“So it is money. Moneylenders…” Alton broke off, frowning. “No, that won’t wash. If he’s deep in debt, I would have heard.”
Clarice snorted. “I told you it wasn’t money—that’s not the point. Weddings are the point, on all fronts, Carlton’s included. While the three of you remain bachelors, Carlton can look reasonably high for a bride, but the instant even one of you marry, Carlton’s matrimonial stocks fall. If all three of you wed, Carlton’s standing falls to that of a mere younger son with no real prospects. Moira wants her daughter-in-law’s family to be as wealthy and influential as possible, so the last thing she wants is for you three to marry—or more specifically for the ton to realize all three of you are about to marry—before she can get Carlton wed.”
Her brothers looked shocked. “He’s only twenty-one!” Roger protested.
Clarice met his eyes. “Do you think that’ll stop Moira? Especially now she knows you’re all on the verge of making offers that, of course, will be accepted?”
“Good God! I never thought I’d be sorry for the little twerp.” Nigel looked horrified. “Fancy being leg-shackled at the age of twenty-one.”
Clarice, predictably, wasn’t impressed. “Never mind Carlton. Unless he’s changed mightily, I’d wager he has no intention of offering for any well-bred miss that Moira selects. He just won’t tell her until that point is reached. He never was one for unnecessary effort.”
“True.” Roger frowned at Clarice. “So Moira doesn’t really care about whom we wed, just that we shouldn’t make our intentions public yet?”
“That seems likely, so that gives you time to arrange your affairs. If you make offers all at once,
or rather if the announcements all appear in the Gazette on the same day, and Moira hears nothing from any other source until then, then all should be well.”
Alton caught Roger’s eye. “We’ll have to be careful what we say, do, or even write inside Melton House. That maid of Moira’s is the very devil—she sneaks around all over the place, poking here and there.”
“But it should be doable,” Nigel said. “We just have to get our affairs in order, make our offers formally and be accepted, then we can trump Moira all at once, and have done with this business.”
Clarice nodded. “Indeed. That’s exactly what you should do, and meanwhile I’ll do my best to distract the ton from James. Regardless of all that, however, we still need to accomplish what I came to London to do—exonerate James of these nonsensical charges.”
There was a note in her voice that made her brothers sit up. “Yes, of course,” Alton said. “What do you want us to do?”
Clarice looked at Jack; her brothers followed her lead.
He’d come prepared. “There are three specific meetings at which we want to prove James was not present.” Drawing a sheet of paper from his pocket, he handed it to Alton. “If you can check around the family and all James’s friends, his clubs, anywhere he might have been, and see if anyone remembers seeing him on those dates, at those times, we’ll have the first nails to drive into the coffin to bury these allegations.”
Alton read the list, then nodded. “Right. We’ll get on with this.”
“While you do, I’ll see what I can devise to free you and Sarah from Moira’s web. Just don’t do anything more until I tell you.” Clarice looked at Roger and Nigel. “Meanwhile, you two reprobates are free to make best use of your persuasive talents and get formal acceptance of your offers for Alice and Emily’s hands.”
Both Roger and Nigel looked delighted.
“But only after you help Alton with gathering information for James’s defence.”
With a rumble of reassurances, the brothers rose, kissed Clarice’s cheek, glanced askance at Jack when she wasn’t looking, but left without challenging his presence.
He felt for them, but…
When Clarice closed the door behind them and turned back to him, he had a slim notelet in his hand. He waved it. “Lady Davenport and Lady Cowper request our presence at Davenport House.”
She halted, wide-eyed. “When?” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Half an hour.”
“Arrghh!” She glared at him. “Why is it that gentlemen never understand how long it takes to get dressed?”
Given she swung on her heel and strode into the bedroom, he surmised the question was rhetorical. He followed more slowly; leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, he watched her strip off the morning gown she’d been wearing, then hunt through a wardrobe that appeared remarkably well stocked. Pulling out a bronze-and-ivory-striped silk confection, she donned it, then imperiously presented her back to him and demanded he do up her laces.
Lips twitching, he complied, then watched as she redid her hair.
He’d never before found observing such female primping all that interesting, but watching Clarice…every graceful movement, every feminine gesture, fascinated. Almost mesmerized. He watched her brush out her long hair, remembered what it felt like swirling about him in the night…meanwhile another, more grounded part of his mind trod a more serious path.
He was increasingly certain he didn’t want her going about alone, even during the day in the heart of Mayfair. He hadn’t forgotten the incident with the two strange men in Bruton Street, nor the inherent threat of the round-faced man. And now, it seemed, her stepmother had good reason to wish Clarice elsewhere, removed from interfering in her schemes.
Unlike Clarice, he wasn’t so ready to excuse Moira from any felonious intent; the harpy he’d seen would have scratched Clarice’s eyes out given half a chance. And losing her grip, a grip she’d probably thought secure, over Alton, his brothers, and the marquisate in general, would be galling. Especially if hand in hand with such a loss went a lessening of social standing. That last would definitely occur if Clarice returned permanently to the ton.