They remained at Helen’s for over an hour. Clariceglimpsed Moira a number of times, but every time she looked, her stepmother turned the other way. Inwardly shrugging, Clarice thereafter ignored her and addressed herself to refreshing her memories of the various members of her numerous and widespread family.

Time and again, she was asked for advice. Some even solicited her thoughts on the suitabilility of various matches for their daughters and sons. The irony didn’t escape her, or Jack; they shared a speaking glance, but managed to keep their lips straight. Regardless, nothing could have more strongly declared that her family regarded her as their de facto matriarch, in preference to Moira.

Later, they journeyed the short distance to their last port of call for the evening, Lady Carraway’s house at which her ladyship’s rout was in full swing. A dashing, well-connected matron, her ladyship bade them welcome, archly commenting that Clarice would find numerous old friends among the thronging crowd.

That crowd was somewhat different to those at previous events; her ladyship’s guests were primarily Jack’s and Clarice’s age. Consequently most of the ladies were married, and many of the gentlemen as well. Not that their marriage vows seemed to weigh heavily on most of the guests’ minds, at least not in terms of momentary enjoyment.

Clarice gauged the mood in a few swift glances, a few short exchanges. There were indeed a number of guests she remembered of old, yet watching a lady who had made her come-out at the time Clarice should have flirt outrageously with some gentleman while his wife, beside him, fluttered her lashes at a gazetted rake, Clarice felt nothing beyond a vague tiredness, a wish she and Jack had simply returned to Benedict’s. But Lady Osbaldestone and Lady Davenport had insisted she make her mark in even this sphere; bowing to their greater wisdom, she gripped Jack’s sleeve and sallied on.

Jack guided Clarice through the crush, cloaking his reaction with his customary easygoing bonhomie. Clarice had mentioned that her mentors had strongly recommended her appearance at this event, but he suspected they hadn’t made allowance for that waltz he and she had indulged in three evenings before. Since then, the attitude of certain males toward Clarice had changed. Altered. Witness Emsworth’s offer.

While he seriously doubted others would make such a crass mistake—aside from all else, he’d made certain word of Emsworth’s discomfiture, in all its wonderful detail, had circulated subtly through the clubs—to his mind, the male interest in Clarice had escalated to a dangerous level.

When he’d moved to throw her sensual attractiveness into the teeth of the gossipmongers, he hadn’t considered that they had sons and nephews many of whom were perennially on the lookout for ladies of sensual promise.

Still, he didn’t regret that waltz, not for a moment; as for the rest, he would simply ensure he remained, always, by her side.

He succeeded in that endeavor, but the night had turned sultry; the ballroom grew increasingly stuffy. Despite her upright stance beside him, he sensed Clarice was wilting; she’d been the cynosure of attention for the entire evening, and still largely was.

“There’s a balcony beyond the glass doors.” He turned so she could see the doors he meant. “Let’s step out and get some air.”

She nodded. “An excellent idea.”

They moved steadily across the room. Eventually, they gained the doors. As he swung one open, Jack caught sight of a footman entering the room, balancing a tray of tall glasses. He glanced at Clarice. “Go out—I’ll get us some refreshment.”

She nodded and stepped through. He let the fine curtains fall over the open door, and headed for the footman.

Clarice walked out onto the balcony; the cooler night air wrapped about her and she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been born and reared within the ton, had untold experience at events such as this, yet while she could manage such appearances easily, almost without thought, they neither fascinated nor held her attention.

There was, she knew, more to life than balls and parties.

Despite being once again received into the ton, despite having reclaimed her position in its totality, she was finding it difficult even to pretend that such things truly mattered anymore, not to her.

Gripping the balustrade, she looked out into the velvet darkness of the night, and considered what had changed. Not the ton, that was certain.

“My darling Clarice.”

She blinked; it took her a moment to place the drawl. Slowly, she turned and studied the handsome man who’d slipped out of the ballroom to join her. His aristocratic features showed clear signs of dissipation, of the passage of the years.

“Good evening, Warwick.” Her tone, cold and emotionless, as disinterested as she felt, pleased her. “What are you doing here?”

He held her gaze, then boldly let his lower, tracing the curves of her body, tonight displayed in magenta moiré silk. Clarice gave thanks she hadn’t worn the plum silk.

“I wondered, my dear, if, having endured seven years of purgatory, you might perhaps consider the advantages of—”

He broke off at the sound of approaching footsteps. They both turned; Clarice smiled as Jack stepped through the curtains carrying two glasses of champagne. She took the glass he held out to her, with it indicated Warwick. “Lord Warnefleet, allow me to present the Honorable Jonathon Warwick.”

Jack’s lids flickered, yet his charming, easygoing smile remained in place. Clarice knew him well enough to distrust that smile utterly.

Warwick didn’t. He smiled back, an amiable wolf expecting to negotiate a share of the prey. “Warnefleet.” He held out his hand.

Jack’s gaze fell to it, then he turned to Clarice. “Hold this for me, will you?”

Puzzled, she took his glass, too.

Jack turned back to Warwick—and slammed his fist into Warwick’s jaw.

Clarice blinked. Warwick staggered back, then collapsed to the ground. Stunned, wits rattled, he stared up at Jack.

With a light shrug, Jack resettled his coat, straightened his sleeves, then lifted his glass from Clarice’s fingers. “Thank you.”

He raised the glass to Warwick. “Pleased to meet you.” He sipped.

Utterly befuddled, Warwick remained sprawled on the ground. “What was that for?”

Jack smiled, this time genuinely, all teeth. “That was for past misdemeanors. That, and worse, is what would have happened to you last time had I been about. That, and worse, is what will happen to you in future, should you be so unwise as to approach Lady Clarice again, in whatever fashion.” His smile grew intent. “Because I am here, now.”

Taking another sip of champagne, Jack considered Warwick, then quietly asked, “Do you have that clear?”

Belligerence had bloomed in Warwick’s eyes, but there was hint enough in Jack’s tone to make him look more closely. After a moment of studying Jack’s eyes, Warwick paled; all aggression leached from him.

“Indeed.” Lips compressing, he threw Clarice a brief glance, then awkwardly got to his feet. Straightening, he paused, as if waiting for the world to stop spinning, then he fractionally inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me?”

He started back to the door. His stride hitched as he saw the group of three ladies and two gentlemen who had followed Jack outside; from the looks on their faces they’d seen enough to keep the gossips buzzing for the rest of the week. Then Warwick continued on, passing the group without acknowledging them in any way.

Jack turned to Clarice, met her eyes, and pulled a face. “My apologies. It seemed that was overdue, and no one else seemed likely to…” He shrugged.

To his relief, she smiled delightedly. “Thank you.” Her eyes said it even more than her words. Placing her hand on his sleeve, she turned to stand beside him, viewing the beauty of the garden at night as they sipped.

There were whispers behind them, but then the group, eager to share their news, scurried back into the ballroom.

Jack sighed. “I didn’t mean to create a scandal.”

Clarice chuckled. “I don’t mind. Indeed, since my aim is to distract the ton from James’s predicament”—she glanced up at him, lightly squeezed his arm—“I should thank you for your help.”

She caught his gaze as he glanced at her. “Thank you for hitting him for me. I’ve always wished I could do that.”

“Your way would have worked, too.” Jack turned her back to the ballroom. “But you don’t want to become predictable.”

She was laughing, smiling, as he led her back into the ballroom, back under the glare of the ton’s fervid gaze.

 

They didn’t leave immediately, but played the game, circulated once, then departed.

Back at Benedict’s, together alone in her suite, Clarice devoted herself to tendering her thanks in more tangible, much more sensual vein.

Later still, lying sated in the tangle of the bedcovers, Jack slumped beside her fast asleep, she found her mind drifting over recent events, over the changes in her life.

The unexpected shifts in her landscape, her unforeseen reactions.

That evening’s incident with Warwick flared in her mind. She had no doubt whatever that he’d been about to make her an improper offer, when Jack had returned, and without even knowing of that pending insult, had dealt with Warwick as he deserved.

For her. There was no other reason that might have driven him. He’d acted not just as her defender, but as her avenger.

She’d never had anyone act for her in that sense. Not her father or her brothers. She’d never expected it of them; she wasn’t even sure she’d have accepted such support from them.

Jack hadn’t asked, he’d simply acted as her champion, as if he had the right.

She wasn’t sure he didn’t. She certainly felt no qualms, no inner difficulties over accepting help from him, over letting him stand as her defender, her champion.

The news, of course, would be all over the ton by morning, yet she couldn’t summon any degree of care, of concern. She didn’t care if the whole world knew that she was willing to allow him into her life. Close.

She glanced across the pillow, watched him as he slept, let her eyes trace his face, the hard planes, the definite angles. The strength inherent there, and in the heavy body half-wrapped around hers.

Her lips curved; she looked up at the ceiling, unexpectedly basking in his instinctive possessiveness.

A possessiveness that had always been there, with her, an aspect of his nature he’d never sought to hide or conceal. She’d seen it from the first, but hadn’t felt threatened, still didn’t. In her heart, in her bones, in her soul she knew he posed no threat to her, that he never would.

She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was something to do with the connection that day by day, night by night, continued to grow between them. Perhaps that was why she didn’t feel vulnerable, because due to that connection, he was vulnerable, too.

In the same way, to the same degree.

A mutual binding.

Reaching out, she let her fingers play in the soft ends of his hair while she considered that, and what such a binding might mean.

Her mind couldn’t answer her questions. It drifted away to another change, another unforeseen reaction.

No one, herself included, could have known that, her position within the ton beyond her expectations reclaimed, she wouldn’t want it anymore. That tonnish life and the constant whirl of society would no longer hold any allure for her. She’d been away long enough for the spell to fade and die; perhaps she should thank her father for that? Not for banishing her, but for forcing her to choose.

Life, as Claire had said, was a matter of making choices, then living with the results. Of choosing a road, then going forward along it, seeing where it led, enjoying the adventures along the way.

Much as she and Jack had done from the moment they’d met.

When this was ended, when they’d exonerated James, and saved her brothers and seen them each to the altar, she’d face another choice. To retreat to her previous existence, to choose society’s road, or…

She tried to concentrate, but sleep fogged her mind and drew her down before she could decide whether she actually had another alternative, another unexpected road she could choose…or if she was simply dreaming.

 

“The bishop expects to convene his court tomorrow. I suggest we see him today.” Jack looked across the table on which he’d spread their accumulated evidence and met Clarice’s gaze.

It was after ten o’clock, and he’d returned from a morning conference with his colleagues at the Bastion Club to lay all they’d gathered before her.

“This”—he gestured to the documents arrayed before him—“is beyond convincing, proof positive that James never attended those three meetings, that the meetings never took place. With that established, the allegations no longer have any foundation. I discussed it with the others—we all feel that if there’s a chance to avoid the matter appearing even in the bishop’s court, we’d be wise to seize it.”

Clarice nodded slowly, thinking it through. “That way, no formal allegations will be recorded, not anywhere.”

“Precisely. So, shall we go and see the bishop?”

She met Jack’s eyes, and nodded. “Let’s.”

 

Arriving at the palace, they spoke first to Dean Samuels and Deacon Olsen. The dean conveyed their message, their thoughts, directly to the bishop’s ear. Ten minutes later, they were shown into a private audience.

“Well, then.” The bishop looked from Jack to Clarice. “The dean tells me you have news?”

From his expression, it was plain that he was looking to them to help him avoid what for him now loomed as a political quagmire. Jack smiled. Ably assisted by Clarice, he obliged, going through each alleged meeting, citing the witnesses Deacon Humphries had named, in each case proferring the signed and witnessed recanting of their stories and their tales of having been paid by the supposed courier to lie.

“The description of the man who has been meeting with Deacon Humphries, presumably giving him information, matches that of the man who paid the witnesses to swear that they’d seen James Altwood meeting with the courier in those taverns.” Jack paused, then continued, “In addition, we have at least three witnesses for each tavern who will swear no clergyman has ever crossed their threshold, at least not in the last two years.”

Looking up, he met the bishop’s eyes. “Furthermore, we have confirmed information from various persons within the ton placing James at social functions on the same evenings as the alleged meetings.”

Dropping the sheaf of statements onto the small table before him, Jack laid his hand on the last pile of documents. “Lastly, as to the information passed, while most of the details cited James did indeed have, and would be expected, military scholar that he is, to have, the specific information said to have been passed during one of the three recent meetings concerned details of demobilization.” Jack’s smile grew intent. “That, however, was information James Altwood didn’t have.”

Succinctly, he described the exhaustive search Dalziel had conducted. “All of which failed to find any avenue through which James Altwood accessed such information.”

Clarice stepped forward. “Taken together, the evidence gathered proves conclusively that James did not attend the three meetings with any courier, indeed, was elsewhere at the time, and could not have had at least some of the information he is said to have passed to the enemy. In short, my lord, the allegations made against my relative appear entirely without foundation. More, they appear to have been constructed, either by this supposed courier or someone working through him, to ensnare the authorities, the Church included, in an unjustified trial.”

The bishop blinked, but he wasn’t disappointed. He nodded, his expression stern. “Indeed, Lady Clarice. Your point is well-taken.” From his expression, he was clearly aware of the pitfalls involved in unjustified trials, even in his court.

He looked at Jack. “Lord Warnefleet, the Church is indebted to you, your superiors, and the others who aided you in assembling this evidence so swiftly. You have our thanks. And Lady Clarice, as well. You may convey to your family, dear lady, that there will be no further action taken in this matter.” The bishop glanced at the stack of papers before Jack. “In light of all you’ve presented, I see no benefit in proceeding with a formal hearing. I intend to dismiss the allegations as unfounded. I will inform Whitehall of my decision.”

Clarice beamed. “Thank you, my lord.”

The formality preserved to that point dissolved. The dean and Deacon Olsen came forward to shake Jack’s hand and exclaim over the evidence. Clarice engaged the bishop, who asked rather wistfully after her aunt Camleigh, inquiries Clarice, somewhat to her surprise, was now in a position to satisfy.

Some fifteeen minutes later, in perfect accord, they parted, Jack, Clarice, and Olsen leaving the bishop and dean to explain matters to Humphries, a solution they agreed was best all around.

Olsen left them at the head of the main stairs; delighted, he staggered off to his office, the evidence exonerating James piled in his arms.

Smiling, Jack turned to Clarice. She wound her arm in his. Side by side, they descended the stairs.

“One matter successfully dealt with.” Clarice paused on the palace steps and lifted her face to the sun. “I suppose…” She looked at Jack. “Now we have James saved and that matter off our plate, we should concentrate on my brothers’ futures.” She eyed him appraisingly, assessing, subtly challenging. “Lady Hamilton is holding an al fresco luncheon today. Lady Cowper and Aunt Camleigh, entirely independently, mentioned it as an event I’d be well-advised not to miss.”

Jack raised his brows but said nothing.

Undeterred, Clarice led him down the steps. “Of course,” she confided, “they both want me there for the same reason.” She caught Jack’s eye. “Moira will be there, and so will the Haverlings and the Combertvilles. After Helen’s ball last night, I suspect our aunts want to ensure that Moira comprehends her revised position.”

She grimaced and looked down.

Jack studied her face, what he could see of it. “It’s political, isn’t it? The way the ladies jostle for position and influence, band together in this faction and that?”

She glanced at him, then wrinkled her nose. “It’s like politics, but more cutthroat. If you fail within the ton, you rarely get a second chance. Politics is more forgiving.”

Jack swallowed a snort; from what he’d seen, she was right. The ornate gates at the end of the palace drive loomed before them. “Would you like me to escort you to this luncheon?”

The porter bowed and swung the gate open. Clarice stepped through, waited until Jack joined her, then smiled. “If you can spare the time. I’m really not sure what I might encounter. Having someone I trust by my side would be comforting.”

Jack met her eyes, and bit back the words that he would always have time to be by her side—saw in the dark depths an awareness that mirrored his own. Boadicea wasn’t in the habit of wanting the comfort of another’s presence, let alone requesting it.

Lips curving, he raised her hand, kissed. “For you, I’d brave any danger, even the ladies of the ton.”

She laughed and accepted his gallant offer. He hailed a hackney; they climbed aboard, and set out on their next adventure.

 

“Moira isn’t here.” Clarice met Jack’s eyes, her puzzlement clear.

Scanning the gaily dressed horde thronging the riverside lawn of Hamilton House, Jack shrugged. “Perhaps she decided after last night that her presence was no longer required, that there was no longer any point. Her daughters are all married, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but that won’t wash. She’s definitely angling to arrange a good match for Carlton. Wild horses shouldn’t have been enough to keep her away from a gathering of this tone.”

Clarice saw her aunt Camleigh through the crowd, caught her eye, and raised her brows pointedly. Her aunt shrugged and lifted her hands in a gesture that plainly stated she had no idea why Moira wasn’t there either. Clarice grimaced and turned to view the crowd. “I suppose the truth is I just don’t trust her. Know thine enemy and all that.”

When Jack didn’t respond, she glanced up, and saw him transfixed. Strangely wooden. She followed his gaze to a haughty matron, two young ladies in tow, sweeping toward them with the unstoppable determination of a galleon under full sail. The lady’s gaze was fixed on Jack.

Sweeping to a halt before them, she smiled delightedly at Jack. “Lord Warnefleet, isn’t it?”

Clarice didn’t stop to think, simply acted; she stepped across Jack, forcing the lady, startled, to meet her eyes. Clarice smiled, thinly. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

The lady blinked, met Clarice’s eyes, then swallowed, stepped back, and curtsied. Clarice looked at her charges; they quickly did the same.

“Lady Quintin, Lady Clarice. Lady Hamilton is my aunt.”

“Ah, yes. I believe she mentioned you.” Clarice looked at the young ladies. “And these are your daughters?”

Lady Quintin was clearly torn—to be first to engage the eminently eligible Lord Warnefleet on behalf of her charges, or instead gain the approbation of a lady as powerfully connected as Clarice Altwood…who was standing between her and her target. Her ladyship bowed to the dictates of reason, and smiled. “Indeed, my lady. Amelia and Melissa.”

With a facility acquired through countless hours spent in similar pursuits, Clarice chatted with the three, then artfully dismissed them. Behind her, Jack was called on to do no more than bow. Distantly.

“Thank heavens!” He took Clarice’s elbow as the three moved away, and turned her toward the house. “Let’s—” He broke off, then swore beneath his breath. “Saints preserve me—there’s an army of them!”

“Saints won’t do you much good, not in this arena.” Smoothly, Clarice disengaged from his hold and instead wound her arm with his. Briefly, she caught his eye. “Stay close, and I promise to keep you safe.”

The fraught look he cast her made her smile.

She turned that smile forward, on the mamas and their charges lying in wait. “No sense in trying to avoid this. We’ll have to fight our way through.”

They did, steadily moving toward the house, but each yard was gained only at the expense of an exchange with some matron and her daughter or niece, if not both. Initially Clarice wondered at Jack’s reticence, at his clear wish to remain as aloof as possible rather than employ his customary effortless charm, but then she looked more definitely at him, into his eyes, and realized it was his temper he distrusted, not his glib tongue.

For some reason, the matrons pressing their charges on his notice touched some nerve…perhaps not surprising. They all seemed to imagine that they’d be able to manage him, to manipulate him into behaving as they wished. For a man such as he, with a background such as he, to be treated so—it was a form of contempt—had to be galling. Especially as social strictures forbade him to react as he undoubtedly wished.

People had tried to manipulate her once; at least she’d been able to say “no.” For him, “no” wasn’t an option; the ton didn’t permit gentlemen to be so ruthless, not in public.

She, of course, could be as ruthless as she wished, but in deference to Lady Hamilton and the Altwood name, she played by the accepted rules, and repelled the predatory mamas one by one, with a smile, a swift and sure tongue, and an absolute refusal to release Jack’s arm.

One couple—a veritable gorgon and her pretty but strangely nervous charge—remained in her mind. Not because of anything they said, but because of the tension that tightened Jack’s muscles while they’d faced them.

It took more than half an hour to gain the terrace, then another fifteen minutes before they could fall back against the cushions in a blessedly silent hackney and heave sighs of relief.

Clarice glanced sideways at Jack, beside her. “That was ghastly. Was it like that when you were in town before?”

He let his head fall back against the squabs. “Yes. I told you I’d had enough of it, that that was one of the reasons I left.”

And hadn’t intended coming back. Clarice remembered. “The Cowley chit? You’d met her before.”

His expression grew grimmer. “Before, she and her aunt were my absolute last straw.” In a few words, he told her how they’d tried to entrap him. Even without him stating it, she could see what a near-run thing it had been.

“Dreadful! And then to so brazenly approach you again?” She narrowed her eyes. “I wish I’d known.”

He chuckled rather tiredly. “Perhaps it’s as well you didn’t. The ton’s focusing on you enough as it is.”

After a moment, she murmured, “I’m sorry. Helping me has put you back in the matchmakers’ sights.”

His lips twisted; he reached for her hand and closed his about it. “No matter. You saved me. And in the main, you and the unmarried young darlings don’t move in the same circles.”

Clarice nodded and let the subject die, distracted by yet another revelation, with trying to make sense of yet another unforeseen reaction.

She’d been perfectly prepared to socially annihilate any lady who had attempted to pressure Jack, to force him to interact with them and their charges. It was indeed fortunate she hadn’t known about the Cowleys at the time; heaven only knew what she might have done, how she would have made them pay. Faced with her determination, all the ladies had backed down, more than anything out of confusion; they were unsure what to make of her relationship with Jack. Unlike the more discerning males and the more experienced hostesses, most matrons saw her as unmarriageable, too old. So they’d bide their time and try again to engage Jack, who didn’t want to be engaged.

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.

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 that 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.”