A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

“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.