A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)
Jack grimaced. “Humphries’ body washed up this morning in the Deptford marshes.”
Dalziel swore, violently and colorfully. He stared up at the ceiling. “Do we know anything about the man responsible?”
Jack related what they’d learned. “So it’s been the same man at every turn.”
Dalziel’s dark eyes met his. “No hint of anyone else?”
“Not a whisper.” Jack studied Dalziel’s impossible-to-read face, then baldly asked, “Have you no clue who the real traitor is?”
Dalziel held his gaze for a long moment, before replying, “Not who, but as to what…that’s become rather clearer. This episode unfortunately won’t lead us to the man—he’s been too clever for that. Whoever this foreigner is, he’s certainly not the mastermind behind the whole. However, the very nature of the charade has revealed that our traitor knows the ropes of government, the legal system, and society well. He made only one mistake—choosing James Altwood, who knew about you, as his target, and that was something he couldn’t have known. If it hadn’t been for that slip, we wouldn’t have been so sure of Altwood’s innocence so early in the piece, early enough to act decisively to avoid any trial.”
Dalziel shuddered. “I don’t want to think of what would have happened if the charges had progressed to a formal trial. The failure of the case would have been spectacular, and would have effectively ended any hope of bringing the real last traitor to justice. Any subsequent talk of traitors would have been completely discounted.” He paused, then added, “As a way of ensuring his own safety, this charade was inspired. Whoever he is, he knew to a nicety what he was doing.
“Of course, he didn’t expect to fail.” Dalziel’s expression subtly altered. He glanced at Jack. “For our troubles, we’ve learned that the last traitor is in fact real. Until now, he’s been little more than a shade, a postulated being. All I had were suspicions, instincts. But now you, Dearne, Deverell, Trentham, and I all know that the last traitor exists. No shade organized all this.”
Jack inclined his head. “True. So although we didn’t win this skirmish, we came away with improved intelligence.”
Dalziel smiled. “Aptly put.” He paused, clearly reviewing. “One last thing. Did anyone get a good look at this foreigner?”
“Anthony Sissingbourne—he saw the man’s face only briefly, but at closest range. And Lady Clarice Altwood—she saw him from a greater distance, but she saw the man walk, move.” Jack hesitated, then added, “Of the two, Clarice would be more likely to recognize the man than Anthony.”
Dalziel nodded. “It might prove worth our time to review the foreigners known to be of similar physical description, those in the embassies, the consulates, various diplomatic posts, that sort of thing. If we turn up any likely candidates, we may need Lady Clarice.”
Blank-faced, Dalziel met Jack’s eyes. “If you were still under my command, I’d order you to keep her close, and guard her well.” His mobile lips twitched. “However, from all I hear, you’ll be doing precisely that, order or no.”
His expression impassive, Jack merely inclined his head. “She says she intends returning to Gloucestershire. Regardless, I’ll remain with her.”
“Good.” Dalziel rose.
Jack did the same. He met Dalziel’s gaze, let a slight frown show. “I’d much prefer to imagine we won’t meet again.”
The faintest of self-deprecatory smiles curved Dalziel’s lips. “Unfortunately, our instincts are independently suggesting that’s unlikely to be the case.” He grimaced. “Which means this is no real parting.” He waved Jack to the door. “Take care of her.”
“I will.” Hand on the knob, Jack paused, then glanced back. “Incidentally, she hasn’t recognized you yet.”
Back in his chair, Dalziel met his gaze, then shrugged. “With luck, by the time she does, it won’t matter anymore.”
Picking up a pen, Dalziel gave his attention to a letter. Puzzled, Jack went out; closing the door, he walked back to where Clarice was waiting, pacing before the highly nervous clerk.
In the carriage, he told her all Dalziel had said; she merely humphed and frowned.
They returned to the Benedict to take stock. On the table in her sitting room, they found a note from Alton, with two tickets for that evening’s Royal Gala at Vauxhall.
“I thought tickets to such events were obtainable more or less only by royal decree.” Jack examined the gilt-edged vouchers.
Clarice humphed. “They are, but Alton can be as charming as some others I know when he wishes.” She perused the note. “He writes that the bishop has informed him that the charges against James have been dismissed outright, and that he, Roger, and Nigel thought to use the Gala for a combined celebration of their winning free of Moira, their pending engagements, and James’s exoneration, to which, of course, Alton bids us attend.”
Handing the note to Jack, Clarice smiled to herself. It was patently clear her brothers thought to use the Gala—the very epitome of tonnish entertainment—to demonstrate the benefits of returning to the family fold, hoping to sway her into wanting her life of old.
They wouldn’t succeed, but if she let them try their damnedest, if she attended and enjoyed, and then told them she was returning to Avening and her quiet country life, they would realize how futile it was to keep pressing her, that her decision was indeed final and absolute.
And Jack, too, would see and understand.
Smile deepening, she turned to him. He stood by the table, still staring at the vouchers in his hand.
“We’ll have to go, of course.”
Jack glanced at her, saw, very clearly, the soft light of anticipation glowing in her eyes. He inclined his head, and smi