A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

While they ate, they concentrated on how best to approach the Bishop of London. Not only was his approval critical to allowing them to meet with and assist James’s defender, but without the bishop’s specific consent, they were unlikely to learn the details of the allegations.

“And without those details, we won’t get far.” Clarice sipped her tea.

Jack watched her; he wondered if she’d noticed how very domesticated their present behavior was. Chatting over the breakfast cups, discussing family matters. Her dark hair, once again neat in its chignon—he wondered which of the club members had thought to hang a mirror in the parlor—sheened as a sunbeam slanted through the curtains, striking garnet glints from within the dark mass. She leaned forward to place her empty cup on the table, the regal set of her head and the vulnerable line of her nape apparent as she straightened.

Regardless of all else, through the last hours one aspect of their London adventure had become much clearer in his mind. Together, he and Clarice would be a formidable force in countering the threat to James, if Dalziel’s instincts told true in exposing the last traitor’s distracting scheme—and potentially exposing the last traitor, too.

They would become a threat to the last traitor.

And that would be dangerous.

His instincts had already been stirring, awakening; now, they quietly switched to full alert. Regardless of all else, he was going to be keeping his eyes wide open and trained most especially on her.

Clarice glanced up, met his eyes, studied their expression, but couldn’t read it. She raised her brows, faintly haughty. “Well, shall we go?”

Nearly two hours had passed since Dalziel had departed. Jack knew how fast his ex-commander acted; the bishop should have received Dalziel’s missive by now. He rose and held out his hand; she placed her fingers in his, and he drew her to her feet. “Indeed, let’s make a start.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury’s London residence, Lambeth Palace, sited in its own extensive gardens, lay just over Lambeth Bridge. The Bishop of London was currently residing there, together with his administration and household. They took a hackney to the impressive front gates, then walked up the graveled drive. At the porticoed entrance, a footman took their names and conducted them to a small waiting room.

They didn’t have long to wait. Dean Samuels, whom James had mentioned as the Bishop’s right-hand man, appeared in less than five minutes.

White-haired with a round, rather careworn face, he smiled, introduced himself, then ushered them out of the room and toward the towering stairs. “I’m extremely glad you’ve come.” Climbing the stairs beside them, he glanced sidelong at Jack. “The bishop has received a communication from Whitehall. I have to say, from my own perspective, it’s reassuring to have someone with a professional background involved.”

Jack inclined his head. Before he could ask, the dean went on, his gaze flicking up the stairs ahead of them, “I should perhaps warn you that the bishop is nevertheless in two minds over allowing the details of the allegations against James to pass beyond Church walls at this stage.” The dean heaved a small sigh. “I hope, once he meets you, he’ll change his mind.”

Thus alerted, they were shown into a long room, the far end of which was filled with a dais on which the bishop’s throne sat, supporting the prelate, all red robes and gilt-embroidered ivory linen.

Clarice swept in, head high, her silk skirts swishing. Ten feet from the dais, she halted and sank into a deep curtsy. Halting beside her, Jack bowed as Dean Samuels announced them.

Straightening, at the bishop’s signal they approached the dais. The four of them were the only people in the audience chamber.

The bishop was not as old as Dean Samuels, more James’s age. Sharp, pale blue eyes studied them, first Clarice, then Jack, then the bishop’s lips pursed querulously. “This is all most irregular, and indeed most distressing. I’m really very exercised about these allegations. I had hoped to keep them entirely within the Church—I really can’t believe James Altwood guilty of any misdemeanor, yet of course I’m honor-bound to test the case brought against him. However, it appears news of the matter has reached Whitehall.”

Jack heard the irritated note in the bishop’s voice. He’d met such men before; they held their position by virtue of their connections, and the smooth running of their enterprises was almost entirely due to the efforts of their underlings. Like Dean Samuels.

In the bishop’s defence, Jack could readily appreciate that a scandal of the scope the allegations against James promised would not be to the liking of any man in high office, secular or clerical.

Lifting a sheet from his lap, the bishop scanned the lines thereon, then looked, somewhat peevishly, at Jack. “Whitehall has sung your praises, and suggested that, in light of the gravity of these allegations and their sensitive nature, that justice would best be served by allowing your input at this stage, in my court, rather than allowing views that a professional such as yourself would see as unwarranted or misjudged to adversely color our conclusions and potentially precipiate a more serious, public situation.”

The bishop paused, his gaze fixed on Jack, then more quietly said, “I’m not as yet convinced that that is our best course.”

Jack held that dyspeptic blue stare, but before he could draw breath and, logically and with charm, turn the bishop to his bidding, Clarice spoke.

“My lord Bishop, if I may speak to this point?” The bishop’s gaze deflected to her; she caught and held it. “Specifically to admitting myself and Lord Warnefleet to the confidence of your court, as you have intimated, the charges against my cousin, the Honorable James Altwood, are indeed serious, but more, they deal with fields of endeavor not well understood by the layperson, nor yet by clerical officers. To adequately test these charges, knowledge of the field with which they deal will be vital, and I would submit it will be in no one’s interest to have these charges upheld because of misunderstanding, and thus unnecessarily passed on to a high civilian court, only to be subsequently shown as groundless.

“Lord Warnefleet is eminently qualified to assist your officers with determining the truthfulness of these allegations”—she nodded to the sheet still held between the bishop’s fingers—“as confirmed by his superiors in Whitehall. The fact he is acquainted with James is unlikely to cloud his judgment given his long service to the crown. Indeed, he would have been one of those placed most at risk if the allegations were true.”

She paused; the bishop was frowning, following her free-flowing words, clearly caught. She lifted her chin, consciously regal. “As for myself, I will, of course, be representing the family in this matter. I will be reporting to my brother, Melton, on what transpires. I hope, on leaving here today, to be able to explain to him precisely what the allegations made against our cousin are. The family will be pleased to know that this attack against one of our name is being dealt with as expeditiously, and as appropriately, as may be.”

The bishop’s frown turned faintly harried. “I see.” It was transparently clear he’d heard and correctly interpreted Boadicea’s battle cry.

He glanced again at the missive in his hand, then at Jack, and finally at Dean Samuels. “I suppose,” the bishop said, “that all things considered, it is, perhaps, appropriate”—he inclined his head toward Clarice—“as you point out, my dear, for you both to have access to our court, Lord Warnefleet in giving professional advice on these unusual charges and Lady Clarice as the family’s representative.”

He didn’t quite make the statement a question, but Dean Samuels was quick to bow. “Indeed, my lord. That seems most wise.”

Jack smiled charmingly. Boadicea smiled, too.

After tendering their appreciation for the bishop’s dispensation and exchanging the usual social remarks, they bowed, preparing to retreat.