Dalziel nodded, his gaze on Jack’s face. “Is there a rival involved?”
Jack grimaced. “Seems to be. He’s the one who brought the allegations before the bishop, and has a history of losing out to James in the fellowship stakes.”
After a moment, Dalziel murmured, “That would make him an excellent pawn for the real traitor to exploit.”
Jack nodded. “He’s at the top of my list to question.” He looked at Dalziel and raised a brow in mute query.
Dalziel sighed. “Yes, I do realize your presence here is a godsend—without your connection to Altwood, I couldn’t directly investigate at all. So by all means poke around, ask questions, investigate, and do whatever necessary to get the charges against Altwood dismissed. Just keep me informed of all you learn.”
“And in return?” Jack needed Dalziel to open doors, but exactly which doors his ex-commander had keys to he had no clue.
“In return, I’ll inform you of anything pertinent that crosses my desk, and I’ll write to the Bishop of London and inform him of two things. One, that having heard of the allegations about to be tested in his court, I’ve looked into the matter and can find no evidence of James Altwood selling secrets to the enemy. Of course, his lordship will have to make up his own mind based on the facts laid before him.” Dalziel held Jack’s gaze. “I can’t make any declaration that reads as if I’m preempting the church’s judgment.”
Jack nodded.
“The second thing I’ll tell the bishop is that you’re a government servant experienced in such matters, and that regardless of your connection to Altwood, you are to be trusted as if you were me.”
Jack allowed his surprise to show. He hadn’t expected Dalziel to open the Lambeth Palace doors; that had seemed too much to hope for. The fact he could go even further only confirmed, as they’d long suspected, that he was a member of one of the very old families, those with members and connections throughout the various strata of the ruling elite.
Refocusing, Jack saw amusement lurking in Dalziel’s dark eyes. Eyes very like another pair he now knew well….
Dalziel rose. “I take it that will suffice?”
“Indeed. For the moment.” Jack stood and held out his hand.
Dalziel gripped it, then releasing him, turned to the door. “If you can discover who, exactly, is behind the allegations against James Altwood, I, and the country, too, will owe you yet another boon.” He paused before the door, and met Jack’s eyes. “And the Altwoods will, too, of course.”
The limpid intelligence in Dalziel’s eyes assured Jack that, in the event of the Altwoods being in his debt, Dalziel knew precisely what he might request of them. Dalziel already knew of his involvement with Clarice; the only question remaining in Jack’s mind was how much he knew. How he knew would, as always, remain a mystery.
Resigned, Jack merely smiled and reached for the doorknob. The door opened before he could grasp it.
Revealing Gasthorpe. Seeing them, Gasthorpe stepped back. He met Jack’s eyes. “A…person has called to see you, my lord. They’re waiting in the parlor.”
Jack instantly knew who had called. Dalziel, of course, didn’t; he didn’t know that the parlor was the small room beside the front door reserved for entertaining females.
Smiling easily, Jack nodded. “I’ll see Mr. Dalziel out, then see my visitor.”
With a wave, he indicated Dalziel should precede him down the stairs. Following unhurriedly in his excommander’s wake, Jack saw—too late—that the door to the parlor was set wide. Gasthorpe wouldn’t have left it so, but given who was waiting in the room, it wasn’t difficult to imagine how the door came to be open.
Ahead of him, unaware of any danger, Dalziel crossed the hall to the front door, walking into view of anyone in the parlor.
This, Jack thought, was going to be interesting.
Chapter 12
Not just interesting, but revealing.
Dalziel reached the front door and paused before he sensed another’s presence. He turned toward the parlor; from where he was standing, he would have a clear view across the room.
Strolling up behind him, because he was watching, Jack detected the infinitesimal stiffening of Dalziel’s shoulders beneath his well-cut coat, but then he bowed, correct and distant, toward the parlor, and turned away.
Jack kept his expression easy, unconcerned, apparently unaware of that minor incident and its implications; he opened the door and saw Dalziel out. As soon as his excommander’s boots hit the gravel, Jack closed the door. Intrigued, he walked into the parlor.
Clarice stood before the window, peeking through the curtains at Dalziel’s departing back. Jack closed the parlor door; she turned to face him, a familiar frown etched between her brows.
“Who is he?”
Clarice looked up at him, and blinked. “Don’t you know?”
“I told you we only know him as Dalziel.”
“He’s your ex-commander?”
“Yes.” Jack halted before her, studying her face. “You recognized him, didn’t you? He certainly recognized you.”
“Damn!” She frowned harder. “I hate that.”
“What?”
“That he knows who I am, but I can’t think of his name.”
“But you do know him?”
“Not exactly. I have met him, but it was years and years ago, at Miranda Ffolliot’s birthday party. I was…” She paused to work it out. “Nine. It was one of those parties one had to attend. He—whoever he is—was older, fifteen at least. He was at Eton with Miranda’s eldest brother, I think, although that wasn’t why he was there. All the guests, children though we were, had been invited with the usual in mind.”
“Matchmaking from the cradle?”
“It was considered wise to encourage us get to know each other from an early age.” She smiled wryly. “That was the circle from which we were ultimately supposed to chose our spouses.”
Jack smiled into her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to plan what we should do.”
“I thought you were going to alert your brother.”
“I decided it was pointless broaching the subject with the family before we know what the allegations actually are. I don’t want to appear hysterical, as if I’m reacting to some imagined situation they’ll think can’t possibly be true.”
Somewhat to her relief, he nodded. “Dalziel didn’t know the details of the allegations either, although he has confirmed that assertions that James passed information to the enemy are being heard in the bishop’s court.”
Clarice saw he had a great deal more to relate. Crossing to one of the armchairs, she sat and waved to the other, facing her. “What else did your ex-commander say?”
He considered how much to tell her as he sank into the chair. Then he relaxed, shoulders back against the cushions, and proceeded to talk without reservation. She couldn’t say why she was so certain of that last, but she was. Listening intently, she questioned, and he answered as he gave her chapter and verse of his ex-commander’s crusade to uncover one last traitor and why that might be the prime cause behind James’s plight.
“How…”—she searched for the right word—“diabolical! That James, his reputation, even the family’s reputation should be so cavalierly jeopardized. Whoever this person is, he has absolutely no scruples.”
“I think we can take that as read.”
Jack’s dry tone registered. She met his eyes. “Is it always like this in spying? That you assume the other side has no real morals?”
He considered, then said, “It’s safer to work on that basis.”
She inwardly frowned, wondering what working constantly within such a framework, where you didn’t dare trust in anyone or anything, would be like. “Lonely” was the word that leapt to her mind.
But such thoughts were a distraction. Glancing at Jack, she was about to ask what next they should do when she saw pain fleetingly fill his eyes; it was gone in an instant as he focused on her
. “Is your head hurting?”
He hesitated, then his lips thinned. “Yes.” Dispensing with all pretense, he raised his hands and massaged his temples. “The carriage journey…”
Alarm of an unfamiliar sort lanced through her. “You need to see your doctor.” She stood and headed for the bellpull. “What’s his name?”
“No, no.” He waved her back to her seat, away from the bellpull. “I’ve already seen him. Yesterday, after I left you.”
She sank back, reluctantly, into the armchair. “You were in pain then?”
He grimaced. “It was building.”
Now he’d been forced to admit it, he seemed less reluctant to discuss his state. She pressed. “What did your doctor say?”
Jack continued to massage his temples. “Actually, he was highly impressed by my progress.”
She humphed dismissively. “You’re in more pain now than you have been since you returned to Avening.”
“Pringle said it was because of the long hours in the carriage, compounded by not having—”
The look that crossed his face as he broke off was as close to self-conscious as she imagined he ever got, like a guilty little boy having let out some secret. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Not having what?”
He glanced at her, but didn’t meet her eyes. “Exercise of a certain sort. Apparently, it reduces the incidence and possibly the severity of head pain.”
“Well, then!” She straightened. “You clearly need to attend to this exercise before we do anything else.”
His lips weren’t straight, but she wasn’t sure if he was grimacing, or, strangely, struggling not to laugh. She frowned. “What is this exercise?”
“Don’t worry about it—it’s not a ride in the park or a stroll around the garden.” Lowering his hands, he met her eyes. “If you must know, I plan on taking care of it tonight. I’ll just have to suffer until then.”
“Don’t be nonsensical!” She studied his eyes. “You’re in pain—you look like your head’s splitting. You can’t possibly think clearly, and we—James, me, the Altwoods, and the government—need you functioning at the top of your bent. So what is this exercise? Can it be performed at any time, and if so, why not now?”
When he simply looked at her—that stubborn look she now knew meant he wasn’t going to fall in with her demands—and kept his lips firmly shut, she sighed. “Very well.” Rising, she reached for her reticule. “I’ll just have to visit this doctor—Pringle, I think you said?—and ask him what sort of exercise you need.”
The look on his face was priceless, horror and disbelief mingling. “You can’t do that.”
His tone was flat, a statement of reality as he saw it.
Looking down at him, she raised her brows. “Of course I can.” And would. The fact she could actually see the pain clouding his lovely hazel eyes worried her more than she cared to admit, shook her in some way she didn’t fully understand. She told herself it was because the long carriage drive had been undertaken on James’s behalf, and so ensuring he recovered swiftly from any ill it might have caused was the correct and honorable thing to do.
Head back against the chair, he stared up at her. His expression had turned impassive; it no longer told her anything. Yet despite the dulling pain, she could see the thoughts passing through his mind, him weighing up telling her against her asking Pringle. Then his chest swelled as he drew in a breath. “Lovemaking.”
She blinked at him. For one instant she was totally unsure what her own expression was: stunned amazement, most likely. “That’s the exercise that eases your head?” She dropped her reticule back on the table.
“Apparently.” Jaw tight, he waved her to her chair. “So I’ll just have to bear with my headache until this evening, then we can attend to it. I’m sure I’ll be well again by tomorrow morning.”
She stood her ground, frowning down at him. “There are times when your mental processes defy my comprehension. There’s no reason we need to wait to ease your head.” With a swish of her skirts, she turned and sat on his lap.
He jerked upright, stiffened, but his arms instinctively rose to hold her. “Clarice—” He seemed shocked.
Framing his face, she succinctly replied, “Shut up, and let me fix this.”
Then she kissed him.
Hard.
Demandingly, commandingly, a summons he didn’t have it in him to refuse. His lips parted under her onslaught, and she boldly tasted him; a minute passed while he tried to hold aloof, then he gave up, clamped one hand at her nape, surged into her mouth, and took control.
Through the kiss she smiled, smugly satisfied. The idea that with this she could heal him, that through dallying with him she could banish the dullness from his hazel eyes, succor him, and ease his pain, seemed nothing short of miraculous. She had to put it to the test. She certainly wasn’t going to wait until that night.
Heat bloomed, then raced down their veins, pulsed beneath their skins, pooled low. Jack broke from the kiss, his breathing ragged, his control sliding away far too fast. “Damn it, woman!” He growled the words against her swollen lips, luscious, so tempting. “There’s no lock on the door.”
She calmly leaned back and reached for his waistband. “Your exceedingly stiff majordomo is far too well trained to interrupt. Now”—laying the flap of his breeches wide, she slid her hand inside—“how do we go about this? Show me.”
He gave up, and did; he simply didn’t have the strength to fight against that order, not with her, all long rounded limbs and lush curves, squirming in his lap, not with her clever lips and even cleverer fingers urging him on. Not with his head in its present state.
Yet when he lifted her hips, then lowered her, easing his aching erection into the slick haven of her scalding sheath, even as he struggled to bite back a groan of sheer sensual pleasure, he realized that the throbbing in his temples had ceased.
Something else was throbbing now.
Apparently his body couldn’t throb in two places simultaneously.
Making a mental note to tell Pringle he’d been right, he slumped back in the chair; hands locked about her hips, skin to skin beneath her rucked up skirts and petticoats, he guided her and let her have her wicked way with him. He was simply glad she was facing the other way, and couldn’t see the blissful expression he was sure had claimed his face.
He didn’t even want to look too closely himself, to analyze the breadth and depth of the joy that filled him as she rode him, driving him and herself to a shattering completion.
Driving away his pain, replacing it with marrow-deep pleasure.
When she finally lay slumped back against him, boneless as a rag doll as they waited for their hearts to slow, for their breathing to even out, for the blissful golden aftermath to fade, he bent his head and pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. “Thank you.”
She reached up and gently riffled his hair, letting the strands fall through her fingers. “I think it’s my turn to say it was entirely my pleasure.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Is your head better?”
“Amazingly, yes.” The saber-edged pain had reduced to a vague shadow. He suspected his head might ache dully later, but the difference was striking; he could think without pain.
Yet as she lay in his arms, languidly sated and replete, his first thought remained one of simple disbelief that she had acted as she had. He couldn’t imagine any other lady of her standing doing the same. This, apparently, was what came of treating with warrior-queens who would, without a blink, sacrifice social strictures to succor their consort’s injuries.
The thought made him smile.
Then she shifted, and he sucked in a breath. His body reacted predictably to the warm boneless weight of her, to the hot clasp of her wet sheath.
Tempting fate was never wise.
He stirred her, then lifted her to her feet. She came back to life, shook out her skirts, readjusted her bodice while he righted his clothes. Then she sat once more in the chair facing his; as coolly col
lected as any dowager, she looked inquiringly at him. “Right then. What should we do first? I rather think we need to visit the Bishop of London.”
Mildly amused by her sudden focusing—and the effort he knew it cost her to achieve it—he agreed. They spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing their plans, whom they needed to speak with, and the best order in which to do so, then a tap on the door heralded Gasthorpe with a tray.
“I took the liberty, my lord, of bringing your usual breakfast fare.”
Looking over the selection of dishes Gasthorpe set out on the low table, Jack recalled he hadn’t yet broken his fast. “Thank you, Gasthorpe.”
Gasthorpe had also brought a pot of tea for Clarice and a plate of delicate cakes. As he set those out, he glanced at Jack. “Indeed, my lord—we must remember you need to keep up your strength.”
Excruciatingly correct, Gasthorpe bowed to Clarice, who nodded regally, then he bowed to Jack and departed.
Clarice met Jack’s gaze, raised her brows.
Jack shrugged and reached for the coffeepot. “Make of that what you will.”
While they ate, they concentrated on how best to approach the Bishop of London. Not only was his approval critical to allowing them to meet with and assist James’s defender, but without the bishop’s specific consent, they were unlikely to learn the details of the allegations.
“And without those details, we won’t get far.” Clarice sipped her tea.
Jack watched her; he wondered if she’d noticed how very domesticated their present behavior was. Chatting over the breakfast cups, discussing family matters. Her dark hair, once again neat in its chignon—he wondered which of the club members had thought to hang a mirror in the parlor—sheened as a sunbeam slanted through the curtains, striking garnet glints from within the dark mass. She leaned forward to place her empty cup on the table, the regal set of her head and the vulnerable line of her nape apparent as she straightened.
Regardless of all else, through the last hours one aspect of their London adventure had become much clearer in his mind. Together, he and Clarice would be a formidable force in countering the threat to James, if Dalziel’s instincts told true in exposing the last traitor’s distracting scheme—and potentially exposing the last traitor, too.