A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

The same question filled Clarice’s dark eyes. He was getting much better at reading their expression, at sensing her feelings, her thoughts. From the moment she’d walked into the library, she’d been…groping, knocked off-balance by a welcome that had been very different from what she’d anticipated. He was beginning to understand she’d expected coolness at the very least, even from her brothers, beginning to understand why, beginning to appreciate the depth of the wound she’d carried for so long.

But, like him, she was starting to sense just how far from the expected matters really were.

“Alton”—she trapped her brother’s dark gaze with her own—“I came here to ask for your help for James, on a matter that concerns the whole family. But before we discuss that, I think you’d better tell me exactly what’s going on here.”

Alton held her gaze for a moment, then heaved a huge sigh, scrubbed both hands over his face, then drew his fingers back through his hair, as he’d been doing when they’d entered. Then he lowered his hands, slumped back in the chair, and looked at Clarice. “That’s why I was so glad to see you. What’s happening here is very simple. Moira’s in charge. She pulls the strings, and we—all of us—dance to her tune.”

Clarice frowned. Before she could ask her next question, a tap on the door heralded Edwards with a tray, followed by the housekeeper carrying the teapot. They had to wait while Clarice greeted Mrs. Hendry, smiled, accepted the housekeeper’s welcome, and gently but firmly dashed all hopes that she would be staying at Melton House. When the door eventually closed behind butler and housekeeper, Alton had recalled Jack’s presence.

Alton cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should leave this discussion until after Lord Warnefleet has left us.”

Jack caught the glance Clarice sent him—a warning—before she smoothly said, “Lord Warnefleet won’t be leaving, not without me at any rate.” Ignoring Alton’s frown, she calmly went on, simultaneously pouring tea into their cups, “I told you he’s a close friend of James’s. He’s also a close friend of mine. Jack knows all about the family. His assistance will be critical in helping James, which will equate to helping all the Altwoods. If he doesn’t hear what you’re about to tell me directly, then I’ll need to relate it to him anyway. So stop quibbling, and explain this to me.” She handed Alton his cup; Jack reached across and lifted his own.

Sitting back with hers, Clarice fixed Alton with her most inquisitorial gaze. “You’re Melton—you now run the marquisate, this house, and all the others, too. What has Moira to say to anything?”

Alton glanced at Jack, then looked at Clarice. “Figuratively speaking, she has us by the short and curlies.”

The look Clarice flashed him rebuked him for his crudeness and simultaneously urged him to go on.

“I’m thirty-four, Roger’s thirty-three, and Nigel’s thirty-one.” Alton held up a staying hand when Clarice opened her mouth to remind him she knew that. “Even before Papa died, we’d each of us found the lady we wanted to marry. All perfectly aboveboard and all that. But…Moira knew, of course. She told us there was no rush, that there was plenty of time, given who we were, to declare our choice, and that we should take the time to make sure we’d chosen correctly…” A slight flush rose to Alton’s pale cheeks. “Looking back, I can see she played to our own uncertainties, but…one thing and another, we all held off mentioning the matter to Papa, and then he died before anything had been said or any formal announcement made.”

“But then you were the head of the family. You don’t need anyone else’s approval.”

Alton’s lips curled in cynical disgust. “That, unfortunately, is the rub. After Papa died, Moira took over. It’s her approval I now need, and she’s not about to give it, not easily. Not, I suspect, anytime soon.”

Clarice studied his face, then calmly asked, “What is she holding over your head?”

“Our own pasts, of course.” Alton glanced briefly at Clarice, then fell to examining the liquid in his cup. “You know what we’re like…what Papa was like. We were all but encouraged to dally with whoever took our fancy, especially at Rosewood.”

Her voice even and entirely nonjudgmental, Clarice asked, “You’re talking of maids, laundresses, milkmaids?”

Alton nodded without looking up. “It was always so easy, and even when the inevitable happened, as, of course, it did with all three of us, Papa never turned a hair, but just arranged to have the girl taken care of, the babe raised within one of our worker’s families…you know how it’s done.” Lips thin, he grimaced. “What none of us knew—not even Papa, I suspect—was that Moira not only knew of each incident, she kept track. More, when we—me, Roger, and Nigel—came up to town, she somehow kept track here as well.” Alton looked up and met Clarice’s eyes. “For each of us she has a list of every encounter, every affair.”

He drew breath, with one hand made a helpless gesture. “For each of us, there’s at least one association, one liaison, that if it became known could…scupper our plans to marry, or at least marry the ladies we’ve chosen.”

Holding his gaze, Clarice murmured, “We do tend to move in a very small circle…”

Alton’s lips twisted; he nodded. “Precisely. You can see how it might be.”

Jack frowned. When neither Clarice nor Alton said more, he asked, “So Moira uses the information to do what? Drain money from the marquisate?”

A large diamond winked in Alton’s cravat; a smaller stone was embedded in the heavy gold signet ring on his right hand. His coat was by Schultz, his linen impeccable. Despite his haggardness, he was perfectly—and expensively—turned out.

Alton’s expression lightened; he laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Oh, no. That’s not her bent at all. Indeed, she’d be the first to encourage us to spend more, to make an even bigger splash. She would never want us to appear as anything less than as wealthy as we are. She delights in her role as the Marchioness of Melton. She continues to entertain lavishly as my hostess. We always have to be seen to be top of the tree.” Alton paused, the bitterness in his tone reflected in his face. “No, for her it’s not money. It’s control—of us.” He glanced at Jack. “The power to make us dance to her tune.”

After a moment, Alton looked at Clarice. “Moira tried to control you, and that backfired, but she got rid of you nevertheless. With the three of us, she was much more careful. By the time we realized, after Papa had died, she already had us in thrall. Worse, we’d handed her the ropes ourselves by telling her of our intentions to wed. She gets an unholy joy from knowing she can jerk our strings, make us obey her at any time, and that our futures—for each of us our future happiness—will only be granted at her whim.”

Clarice said nothing, yet her disgust with Moira was a palpable thing. “What have you done about it?” When Alton blinked, she rephrased, “Have any of you challenged her, tested her will, or have you simply accepted her threat as real?”

Alton’s haggard expression, temporarily eased, returned. “Roger tried. He said he’d tell Alice—Alice Combertville, Carlisle’s daughter—tell her all and throw himself on her mercy, and he did. At first, it seemed he’d triumphed. Alice was incensed at Moira’s game and swore she wasn’t concerned…but then two days later, Roger got a note breaking off their understanding. He tried to see Alice, to find out why she changed her mind, to persuade her…” Alton looked faintly ill. “That was last November. He still hasn’t been able to speak with her.”

“He’s still trying?”

“Yes! What else can he do? It’s driving him out of his mind. She’s been dancing with Throgmorton, and Dawlish. He’s terrified she’ll accept on

e of them, and then it’ll be all over…”

Clarice regarded Alton steadily, then calmly said, “Tell Roger he needs to speak with Alice, even if he has to abduct her to do it. He has to ask her what Moira told her.”