A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

“No! Of course not! Haven’t touched a drop, not since yesterday. I swear…” His words faded; for one instant, he stared at her, then he surged to his feet and rounded the desk. “Clary! Dear Heaven, it’s so good to see you!”

Hauled into a crushing embrace, squeezed tight as if she were some lifeline, Clarice felt thoroughly disoriented. She returned the hug, albeit rather more weakly, and patted Alton’s shoulder. “I’m…ah, back for the moment.”

Alton released her and stepped back, but caught her hands and, smiling delightedly, studied her. His dark eyes, not quite as dark as her own, all but burned with unabashed happiness and, equally clearly, with massive relief.

Before she could speak, Alton, still grinning fit to split his face, turned to Edwards. “A celebration, Edwards! Bring something—not champagne”—his gaze swung to Clarice—“it’s too early, isn’t it? How about some ratafia or orgeat, or is it sherry the ladies like now? I never know that sort of thing.”

He was like a child, eager and wanting to welcome, to impress.

“Perhaps tea and cakes, my lord?” Edwards suggested.

Like a hopeful puppy, Alton looked inquiringly at Clarice.

“Thank you, Edwards. Tea and cakes will do admirably.” She had a sudden premonition she was going to need the sustenance. What was going on here?

“Oh, and Edwards?” Alton met the aged butler’s eye. “No need to tell her ladyship that Lady Clarice is here.”

“No, indeed, my lord.” Some silent communication passed between master and servant, then Edwards bowed majesterially to Clarice. “My lady, permit me to convey the welcome of all the staff, and to say how very pleased we are to see you once more beneath this roof.”

Clarice inclined her head regally. “Thank you, Edwards. Please remember me to those I knew from before.”

They waited while Edwards retreated; as he closed the door, Clarice introduced Jack.

“Lord Warnefleet was kind enough to accompany me to town. He’s a close friend of James’s.”

Transparently happy to greet anyone who’d shown his sister a kindness, Alton grasped Jack’s hand readily, but almost instantly his attention diverted to Clarice. “We’ll have your old room prepared, just like old times. No one’s been in there since you left. Roger heard Hilda and Mildred planning to steal things from it, so he locked the door, and we hid the key, so I expect there’ll be a bit of dust, but Mrs. Hendry will be thrilled to have you home again, so—”

“Alton.” Clarice waited until he met her eyes. “I’m staying at Benedict’s, as I always do.”

He blinked, then looked faintly hurt. “Always do?” He studied her face. “Do you often come up to town, then?”

His tone made her inwardly frown. “I come up at least twice a year. I may live in the country, but I still need gowns. But I wrote and told you. You never replied, and none of you ever came to see me—”

“I’ve never received any letter from you, not since you left.” The hollow note in Alton’s voice left no doubt he was speaking the truth. “I never knew that you came to town, and Roger and Nigel didn’t, either.”

Clarice let her frown materialize, let a hint of disgust into her voice. “Papa, I suppose. I had wondered…but I wrote again after he died.” Alton shook his head. “You didn’t get that either?”

“We had no idea you were ever in town. We thought you’d buried yourself in the country, made a new life and forgotten us. You were so disgusted with us all when you left.”

She patted his arm, then moved past him to a chair. “Not you three. I knew what Papa was like, remember. I never blamed you.”

Sinking into the armchair, she sat back and looked up at Alton, who had turned to face her; Jack watched her eyes trace her brother’s face. “But you never came to Avening to see me, either.”

Alton waved. “When you didn’t reply to our letters…” He broke off, then looked at Clarice, who shook her head. “You never got them?”

“I assume you left them on the salver in the hall for Papa to frank?”

Alton swore beneath his breath, swung back around the desk, and flung himself heavily into his chair. “I didn’t think the old goat would go so far. He refused to allow anyone to mention your name, but he never said anything about us writing to you.”

“He didn’t bother saying, he just acted.”

Leaning on his elbows, Alton frowned across the room. Calmly seating himself in the other armchair facing the desk, Jack saw what he hadn’t until that moment, a fleeting touch of Clarice’s steel in her brother

’s brooding eyes. After a moment, Alton looked at Clarice. “I wrote again after he died.”

Brother and sister shared a long look, then Clarice raised her brows. “I see.”

Jack presumed that meant someone else—his money was on their stepmother—had ensured that the conduit between brothers and sister remained broken. The question that instantly arose was: why?