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.
After that…
Watching her, he couldn’t deny the unsettling uncertainty that had taken root in his mind. Would she return to Avening and quiet country life, or had tonnish society and her family not just reclaimed but recaptured her?
She saw him and frowned. “Come along. You aren’t going to escape either.”
He smiled, easily, charmingly, and ambled over to do her bidding.
They spent the next two hours immersed in engineered chaos. Only Clarice seemed to know what came next. Her sisters-in-law-to-be arrived and joined the discussions, after which Clarice sent them home armed with lists of questions for their parents. Her aunts stopped by and gave their regal blessing, promising to send a list of the more influential members of the ton to be included among the guests.
Throughout, Clarice kept him and her brothers busy inscribing invitations in their best copperplate.
Finally, she glanced at the clock, and called a halt. “We need to dress for dinner.”
Alton stretched and groaned. “I’m going to collapse at my club.”
Clarice narrowed her eyes at him. “No, you are not. You’re going to join Sarah and squire her about.” She raked her other two brothers. “And you are going to do the same with Alice and Emily. As of now, you are affianced gentlemen, and you need to act the part. If you want your engagement ball to be a success, you’ll start sowing the right seeds tonight.”
Nigel snorted. “Three Altwoods announce their engagements all on the same night, with their recently returned-from-banishment sister as hostess. The ball won’t be a success, it’ll be a riot. Everyone in London will want to attend.” He caught Clarice’s glare and held up his hands. “All right, all right, we’ll do as you say, but there’s no chance of this ball being anything other than a horrible crush.”
“Actually”—Alton leaned forward and fixed his dark gaze on Clarice’s face—“speaking of hostesses, you will return here now, won’t you, Clary? Moira’s gone, and Sarah certainly won’t mind—she sees you as an older sister already. She’d welcome your help, and indeed, no one is better suited to dealing with this sort of thing.” He waved at the clutter of invitations surrounding them. “There’s no reason you need to return to Avening, not now. James doesn’t need you, but we do. You will stay, won’t you?”
Jack’s heart seized.
Before Clarice could utter a word, Roger and Nigel leapt in to add their entreaties. This time, the three were more persuasive; they’d had time to plan and polish their arguments. They painted a picture of Clarice’s life as it should have been, as it could now be if she wished, the life she was born to, one of privilege, wealth, and position.
Jack managed not to react, not to stiffen, not to draw anyone’s attention as he sat back and listened. Calling on the skills of his past, he let himself fade into the background until the other four had forgotten he was there.
He watched Clarice. She hadn’t yet suceeded in saying a word; she seemed resigned to letting her brothers put forward every last argument they could muster, pulling every string they could think of to convince her to return to the family fold.
Keeping silent and still was an effort, a battle. He felt like his heart was in his throat, but still he waited. It was her decision, and only hers.
Finally, when Nigel had at last run out of words and an expectant silence fell, Clarice smiled at them. “Thank you, but no.”
Jack breathed out. He felt faintly giddy.
Clarice held up a hand to cut off her brothers’ protests. “No. Don’t argue. You’ve argued quite enough, and I must return to the hotel and get ready for the evening.”
Calm and serene, she rose and turned to Jack.
Rising, too, he met her eyes, but could read nothing beyond fond exasperation with her brothers in the dark depths.
She kissed them as they farewelled her. “I’ll see you all tonight.”
Cloaking his feelings in his customary geniality, Jack bade the brothers good-bye, led her into the hall and out to Alton’s town carriage, waiting to carry them to Benedict’s. Settling onto the seat beside her, head back as the carriage lurched, then rumbled on its way, he told himself she’d said “no.”
Unfortunately, it hadn’t been a very convincing “no.”
It hadn’t convinced her brothers; he’d seen the glances they’d exchanged. It hadn’t convinced him either.
Things had changed dramatically, unexpectedly. She’d been welcomed back into the ton, her stepmother had been defeated and banished, her brothers were all to marry soon. And they’d succeeded in exonerating James.
When she’d had time to consider, to think of how much had altered, would she still wish to return to Avening, a quiet country backwater, or would she choose to remain in town and live the life she always should have had?
He wasn’t going to give her up. Not easily; not without a fight.
Arm braced against the mantelpiece, boot propped on the fender, Jack stared into the fire in the sitting room of Clarice’s suite. She was still dressing for the evening; he had a little time.
Her brothers’ renewed push to have her rejoin the family had been an unwelcome shock. He was grimly aware of how significant a threat their suggestion posed to his vision of the future, the vision he’d been nurturing for the past weeks, that of him living quietly at Avening with Clarice by his side.
At no stage had he imagined winning her would be easy. Unlike with other females, he couldn’t ride up and slay her dragons for her and claim her hand as his reward. With her, he could only clear the way, at most empower her so she could slay said dragons herself. She was that sort of woman. He could stand by her side, his hand over hers on her sword and help her, but as with vanquishing Moira, it was she who had to perform the crucial act.
Being self-determining was a part of who she was; he couldn’t in any way take that from her. Not if he wanted her, and he did.
Through their time in the ton, his admiration for her had only grown. He’d seen more of her strengths, and while those dominated everyone’s view of her, he’d glimpsed vulnerabilities, too. And noted them. Not to exploit, but to support, to protect.
In his heart, he was convinced she needed him every bit as much as he needed her. But how to bring that to her attention?
The only answer he’d been able to conjure was to unstintingly give her the support she needed, which wasn’t always what one might suppose. She didn’t need or want to be protected in the same way other women did, but assisted. Treated as an equal, not set in a gilded cage.
But he’d been doing precisely that for weeks, and while she definitely appreciated his help, he suspected she viewed it more or less as her due, which, indeed, it was. How, then, was he to shake her, to open her eyes so she saw him as him, and not just as a male who had the sense to deal with her correctly?
Deverell’s advice returned to him. Surprise. He’d thought the idea worthy of consideration at the time; now, it held promise.
If he wanted to woo her, then it had to be suitably, which meant unconventionally. Others had tried conventional approaches in the past; it was no real wonder they hadn’t succeeded.
Not jewels; too easy, too predictable, and she already had a horde. Something more meaningful.
“Right then.”
He turned to see the object of his thoughts gliding toward him encased in a seductive confection of shimmering cerise gossamers and matching silks.
She caught his eye, and twirled. “Do you approve?”
He met her gaze, and smiled, with perfectly sincere intent. “You look…superb.” Taking her cloak from the maid who’d followed her from the bedroom, he draped it over her shoulders. As he did, he murmured, voice low, just for her, “Quite delectable, in fact.”
From close quarters, her eyes, a trifle wide, touched his, briefly scanned, then her lips lifted, and she looked ahead. “We’d better go.”
Before he shocked the maid. He smiled, inclined his head, and followed her from the room.
Jack came down to a late breakfast at the Bastion Club, still smiling at the fond memories he now possessed of a warrior-queen writhing in naked ecstasy upon a bed of shimmering cerise silk.
The color of the silk against her skin, ruby against the ivory white, just like rose petals, had given him an idea of one gift he could give her that she wouldn’t expect, but, he suspected, would appreciate.
He mentioned his requirements to Gasthorpe, who undertook to send a footman to scour the city and surrounds for what he needed.
He’d just finished a plate of ham and saugages and was savoring Gasthorpe’s excellent coffee, when a sharp knock on the club’s front door was followed by an inquiry in a clear voice he knew well, in a tone that brought his protective instincts surging to life. Rising, he walked out without waiting for Gasthorpe to summon him.
Clarice met his eyes, signaled toward the dean, standing beside her. “There you are. I fear we bring bad news.”
Jack took one look at the dean’s ashen face, and ushered them both into the parlor. “Perhaps a little brandy, Gasthorpe.”
“Indeed, my lord. At once.”
Jack saw the dean into one armchair. Clarice watched, then sank into the other. Although shocked, she was by no means overcome.
“What’s happened?” Jack looked at the dean; the man suddenly seemed his age, much frailer than before.
“Humphries.” The dean met Jack’s eyes. “He hasn’t returned.”
Gasthorpe arrived with a tray loaded with brandy, tea and coffee. Jack gave the dean a stiff tot of brandy, then helped himself to coffee while Clarice poured herself a cup of tea.
The dean sipped, coughed, sipped again, then cleared his throat. “I wanted to send word last night, when Humphries didn’t appear at dinner, but the bishop…I think he was hoping against hope. He’s in a terrible state. We’ve asked all the porters, but they haven’t seen Humphries since he left the palace yesterday afternoon, soon after he spoke with the bishop.”
Jack glanced at Clarice, met her dark eyes. “We can hope, but I fear we should expect the worst.”
He looked at the dean, who nodded, defeated. “I’ll send word to my colleagues, and get a search under way.” He hesitated, then asked, “Has the bishop notified Whitehall?”
The dean frowned. “I don’t know…I don’t think so.”
“I’ll send word there, too.”
After a few minutes, when some color had returned to the dean’s parchmentlike cheeks, Jack suggested he return to the palace. “Tell the bishop we’ll do all we can, but if something serious has befallen Humphries, it’s possible we’ll never know. And if by chance Humphries does return, do let me know immediately.”
“Yes, of course.” The dean stood.
Clarice got to her feet. “I’ll take the Dean back to the palace in my carriage.” She met Jack’s gaze. “I’ve canceled all my appointments today. I’ll be spending the entire day at Melton House, organizing.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll send word there, and to the palace, if we have any news. That said, I’m not expecting to learn anything soon.”
He saw the dean and Clarice back to Alton’s town carriage, then strode swiftly back to the house.
“Gasthorpe?”
“Yes, my lord—I have the footmen waiting.”
He sent word to Dalziel, Christian, and Tristan, and roused Deverell from his bed upstairs. All of them went to work, activating a network of eyes and ears, concentrating on the areas south and east of the palace, and all along the Thames, searching for any sighting of Humphries, alone or with someone else.
The Bastion Club became their base; Dalziel sent word he’d have his men report there, too.
After lunch, Jack changed into merchant garb and went down to the river. Finding a team of bargemen with no work, he sent them to search the marshes at Deptford as far east as Greenwich Reach, the traditional place for bodies put into the river close to the city to wash up. That done, he returned to the club to receive any reports and coordinate their efforts.
The day wore on, and they heard nothing. Although he hadn’t expected anything else, Jack wondered if they’d ever learn what had happened to Humphries.
As the hours ticked by, he was glad Clarice was occupied, safely ensconced in the bosom of her family, surrounded by others and with too much to do to think too much about the missing deacon. To wonder if there’d been anything they could have done differently that might have deflected the sadly driven man from his determined course.
Jack knew there wasn’t. That when people like Humphries were caught in a web of intrigue and treason, they were too weak to break free. In this case, the spider—the last traitor—would devour Humphries, even if, as Jack suspected, it wouldn’t be he himself who did the deed.
When afternoon edged toward evening, and there was still no word, Jack left the reins in Gasthorpe’s capable hands and headed for Benedict’s. Finding Clarice absent, he went on to Melton House.
She was still there. He walked into the drawing room and saw her seated on a chaise surrounded by her sisters-in-law-to-be, her aunts, and a small army of female helpers. She looked like nothing so much as a general directing her troops.
Distracted, she looked up; across the room, she met his eyes. Swiftly read his expression. She didn’t need to ask whether they’d heard anything.
She glanced at the clock, blinked, then turned to her helpers. “Great heavens! We’ve forgotten the time!”
The observation triggered a torrent of exclamations, of orders for carriages to be brought around. The female gathering broke up. Jack surmised Clarice’s brothers had taken refuge in their clubs.
The departing ladies smiled shyly up at him as they trooped past him into the front hall. Clarice brought up the rear. Reaching him, she lifted a hand and lightly touched his cheek, then let her hand fall to grip his arm before moving past him.
Comforted by that fleeting touch, by the understanding and empathy it conveyed, he followed her into the hall. He nodded to her aunts as they kissed Clarice’s cheek and turned to leave.
“We’ll see you later,” Lady Bentwood told Clarice.
Jack wanted nothing more than a peaceful evening alone with Boadicea.
When the door closed behind the last of the ladies, she walked back to him. With a sigh, she halted before him.
He looked into her dark eyes. “Do we have to go out tonight?”
She studied his eyes, then grimaced. “I’m afraid so. It’s Lady Holland’s bal masque.”
Lady Holland was one of the ton’s foremost hostesses.
Taking his hand, Clarice led him into the drawing room. Inside, she turned into his arms; behind him, he pushed the door closed.
“We have to go. It’s an annual event, one of those must-attend events of the Season, at least among the haut ton.”
He pulled a face. “And it’s a masked ball?”
She leaned into him, smiled as he settled his arms about her. Raising her hands, she framed his face. “We have to go, but we don’t have to stay long.”
He searched her eyes. “Where am I going to get a domino?”
“I’ve asked Manning, the concierge, to organize one. He’s terribly efficient, and for some unfathomable reason, he’s decided he approves of you.”
Jack humphed. “Very well. If we must, we must.” That she’d spoken of “we” throughout mollifed him somewhat.
She stretched up and kissed him. Gently, lightly, a promise of things to come.
He accepted the caress, but made no move to take it further.
Ending it, she drew back, lifting one brow in patent surprise.
With his head, he indicated the door. “It has a lock, but no key.”
Her expression lightened. She laughed and stepped out of his arms. “In that case, it’s clearly time to leave. Let’s go back to Benedict’s. We can dine there.”
They did, then she dressed for the evening, and they took the carriage to the Bastion Club. Jack donned his evening clothes while Gasthorpe relayed the results of the day’s search, an uninspiring negative all around.
Jack grimaced and dismissed Gasthorpe with a nod. Swirling the black domino Manning had had waiting for him around his shoulders, he tied the ties across his chest, made a horrendous face in the mirror, then picked up the black mask that completed the prescribed outfit, and went down to fetch Clarice from the parlor.
During the drive to Holland House, he told her of their lack of success.
Returning the clasp of his fingers, she leaned lightly against his shoulder. “You’ve done all you can.”
Their carriage joined the line of conveyances waiting to deposit their occupants before the arched entrance to the gardens of Holland House. Eventually, the carriage rocked to a complete halt; putting on their masks, they descended, then followed the graveled path beneath a stand of old trees to the conservatory where the Hollands stood waiting to receive their guests. Her ladyship’s famed bal masque was always held in the gardens rather than in Holland House itself.
The terrace onto which the conservatory opened was long, and lit by numerous lamps; when, after being warmly welcomed by Lady Holland and her much quieter spouse, Jack and Clarice emerged onto its flags, the wide expanse running the length of the house was already crammed with the cream of the ton, a strange sight in their crowlike dominos, with the bright colors of gowns flashing here and there, like jewels hidden beneath, while the genuine jewels garlanding ladies’ throats and winking from gentlemen’s cravats glowed with liquid fire.
The impression of a gathering of fantastical birds was heightened by the masks, some with long feathers adorning their upper edges, others with jeweled or gilt nosepieces very like beaks.
At this stage of the night, masks were compulsory, as were the black dominos. In a well-lit ballroom, it would be relatively easy to penetrate such an incomplete disguise, but in the Holland House gardens, neither the flickering terrace lamps, the moon that shed a gentle radiance, nor the small lanterns scattered about the gardens cast enough illumination to do anything other than veil every figure in mystery.
As more guests arrived, those already present spilled down the terrace steps and spread out along the lower walks and lawns; like a wave, they rippled expectantly across the paved court, an improvised dance floor. Descending the steps at Clarice’s side, Jack admitted, “It really is a magical sight.”
Hidden in a leafy grotto, the musicians set bows to strings, and the first haunting strains of a waltz floated out above the gleaming heads. Clarice turned into his arms and he gathered her in, then set them revolving.
She smiled. “It’s a magical night.”
At such a ball, until the unmasking at midnight, it was possible to dance with one partner exclusively without causing a scandal; with everyone masked and cloaked, how could any of the beady eyes watching possibly be sure, sure enough to risk comment? So they waltzed, and talked quietly as they moved through the crowd. Some guests, mainly the younger crew, grasped the opportunity of anonymity to indulge in rather more risque behavior than they would normally dare, yet the gathering was generally benign, a pleasant way to spend a spring evening.
Later, once dominos were put back and masks removed, the glitter and glamour of a ton ball would take hold, but until then, a sense of subtle mystery held sway.
“That’s Alton.” Clarice leaned close to Jack, indicating a couple standing nearby, totally oblivious to all about them. “At least he’s behaving. I haven’t sighted the other two, yet.”
“They’re here.” Jack steered her away from Alton and Sarah.
Clarice blinked up at him. “Have you seen them? How did you recognize them?”
He grinned. “They saw you. I recognized their reaction.”
She studied his eyes, confirmed he wasn’t joking, then humphed and looked away. Being taller than the average, she was relatively easy to recognize; spotting her through the crowd, Roger and Nigel had both headed in the opposite direction. Jack smiled, and turned her toward the dance floor; the musicians were getting ready to start playing again.
They were at the edge of the floor, waiting to step into the dance, when a younger couple, laughing, presented themselves before them.
The lady playfully wagged her finger at them. “Her ladyship says you’ve been dancing together far too much. You must mingle.”
“Indeed.” Her companion, tall and darkly handsome, grinned. “You are commanded to mingle.” He bowed flourishingly before Clarice. “My lady?”
Clarice shot an amused glance at Jack, then gave the gentleman her hand. “If you insist, my lord.”
Jack watched her step into the gentleman’s arms, quelled a pang of jealousy and patently irrational concern. He looked down at the pretty blond lady, who all but bobbed before him expectantly. He smiled. “Ma’am, if you would honor me with this dance?”
She laughed, a light sound that held a measure of triumph, then gave him her hand and let him lead her to the floor.
There was nothing unusual about the encounter; the same had been happening to other couples about them for the last half hour. Nevertheless, out of habit, Jack kept a distant eye on Clarice as he whirled his partner around the floor.
Keeping track of Clarice should have been easy, yet when the dance ended and, parting from his companion, who curtsied prettily then bobbed away into the crowd, doubtless searching for her next victim, Jack focused on the lady he’d thought was Clarice, the woman turned and proved to be someone much older. A chill touched his nape. He scanned the shifting crowd, but could see no other tall and regal female.
The last he’d glimpsed of her, and been sure it was her, she and her partner had been revolving down the other side of the floor. Reminding his prickling instincts that they were in the private gardens of Holland House, enclosed within stone walls, and that the chances of anything untoward occurring were surely slight, he started quartering the crowd.
He tried not to dwell on the fact that anyone with any connection to the ton would have known that Clarice would be there tonight. Dancing with him in the poor light.
And that everyone would be masked and cloaked, indistinguishable—that no matter how he prodded his memory, he would never be able to identify either the gentleman who had whisked Clarice away or the lady who had distracted him.
When he reached the other side of the dance floor, and had still not found Clarice, he was ready to panic.
“Unhand me, you oaf!” Clarice struggled frantically, trying to break free of the rough hands that had grabbed her and hauled her back through shrubs and bushes into a dark clearing.
Her partner—the bounder!—had whirled her to an unexpected halt at the far edge of the dancing area, indeed, just a little beyond, where the paved court was bounded by thick shrubbery.
He’d released her, bowed, smiled unpleasantly, and rather ominously advised her, “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Clarice.”
She’d blinked, and he was gone, a swirl of black domino merging into the crowd. Frowning, she’d stepped forward to follow him, away from that distant nook where no one else stood, when two pairs of hands had reached out of the bushes at her back and grabbed her.
“Jus’ be still, woman! ’Ere, Fred, where’s that gag?”
Hauling in a breath, Clarice tried to wrestle free, but the man behind her, a huge brute, simply tightened his arms around her until she thought she might faint. Abruptly realizing how real was her danger, she sucked in a tight breath and opened her mouth to scream—
Her mask went flying. A huge paw slapped over her lips. “Now, now—you don’t want to do that, missy. No need to let anyone know we’re ’ere.”
He lifted her off her feet and started to shuffle forward, away from the noisy crowd.
Clarice closed her eyes, tried not to breathe—he reeked enough to make her feel faint just from the smell—and bit down on his palm.
Hard.
She nearly gagged, but it worked. He howled, wrenched his palm away and desperately shook his hand. She didn’t wait but hauled in a breath and screamed for help.
The other man, a shadowy figure, slapped her. Almost casually, but the blow made her head sing.
“Stop that!”
The man still holding her was cursing. The other came to stand before her, piggy eyes peering into her face from beneath the brim of a dirty cap. “No point screeching, anyhows. The nobs’re making such a racket no one’ll hear you.”
She dragged in another breath to scream again; the instant she opened her mouth, quick as a flash the second man stuffed a crumpled kerchief into it.
Clarice gagged, wheezed, and tried to spit out the material, frantically trying to clear her mouth.
Her sudden burst of struggling caused the man holding her to yelp; he grabbed her shoulder, fighting to hold her upright.
Just as Jack crashed through the wall of bushes.
Clarice redoubled her efforts. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jack grab the second man and fell him with one blow.
Then he turned to face the man holding her, who took one look at him and instantly started to use her as a shield.
Jack went one way, the man went the other, keeping her between them. For a fraught minute, they performed an awkward dance.
The man Jack had felled groaned; he hauled himself onto his hands and knees, moaning.
“Come on, Fred! We got to get outta ’ere!”
Gathering himself, the man behind her lifted her and literally threw her at Jack.
Jack caught her, pulled her protectively to him, staggered back under her weight but steadied.
His arms wrapped protectively around her, she felt his muscles tense with the impulse to give chase as her assailants stumbled away, quickly disappearing into the blackness that was the rest of the gardens.
Unabashedly clinging to him, she knew the instant they were alone, safe; the battle-ready tension holding him faded, enough for him to move, to gently brush her cheek, cradle her face and tip it up to his.
“Are you all right?”
Not entirely sure she could trust her voice, she nodded, met his eyes, fell into them.
Watched his gaze devour her face, trace her features, saw in the moonlight the hard edges and planes of his face shift. Saw, very clearly, the Norman lord he truly was, the battle-hardened warrior stripped, for one instant, bare.
What she saw in that instant, in his face, made her heart turn over.
His eyes met hers, seemed to see into her, seemed to sense that she did indeed, could indeed see him. Then something—raw possessiveness, blatant desire—swept through his eyes. His arms tightened about her. He bent his head and kissed her.
As if he owned her. Completely. Utterly.
She was swept away on the tide; she didn’t even try to fight it. Clung, instead; wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back with every iota of passion in her highly passionate soul.
Time stood still.
For long moments, they communed, explicit and intimate on their private plane in the dark of the night.
At last, he lifted his head, looked down into her eyes. She was plastered against him, molded to him; she saw no need to move.
Something caught his attention. He looked at her shoulder, at where her domino had been pushed aside; he frowned. “Your gown’s ripped.”
Freeing one hand, still holding her safe against him, he lifted the torn silk of her bodice, smoothing the fragile material up over her breast to the shoulder seam from which it had parted.
That was when they heard the first titter.
They both swung to look, Jack still holding her protectively within the circle of his arms.
A bevy of guests, old and young, stood crowded around a gap in the bushes a little farther along. Two of the males were holding lanterns aloft.
“Ah…” one said. “We, ah, thought we heard a scream, and…ah, came to look.”
Unsurprisingly, that was greeted with a positive wave of titters. Some of the older guests were whispering behind their hands.
Clarice closed her eyes against the sight and stifled a groan. It wasn’t hard to imagine what they thought they’d seen.
Jack looked faintly disheveled, protective and defensive. Her skirts were badly crushed, her domino all askew, her bodice torn, and she had indeed screamed. No doubt they’d arrived just in time to see that unrestrainedly passionate kiss, and now thought they understood what had happened.
Jack glanced at her; he didn’t know what to say. Neither did she.
Before they could make any attempt to set the matter straight, Alton pushed through the crowd. He strode directly to them. “What the devil’s going on?”
“Two men attacked Clarice,” Jack said, his tone low.
“What?” Alton stared at her; to Jack’s relief, he seemed to see her pallor. “My God! Are you all right?”
“Yes. Jack found me in time. But—”
“Which way did they go?” Alton raked the darkness beyond them.
Jack pointed. “But they’ll be away by now. I couldn’t leave Clarice to follow them.”
“Of course not!”
“Alton—”
“My heavens! What is going on?” Lady Camleigh came bustling up, giving the crowd, who were starting to edge away, a severe look. She glanced at Jack and Clarice. Her eyes opened wide. “What…?”
Alton explained before Jack could.
Within a minute, Lady Cowper, Lady Davenport, and ultimately Lady Holland herself had joined them, along with Roger and Nigel and their fiancées, and Sarah, too.
Jack could feel the effort it was costing Clarice, still within his arm, to remain upright, head high, her spine poker-straight. Everyone was exclaiming, asking how it had happened, whether she was all right—
“Quiet, please!” Clarice didn’t shout, but her tone effectively cut through the chatter.
Everyone fell silent. Everyone looked at her.
She made no attempt to step away from Jack’s side, but, clasping her hands at her waist, she lifted her chin and quietly stated, “There’s something you all need to know.”
Jack could feel her quivering with shock and agitation, but nothing showed in her cool demeanor or her steady gaze.
“Before you appeared, a crowd had gathered—they came, rather late, in response to my scream. But after Jack had rescued me and the men who attacked me had vanished, I kissed him, and he kissed me. Then he helped me straighten my torn gown.” With one hand, she waved at her shoulder, where the bodice gaped from the seam. “That, unfortunately, is what the interested saw.” She paused, and looked around the circle of their supporters. “I think you can imagine what they think they saw.”
“Damn!” It was Nigel who uttered their thoughts aloud.
Regally, Clarice inclined her head. “Precisely. However…I’m afraid I really do not feel up to circulating among the guests for the next hour and more to quash the inevitable rumors.”
Concern in his face, Alton stepped toward her. “You aren’t all right.”
Clarice raised a restraining hand. “I’m just feeling a trifle shaky, that’s all. Jack will take me back to Benedict’s. I’ll be fully recovered by tomorrow. But”—she drew in a tight breath, looked around the circle once again—“I wanted you all to realize…what will come.”
Somewhat to Jack’s surprise, the ladies, both young and old, gathered closer, assuring Clarice that she could leave it to them, that they’d ensure no ill-informed nonsense was credited. Everyone accompanied them back to the house in a blatant show of solidarity.
The one who surprised Jack most was Lady Holland, their venerable hostess. She had the reputation of being an excellent friend, and a god-awful enemy; until she stood beside them while the carriage was brought around, Jack hadn’t been sure which she would prove to be.
But then she patted Clarice’s hand. “Don’t worry, my dear. I think you underestimate your standing, and ours, too, if you think we can’t scotch this, or at least nip it in the bud. It’s transparent to any who’ve spoken with you both that the incident happened exactly as you described. In such circumstances, the rest”—with a wave Lady Holland dismissed their too-revealing embrace—“is merely to be expected.”
Her ladyship turned her slightly protruberant eyes on him, and smiled. “Indeed, a gentleman such as Lord Warnefleet would have greatly disappointed us had he not reacted as he did.”
Outwardly, Jack smiled; inwardly he groaned. The last thing he needed was to be cast as a romantic hero to the entire ton.
At last they were in the carriage, rolling briskly back to Benedict’s. They didn’t talk along the way; Clarice held his hand tightly, her head against his shoulder, and stared out into the night.
He did the same. Reliving that scene, imaging what the crowd had seen. The difficulty with Lady Holland’s and the others’ assurances was simple; they hadn’t seen that too-revealing embrace. That kiss that had cut far too close to his bone, the inevitable reaction to a situation that had shaken him so badly his customary chameleon’s mask had been nowhere in sight.
That moment, that kiss, had been far too raw, their emotions, both his and hers, far too close to the surface for anyone watching to have misunderstood.
To not have seen that they were lovers.
They might not have, as the crowd doubtless thought, made love in the gardens of Holland House, but that one fact was now unarguable.
And it was now public property.