A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

led. Charmingly.

Nine hours later, he was still smiling charmingly, but the gesture had grown thin—almost too thin to hide his feelings, the increasingly fraught urge to drop his mask entirely, seize Clarice, and whisk her away.

Away from those who wanted her to remain here, in the glittering bosom of the ton, to help them, to be a part of their family, not just the old but the newly forming, too.

It wasn’t hard to see she’d be tempted.

The booth Alton had hired was in the best area, facing the rotunda with the main dance floor between. Sitting in one front corner, keeping still, being as inconspicuous as possible, Jack watched Clarice whirling through a polka in Nigel’s arms.

About them, the cream of the ton circled and strolled, chatting, exclaiming, laughing. Jewels flashed; silks and satins corruscated in the light thrown by the bobbing lanterns. Perfumes and the scents of wine and fine food blended, teasing the senses; the music and chatter combined in a pervasive blanket of sound that yet managed to remain within reasonable bounds.

Everyone present was determined to enjoy themselves; their host was known as the Prince of Pleasure, and they took their cue from him. With only the highest families in the land able to obtain vouchers, the social standing of the company was assured. Consequently, the event was largely unstructured, with less rigidity, less consciousness of importance, all of which contributed to a sense of freedom, of being able metaphorically to let their hair down and simply enjoy.

Even to his prejudiced eyes, the scene was fabulous, and made even more appealing by the lighthearted atmosphere.

Alton whirled past with Sarah in his arms. Jack fought an urge to scowl. Everyone was enjoying themselves except him, and it was hard not to think that Alton was to blame. Especially as the man had pulled out all stops to convince Clarice to adopt the mantle of Altwood matriarch.

Jack had been forced to stand beside Clarice and listen to her soon-to-be sisters-in-law tell her how much they would appreciate her help in setting up their households, in establishing their own positions within the ton. He’d had to smile and nod while grande dame after grande dame made haughty overtures to Clarice, inviting her to join their circles.

Admittedly, Clarice had merely smiled and avoided giving any assurances, but she hadn’t said “no.”

He would have much rather she’d said “no,” even though he knew such a plain and abrupt refusal wouldn’t have been socially acceptable.

He wasn’t feeling all that inclined to behave in socially acceptable ways.

And with every minute that passed, he only felt more driven.

More tortured.

Regardless of what she’d said, regardless of what he’d thought and hoped that morning, once she considered the evening and all it implied, plus all the arguments countless others had put to her, and most of all the persuasions of her family, would she change her mind and decide to return to this life?

It was what she’d been born and bred to.

If she did…it would be without him. He knew, had known for some time, that the only place he would ever call home, the only place at which he would feel at peace, was Avening. Yet…would he ever know real peace, real happiness, without her?

Her family wanted her; they appreciated her more with each passing day. But they didn’t appreciate her, know her, as he did. They didn’t fully understand Boadicea, couldn’t fully engage with her, with all she was, as he did.

They didn’t need or want her as much as he did.

He was watching her, as ever, when she abruptly stopped midwhirl, then stepped out of Nigel’s arms. She wasn’t looking at her brother, but to the side of the dancing area; Nigel appeared to be asking her what was wrong.

Jack stood. Over the heads, he watched Clarice push away from Nigel’s restraining hands. Following the line of her gaze, he scanned the revelers—until he came to a man’s very pale, round face.

Jack swore. He didn’t wait to see more, but vaulted over the waist-high front of the booth and plunged into the crowd. There were muted shrieks and exclamations, warnings to have a care as he shouldered through the crush. He had no concern over whose ruffle he ripped; Clarice had left Nigel and started after the man, their courier-cum-informer who had murdered Humphries.

The man saw Clarice, stared, then turned and weaved away through the crowd. With her height, Clarice could still see him; she continued to track him, her attention fixed.

Jack swore and redoubled his efforts to reach her, uncaring of what havoc he caused. But the music had ended and the dancers were streaming from the crowded floor, leaving him fighting against a human tide.

Clarice followed the man who had run Anthony off the road all those weeks before. She realized he’d glimpsed her, but by using the crowd to her advantage, she hoped he might think she’d lost him in the throng.

She wanted to see where he was going, and even more whom he was meeting. He had to be meeting someone; there was no other reason a person of his ilk would be at such a gathering.

Tacking through the crowd, she managed to keep the man in sight, gradually gaining on him. He was circling the rotunda, presumably looking for one particular booth; she was increasingly sure he thought she’d lost him.

Then he stopped. His back to the gardens, from the edge of the crowd, he looked around, as if checking one last time before he approached whomever he was there to meet.

Clarice ducked behind a group of people, thanked her stars she hadn’t worn plumes in her hair as so many other ladies had. She looked down, counted to ten, then shifted to peek at the man again—just as the group before her moved on.