“Before you say yea or nay”—Roger hauled up a straight-backed chair and sat beside Clarice—“we’ve an offer to make in exchange. You want to exonerate James, and for that you’ll need help, help of the sort we can give.” Roger glanced at Jack measuringly, but not antagonistically. “You’ll need foot soldiers, and we’re good at following orders. Whatever you want us to do to help James, we’ll do it and gladly. In return—”
“In return, dear sister”—Nigel curled up at Clarice’s feet and grinned up at her adoringly—“we want you to help us to the altar.”
“Not one altar, mind,” Roger clarified. “Three altars, one for each of us. Different dates, different ladies.”
Clarice sent him a withering look.
Alton moved to stand before the fireplace, drawing her gaze. He met it, held it, simply said, “Please.”
Watching Clarice, Jack sensed something of her inner struggle. She’d fully intended to do what she could to help her brothers, but to commit herself to doing so, to them…that was something else, something she, once the commitment was given, would consider binding.
When her gaze dropped from Alton’s face to his, he sat unmoving, giving her an unreadable face and inscrutable eyes. In truth, he couldn’t advise her in this; she knew her brothers, knew their caliber, whether they could indeed help effectively in clearing James’s name, far better than he. Whatever she decided, he would support her stance.
The frown that had formed in her eyes slowly dissipated; she looked up again at Alton. “If I actively help you in winning free of Moira—”
“And winning the hands of our chosen ladies,” Nigel interjected.
Clarice glanced down at him. “And clear the way for you to win your ladies—I refuse to be held responsible for the outcome of any ham-fisted attempts at wooing—if I do that for you, then you’ll devote yourselves to helping us exonerate James in whatever ways Jack and I require.”
In unison, the brothers shot a swift glance at Jack, which he met with impassivity, then the three exchanged glances, weighing Clarice’s words, wordlessly communicating. Jack noticed the phenomenon with a pang, realized Clarice was following the exchange, too. He’d never had siblings, not even close friends. Never shared that type of communication with anyone.
Then Clarice looked across and met his eyes. He read her assurance that her brothers’ help would be worth her effort, and she’d help them, regardless, so her deal was more in the nature of making hay while the sun shone.
She glanced away, and he blinked.
“If it’s any help in making your decisions”—Clarice looked at Roger, then Nigel and finally up at Alton—“do consider what having a suspected traitor in the family will do to your matrimonial aspirations.”
Alton’s lips thinned. Roger’s jaw set; his eyes turned bleak. Nigel swore beneath his breath and received a swift kick from his sister.
“Well,” he complained, “it’s true. Anyway”—he grinned up at her—“you know we’ll help you regardless, and you won’t be able to resist helping us, so all this haggling is purely by the by. So!” He looked from Clarice to Alton, then back again. “Where do you want us to start?”
Clarice studied Nigel’s eager face, then glanced at Alton, before meeting Jack’s gaze. “Jack and his friends are checking the facts surrounding three meetings James allegedly had with a French courier. They’re better qualified than we are to do that. We”—she looked up at Alton—“need to deal with the other side of this threat—the rumor mill and the scandal-mongers. The first thing to do is find out how widespread the rumors are. Once we know that, we can decide on the best way to counter them.”
Alton frowned. “I haven’t heard any rumor.”
“You won’t.” Jack caught Alton’s eye. “No one will say anything before members of the family. You’ll be the last to know.”
“I only heard,” Clarice said, “because I was behind a screen at my modiste’s and those old witches Lady Grimwade and Mrs. Raleigh didn’t know I was there. However, it sounded like the rumor had only just started.”
“Grimwade and Raleigh?” Roger frowned. “If you wanted to spread malicious rumors, those two biddies would be an obvious place to start.”
“Indeed. Someone had clearly whispered in Grimwade’s ear. Raleigh hadn’t heard until then. However, I don’t believe either will say another word, not until they hear more.” Clarice glanced at her brothers. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Many gentlemen will be stopping by their clubs. If you do the rounds, you should get some idea of how widespread the whispers are.”
“You’ll have to ask friends to help,” Jack said. “You won’t hear anything directly.”
“And whatever you do hear, don’t—do not—react. Not yet.” Clarice met each of her brothers’ eyes sternly. “We need some notion of what scale of problem we’re dealing with, then we can devise the most effective way to counter it. If anyone does the unthinkable and corners you over the matter, plead complete ignorance. Pretend you’ve no idea what they’re talking about.” She paused, then went on, “If we meet again this evening—”
“Oh, we’re definitely meeting this evening.” Alton glanced at his brothers, then back at Clarice. “We want you to meet our fiancées-in-all-but-name. We’ve arranged for invitations to be sent here for the balls we’ll be attending tonight. We’ll meet you at the Fortescues’. We’ve agreed that Roger’s case is most urgent, then mine. Nigel”—Alton nudged his youngest brother with the toe of his boot—“can wait his turn.”
Clarice looked up at Alton, her expression an unresolved mixture of haughty umbrage and cool calculation.
Jack managed to hide the smile he knew she wouldn’t appreciate. She’d wanted Alton to take charge of his life and the marquisate, but Jack doubted she’d envisaged him taking charge of her, too.
But calculation won out; she inclined her head. “Very well. We’ll meet you at the Fortescues at ten o’clock.”
Jack felt Clarice’s glance, but didn’t meet it; she knew he’d escort her to whatever balls and parties she chose to attend. Instead, he watched her brothers and their reaction to her “We’ll meet you.” They weren’t at all sure how to take that, weren’t at all sure they approved.
Alton shifted his stance, fixed his dark gaze on Clarice; Jack got the impression he was girding for battle. “There’s one other thing, Clary—we want you to come home. To come and live with us again at Melton House.”
She looked up, distracted, surprise clear in her face, then came that moment of hesitation, of looking inward, that Jack knew signified that she was considering, thinking before she acted…
His heart stuttered. She hadn’t expected any of this, hadn’t known her brothers had missed her so sorely, that they would welcome her back so warmly. That far from ostracizing her, her family would embrace her, falling on her neck, perhaps, but being needed and appreciated was balm to ladies such as she.
Jack drew in a breath, held it, and waited. There was nothing he could do to sway her decision, not with her brothers looking on, ready to leap to her defence if she gave the slightest sign; they would come between her and him in a heartbeat if they thought she would allow it.
He glanced briefly at them, confirmed they were watching not her but him. Regardless of their current state, none of them were slow-tops, nor truly weak. It was as Clarice had said; they hadn’t yet realized their potential, their ability to get things done. And they loved her; that was transparent. All three had seen enough, sensed enough to realize there was some connection, a relationship of some ilk between her and him. They would watch him like a hawk from now on; he didn’t care. They wouldn’t see anything to raise their hackles, because his intentions were all they might wish…
The notion of enlisting their aid in his campaign to win her swam into his mind; he blinked, then metaphorically shook it from his head. No matter how tempting the thought, no matter how supportive they might be, she’d learn of any conspiracy and be furious. Not a wise way to woo B
oadicea.
From the brothers’ dark glances, it was clear they knew and understood her as he did; all four of them knew she’d make her own decision about him, about any relationship between them, and woe betide any who sought to interfere.
Her pause lasted for no more than two breaths, then, without glancing Jack’s way, she looked at Roger and Nigel, then met Alton’s gaze.
Jack’s heart solidified in his chest. Regardless of the past, her family was important to her; returning to their bosom might be something she truly yearned to do—
“Thank you, but no. I prefer to stay here.” Clarice suppressed the urge to look at Jack, to reassure and to see his reaction. Alton frowned and opened his mouth to argue; she held up a hand. “No. The last time I was at Melton House…the memories are too painful. I put them behind me when I left, a clean break. There’s no reason to go back, no reason in the present circumstances that I need to reside under your roof. I’m perfectly comfortable here”—she glanced briefly at Jack; despite her best efforts to appear aloof a faint smile lit her eyes, teased her lips—“and so here I’ll remain.”
Alton, Roger, and Nigel made grumping sounds denoting their unhappiness, but none of them attempted to argue further.
“Besides”—she sat straighter—“while you might think having me about to shield you from Moira is a good idea, in reality, having me and Moira under the same roof, especially that roof, is an untenable proposition.” She glanced at them, her gaze sharp. “The disruption would be significant, not just for you, but for the staff as well. Such an arrangement simply would not work.”
They grimaced, but accepted her decree. They all rose. She waited while they shook hands with Jack, then, before they could be difficult, steered them to the door, leaving Jack by the fireplace. Alton, the last to go out, threw a frowning glance back at Jack, but, after reiterating that the necessary invitations would arrive shortly, reluctantly left.
Jack watched her walk back to him. As she neared, he raised a brow. “They feel responsible for you, unsurprisingly. You’re not making matters easy for them.”
“My life is no longer any concern of theirs, as they well know.” With a swish of her skirts, she sank back into her armchair and watched while Jack subsided in a relaxed sprawl in its mate. “Now, how should we proceed?”
They agreed that the obvious division of labor was likely to be the most efficient. Jack, through his contacts, would investigate the three alleged meetings, searching for sufficient facts to disprove each one. Meanwhile Clarice, with her brothers’ assistance, would do whatever necessary to quash any rumors circulating through the ton, and via the family’s influence open any doors they might discover initially closed. In between, she would do what she could to counter Moira’s influence and smooth her brothers’ matrimonial paths.
“However, I absolutely refuse to propose for them. That they must do for themselves.”
Jack hid a grin at her sternness. He felt like grinning in general, no excuse needed, lighthearted—his heart lightened—by her choosing to remain at Benedict’s. Despite what she’d told her brothers, some part of her reasoning had to do with him. That brief smile she’d sent his way had assured him that was so. “I didn’t want to say anything while they were here, but your decision not to stand as a physical shield between your brothers and your stepmother was eminently wise. They’re at the point, Alton especially, of dealing with her themselves, but if you were there…”
“Precisely.” She nodded. “They’d regress.”
The promised invitations arrived. They read them, mutually grimaced, and agreed to meet at Benedict’s at half past nine to commence the journey to Fortescue House.
Jack stole a quick kiss, one that lasted five minutes, then left, still grinning. He walked back to Montrose Place, a light breeze in his face, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs.
His head remained clear, without a hint of pain.
Deverell and Christian arrived at the club shortly after Jack, and brought Tristan Wemyss, Earl of Trentham, another club member, with them. The three joined Jack in the library; stretching out in the large comfortable armchairs, gratefully accepting the mugs of ale Gasthorpe served them, they traded quips, sapiently remarking on their farsightedness in establishing this, their London bolt-hole.
“I swear to you,” Tristan said, “society being what it is these days, we’ll always need a place to vanish to. After the wedding, I thought I’d be safe, but no. Now it’s the married but dissatisfied matrons who set their caps at me.”
“I should think Leonora would have something to say to that.” Christian’s eyes twinkled. Leonora, now Tristan’s wife, originally the lady living in the house beside the club, was no meek and mild miss.
“Oh, indeed.” Tristan nodded. “But there’s only so much hiding behind her skirts I can stomach. Dashed demoralizing after facing and surviving Boney’s worst.”
They laughed, and caught up with news of their other comrades—Charles St. Austell, the most recently married, settling into domestic bliss in Cornwall, Tony Blake, also now married, learning to cope with a ready-made family at his seat in Devon, and Gervase Tregarth, Earl of Crowhurst, presently out of town dealing with family business.
“As for Christian and me”—Deverell stretched out his long legs—“we’ve been skulking around the fringes of the ton, reconnoitering as it were.”
“Trying our damnedest not to get noticed.” Christian grimaced. “Not the easiest assignment. I’m actually exceedingly glad to have something else to occupy my time for the nonce. I haven’t seen any prospect worthwhile pursuing in the ballrooms. I’d much rather pursue some villain.” He cocked a brow at Deverell. “What about you?”
“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, focus
ing, 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.
Chapter 15
By 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.