A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Clarice retrieved her hand, and gestured at Jack. “Allow me to present Lord Warnefleet. Viscount Emsworth, my lord.”

She’d uttered the last two words in subtle but provocative fashion. Jack shook hands with Emsworth, who met his gaze with barely concealed dislike.

Something of Jack’s thoughts must have shown in his eyes; Emsworth’s eyes widened, and he abruptly broke the contact.

He looked at Clarice, and smiled, a stiff gesture that marked him as one who didn’t smile often. “My dear Clarice, I’m delighted to see you back among the ton. If you would honor me with this dance?”

Jack inwardly swore. Emsworth had timed his approach well, but as the musical summons floated over the crowd, Jack relaxed. A cotillion. He glanced at Clarice, and sensed her inward shrug. He resigned himself to letting her dance with Emsworth.

“If you wish.” Clarice gave Emsworth her hand. It was, perhaps, not a bad thing for her to be seen interacting civilly with him. He was a part of her past she’d buried long ago; she discovered she felt very little toward him, not even true anger, just a mild annoyance that he wished to take up her time.

But she would be gracious and spare him the next few minutes. That, to her mind, would lay that part of her past to permanent rest.

He led her to the dance floor, and they took up their positions in the nearest set. The music swelled, and they dipped, twirled. Throughout, Emsworth tried to catch her eye; Clarice delighted in denying him even that much notice. The figures of the complicated dance returned to her without thought. She smiled at the other dancers, perfectly content to have them see her nonchalantly dancing with Emsworth.

When the music ceased, and she rose from her final curtsy, Emsworth tightened his grip on her hand. “My dear Clarice, there’s a matter I wish to discuss with you, a matter, as it were, from our shared past.”

She met Emsworth’s gray eyes, tried to fathom just what matter that might be.

He glanced around, over the crowd’s heads. “Come out onto the terrace. We can talk there.”

Without waiting for any agreement, he steered her toward the glass doors opening to a terrace that ran the length of the ballroom. Resigned, Clarice went; she’d never approved of him, of the way he treated her, but she wanted to hear what he had to say. It might give her something else she could use to spike the pistol Moira had trained on Alton and Sarah, and that definitely would be worth a few more minutes of her time.

Reaching the doors, Emsworth guided her through; just before she crossed the threshold, Clarice glanced back, and spotted Jack’s burnished head moving purposefully through the crowd in their direction. The sight was reassuring; she could admit that much to herself.

Once on the terrace, Emsworth looked around, then, his fingers about her elbow, he urged her away from the knot of guests conversing just beyond the doors. They strolled to where shadows from nearby trees flickered over the flagstones, and there were no others near enough to hear.

Emsworth released her. Clasping his hands behind his back, he took up a stance Clarice recognized as signifying he was about to make some priggish pronouncement while pretending to gaze out at the dark gardens.

She half expected him to say something disparaging about her interaction with Jack, and their unnecessarily close waltz—

“I’m really very glad to see you back in town, my dear. You’ve paid the price for your reckless behavior in refusing me. Clearly those hostesses who matter have deemed that incident can now be forgotten.”

He’d noticed the support Jack’s aunts and Lady Osbaldestone were marshaling behind her. Good—

“Of course the fact remains that you can never hope to make a suitable marriage, yet clearly you have…missed the pleasures of the marriage bed. I would, were it possible, renew my previous offer, however, as I am now wed”—turning, Emsworth met Clarice’s stunned gaze—“I suggest that it would be best for you to become my mistress. I command a reasonable income—you would not find me ungenerous.” He paused as if consulting his inner importance, then, thin nose elevating, he refocused on her. “Accepting my offer will see you safe from men such as Warnefleet and his kind.”

Clarice had placed her features under the severest control the instant she’d understood his drift; now she let abject contempt flame in her eyes, let fury color her expression.

She stepped across Emsworth, backing him against the balustrade, leaving them eye to eye. “You’re a nauseating specimen, Emsworth. Regardless of what pleasures I might have missed, I wouldn’t agree to be your anything were you the last man on this earth.”

His eyes widened as he leaned back from her wrath.

Before he could react, she brought her knee up, fast.

His eyes crossed. His lips twisted.

She stepped back, watched as he crumpled to his knees, for good measure boxed his ears as he doubled over before her, disguising the act as solicitiously reaching to help him.

Sensing someone behind her, she glanced over her shoulder, and found Jack, grim-faced yet with unimpaired satisfaction watching Emsworth collapse to the flags.

“It seems Viscount Emsworth’s been taken ill.” She caught Jack’s gaze.

He grinned fleetingly, then reached for her and shifted her to the side. “Bad health and ill luck seem to dog the viscount’s family.”

Jack’s hands remained, reassuring on her shoulders. Between them, they largely screened the fallen Emsworth from the others on the terrace. “The viscount’s first wife, for instance, pitched to her death from the top of the stairs in his house. The servants have no idea how such a thing could have happened. And his second wife is often so poorly she doesn’t leave her room for days. Some unexplained illness leaves bruises all over her.”

Jack leaned over Emsworth. His voice lowered and took on a hard edge. “A word of warning, Emsworth. If you don’t want me and my kind to visit much-deserved retribution on you, you’d be well-advised not to show your face in London, or indeed anywhere in the ton, again.”