a long room, the far end of which was filled with a dais on which the bishop’s throne sat, supporting the prelate, all red robes and gilt-embroidered ivory linen.

Clarice swept in, head high, her silk skirts swishing. Ten feet from the dais, she halted and sank into a deep curtsy. Halting beside her, Jack bowed as Dean Samuels announced them.

Straightening, at the bishop’s signal they approached the dais. The four of them were the only people in the audience chamber.

The bishop was not as old as Dean Samuels, more James’s age. Sharp, pale blue eyes studied them, first Clarice, then Jack, then the bishop’s lips pursed querulously. “This is all most irregular, and indeed most distressing. I’m really very exercised about these allegations. I had hoped to keep them entirely within the Church—I really can’t believe James Altwood guilty of any misdemeanor, yet of course I’m honor-bound to test the case brought against him. However, it appears news of the matter has reached Whitehall.”

Jack heard the irritated note in the bishop’s voice. He’d met such men before; they held their position by virtue of their connections, and the smooth running of their enterprises was almost entirely due to the efforts of their underlings. Like Dean Samuels.

In the bishop’s defence, Jack could readily appreciate that a scandal of the scope the allegations against James promised would not be to the liking of any man in high office, secular or clerical.

Lifting a sheet from his lap, the bishop scanned the lines thereon, then looked, somewhat peevishly, at Jack. “Whitehall has sung your praises, and suggested that, in light of the gravity of these allegations and their sensitive nature, that justice would best be served by allowing your input at this stage, in my court, rather than allowing views that a professional such as yourself would see as unwarranted or misjudged to adversely color our conclusions and potentially precipiate a more serious, public situation.”

The bishop paused, his gaze fixed on Jack, then more quietly said, “I’m not as yet convinced that that is our best course.”

Jack held that dyspeptic blue stare, but before he could draw breath and, logically and with charm, turn the bishop to his bidding, Clarice spoke.

“My lord Bishop, if I may speak to this point?” The bishop’s gaze deflected to her; she caught and held it. “Specifically to admitting myself and Lord Warnefleet to the confidence of your court, as you have intimated, the charges against my cousin, the Honorable James Altwood, are indeed serious, but more, they deal with fields of endeavor not well understood by the layperson, nor yet by clerical officers. To adequately test these charges, knowledge of the field with which they deal will be vital, and I would submit it will be in no one’s interest to have these charges upheld because of misunderstanding, and thus unnecessarily passed on to a high civilian court, only to be subsequently shown as groundless.

“Lord Warnefleet is eminently qualified to assist your officers with determining the truthfulness of these allegations”—she nodded to the sheet still held between the bishop’s fingers—“as confirmed by his superiors in Whitehall. The fact he is acquainted with James is unlikely to cloud his judgment given his long service to the crown. Indeed, he would have been one of those placed most at risk if the allegations were true.”

She paused; the bishop was frowning, following her free-flowing words, clearly caught. She lifted her chin, consciously regal. “As for myself, I will, of course, be representing the family in this matter. I will be reporting to my brother, Melton, on what transpires. I hope, on leaving here today, to be able to explain to him precisely what the allegations made against our cousin are. The family will be pleased to know that this attack against one of our name is being dealt with as expeditiously, and as appropriately, as may be.”

The bishop’s frown turned faintly harried. “I see.” It was transparently clear he’d heard and correctly interpreted Boadicea’s battle cry.

He glanced again at the missive in his hand, then at Jack, and finally at Dean Samuels. “I suppose,” the bishop said, “that all things considered, it is, perhaps, appropriate”—he inclined his head toward Clarice—“as you point out, my dear, for you both to have access to our court, Lord Warnefleet in giving professional advice on these unusual charges and Lady Clarice as the family’s representative.”

He didn’t quite make the statement a question, but Dean Samuels was quick to bow. “Indeed, my lord. That seems most wise.”

Jack smiled charmingly. Boadicea smiled, too.

After tendering their appreciation for the bishop’s dispensation and exchanging the usual social remarks, they bowed, preparing to retreat.

“I’ll introduce Lady Clarice and Lord Warnefleet to Olsen, my lord,” Dean Samuels said.

“Indeed, indeed.” The bishop smiled at Clarice. “Do remember me to your aunt, my dear.”

With a noncommittal inclination of her head, Clarice returned his smile. Dean Samuels led them away, out of the audience chamber and into the heart of the palace.

“Olsen is the deacon appointed to argue James’s defence.” Dean Samuels led them on. “He’s young, but I believe will do an excellent job. He’ll be in his workroom.”

The farther they went, the more labyrinthine the palace became; eventually Dean Samuels led them down a corridor lined with doors. He stopped before one, tapped, then opened the door.

“Olsen? Allow me to introduce two people who, I believe, will be of great help in quashing these ridiculous charges against James Altwood.”

A clearer statement of sympathy couldn’t be imagined; Jack caught Clarice’s eye as she passed into the room. He followed. The room was a small square delineated by stone walls, just big enough to hold a desk and chair, three other straight-backed chairs, and three piles of leather-bound tomes, along with Deacon Olsen, a cleric in his late twenties, who rose as they entered, his eyes widening in surprise.

Dean Samuels introduced them, describing Jack as an expert sent by Whitehall to assist the bishop’s deliberations. Olsen stammered engagingly over Clarice’s hand and hurried to set a chair for her. She consented to sit. Seeing Jack and Dean Samuels helping themselves to the other chairs, Olsen scurried once more behind his desk.

“I have to say I’m exceedingly glad to see you.” Sinking into his chair, he waved a hand at the papers scattered over the desk. “I may know something of war, but this is beyond me. And although I’ve heard much of James Altwood and his researches, I’ve only met him once.”

Jack smiled and grabbed the reins before Boadicea could. “What regiment were you with?”

The question proved the start of a useful friendship; Olsen was sensible, straightforward, and in this case, knew he was in over his head. He was very ready, even eager, to share with them the details of the allegations.

Once assured they were comfortable together, Dean Samuels left.

Clarice looked at Jack as the door closed behind the dean. “What odds he goes straight to the bishop to report that all is well on the way to being taken care of?”

Jack grinned. “No wager.”

Bright-eyed, Olsen looked from one to the other. “The bishop has to appear impartial.” He grimaced. “Indeed, more than that—he has to appear to be prosecuting these charges with all due vigor. Humphries ensured that. He’s made quite a stir with his claims.”

Jack leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about Humphries.”

Olsen grimaced again. “You’ll meet him once the court convenes, or more likely sooner—as soon as he hears you’ve been permitted to assist me.” Olsen considered, then went on, “Humphries has been on the bishop’s staff for decades. He’s a loner, dour, pious in a rather pompous way, not one given to smiles and jollification of any stripe. He seems entirely sincere in his conviction that James Altwood was involved in, at the very least, selling his more sensitive researches into English military strategy to the French.”

Sorting through the papers on his desk, Olsen pulled out three sheets. “While some part of the allegations are general—more inferences drawn than fact, and there’s some jealousy on Humphries’ part that would account for that—the most damaging and potentially damning of the allegations are these.” Handing the papers to Jack, Olsen leaned forward to point to various entries. “Three dates, times, and places where Altwood supposedly met with his courier, and a list of some of the information passed over the years.”

Holding the sheets so Clarice could read them, too, Jack examined the crux of Humphries’ allegations. If they’d been true, they would indeed constitute a damning indictment of James. Reaching the end of the list, Jack looked at Olsen. “How did Humphries get such information?”

“From the courier.” Olsen sat back with a sigh. “And before you ask, he refuses at this point to reveal the man’s name.”

Jack looked again at the listed details. “Without the courier to testify to the accuracy of these assertions, then proof will rest on witnesses.”

Olsen nodded. “Indeed, and that’s just what Humphries has. For every incident, he has at least two witnesses who can place Altwood at that place, at that time, with another man.”

Jack stared, unseeing, at Olsen for a moment, then refocused. “Can we have copies of this—the three dates, times, and places—and do you have access to the list of witnesses?”

“Yes, and yes.” Olsen pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. “I’ll make you a copy, but I warn you, I’ve already spoken to all the witnesses, and they confirm all that Humphries has claimed is true.”

Jack smiled; Olsen glimpsed the gesture, looked more closely, then blinked. Jack let his smile deepen into a more genuine expression. “There’s a significant difference between you asking witnesses for confirmation and me asking them to relate exactly what they saw. Aside from all else, I don’t wear the collar.”

Olsen’s lips formed an O. His hand had frozen, the pen poised above the paper.

Clarice stirred. “The list, Deacon Olsen.” From her tone, she was unimpressed by Jack’s abilities, or rather, considered them a given. “The sooner we have that, the sooner Lord Warnefleet can begin disproving the allegations and the sooner I can reassure my family of the situation here.”

Olsen flushed and quickly redipped his nib. “Of course, Lady Clarice. At once.”

Fifteen minutes later, Olsen conducted them back to the main stairs. He parted from Jack as a comrade in arms, but Clarice he treated with patent caution and extravagant respect.

The list of details in his coat pocket, Jack descended the stairs beside Clarice. The patter of Olsen’s footsteps died away behind them. Jack grinned. “Olsen’s instincts appear sound.”

Clarice shot him a glance, haughtily censorious. She knew to what he referred—Olsen’s reaction to her. “Nonsense.” She looked ahead. “All that shows is that he can recognize well enough what’s good for him.”

Jack laughed.

They crossed the huge front foyer, nodded to the doorman, and went out through the massive front doors. Sunshine and brightness greeted them; Jack squinted. Clarice glanced at him. “Are you all right?”

He paused to take stock, then smiled. “The effects of your ministrations appear to last for some time.”

She humphed and started down the steps. “Good.”

They strolled down the drive, neither fast nor slow, both, Jack would wager, considering that perennial question: what next? The drive curved toward the gates; a high hedge hid the last yards of one side of the drive from the palace. At that spot, in the lee of the hedge, a figure in clerical garb stood waiting.

As they drew near, his eager expression and a marked resemblance to Anthony suggested who the man was. Clarice confirmed it. “Teddy.”

“Clarice.” Teddy grinned engagingly as they joined him in the shade; he warmly clasped the hand Clarice gave him, drawing her close to kiss her cheek. “I can’t tell you how delighted and relieved I am to see you.”

“This is Lord Warnefleet.” Stepping back, Clarice waited while they shook hands, then asked, “You have heard about Anthony?”

Teddy sobered. “Indeed. Thank you for your letter. Anthony wrote as well. I had started to wonder, but then thought, perhaps, scamp that he is, he’d delivered my message and then gone on to some house party somewhere.”