A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

“Heh?” James looked up, peering over his spectacles. Then his gaze found Jack, and he dropped the book on the desk. “Jack, m’boy! At last!”

Jack managed not to wince as James surged to his feet. Very aware of Boadicea’s critical gaze, he went forward to grasp James’s outstretched hand and let himself be pulled into a fierce hug.

James gripped tight, thumped his back, then released him. Retaining Jack’s hand, he drew back to examine him.

Now in his fifties, James was starting to show his age; the brown hair Jack remembered as thick and wavy had thinned, and the paunch around his middle had grown. But the energy and enthusiasm in James’s brown eyes was still the same; if anyone had been responsible for encouraging Jack into the army, it was James.

James blew out a long breath, and released Jack’s hand. “Damn it, Jack, it’s a relief to see you hale and whole.”

Along with Jack’s father, James had been one of the very few who knew that Jack hadn’t spent the last thirteen years in any regimental barracks.

Jack smiled, no screening charm; with James, he was never other than himself. “It’s a huge relief to be back.” He couldn’t resist adding, “At last, as you so sapiently note.”

“Indeed, indeed. Such a shambles with your great-aunt and her holdings. But here—sit, sit!”

Waving Jack to a chair, James went to resume his, then remembered Boadicea. “Ah, thank you, Clarice.” James looked from her to Jack, at whom she was now staring, her expression, to James, impossible to interpret. Jack had no such difficulty. Boadicea was quick. She’d heard James’s reference to his great-aunt…and now wondered.

When James looked at her, he flashed her a tauntingly superior smile.

“Ah…I take it you two have met?” James looked from one to the other, sensing undercurrents but unable to read them.

“Yes.” When Jack raised his brows at her, Clarice transferred her gaze to James. “I was mushrooming, and there was a carriage accident along the road, just past the manor gates.”

“Good gracious!” James waved Clarice to a chair, waiting for her to sit before sinking into his. “What happened?”

“I didn’t actually see the accident, but I was the first to the wreck”—Clarice glanced Jack’s way as he sat in the other armchair—“then his lordship rode up.”

“Was anyone hurt?” James asked.

“The driver,” Jack replied, “a young gentleman. He’s unconscious. We’ve moved him to the manor and sent for Dr. Willis. Mrs. Connimore’s taking care of him.”

James nodded. “Good, good.” He looked at Clarice. “Was he anyone from round about?”

“No.” She frowned.

Jack recalled she’d done the same, out on the road.

“But…?” James prompted before Jack could.

Her lips twisted; she glanced at Jack, the

n looked at James. “I know I’ve never met him—I don’t recognize him at all—but he looks familiar.”

“Ah!” James nodded sagely.

Jack wished he knew why.

Clarice went on, “He seems too young to be anyone I knew in the past, but I wondered…he could be someone’s younger brother, or son, and I’m picking up the resemblance.”

Jack wondered which circles she’d inhabited in her “past.”

As if reading his mind, she shrugged. “All that means is that he’s most likely some scion of some tonnish family, which doesn’t get us far.”

“Hmm—I must drop by. If he doesn’t regain his wits soon, I will, although if you can’t place him, it’s unlikely I will.” James shifted his gaze to Jack. “And even less likely you’d draw a bead on him. I don’t suppose you’ve been haunting the clubs and hells lately, heh?”

Aware of Clarice’s saber-edged gaze, Jack humphed. “I barely had time to visit my tailor.”

A tap on the door heralded Macimber, James’s butler. He beamed at Jack and bowed. “Welcome home, my lord.”