A Fine Passion (5 page)

“Indeed. Not an easy charge to fulfill, managing estates in the name of an unknown client.”

Jack agreed, describing some of the multitude of difficulties that had faced him on returning to England courtesy of his inherited holdings. Most concerned matters of estate management; although female, Boadicea clearly understood the ramifications, even those less obvious to the untrained. From the corner of his eye, he saw a frown gradually etch a line between her finely arched brows.

After half an hour, he’d largely finished with recent events, excepting those concerned with his ill-fated attempts to find a suitable wife; those he kept to himself. Boadicea listened as he and James discussed some of the measures he’d set in place to better facilitate his grip on the day-to-day running of the numerous properties he now owned; Jack inwardly smiled at the grudging respect he glimpsed in her eyes.

Macimber looked in to tell them that luncheon was served. They all rose; Clarice led the way into the dining room. James took his seat at the head of the table; Clarice sat on his left, Jack on his right, in a companionable group.

“Well, then.” James reached for the platter of cold meats. “You seem to have overcome all hurdles—your great-aunt would, I’m sure, approve. So now you can go back seven years. You filled me in on your duties when last you were home—did your assignment vary much between then and Toulouse?”

Jack shook his head. “Not materially. There was still a great deal of sleight of hand involved—misdirection, and, of course, the main purpose was to scupper all the deals I could, especially with the New World. There were times when I spent weeks in dockside taverns teasing out and piecing together information on the deals planned. As the war dragged on, less and less was done through official channels, which made it that much harder to discover what was really happening—what was being brought in, what sent out, when, how, and by whom.”

“And you were still under the command of that certain gentleman in Whitehall?”

“Indeed. He’s still there, still active.”

James nodded, chewing. He swallowed, then said, “So what happened after Toulouse? Things must have changed then?”

Clarice fought to hide her interest. She kept her gaze trained on her plate, kept her lips firmly shut, did all she could to make herself the proverbial fly on the wall. She’d encouraged Warnefleet to join them for luncheon because she’d known James would interrogate him, and she’d wanted to be there to watch him squirm and be made to appreciate his shortcomings.

Instead, she was the one squirming. Or at least, she would be, if she wasn’t so engrossed. She’d obviously misread things, misinterpreted comments made about Warnefleet, not just by James but by all around, including the manor staff, but before she could decide just how badly she’d been off target—just how much of an apology she would have to make—she had to piece together the truth by reading between the lines of James and Warnefleet’s conversation.

Their annoyingly imprecise conversation, but she could hardly insist they speak plainly.

“Yes for most, but not for me.” Warnefleet paused as if selecting his words, then he glanced at James. “There were many in our particular line of defence who were skeptical of the abdication. We all had roots in French society. None of us thought the battle was truly won.”

“Yet most came home.”

Warnefleet nodded. “But I and a few others remained. In my case, I had a good and reliable line to Elba. Others stayed in the ports most likely to see first action. How long we’d have stayed, keeping watch as it were, I don’t know, but as it transpired, we didn’t see out a year before it was war again.”

“And then what?” James leaned forward, the eagerness in his face transparent.

Clarice found herself holding her breath; she risked a quick glance at Warnefleet’s face.

He was looking at her, but not seeing her.

She got the impression he was looking into the past.

Then his lips twisted, and he glanced at James. “Waterloo came on quickly.”

“You were there, weren’t you?”

“I and a group of others were technically involved in the engagement, but we didn’t get within ten miles of the battlefield.”

James’s eyes narrowed. “Supply lines?”

Warnefleet nodded. “We went first for the munitions, then the mounts, and lastly the reinforcements.”

James frowned. “I can see how you’d manage the first two, but the last?”

“Confusion and preferably chaos.” Again Warnefleet’s lips lifted in a wry grin. “We had to be inventive.”

To Clarice’s dismay, Macimber came in and started to clear the dishes. The meal had ended, but she hadn’t yet heard all she wished. How had he been inventive? How inventive had he been? What…?

James drained his wine, then set the goblet down and grinned engagingly at Warnefleet. “Well, m’boy, let’s go for a constitutional and you can tell me the details.”

Before she could think of some way to delay them, James rose and smiled at her. “Excellent meal, m’dear.”

She hid her disappointment behind a cool facade. “I’ll be sure to pass your commendation to Mrs. Cleever.”

“And mine, too, if you’d be so kind.”

She looked up and met Warnefleet’s eyes. He’d risen with James and now stood looking down at her. His gaze held a certain weight; she had no difficulty interpreting his message.

He was too clever to gloat, but he knew just how wrong she’d been, how awkward and untenable her attitude to him now was, and he wasn’t above letting her know it. He expected an apology, and she would have to give him one.

Her customary expression of serene calm anchored in place, she nodded graciously. “My lord. No doubt we’ll meet again.”

One brow quirked. His eyes cut to James, then he inclined his head. “Lady Clarice.” His hazel eyes recaptured hers; his lips lifted in a charming, wholly untrustworthy smile. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

He bowed gracefully. She bit her lip on an acid retort and nodded in regal dismissal. She didn’t look his way as he left the room in James’s wake.

She might have to eat crow, but she wasn’t about to do it in public, not even in front of James. Instinct warned that whatever concessions she was forced to make to appease Warnefleet would definitely be better kept between themselves.

J
ack followed James out onto the rectory’s front lawn, a green and peaceful place surrounded by large trees.

“I still enjoy my after-lunch constitutional.” James waved to a worn track circling the lawn; Jack fell in beside him. “Now, tell me
all.
”

Jack obliged, supplying the details he’d omitted earlier, those aspects of his activities during the Waterloo campaign of most interest to James. “And that, thank God, was the end. Once Napoleon was on his way to St. Helena, there was no need for any of us to remain in France.”

“So you returned to the fray here. I take it you’re satisfied your inheritance is under control?”

Jack nodded. “It took longer than I’d thought, but I’m happy with the new system we’ve instituted—it should allow me to manage the reins from here.” He looked around at the well-remembered vistas, noted how much the trees and shrubs had grown. He glanced at James. “Now
you
can brief me on all that’s happened here.”

James smiled, and did, rattling through a potted history of the births, deaths, and marriages in the area, of those who’d moved away, and those who’d arrived to take their place. “As Griggs no doubt has told you, all your tenants are still in place. Avening village is much as it was, but…”

Jack listened intently, committing much to memory; all that James let fall was information he needed to know.

Eventually, however, James wound down, without revealing what Jack
most
wanted to know. He inwardly sighed, and remarked, “You’ve forgotten one major event—Lady Clarice. When did she arrive?”

James grinned; they strolled on. “Two months after your father left us. Quite opportune, as it happened.”

“Opportune?”

“Well.” James grimaced. “Your father had always been the bulwark of village life. His word was law, not just in the legal sense but everyone about relied on his advice and even more his judgment—adjudication, if you will—in disputes large and small. People round about had grown to depend on him, and then suddenly he wasn’t there, and neither were you.”

Jack glanced at him. “But you were here.”

James sighed. “I fear, dear boy, that gaining a research fellowship from Balliol falls far short of giving one the expertise to step into your father’s shoes. By the time Clarice arrived, matters were well-nigh chaotic.”

Jack hid a frown. “And she fixed things?”

“Yes. Unlike me”—James smiled self-deprecatingly—“she’s been trained to the role.”

Jack’s inward frown deepened. “She mentioned she was Melton’s daughter.” So what was she doing there?

“Indeed. Melton, her father, was a cousin. My father was his father’s younger brother.”

When James said nothing more, Jack kept his lips firmly shut, and simply waited….

Eventually, James chuckled. “All right, although it all seems ancient history now. Clarice was Melton’s fourth child by his first wife, the only daughter of that union. Her mother, Edith, definitely ranked as a
grande dame,
a very forceful woman.”

Presumably the source of Boadicea’s steel.

“Edith died of a fever when Clarice was young. Four or five years old, I can’t recall. Melton married again and sired a quiver of daughters and a fourth son by his second wife—I don’t know much of them. Nevertheless, Clarice’s life would no doubt have followed the predictable pattern—there’s never been any shortage of families keen to ally themselves with the marquisate—except that at sixteen, she formed an attachment for a local neighbor’s son, a guardsman. Not quite what Melton had in mind for her, but the lad was heir to a nice enough estate, so Melton allowed Clarice to persuade him. All well and good, but then the Peninsula campaign came along and the young man went to Spain, and died in an engagement there. Clarice was devastated. Instead of being presented and doing the Season, she spent the next years quietly at Rosewood, Melton’s principal estate.”

“So what brought her here?”

“Ah, we’re barely halfway through the tale.” James paused, ordering his thoughts, then went on, “As I said, there’s never been any lack of gentlemen with an eye to Melton’s coffers, and Clarice is six years older than her next sister. A cad named Jonathon Warwick got wind of Clarice. He went to Rosewood and pursued her, but was cunning enough to hide his true colors.”

“I remember Warwick.” Jack heard the hardness that had infused his voice. “We met during that long-ago year I spent in town, before I enlisted. Even then, ‘cad’ would have been a generous description.”

“Indeed. By the time he took up with Clarice, Warwick’s estates were mortgaged to the hilt, he was being dunned left and right, but he still looked and played the part of an impeccably turned-out, thoroughly eligible gentleman. And he was well experienced in knowing just how best to trade on his pretty face.”

Jack made a mental note that should he ever meet Warwick again, he’d find a way to rearrange said pretty face.

“As I heard it, Warwick led Clarice on to the point where, when Warwick approached Melton for permission to marry her and he, of course, tossed him out on his ear, Warwick was able to convince Clarice to elope. Not, of course, that Warwick planned on following through with such a plan—he wasn’t about to jeopardize his entrée into polite circles. Instead, he sent a message to Melton, along with a demand. From Melton’s point of view, it was easiest to simply buy him off. What neither Warwick nor Melton expected was that Clarice would unexpectedly turn up and overhear the transaction. According to Melton, she stormed in, pinned Warwick with a glare, then slapped him hard enough to knock him out of his chair. After giving him her opinion of his antecedents, she walked out. Melton was quite proud of her.”

Jack frowned. “So to escape the consequent whispers, she came here?”

“No. Stop getting ahead of me, boy.” James snorted. “Anyway, can you imagine Clarice being bothered by whispers? Indeed, I’m not sure there’s many would dare whisper about her. Regardless, her reaction to the incident with Warwick was that it was clearly past time she returned to the capital and found herself a husband. She was twenty, and it was time to leave her father’s roof. An estimable conclusion, one with which both Melton and his second wife wholeheartedly concurred, so with her customary single-mindedness, Clarice sallied forth to do battle the following Season.”

Jack had no trouble envisaging that.

“However—and here I’m extrapolating from what my correspondents told me—Clarice proved difficult to please. Not one of the horde who prostrated themselves at her feet found favor. Worse, after two Seasons she’d gained the reputation of being an aristocratic iceberg, unlikely to melt for any man.”

Jack blinked. Icy was not an adjective he would have applied to Boadicea.

“Which brings us to her third and final Season. To the very start of it, when her stepmother, Moira, and Clarice returned to the capital. There had been some correspondence between Melton and a Viscount Emsworth, of which Clarice was initially unaware. The long and short of it was that Emsworth had title, estates, but insufficient wealth, and he was also ambitious, so he was looking for a well-dowered and also well-connected bride.”

“Clarice fitted his bill, I take it.” Jack heard his grim tone, and wondered why he felt as he did, as if he’d willingly plant Emsworth a facer.

“To a tee. Emsworth had written to Melton asking for Clarice’s hand. He presented his offer as a suitable-to-all-parties marriage of convenience. Moira was by then desperate to get Clarice married and off her hands—her own eldest daughter would be presented the following year. Of all his daughters, Clarice was Melton’s favorite, was the best dowered as she’d also inherited considerable funds through her mother, and she has a much more…
commanding
presence than her half sisters. Indeed, with her in the room, they fade into the wallpaper, so one can at least understand Moira’s attitude.”

James paused as they turned to retrace their steps; Jack held his tongue and waited for him to continue.

“Moira pressed Melton to accept Emsworth’s suit. Melton wished to consult Clarice, but Moira convinced him letting Emsworth woo Clarice in romantic fashion during the Season was more likely to sway Clarice—eventually, Melton gave way. However, he agreed to the match on the condition that Clarice agreed.

“It transpired,” James said, his tone hardening, “that Moira and Emsworth had an agreement, too. Moira knew Clarice would never accept Emsworth—the man’s a priggish tyrant, I’ve heard—but Moira wasn’t going to allow Clarice’s capriciousness to stand in her and her daughter’s way, so…once Moira and Clarice were in town, and, despite Emsworth’s marked attentions, Clarice showed no signs of being swept off her feet, Moira and Emsworth took matters into their own hands.”

“How so?” Jack’s words were clipped; foreboding rang in them.

“Much as you’ve guessed. They arranged for Clarice and Emsworth to be discovered in a compromising situation by two of the more prominent hostesses. Scandal threatened, but Emsworth promptly stepped forward to do the honorable thing and offer the protection of his name.”

“How neat.”

To Jack’s surprise, James grinned at his cuttingly sarcastic remark. “Actually, no. Moira and Emsworth thought they had the whole sewn up tight, but they’d reckoned without Clarice.”

Jack blinked. His experience of the ton wasn’t vast, but it was enough to appreciate the situation and the forces ranged against Clarice. “She refused?”

James’s grin grew. “Categorically. She saw through the whole scheme in a blink and simply, unwaveringly, refused to, as she put it, be socially blackmailed into such a union.”

Jack frowned. “But there was a scandal.” That had to be the reason why Clarice now lived there.

“Oh, indeed!” James sighed. “The scandal to top all scandals, most of which can be laid at Moira’s door. She was determined to force Clarice into the marriage and stopped at nothing to increase the pressure. By the time Melton heard of it and arrived in town, the damage to Clarice’s reputation was done—or rather, her reputation was hanging above the abyss by a single thread. If she agreed to marry Emsworth, all would be forgiven—you know how these affairs are managed.”

Jack said nothing, but he did, indeed, understand.

“And that, unfortunately, was where Melton’s less-than-admirable side came to the fore. He was a stickler for keeping the family escutcheon pristine and unblemished. Despite understanding the whole, including how he himself had been manipulated, he nevertheless insisted that now things had come to such a pass, Clarice had to wed Emsworth to protect the family name.”

Jack made a disgusted sound.

James nodded. “Precisely. You can imagine the arguments, the rants and raving. Yet despite all the forces arrayed against her, Clarice refused to budge. She adamantly refused to marry Emsworth.” James paused, then continued, “If she’d been a less
formidable
female, I daresay some rather less savory methods of persuasion would have been applied, but when Clarice declared a position, no one, not even then, doubted she would hold to it to her grave. So…”

“Stalemate,” Jack said. His nickname for the lady seemed remarkably apt.

“In a fashion, but it wasn’t a situation that could remain unresolved. Melton forced the issue by threatening to banish Clarice from his houses and estates.”

Jack’s jaw clenched tight. The notion of a lady of Clarice’s standing being tossed into the streets brought out every protective instinct he possessed. What had he fought the last thirteen years for? So well-heeled aristocrats could treat their daughters like that?

His disillusionment with tonnish society plumbed new depths.

“So you stepped in and brought her here.” He looked up at the rectory as they drew near once more.

“Not directly. Her three older brothers were appalled by Melton’s decree. They interceded and persuaded him to allow Clarice to retire from society and live here, with me.” James’s lips twisted wryly. “Within the family, I’m considered a black sheep, having gone into the Church and not even in the pursuit of power. Researching military strategies was never considered a suitable occupation for an Altwood. On the other hand, there are times the family is quite grateful to have a member of the Church as one of their own. And in this case, living so quietly here as I do, so cut off from society, my house seemed the perfect solution—much like those convents to which recalcitrant young ladies used to be sent to consider the follies of their ways.”

James’s slow smile returned. “Much to everyone’s surprise, Clarice agreed.”

Jack shot James a glance. “Did you know her? Did she know you?”

“Yes, but we’d only met a handful of times at family gatherings. Nevertheless, while I would hardly describe us as kindred souls, we’d both recognized the other as an amenable companion. We rub along quite nicely.”

Jack couldn’t imagine it, not for himself. “You don’t find having such a…lady”—termagent, battle-hardened warrior-queen—“constantly about distracting?”

“Not at all. While Clarice is hardly quiet or restful, there’s much to be said for having one’s house run by a highly competent female. And as I mentioned, she’s dealt with all those problems and questions that in your father’s absence, and yours, devolved to me—her presence has been a boon.”

Jack knew enough to read between the lines; James was frequently absentminded, and could go for long periods completely immersed in his researches, oblivious to all about him and crotchety if interrupted.

They drew level with the steps leading up to the front porch. Jack halted. “So…having had her fill of offers of marriage—three attempts, all devastating failures for one reason or another—Clarice retreated here, more or less turning her back on the usual young lady’s romantic dreams.”

James paused beside him; a considering frown on his face, he looked up at the house, somewhere in which the object of their discussion was no doubt busily managing something. “Do you think so?”

Jack glanced at him.

James stared unseeing at the door. “You know, I always saw it as the other way around. That far from turning away from love, Clarice dismissed as well lost a world without it.”