“Actually,” Jack said, “Olsen might be useful.” He glanced at Clarice. “A man with experience of a battlefield—better, in this case, than one with none.”
She met his eyes, then shut her lips and nodded. “True.” Swinging around, she started pacing again. “Regardless, as you yourself can no longer attend, James, you need supporters who will ensure this Olsen has all the right arguments and whatever proofs he needs to reveal these allegations for the fabrications they are.”
After a moment, she added, “I’ll leave for London in the morning.”
“My dear!” James looked distressed. “Truly, there’s no need.”
“Yes, there is.” She didn’t stop her pacing. “Regardless of how private the bishop’s court is, the story will out, of that you may be sure. The family will be horrified.” She glanced at James. “I’m perfectly aware of what sort of reception I can expect from the family were I to approach them on my behalf. On your behalf, by way of quashing a potential scandal—in such a case I’m sure they’ll not only listen, but act in whatever way is necessary.”
“No.” James started to look mulish. “I won’t have you subjecting yourself—”
“She’s right, James.” Jack was treated to a surprised but approving look from Clarice. He didn’t know why James thought she’d be subjected to anything untoward, but he knew she was right, and the way his plans were unfurling in his head, she wouldn’t be subjected to anything untoward, either.
“Precisely.” Clarice nodded decisively. “I’ll leave at first light—”
“However”—without raising his voice, Jack spoke over her—“before I leave for London, I’ll want all the relevant facts. Dates, James, and a list of all the papers you’ve published in the last decade—indeed, a summary of all you’ve researched over that time, whom you’ve corresponded with, and when, what dates you traveled and to where, and whom you spoke with while there, all the soldiers you’ve interviewed…once I have all that, I’ll go up to London.”
He wasn’t surprised to hear Clarice state, “I’ll wait and go with you.”
Looking up, he met her dark eyes. “As James said, there’s really no need, and I do have the right contacts to do what needs to be done.”
Clarice read the calm certainty in his eyes, took a moment to consult her instincts, all too reckless as she’d been told often enough. But she’d never be able to sit and wait, wondering what was happening. “No doubt. Regardless, I’ll accompany you to London.”
She glanced warningly at James, her decision clear in her face. She would listen to no argument. She was her own person; neither James nor any other had any authority over her. “The family will need to know.” She looked at Jack. “They don’t know you, but, for my sins, they definitely know me.”
Jack had merely inclined his head—whether in true acceptance of her decision, or with some vain hope that she might later change her mind she didn’t know—but he’d let the matter slide.
James hadn’t, but had only succeeded in wasting his breath, and pricking her temper to boot.
She knew what she was doing.
Both in that, and in this.
Calmly, Clarice walked through the night’s shadows, crossed the bridge and climbed the stile, then headed through the meadow toward the hill and the folly.
And Jack. His arms, his body, and the excitement she’d found with him.
She wasn’t sure it would be the same, as absorbing the second time—more accurately the second night—but she was keen to find out.
He’d excused himself soon after her declaration that she’d go to London with him. She’d escorted him to the front door; following close behind her, he’d whispered in her ear. She’d had to fight a reactive shiver, but had calmly agreed to meet him again tonight.
The folly rose before her, the door once again left enticingly open. Anticipation leapt in her veins; smiling to herself, at herself, she quickened her pace and strode eagerly on.
From behind the wide windows of the folly, Jack looked down, watching as Clarice left the shadows of the trees and, with an easy, confident stride, crossed to the stairs. And started up them, to him.
Expectation rose through him, definite and unusually powerful, strangely compelling. Not simply the expectation of sensual delight, but of a chance to engage more fully with her, of another opportunity he would grasp to woo her, another step in his campaign to win her.
He knew what he wanted; what he didn’t truly understand was why. What he felt was beyond question; what he wanted and needed—what he had to have—was crystal clear. But he saw her clearly, and knew himself well; he couldn’t comprehend what had given rise to the connection that already existed, that was already so strong, at least for him.
Strong enough to bind him, to compel him.
He turned as she came through the door. She saw him, smiled with her customary assurance, then closed the door and crossed the room to him.
He waited for her to come to him through the dappled shadows, her gown, a pale, fine evening gown, flirting about the long line of her legs. She let her shawl slide from her arms to trail across the head of the daybed. Her head tilting slightly, studying his face in the poor light, she came steadily on, slowing to a halt only when she was breast to chest with him.
He closed his hands about her waist as she lifted her arms and draped them over his shoulders.
She examined his face from closer quarters. “Did you want to talk about James?”