A Fine Passion (29 page)

“Same story.” Deverell sighed. “You know, I had such a lovely conceit when we started this club that finding the right lady would be…well, a dashed sight easier than infiltrating French business affairs and pretending to be one of them for over ten years.”

Christian nodded. “So, leaving the demoralizing subject of our matrimonial endeavors, what have we to report?”

“First,” Tristan said, “tell me what the game is. I want to play a hand in this. Far more to my taste than doing the pretty in the ton.”

Jack briefly outlined the threat to James Altwood, why they knew he was innocent and Dalziel’s suspicions, and their current plans to quash the allegations. “Before they transmogrify to outright charges of treason. Courtesy of the Altwoods, it’s likely I’ll be able to interview the man behind the allegations—Deacon Humphries—tomorrow. We’ve already got the dates, times, and places of three recent meetings the courier supposedly had with James—Deverell and Christian were looking into those. We’ve verified that James was in London on all three occasions, so theoretically the meetings could have taken place.”

“Just so.” Deverell nodded. “All three places are taverns in Southwark, within walking distance of Lambeth Palace, which is where James Altwood stays when in London. And the taverns are exactly what one might expect of such places in the stews. The only way we’ll learn anything is to watch, quiet and unthreatening, until we get a feel for each place. No point cornering the witnesses until we know how the ground lies and so have a chance of catching them out. They’ll have been paid to tell their tale, but if we can shake it, they’ll most likely retreat, but we’ll need a better understanding of each tavern to do that. No other way than the long way, I’m afraid.”

“I agree.” Christian looked at Jack. “We’ll set up the necessary surveillance. The information you drag from the good deacon might help us narrow our scope.”

“I have a suggestion.” Tristan set down his ale mug. He glanced at Christian and Deverell. “All three of us are at present fixed in London. All three of us have useful contacts here. But our contacts prefer to work only with people they know.” He looked at Jack. “You have three principal incidents you need disproved. I suggest each of us take one tavern and throw our people on that one incident alone. Concentrating, focusing, will get us further faster.”

Christian was nodding. “An excellent notion. Each of us will be able to press harder. The chain of command will be clearer and more direct.”

“I agree.” Deverell set down his mug and fished in his coat pocket, drawing out the sheet on which Jack had previously written the addresses of the three meeting places. “So let’s see…”

Later, before he dressed for their evening among the ton, Jack sat at the desk in the club’s library and composed a note to his aunt, Lady Davenport, requesting she share its contents with Lady Cowper.

He expended considerable effort on the wording; with such ladies, a hint was more intriguing than a statement. Nevertheless, when he read the completed letter through, the nature of his request shone clearly; he wanted them to assist Lady Clarice Altwood to return to the ton at the level to which her birth entitled her.

He alluded to the reasons behind her need to return, a serious but unfounded threat to a near relative and to assist her brothers. No need to be more specific; the bare phrases would be enough to ensure his aunts, powerful
grandes dames
that they were, would be agog to learn of Clarice’s needs.

Of his reasons for helping her, he said not a word.

Their imaginations would run amok. If they granted him and Clarice an interview the next morning, as he requested, he fully expected both ladies to be bright-eyed and nearly bouncing with curiosity.

Smiling, he signed his name, then recalled, and added a postscript, mentioning that if they knew of any lady they would trust to help influence matters in the political sphere, he’d be grateful for an introduction.

Sanding the letter, then sealing it, he grinned. He’d wager any amount that when he and Clarice met with his aunts, Lady Osbaldestone would be there, too.

B
y Jack’s side, Clarice entered the Fortescues’ front hall and joined the line of guests slowly inching up the main staircase. Had it been left to her, she would have chosen a different venue for her reappearance in the ton. The Fortescues had two daughters to establish; their ball would therefore be the usual crush beloved of tonnish society during the Season.

Glancing around at the other guests thronging the stairs, she murmured, “Not much chance of accomplishing much in James’s defence here.” For that, she would have chosen one of the more select gatherings of the powerful elite.

Jack shrugged, his hand lightly stroking hers where it rested on his sleeve. “We’ll be able to learn from your brothers if there are any rumors circulating yet. Until we know that, there’s not much you can do.”

She grimaced, acknowledging that truth, wishing it were otherwise. Her nature was to forge ahead, to get things done, but in defending James, they did indeed have to tread carefully. “I sent notes to my aunts, my father’s two sisters and my mother’s sister, and to my maternal uncle, informing them that I was in London and would be going about among the ton at Alton’s request, primarily to ensure that the unfortunate allegations against James are not made unnecessarily sensational.”

Jack’s lips curved in an appreciative smile. “I take it your aunts and uncle are not fans of the ‘unnecessarily sensational’?”

“Not when it’s
their
families involved.” Clarice noted the many swift glances thrown their way. Leaning closer to Jack, she lowered her voice. “At least we’re attracting a satisfactory degree of notice.”

“Hardly surprising given that gown.”

The crisp note in his voice had her blinking up at him, meeting his eyes. “It’s the latest style.”

The line of his lips grew more grim than appreciative. “For a lady of your age, status, wealth, and figure, no doubt. Unfortunately, such a gown merely serves to emphasize how few ladies of your age, status, wealth, and figure there are among the ton.”

She stared at him; he sounded so disgruntled she didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “Don’t you like it?” She’d opted for the forest green satin; the very dark green was a dramatic hue few ladies could carry off well. With its beaded heart-shaped neckline and the elegant fall of its sheening skirts, the gown was perfect for drawing the eye and fixing attention. Time enough, once the ton had realized she was indeed back, to shock them with the plum silk.

Jack held her eyes, then let his gaze lower; briefly, he scanned, then again met her gaze. “I like the gown, as you’re well aware. What I’m not enamored of is who else might find it…overly alluring.”

She nearly laughed; certainly she smiled, rather thrilled if truth be known. That he approved of the gown had been evident the instant he’d set eyes on her in her suite that evening, but she’d never before had any gentleman intimate that he was jealous of the attention—other male attention—she drew. It was a rather heady feeling. Lightly squeezing the steely muscles beneath her fingers, she glanced away.

One more step upward and Jack swept her forward to greet their host and hostess.

Lady Fortescue’s eyes widened with delight and avid curiosity. “Lady Clarice.” She touched fingers. “How lovely to see you back among the ton. I was quite bowled over when your brother told me the news.”

Clarice merely smiled and made no reply.

Extending her hand, Lady Fortescue beamed at Jack. “And Lord Warnefleet! This is a
double
pleasure. I’d heard you’d retired to the country, my lord.”

Jack smiled charmingly. “I’ve returned to escort Lady Clarice about town.”

Clarice suppressed the urge to raise her brows haughtily at him. When, intrigued, Lady Fortescue turned to her, she gestured lightly. “We’re neighbors in the country.”

“Ah…” Her ladyship wasn’t sure what to make of that.

With no intention of helping her out, Clarice turned to greet Lord Fortescue, as did Jack, then they moved briskly on into the ballroom.

“My brothers should be here somewhere.” They were both tall; both scanned the room.

Without luck, but as she turned back to Jack, Clarice saw any number of interested faces; surveying Jack, still searching the room, it wasn’t hard to see why. She might be supremely elegant, but he was her equal; where she was regal and gracious, he was charming. Physically, they were well matched, both imposing, long-legged and graceful; they made a strikingly handsome couple.

It was clear many viewing them thought so; there was a much-struck quality in the glances thrown their way. Few had recognized her; she hadn’t appeared in these circles for seven years. But the whispered questions had already started. By tomorrow, all London would know that Lady Clarice Altwood was back.

“Come. Let’s stroll.” Jack settled her hand on his sleeve and turned down the long room.

Clarice kept pace beside him, her innate hauteur cloaking her, making her appear as minor royalty. Which, Jack reflected, was not far from the mark. Some of the older ladies they passed recognized her and opened their eyes wide at them, but when Clarice, calm and serene, inclined her head to them, they returned the gesture readily enough.

Jack sensed a slight easing in the fine tension thrumming through her.

Then she tightened her grip on his sleeve and nodded toward a set of windows. “There they are—Alton and Roger.”

They joined them; both brothers perked up as they did.

“What did you learn at the clubs?” Clarice asked.

“Not a great deal,” Roger replied.

“It seems,” Alton said, “as if quite a few have heard whispers, but they’re puzzled by them, and are playing cautious until they learn more.”

“Good.” Clarice’s lips firmed in cynical satisfaction. “Our sainted name is buying us a little time, at least.” She glanced at Jack.

He nodded. “Time enough for us to devise suitable countermeasures.” He met Alton’s gaze. “I seriously doubt that whoever is behind this will allow the whispers to fade and die. Their plan calls for as much sensation as they can generate, but exonerating James will nullify that.”

Roger glanced at Clarice. “Now you’re here, if you can think of any way to help me with Alice, I’ll be your slave for life.” His tone sounded hopeless.

Clarice raised her brows. “Very well. Jack can be my witness. Now!” Turning, she surveyed the crowd. “Where is she?”

Roger pointed to a young lady standing beside a chaise on which a bejeweled matron sat conversing with two others. The young lady was steadfastly looking the other way. Although two gentlemen hovered, neither seemed to be holding Alice Combertville’s attention.

Clarice grinned, eyes narrowing, the gesture intent. “This should be easy.” It was obvious to Clarice that Alice’s attention—her senses, her focus—were firmly fixed on their group, on Roger. “Wait here.”

She left them and smoothly circled the chaise. With Alice so busy looking the other way, it was easy to approach her, to come up beside her with a smile. “Miss Combertville?”

Alice started, and turned to her. She frowned, puzzled; she had no idea who Clarice was.

Likewise intrigued, the two gentlemen drew closer; Clarice turned to them and smiled graciously. She was sure neither recognized her, equally sure from the looks in their eyes that she could, if she wished, enslave them.

“Harry Throgmorton, fair lady.” Harry took the hand she extended and bowed with extravagant flair.

“Miles Dawlish, ma’am.” Mr. Dawlish, not to be outdone, was studiously correct.

Clarice hid a smile; they were far too young for her. Too inexperienced, too lightweight to be thinking what they were. “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I would like a private word with Miss Combertville.”

She’d given them no name; she gave them no explanation. Put on the spot, effectively dismissed, although clearly disappointed, they both summoned smiles, murmured “Of course,” and reluctantly moved away.

Turning to Alice, Clarice smiled. “I’m Lady Clarice Altwood, Roger’s sister.”

Alice blinked; her frown deepened. “His half sister…?” She scanned Clarice’s features. “No.”

Clarice let her smile turn grim. “No, indeed. Moira isn’t my mother. However, there’s no reason you should recognize me. I haven’t been out in the ton for many years. I’m presently in town on business, and in light of Roger’s interest in you, I thought to make your acquaintance.”

With lustrous brown hair, and brown eyes that should have been bright but instead looked dull and weary, Alice stared up into Clarice’s face. She looked as lost in hopelessness as Roger. “I…Roger…”

Clarice held up a hand. “Just listen, if you would, and let’s see if I have this straight. Roger told you of the youthful misdemeanors Moira thought to hold over his head to prevent him from offering for your hand. Is that correct?”

Alice’s lips firmed. She nodded.

“Roger thought you understood, that you were as determined to go forward as he to formalize your engagement. Then, however—do correct me if I’m wrong—you spoke to Moira, to upbraid her over her attempt to blackmail Roger into dancing to her tune.”

Alice’s face fell. She looked faintly ill, but she didn’t contradict Clarice; she simply stood there, her large eyes fixed on Clarice’s face.

Clarice felt her features harden, fought not to sound too harsh when she said, “My dear Alice, I think you’d better tell me what Moira said to you—what else she told you about Roger—because I’m prefectly certain whatever it was, she lied to you.”

Hope welled in Alice; it showed in her eyes, but she didn’t know whether to trust in it or not. She searched Clarice’s face with painful intensity, then she glanced at her mother, reached for Clarice’s hand, and tugged her back a few steps from the chaise.

Alice retained Clarice’s hand, pressing her fingers. “You said you haven’t been in London for years. If so, how can you truly know Roger, know him well?”

Clarice smiled reassuringly. “Part of the reason I no longer grace the ton is because I grew up closer to my brothers than was probably wise. Until the age of sixteeen, I spent every hour I could with them. I do know all three of them very well indeed.”

She let her memories and her fondness for her brothers show in her eyes.

Alice saw, read the truth. She hesitated, once more searching Clarice’s eyes, then she drew a huge breath, and let it out in a strangled whisper. “Moira said he preferred boys.”

“What?”
Clarice only just managed to mute her exclamation. She turned her back on the room and pressed Alice’s hand. “Sorry. I…” Stunned, she shook her head, then set her jaw, and met Alice’s wide, almost pleading eyes. “Moira made that up from whole cloth. There is absolutely no truth in it. Well—” Dragging in a breath, she turned and with a gesture directed Alice to look at Roger, standing across the room with Alton and Jack.

“Roger has been in purgatory thinking he’d lost you, struggling to win you back, not for weeks, but
months
. That, Alice, is not the behavior of a man who in reality prefers boys.”

Even saying the words, she felt ill. How
dare
Moira invent such a thing?

Alice looked up at her, her expression clearing, transforming as belief strengthened and happiness beckoned. Clarice herself felt torn. Should she tell her brothers what poison Moira had spread, or would it be better to keep silent?

Alice shook her hand to regain her attention. “I…feel so happy”—she swallowed—“almost. I love Roger so, and I’ve been so miserable, but…how can I face him now without telling him what I believed?”

Releasing Alice, Clarice lifted her chin. “I’ll tell him. I’ll explain how you felt, and make sure he understands…it’s not something a lady can ask a gentleman about, after all.”

She met Alice’s eyes, saw incipient joy flaring like a beacon in the brown. “I’ll speak with him now, then send him to you. After that…his heart truly is in your hands.
Don’t
disappoint me.”

Alice started to smile, blinking back tears. “Oh, I won’t, Lady Clarice. I promise I’ll always love him.”

“Just Clarice if we’re to be sisters-in-law.” Looking at Roger, Clarice patted Alice’s hand, then she looked one last time at Alice, smiled and turned to go. “Oh!” She turned back, met Alice’s eyes. “One last thing. Be especially careful around Moira. She won’t take this well. You’d be well-advised, once Roger has formally offered for you and been accepted, and that better be done as soon as possible, to take your parents into your confidence over the tricks Moira’s played. Moira is not to be trusted, not in any way.”

Alice’s eyes narrowed, her lips firmed. “Once Roger marries me, I’ll keep Moira away.”

There was steel beneath Alice’s soft brown, distinctly feminine exterior. Entirely satisfied with Roger’s choice, Clarice swept back across the ballroom to inform him the reins of his future were once again in his hands.

Telling Alton and Roger about Moira’s lie wasn’t the easiest thing she’d ever done, but she did it without a blink, then, as she’d expected, spent the next ten minutes damping down her brothers’ understandable wrath.

“We do
not
want Moira to know you’re retaking control of your lives, not until
after
the reins are firmly in your grasps.” She eyed Alton and Roger sternly. “There’s no benefit to us in ranting at her over this, unconscionable though it is. Now!” She faced Roger. “I’ve done my part. What comes next is up to you. If you have any nous at all, you’ll reassure poor Alice that you quite understand how it was, and then together you can decry all Moira’s works and, as soon as possible, grab your chance and offer for Alice’s hand. Once you’ve been accepted, explain about Moira.
Don’t
try to protect her. If you do, she’ll just use the opportunity to scupper your happiness again. Just hold off any formal announcement until we have Nigel and Alton settled, too.”

Slightly dazed, Roger nodded. His gaze drifted across the room to where Alice stood watching, nervously waiting.

Clarice made an exasperated humming sound, grabbed Roger by the shoulders, turned him to face Alice, and gave him a shove. “Go.”