It was her reaction to their aggression that surprised her, that left her off-balance. He—males of his class, his type—were the protective obsessives; why, then, did she suddenly feel the same?
What made the feeling even stranger was the edge of possessiveness that had crept into her thoughts, into the way she thought of him. That, too, she’d thought was an emotion peculiar to him, to males like him. But she was too attuned to her own desires, too used to acting on them not to be aware that she wanted him, wanted to secure him, hold him, keep him—possess him, too.
It was all very unsettling.
Especially when combined with the prospect of having to choose another road.
What if the road that opened at her feet didn’t include Jack?
At Clarice’s suggestion, they detoured via the park; from the safe confines of the hackney, they scanned the carriages lined up along the Avenue, but saw no sign of Moira.
“Something is definitely wrong.” Clarice slumped back as Jack gave the order to return to Benedict’s.
Her premonition seemed to be correct. The instant they swept into the foyer of the hotel, the concierge hurried forward with a note.
“My lady.” The concierge bowed deeply before Clarice. “The marquess was insistent this be handed to you the instant you walked in.”
Clarice took the note. “Thank you, Manning.” Using the knife he offered, she broke Alton’s seal, then handed back the knife, and dismissed the concierge with a nod.
Opening the note, she scanned it, then held it for Jack to read.
The note was short.
Dean Samuels is here at Melton House. He came looking for you and Warnefleet—there have been developments in James’s case. Come as soon as you read this.
A.
Jack glanced at Clarice.
She was frowning. “What developments? The case is over, isn’t it?”
“Apparently not.” Taking the note, Jack folded it and handed it back to her. “We’d best go and find out.”
The hackney hadn’t yet left. The driver was glad to take them up again; adjured to hurry, he whipped his horses up and they swung through the streets to Melton House.
Alton and the dean were waiting in the library. Both rose as Clarice swept in. “What is it?” she demanded without preamble, waving them back to their seats.
Swinging her skirts about, she sat in the armchair opposite the dean. Jack fetched a straight-backed chair and set it beside her.
“It’s nothing to do with the case against James per se,” the dean hurried to assure them. “A mere technicality, a slight holdup, nothing more.”
Clarice sat back, her dark gaze on his face. “What?”
The dean didn’t look happy. “The bishop called Deacon Humphries in and explained your findings, intending, in the light of those, to ask Humphries to withdraw the charges, which would be the neatest way of dealing with the matter, you see.”
Clarice nodded. “And?”
“Humphries was…well, confused. It wasn’t that he questioned your findings, more that he couldn’t see how they could be. He was insistent, very insistent that his charges were justified, that the information his informer would personally provide would prove more than convincing on its own. He’d intended to call the informer as a witness, if such confirmation was needed. He, Humphries, was still keen to present the man’s evidence before the bishop. Humphries argued that without hearing that evidence, any move to let the charges fall would be premature. In short, he argued for leave to bring this man before the court.”
Jack leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “We—Whitehall—would be very keen to meet this gentleman. Did Humphries tender his name?”
“No.” The dean seemed increasingly agitated. “I asked, the bishop asked, but Humphries held that he’d given his word not to divulge the courier’s name without his permission, because of course, as an ex-courier for the enemy, the man would be incriminating himself…although within the confines of an ecclessiastical court, that’s not quite so clear. However.” The dean drew in a deep breath. “I was called out of the room. While I was gone, Humphries pressed for, and the bishop granted him, leave to speak with the courier first, before revealing the man’s name and calling him as a witness.”
The dean met Jack’s eyes. “Humphries has gone off to meet with the man.”
Jack held the dean’s gaze. “That’s not at all wise.”
The dean wrung his hands. “I felt so, too. I came as soon as I heard. The bishop’s not pleased with Humphries, but he wants this matter settled, buried. We can all see it’s a…well, a distraction, if not worse.”
“Indeed.” Clarice shifted forward; leaning across, she clasped her hands comfortingly about the dean’s fretful ones. “But you’ve done all you can. We’ll have to hope that Humphries returns soon and comes to the same conclusions as we have.”
Under her dark gaze, the dean steadied. He nodded. “You’re right. I’d best get back.” He stood; the others followed suit. “I’ll send word the instant Humphries returns.”
After the dean had left the room, Clarice looked at Jack. “Did Dalziel know we were going to speak with the bishop this morning?”
Jack nodded. “I sent word. It’s possible Dalziel has someone watching Humphries. He, Dalziel, would certainly have been expecting to trace this courier via Humphries, but he might not have expected Humphries to go tearing off today.” Jack moved to Alton’s desk and reached for paper and pen. “I’d better alert Dalziel that Humphries has gone to meet the man.”
Alton watched him scrawl a quick note and seal it, then Alton summoned a footman. Jack gave him the note and directions to Dalziel’s office, buried in the depths of Whitehall.
Once the footman had gone, Alton looked at Jack. “This is truly serious, isn’t it? You fear for Humphries’ life.”
Jack grimaced. “Whether it’s reached that stage I don’t know, but in this game, life and death are the usual rewards.”
Clarice stirred. “Do you think Humphries knows that?”
Jack met her eyes. “No. I think he’s an innocent caught unknowingly in a web spun by Dalziel’s ‘last traitor.’”
Clarice nodded. She saw Alton, puzzled, open his mouth to ask more questions; before he could, she asked, “What progress have you and the other two made with your proposals?”
A question certain to distract Alton. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, then rose to tug the bellpull. “Let’s have some tea and cakes, and the others can tell you themselves.”
Edwards came in; Alton ordered tea and sent for Roger and Nigel, who wonder of wonders were both in the house. Clarice noted a certain spring in Edwards’s step, detected an unusual ease in Alton, too, but she decided to let them answer the questions she’d already posed first.
Roger came striding in, and she didn’t need words to know how his romance was faring; his eyes were alight, his stride carefree, his whole manner a testament to joyous expectation. He caught her hands, hauled her up, and waltzed her around the desk.
“Alice agreed. Her parents agreed. Everything is wonderful!” Halting once more before her chair, he planted smacking kisses on both her cheeks, then released her and heaved a contented sigh. “All is well!”
Clarice opened her eyes wide at him. “I’m delighted to hear that. However—”
“As for me—” Nigel appeared, caught her about her waist and swung her up and around, laughing when she swore and thumped his shoulder. He set her back on her feet, still grinning like a fool. “Emily thinks I’m a god. Her parents are a trifle more serious about it, but I know they think I’m remarkable, too.” His eyes danced; he squeezed Clarice’s hands and released her, letting her sink back into her chair. “So everything’s set for the big announcement.”
“Tea, my lords, my lady.” Edwards, still beaming, swept in with the tea tray.
Clarice swallowed her pithy question: what about Moira? and waited while Edwards set out the teapot and cups, and a plate of cakes t
hat her brothers and Jack fell upon like starving wolves. The instant the door closed behind Edwards she looked at Alton. “What about you and Sarah?”
Alton was struggling to keep a boyish grin from his face. “I haven’t had a chance to speak with her today—she was out at some luncheon—but of course I’ve asked, and she’s agreed. And”—he paused to draw a portentous breath—“I had an interview with Conniston at noon. He’s accepted my offer—Claire had paved the way quite nicely, I must say—and so everything’s now set.”
He looked at Clarice; she was aware her other brothers were also looking expectantly her way. “It’s really quite lucky the matter with the dean brought you here. We were wanting to ask you how soon we could hold a ball to make our formal announcements. Two days? Three? I know it’ll be a rush, but we’ll all help, and so will—”
“Wait!” Clarice set down her teacup, then looked at each of their faces. Not one showed any hint of a cloud on their horizon. She had to wonder…“What’s happened to Moira?” She looked from one grinning face to the other. “Where is Moira?”
Alton smiled beatifically. “At the moment, she’s on her way to Hamleigh House.”
“What?” Clarice was stupefied.
A state her brothers seemed to relish. Nigel chortled. “It was really something, you know. Vesuvius erupting at the breakfast table, fireworks exploding—pity you missed it.”
Roger grinned, unrepentant but understanding. “Alton’s banished her.”
Clarice couldn’t speak. Couldn’t find words, couldn’t get her tongue around them. She stared at Alton. He grinned back, so transparently pleased with himself she didn’t like to ask, but she had to know. “Why? And how?”
She wasn’t entirely surprised when they all sobered. They exchanged glances; she held up a hand. “Just tell me. No roundaboutation, if you please.”
Alton grimaced. “She waltzed into the breakfast parlor this morning in high dudgeon. She wanted—no, she insisted—that I banish you again.”
“She screamed and moaned and gnashed her teeth,” Nigel supplied.
Alton nodded. “Over the family, about how they were treating her now you were back, and so on.”
“Helen’s ball was the last straw, it seemed,” Roger put in.
“That I can understand,” Clarice returned. “But surely you didn’t banish her for a little ranting.”
Alton frowned. “It wasn’t just a little.”
“Well, you can imagine what she said about you,” Nigel said.
“But anyway, that wasn’t all. When I refused to banish you, she threatened us, but not just us. She threatened Sarah and the others, but Sarah most of all…” Alton grimaced sheepishly. “I lost my temper.”
“He roared at her.” Nigel’s expression clearly stated he’d enjoyed every minute.
Clarice blinked.
“Didn’t know he had it in him,” Roger put in. “Not at that volume, anyway.”
Alton glared at his brothers. “Regardless, it couldn’t go on, her constantly threatening us, trying to manage everything to benefit her darling Carlton.” His voice hardened. “She pushed me too far, and I pushed back. I told her that, given all she’d said about our three wives-to-be, she was no longer welcome at any of the family’s major estates. I told her she could go to Hamleigh”—Alton glanced at Jack—“it’s a small manor the family own in Lancashire—and I’d pick up the household bills and she could live off her jointure, or she could go and stay with her daughters and their husbands if she chose, but she was not to set foot in any of the family’s other houses again, and not to show her face in London again, either.”
Clarice couldn’t believe it. “And she agreed?”
Nigel grinned even more. “That was the best part. I thought she was going to have an apoplexy right there over the breakfast table.”
Alton frowned him down. “Of course she didn’t agree. She ranted and raved and threatened some more, until I informed her that we understood she wanted Carlton to marry well, but that that was hardly likely to occur if we let it be known that he wasn’t Papa’s get.”
Chapter 19
Clarice knew her mouth was falling open, but she couldn’t seem to stop it. She gaped at Alton, finally managed to find breath enough to say, “You knew?”
Alton frowned. “No. That is, I only learned of it last evening when I dropped by Gribbley and Sons to check the figures for the settlements. Old Gribbley had heard of my plans—he called me into his office to congratulate me and reminisce about how Papa would have seen the match. While doing that, he let fall Papa’s views on Carlton’s parentage.”
“Papa knew?” Clarice stared even more.
“Apparently. I gathered it was more than suspicion, but according to Gribbley, with Carlton fourth in line, Papa didn’t care to make a point of it—which sounds like Papa.” Alton shrugged. “I daresay, if he hadn’t died so suddenly, he would have mentioned it to me. As it was, I didn’t know, but Gribbley thought I did.”
Clarice blinked. “But Moira knew you didn’t. After Papa died, she felt perfectly safe in forcing you to dance to her tune.”
“Indeed.”
“But you knew.” Head tilted, Roger was studying her. “How?”
Clarice grimaced. “I was seven at the time, and Moira and I were already at loggerheads. Meeting your lover in your own house with an antagonistic young stepdaughter about was hardly wise.”
“But you never let her know you knew,” Nigel said.
“No, but if she’d kept on as she was, I would have.” Clarice looked at Alton. “I intended to confront her with exactly that if she didn’t give way over your marriages.” She smiled. “But now I don’t have to, for you’ve taken care of it yourself.”
Alton’s lips twisted wryly. “Just as well I did. Conniston asked about Moira, so I told him what I’d done. Later, after he’d given his blessing, he told me he wouldn’t have if Moira had still been about. He thinks she’s a viper. He congratulated me for, in his words, ‘coming of age.’”
Clarice studied him for a moment, then let her smile deepen. “In some ways that’s true, and I have to say it’s something of a relief.”
All three of her brothers made rude sounds, but she merely smiled at them all.
“Now,” Alton said, leaning forward, “what about our engagement ball?”
They spent the rest of the afternoon sorting out the arrangements. Jack watched Clarice rise to the occasion, even though she still seemed a trifle dazed.
James was safe, exonerated, his name unimpugned. True, Humphries had yet to withdraw the charges, but as the dean had said, that was only a minor holdup; all would soon be well.
As for Humphries, Jack entertained the gravest concerns, although he said nothing to dampen Clarice’s mood. While she was rattling off instructions regarding the guest list and the invitations, the footman sent to Whitehall returned with a reply from Dalziel; Jack stepped into the front hall to read it.
Dalziel had indeed dispatched a minion to watch and follow Humphries; on reaching the palace and realizing how many exits from the grounds there were, said minion had sent for reinforcements. Unfortunately, before they could arrive and throw a proper net around the palace, Humphries left by a rear gate and disappeared.
For Humphries, the future did not bode well. Dalziel wrote that he would keep Jack informed and requested that Jack reciprocate.
Tucking the note into his pocket, Jack turned to go back into the library, only to find Alton had followed him out and was regarding him evenly.
Jack raised his brows.
Alton studied his face, then nodded toward the note. “That man in Whitehall—was he the one you worked for during the war?”
Jack hesitated; the impulse to veil his past was ingrained, still real.
Alton colored. “I—we—checked. You were a major in the Guards, but no one in your regiment remembers you at all. Yet you’re hardly the forgettable type.”
Jack smiled, entirely sincerely. “Actually,
you’ll find that I’m totally forgettable when I wish to be.” He walked closer, halting before Alton so no one else could overhear. “That was my particular talent, always being able to merge in, to appear as if I belonged.” He met Alton’s eyes steadily. “And yes, the gentleman in Whitehall was my superior for over a decade.”
Alton nodded, then smiled. “We just wanted to know.”
Jack returned his smile easily. “Entirely understandable.”
“Alton? Where the devil are you?”
They turned as Clarice appeared at the library door. She frowned at Alton. “Don’t think to escape.”
Alton looked innocent. “I was just going to send for Sarah.”
Clarice nodded. “Do. And while you’re at it, send for Alice and Emily, too, and Aunt Camleigh and you’d better ask Aunt Bentwood, as well. We’ll need everyone to do their part if we’re to arrange a major ball in five days.”
“It could just be an ordinary ball,” Alton said. “We wouldn’t mind.”
Clarice bent a look of withering scorn upon him. “Don’t be an ass! You’re the Marquess of Melton—your engagement ball, by definition, cannot be anything other than major! Now come on.” She turned back into the room. “You and the others can make a start on the invitations.”
Alton followed her in. Jack followed more slowly in his wake. He paused just inside the threshold and watched Clarice bustle about, setting her brothers to the task of penning invitations.
James was saved, her brothers’ engagements secured and shortly to be appropriately announced to the fashionable world. All she’d come to London to do, they’d achieved. She’d decreed the ball would be held as soon as possible; he’d interpreted that as a wish to have everything done and finished with.