A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Emsworth was quivering; his nose was running, his mouth open as he struggled to breathe. Jack met his dilated eyes. “I trust I make myself plain?”

Emsworth looked into Jack’s face; what little color had remained in his drained.

Jack smiled, not amiably; straightening, he reached for Clarice’s arm. “Come, we should return to the ballroom. We can send two footmen to assist the viscount to his carriage.”

Clarice glanced down at Emsworth. He was all but sniveling, still unable to draw a proper breath. Entirely satisfied, she allowed Jack to turn her toward the ballroom. “I always wanted to do that, to see if it really worked.”

Jack looked at her. “It works. Because you’re so tall it works very well.”

“Hmm.”

In the matter of Emsworth’s ultimate routing—being carried by two footmen around the house and deposited directly into his carriage—Clarice stood back and let Jack arrange all. His glib tale of Emsworth’s being taken ill was outwardly swallowed whole, but many had witnessed Emsworth dancing with her, then leading her out onto the terrace, and her subsequent relaxed return on Lord Warnefleet’s arm. Many waited for Emsworth to return to the ballroom; when he didn’t, speculation ran rife.

In distracting the ton from the allegations against James, she, aided by Jack, was succeeding admirably.

They spent the next half hour circulating among the now-intrigued guests, then departed, leaving all the avid questions unanswered.

As she settled on the carriage seat, Clarice smiled into the shadows. She had never before allowed anyone to help her in dealing with a problem such as Emsworth, yet sharing such an enterprise with Jack seemed oddly right.

Something else about her that had changed.

Glancing at him, seated beside her, relaxed and confident, she wondered how he’d known about Emsworth. How he’d known to know, for he would have had to have asked; he hadn’t been in London, a part of the ton, for the past thirteen years.

Looking ahead, she frowned. She was certain she hadn’t mentioned Emsworth. So how…?

James? She knew James’s opinion of Emsworth and that episode in her life. If Jack had asked, James would have told him.

Which meant Jack had asked. And not only had he been interested enough to ask, he’d then cared enough to learn more.

Through the shadows that flickered as they drove through the streets, she studied his profile. Then she smiled, faced forward, and thought of what lay ahead. Of how they would spend the rest of the night in her suite at Benedict’s.

“I’m perfectly certain my information is correct.” Deacon Humphries all but glared across the narrow table at Jack.

Jack studied the good deacon. The crone’s description had been accurate; his mouth was womanish, and when he pursed his lips, as he was wont to do, the effect was indeed a feminine pout.

It was noon; Humphries had resisted speaking with them as far as he’d dared, but had ultimately bowed to the bishop’s decree and met Jack, Clarice, and Olsen in a small cell-like office deep in the palace.

“We understand, Deacon Humphries, that you believe your information to

be the truth, but simply stating that doesn’t constitute proof.” From where she stood before the window, Clarice swung to confront Humphries; they’d all taken seats around the table, with her next to Jack, but then, apparently too exercised to keep still, she’d risen and started pacing.

Much to Humphries’ disquiet. As he looked up at her, his priggish antipathy to being lectured by a woman shone clear in his face. “I will produce my proofs to the bishop in good time.”

Before Clarice could utter the withering retort forming on her tongue, Jack cut in. “As you’ve heard, the bishop himself, in the interests of administering swift but sure justice, wishes you to explain to us the details of your case. Whitehall, too, wishes to know specifically what evidence you have, beyond the accounts of the witnesses you’ve listed, that you believe conclusively proves that James Altwood passed secrets to the enemy.”

Humphries fixed his gaze on Jack’s face, clearly trying to ignore Clarice. Once again Jack was grateful for her distracting, somewhat overpowering persona; it was rare that those he interviewed saw him as the softer touch. Humphries subjected him to a careful study. “I understand you’re a longtime acquaintance of Reverend Altwood.”

Jack inclined his head. Before he could reply to the unstated challenge, Clarice did.

“If Whitehall, knowing of Warnefleet’s association with James, nevertheless deems it safe to assign the government’s interests into Warnefleet’s hands, then I hardly think his loyalties are open to question by anyone.” Her tone declared that avenue of discussion was closed.

Humphries’ lips thinned; without looking at her, he inclined his head in her direction. To Jack, he said, “The tale the witnesses tell is consistent. Taken together, they paint a convincing picture of Altwood’s meetings with the courier.”

Jack debated how much to reveal; in fairness to Humphries, he felt forced to say, “I’ve already received evidence that a number of your witnesses are unreliable. There are others, more credible, who are willing to swear James Altwood has never set foot in those taverns. Lastly, it seems likely we’ll succeed in gaining unimpeachable evidence that on those dates, at the times specified, he was elsewhere.”

Humphries’ lip curled; his expression stated he placed no faith in such assertions.

Evenly, Jack continued, “All that aside, however, the allegations must stand not on any evidence of meetings—that at best is circumstantial—but on evidence of secrets actually being passed. My question for you, from Whitehall specifically, is: what is that evidence?” Jack glanced at the sheaf of papers Olsen had laid on the table. “To this point, you’ve failed to produce any details beyond asserting that such evidence exists.”