A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

He’d laughed, then whispered in her ear that while he fully intended to leave her and her room, and waltz out of the hotel by the front door, past the concierge who had noted his arrival hours earlier, he also fully intended to return by the side door, and the side stairs, to her room, and her.

She’d let him go and waited, not patiently.

He’d returned as promised, not fifteen minutes later, and she’d taken his hand and led him to her bed.

She was quite sure, given all that had passed between then and this morning, that if any part of him was aching, it wouldn’t be his head.

Lips quirking, she set down her teacup, and took a moment to savor the odd feeling of accomplishment, of having been able to successfully ease his injury, of being able to tend him in such a fashion…and the benefits that had ensued in the form of his thanks.

His expert and all-too-knowing attentions.

A tap on the door drew her back from her reverie and forced her to banish the silly smile from her face. Calling to the maid to enter, she returned to the bedchamber while her breakfast tray was cleared away.

Sitting before the dressing table mirror, she tidied her hair.

Her brother Melton, or her modiste?

The clocks in the suite chimed, ten light pings.

Fashionable gentlemen rarely left their beds before noon during the Season; clearly there was no point in calling on Melton too early in the day.

Dilemma solved, she reached for her bonnet.

Celestine had been her modiste for the last nine years. Initially a newcomer to Bruton Street, over the years Celestine had grown to be a name connoting the very haute of haute couture; Clarice now shared her services with the cream of the ton.

And only the cream of the ton; no one else could now possibly afford the most minor of the modiste’s creations.

There had been a time in her more scandalous days when Clarice had slipped into the salon at the unfashionable hour of nine o’clock to avoid the eyes of the censorious. Standing behind a screen in one corner of the salon allowing one of the modiste’s assistants to help her into a rather daring gown in her favorite plum silk, she reminded herself those days were long behind her.

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and the tonnish matrons with their daughters in tow would be pulling on their gloves preparatory to making their first foray of the morning, to a morning tea or a fashionable at-home, or to Bruton Street. Despite her years away, she still sensed the ebb and flow of the hours, without thought knew what activities should fill each if she were still a fashionable lady.

But she

wasn’t, so she could do as she pleased.

Lifting her head, hands smoothing the silk down over her hips, she stood straight and tall as the assistant tightened the laces. That done, she half turned, then paraded before the long mirror, examining the fall of the skirts, the way the silk clung to her figure.

Imagined what Jack would see, imagined how he would react.

Lips curving, she was about to send the assistant to summon Celestine when the main door to the salon opened to admit what sounded like a gossipy horde. Clarice heard Celestine coolly greet the newcomers, Lady Grimwade and Mrs. Raleigh the elder, two eminently well connected old battle-axes who perennially vied for the title of most avid gossipmonger in the ton.

“I tell you, Henrietta, it’s true!” Lady Grimwade paused to draw in a wheezy breath. “Just fancy!” Behind the screen, Clarice could easily envision the gleam in her ladyship’s beady black eyes. “What a comedown for that horrible woman to have a traitor in the family.”

A sudden chill spread over Clarice’s shoulders.

“I really find it difficult to credit, Amabelle.” Mrs. Raleigh’s quieter tones were mildly censorious. “This is the Altwoods, after all. One would want to be quite sure before one were heard whispering such tales.”

“Indeed, Henrietta, but you may be sure I have it right. Apparently the Bishop of London has already referred the matter to the authorities.”

Clarice didn’t wait to hear more. She was an expert on the advisability of nipping scandal in the bud; it was what she’d failed to do seven years ago. She whisked gracefully around the screen. “Celestine? If you would…”

Across the expanse of the salon, she came face-to-face with Amabelle Grimwade and Henrietta Raleigh. Not one element in Clarice’s manner or demeanor suggested she’d heard their prattle. She stood relaxed, arms gracefully extended as if waiting for Celestine, frozen between the parties, to admire the fall of the gown. Both Lady Grimwade and Mrs Raleigh stared, initially Clarice suspected at the daringly glamorous gown with its deep decollete; it took a long-drawn silent moment before they recognized her.

She knew when they did; their eyes grew round, then rounder; their sagging jaws sagged even farther. Satisfied, she looked at Celestine. “I rather think this gown will do.” She swirled so the even more daring back was presented to her goggle-eyed audience; she thought she heard a small gasp. “Don’t you think?”

Celestine rose to the challenge. “It becomes you parfaitement. Now if you would, while you are here, I would like you to try the forest green satin.” Coming forward, she gestured to the area behind the screen.

Clarice moved as if to retreat, but then halted, and looked back at the two harpies. “Incidentally, you might like to know that regarding the matter you were so recently discussing, I was speaking with the Bishop of London only yesterday. His understanding of his own mind seems curiously at odds with yours.” She paused, holding their startled gazes, then added, her tone dripping with icy hauteur, “You might recall that, expert though you might be, when it comes to scandal, few know the ropes more thoroughly than me.”