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 collected 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.

They would become a threat to the last traitor.

And that would be dangerous.

His instincts had already been stirring, awakening; now, they quietly switched to full alert. Regardless of all else, he was going to be keeping his eyes wide open and trained most especially on her.

Clarice glanced up, met his eyes, studied their expression, but couldn’t read it. She raised her brows, faintly haughty. “Well, shall we go?”

Nearly two hours had passed since Dalziel had departed. Jack knew how fast his ex-commander acted; the bishop should have received Dalziel’s missive by now. He rose and held out his hand; she placed her fingers in his, and he drew her to her feet. “Indeed, let’s make a start.”

 

The Archbishop of Canterbury’s London residence, Lambeth Palace, sited in its own extensive gardens, lay just over Lambeth Bridge. The Bishop of London was currently residing there, together with his administration and household. They took a hackney to the impressive front gates, then walked up the graveled drive. At the porticoed entrance, a footman took their names and conducted them to a small waiting room.

They didn’t have long to wait. Dean Samuels, whom James had mentioned as the Bishop’s right-hand man, appeared in less than five minutes.

White-haired with a round, rather careworn face, he smiled, introduced himself, then ushered them out of the room and toward the towering stairs. “I’m extremely glad you’ve come.” Climbing the stairs beside them, he glanced sidelong at Jack. “The bishop has received a communication from Whitehall. I have to say, from my own perspective, it’s reassuring to have someone with a professional background involved.”

Jack inclined his head. Before he could ask, the dean went on, his gaze flicking up the stairs ahead of them, “I should perhaps warn you that the bishop is nevertheless in two minds over allowing the details of the allegations against James to pass beyond Church walls at this stage.” The dean heaved a small sigh. “I hope, once he meets you, he’ll change his mind.”

Thus alerted, they were shown into a long room, the far end of which was filled with a dais on which the bishop’s throne sat, supporting the prelate, all red robes and gilt-embroidered ivory linen.

Clarice swept in, head high, her silk skirts swishing. Ten feet from the dais, she halted and sank into a deep curtsy. Halting beside her, Jack bowed as Dean Samuels announced them.

Straightening, at the bishop’s signal they approached the dais. The four of them were the only people in the audience chamber.

The bishop was not as old as Dean Samuels, more James’s age. Sharp, pale blue eyes studied them, first Clarice, then Jack, then the bishop’s lips pursed querulously. “This is all most irregular, and indeed most distressing. I’m really very exercised about these allegations. I had hoped to keep them entirely within the Church—I really can’t believe James Altwood guilty of any misdemeanor, yet of course I’m honor-bound to test the case brought against him. However, it appears news of the matter has reached Whitehall.”

Jack heard the irritated note in the bishop’s voice. He’d met such men before; they held their position by virtue of their connections, and the smooth running of their enterprises was almost entirely due to the efforts of their underlings. Like Dean Samuels.

In the bishop’s defence, Jack could readily appreciate that a scandal of the scope the allegations against James promised would not be to the liking of any man in high office, secular or clerical.

Lifting a sheet from his lap, the bishop scanned the lines thereon, then looked, somewhat peevishly, at Jack. “Whitehall has sung your praises, and suggested that, in light of the gravity of these allegations and their sensitive nature, that justice would best be served by allowing your input at this stage, in my court, rather than allowing views that a professional such as yourself would see as unwarranted or misjudged to adversely color our conclusions and potentially precipiate a more serious, public situation.”

The bishop paused, his gaze fixed on Jack, then more quietly said, “I’m not as yet convinced that that is our best course.”

Jack held that dyspeptic blue stare, but before he could draw breath and, logically and with charm, turn the bishop to his bidding, Clarice spoke.

“My lord Bishop, if I may speak to this point?” The bishop’s gaze deflected to her; she caught and held it. “Specifically to admitting myself and Lord Warnefleet to the confidence of your court, as you have intimated, the charges against my cousin, the Honorable James Altwood, are indeed serious, but more, they deal with fields of endeavor not well understood by the layperson, nor yet by clerical officers. To adequately test these charges, knowledge of the field with which they deal will be vital, and I would submit it will be in no one’s interest to have these charges upheld because of misunderstanding, and thus unnecessarily passed on to a high civilian court, only to be subsequently shown as groundless.

“Lord Warnefleet is eminently qualified to assist your officers with determining the truthfulness of these allegations”—she nodded to the sheet still held between the bishop’s fingers—“as confirmed by his superiors in Whitehall. The fact he is acquainted with James is unlikely to cloud his judgment given his long service to the crown. Indeed, he would have been one of those placed most at risk if the allegations were true.”

She paused; the bishop was frowning, following her free-flowing words, clearly caught. She lifted her chin, consciously regal. “As for myself, I will, of course, be representing the family in this matter. I will be reporting to my brother, Melton, on what transpires. I hope, on leaving here today, to be able to explain to him precisely what the allegations made against our cousin are. The family will be pleased to know that this attack against one of our name is being dealt with as expeditiously, and as appropriately, as may be.”

The bishop’s frown turned faintly harried. “I see.” It was transparently clear he’d heard and correctly interpreted Boadicea’s battle cry.

He glanced again at the missive in his hand, then at Jack, and finally at Dean Samuels. “I suppose,” the bishop said, “that all things considered, it is, perhaps, appropriate”—he inclined his head toward Clarice—“as you point out, my dear, for you both to have access to our court, Lord Warnefleet in giving professional advice on these unusual charges and Lady Clarice as the family’s representative.”

He didn’t quite make the statement a question, but Dean Samuels was quick to bow. “Indeed, my lord. That seems most wise.”

Jack smiled charmingly. Boadicea smiled, too.

After tendering their appreciation for the bishop’s dispensation and exchanging the usual social remarks, they bowed, preparing to retreat.

“I’ll introduce Lady Clarice and Lord Warnefleet to Olsen, my lord,” Dean Samuels said.

“Indeed, indeed.” The bishop smiled at Clarice. “Do remember me to your aunt, my dear.”

With a noncommittal inclination of her head, Clarice returned his smile. Dean Samuels led them away, out of the audience chamber and into the heart of the palace.

“Olsen is the deacon appointed to argue James’s defence.” Dean Samuels led them on. “He’s young, but I believe will do an excellent job. He’ll be in his workroom.”

The farther they went, the more labyrinthine the palace became; eventually Dean Samuels led them down a corridor lined with doors. He stopped before one, tapped, then opened the door.

“Olsen? Allow me to introduce two people who, I believe, will be of great help in quashing these ridiculous charges against James Altwood.”

A clearer statement of sympathy couldn’t be imagined; Jack caught Clarice’s eye as she passed into the room. He followed. The room was a small square delineated by stone walls, just big enough to hold a desk and chair, three other straight-backed chairs, and three piles of leather-bound tomes, along with Deacon Olsen, a cleric in his late twenties, who rose as they entered, his eyes widening in surprise.

Dean Samuels introduced them, describing Jack as an expert sent by Whitehall to assist the bishop’s deliberations. Olsen stammered engagingly over Clarice’s hand and hurried to set a chair for her. She consented to sit. Seeing Jack and Dean Samuels helping themselves to the other chairs, Olsen scurried once more behind his desk.

“I have to say I’m exceedingly glad to see you.” Sinking into his chair, he waved a hand at the papers scattered over the desk. “I may know something of war, but this is beyond me. And although I’ve heard much of James Altwood and his researches, I’ve only met him once.”

Jack smiled and grabbed the reins before Boadicea could. “What regiment were you with?”

The question proved the start of a useful friendship; Olsen was sensible, straightforward, and in this case, knew he was in over his head. He was very ready, even eager, to share with them the details of the allegations.

Once assured they were comfortable together, Dean Samuels left.

Clarice looked at Jack as the door closed behind the dean. “What odds he goes straight to the bishop to report that all is well on the way to being taken care of?”

Jack grinned. “No wager.”

Bright-eyed, Olsen looked from one to the other. “The bishop has to appear impartial.” He grimaced. “Indeed, more than that—he has to appear to be prosecuting these charges with all due vigor. Humphries ensured that. He’s made quite a stir with his claims.”

Jack leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about Humphries.”

Olsen grimaced again. “You’ll meet him once the court convenes, or more likely sooner—as soon as he hears you’ve been permitted to assist me.” Olsen considered, then went on, “Humphries has been on the bishop’s staff for decades. He’s a loner, dour, pious in a rather pompous way, not one given to smiles and jollification of any stripe. He seems entirely sincere in his conviction that James Altwood was involved in, at the very least, selling his more sensitive researches into English military strategy to the French.”

Sorting through the papers on his desk, Olsen pulled out three sheets. “While some part of the allegations are general—more inferences drawn than fact, and there’s some jealousy on Humphries’ part that would account for that—the most damaging and potentially damning of the allegations are these.” Handing the papers to Jack, Olsen leaned forward to point to various entries. “Three dates, times, and places where Altwood supposedly met with his courier, and a list of some of the information passed over the years.”

Holding the sheets so Clarice could read them, too, Jack examined the crux of Humphries’ allegations. If they’d been true, they would indeed constitute a damning indictment of James. Reaching the end of the list, Jack looked at Olsen. “How did Humphries get such information?”

“From the courier.” Olsen sat back with a sigh. “And before you ask, he refuses at this point to reveal the man’s name.”

Jack looked again at the listed details. “Without the courier to testify to the accuracy of these assertions, then proof will rest on witnesses.”

Olsen nodded. “Indeed, and that’s just what Humphries has. For every incident, he has at least two witnesses who can place Altwood at that place, at that time, with another man.”

Jack stared, unseeing, at Olsen for a moment, then refocused. “Can we have copies of this—the three dates, times, and places—and do you have access to the list of witnesses?”

“Yes, and yes.” Olsen pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. “I’ll make you a copy, but I warn you, I’ve already spoken to all the witnesses, and they confirm all that Humphries has claimed is true.”

Jack smiled; Olsen glimpsed the gesture, looked more closely, then blinked. Jack let his smile deepen into a more genuine expression. “There’s a significant difference between you asking witnesses for confirmation and me asking them to relate exactly what they saw. Aside from all else, I don’t wear the collar.”

Olsen’s lips formed an O. His hand had frozen, the pen poised above the paper.

Clarice stirred. “The list, Deacon Olsen.” From her tone, she was unimpressed by Jack’s abilities, or rather, considered them a given. “The sooner we have that, the sooner Lord Warnefleet can begin disproving the allegations and the sooner I can reassure my family of the situation here.”

Olsen flushed and quickly redipped his nib. “Of course, Lady Clarice. At once.”

Fifteen minutes later, Olsen conducted them back to the main stairs. He parted from Jack as a comrade in arms, but Clarice he treated with patent caution and extravagant respect.

The list of details in his coat pocket, Jack descended the stairs beside Clarice. The patter of Olsen’s footsteps died away behind them. Jack grinned. “Olsen’s instincts appear sound.”

Clarice shot him a glance, haughtily censorious. She knew to what he referred—Olsen’s reaction to her. “Nonsense.” She looked ahead. “All that shows is that he can recognize well enough what’s good for him.”

Jack laughed.

They crossed the huge front foyer, nodded to the doorman, and went out through the massive front doors. Sunshine and brightness greeted them; Jack squinted. Clarice glanced at him. “Are you all right?”

He paused to take stock, then smiled. “The effects of your ministrations appear to last for some time.”

She humphed and started down the steps. “Good.”

They strolled down the drive, neither fast nor slow, both, Jack would wager, considering that perennial question: what next? The drive curved toward the gates; a high hedge hid the last yards of one side of the drive from the palace. At that spot, in the lee of the hedge, a figure in clerical garb stood waiting.

As they drew near, his eager expression and a marked resemblance to Anthony suggested who the man was. Clarice confirmed it. “Teddy.”

“Clarice.” Teddy grinned engagingly as they joined him in the shade; he warmly clasped the hand Clarice gave him, drawing her close to kiss her cheek. “I can’t tell you how delighted and relieved I am to see you.”

“This is Lord Warnefleet.” Stepping back, Clarice waited while they shook hands, then asked, “You have heard about Anthony?”

Teddy sobered. “Indeed. Thank you for your letter. Anthony wrote as well. I had started to wonder, but then thought, perhaps, scamp that he is, he’d delivered my message and then gone on to some house party somewhere.”

“No party,” Jack murmured. “He was lucky to come out of the accident so well.”

“Oh?” Teddy looked at Clarice.

She nodded. “But when we left him, he was well on the road to recovery. He’ll be back in London soon enough.”

Teddy accepted her reassurance but still looked concerned. “About James.” He looked from Clarice to Jack.

“We’ve spoken with the bishop and been granted the confidence of the court. We’ve just been with Olsen—he’s given us details of the allegations, or rather, of the allegations that aren’t conjecture.” Jack studied Teddy; he looked about thirty years old, sensible and steady. “What can you tell us about Deacon Humphries? We know about the fellowship he lost to James.”

Teddy grimaced. “Humphries is now the most senior deacon under the bishop, which is why he’s been able to push these charges to the extent he has. Apparently he always was jealous of James, even before that old fellowship was awarded, and ever since, he’s…well, one-eyed in his dislike would be an understatement. Whenever James comes to London, the bishop and Dean Samuels do all they can to keep Humphries and James apart. Last time, they sent Humphries to visit the rural dean in Southampton on some trumped-up mission. In the five years I’ve been with the bishop, I’ve never heard Humphries say one good word about James.”

Jack frowned. “Leaving aside the present incident, has Humphries gone out of his way in the past to attack James?”

Teddy considered, then, frowning, shook his head. “No. Indeed normally Humphries goes out of his way to avoid any mention of James, any raising of James as a subject at all.”

“So”—Jack slid his hands into his pockets—“this is an unusual turn for Humphries, a change in his normal behavior toward James.”

“Yes.” Teddy looked at him, puzzled.

Jack grimaced. “My next questions would be, what happened to change Humphries’ behavior, why did whatever it was happen, and why now?”

Teddy stared, then blinked, his eyes slowly widening as he followed Jack’s deductions.

Clarice already had; she snorted softly. “The courier-cum-informer. It had to be he. He turned up with information, information that, even discounting Humphries’ animosity toward James, Humphries would have felt honor-bound to bring before the bishop.”

Jack nodded. “However, having done so, Humphries’ animosity toward James would have ensured he’d keep pressing the point, demanding the allegations be investigated.”

He and Clarice exchanged a glance, then they both looked at Teddy. “Do you have any idea who Humphries’ informer is?” Jack asked.

Wide-eyed, Teddy shook his head. “Until you mentioned him, I didn’t know he existed.”

Succinctly Clarice outlined what they’d learned from Olsen.

“While we can attack the details of the informer’s information, and we will, ultimately we’ll need to speak with the man himself, but as yet Humphries has refused to divulge his name.”

Watching Teddy, Jack saw the resemblance to Anthony manifest more clearly; a determined light filled Teddy’s eyes.

“I’ll watch Humphries and see what I can learn. Of course, he knows my relationship to James, so I’ll have to be discreet.” Teddy met Clarice’s eyes and grinned. “He ordered me not to speak to James of the allegations, but I’d already sent Anthony off by then.”

“Did you tell Humphries that?” Jack asked.

“No, but…” Teddy grimaced. “The porters report to Humphries, and they knew I’d sent for Anthony and that he’d come and we’d spoken.”

Jack studied Teddy for a long moment, then said, his tone making the words an order, “Don’t follow Humphries out of these grounds. Not in any circumstances. What you can do is try every avenue possible to learn the identity of Humphries’ informer. Cultivate the porters, see what they know. Ask whoever cleans Humphries’ rooms if they’ve seen a note with a name or address. Does he ever ride out, or only walk? Anything that might give us some idea of this informer and where he can be found.”

Teddy nodded. “I’ll do that.” He looked at Clarice. “How’s James taking this?”

Clarice assured him that, in typical James fashion, James was somewhat less exercised than they were.

Teddy grinned. “He always excelled at ignoring what he didn’t want to concern himself with.”

Parting from Teddy, they went out of the gates, then turned toward Lambeth Bridge to find a hackney.

Eyes down, frowning, Clarice paced beside Jack. “Why did you warn Teddy not to follow Humphries outside the grounds?”

“Because we’ve already had one Altwood with a close to broken head.” Jack glanced around. The area surrounding the palace and its gardens was well-to-do, genteel, and stultifyingly neat, but just blocks away in multiple directions lay stews and squalid tenements where not even clerics would be safe. “I don’t want another one, and I don’t even want to think about what might occur if Teddy meets your almost-a-gentleman with a round face, and you and I aren’t there to scare him off.”

“Ah.” Clarice lifted her head; her lips set in a determined line. “In that case, I suggest you and I repair to the Benedict and over luncheon sort out what we need to do to disprove these allegations.”

A hackney came clattering over the bridge; Jack waved it down, then with a flourishing bow, waved Clarice into it. “Your charger awaits. Lead on.”

The look she threw him as she entered the carriage was elementally superior. “Are you sure there’s not some deeper problem with your head?”

Jack laughed and followed her.