Smiling easily, Jack nodded. “I’ll see Mr. Dalziel out, then see my visitor.”
With a wave, he indicated Dalziel should precede him down the stairs. Following unhurriedly in his excommander’s wake, Jack saw—too late—that the door to the parlor was set wide. Gasthorpe wouldn’t have left it so, but given who was waiting in the room, it wasn’t difficult to imagine how the door came to be open.
Ahead of him, unaware of any danger, Dalziel crossed the hall to the front door, walking into view of anyone in the parlor.
This, Jack thought, was going to be interesting.
Chapter 12
Not just interesting, but revealing.
Dalziel reached the front door and paused before he sensed another’s presence. He turned toward the parlor; from where he was standing, he would have a clear view across the room.
Strolling up behind him, because he was watching, Jack detected the infinitesimal stiffening of Dalziel’s shoulders beneath his well-cut coat, but then he bowed, correct and distant, toward the parlor, and turned away.
Jack kept his expression easy, unconcerned, apparently unaware of that minor incident and its implications; he opened the door and saw Dalziel out. As soon as his excommander’s boots hit the gravel, Jack closed the door. Intrigued, he walked into the parlor.
Clarice stood before the window, peeking through the curtains at Dalziel’s departing back. Jack closed the parlor door; she turned to face him, a familiar frown etched between her brows.
“Who is he?”
Clarice looked up at him, and blinked. “Don’t you know?”
“I told you we only know him as Dalziel.”
“He’s your ex-commander?”
“Yes.” Jack halted before her, studying her face. “You recognized him, didn’t you? He certainly recognized you.”
“Damn!” She frowned harder. “I hate that.”
“What?”
“That he knows who I am, but I can’t think of his name.”
“But you do know him?”
“Not exactly. I have met him, but it was years and years ago, at Miranda Ffolliot’s birthday party. I was…” She paused to work it out. “Nine. It was one of those parties one had to attend. He—whoever he is—was older, fifteen at least. He was at Eton with Miranda’s eldest brother, I think, although that wasn’t why he was there. All the guests, children though we were, had been invited with the usual in mind.”
“Matchmaking from the cradle?”
“It was considered wise to encourage us get to know each other from an early age.” She smiled wryly. “That was the circle from which we were ultimately supposed to chose our spouses.”
Jack smiled into her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to plan what we should do.”
“I thought you were going to alert your brother.”
“I decided it was pointless broaching the subject with the family before we know what the allegations actually are. I don’t want to appear hysterical, as if I’m reacting to some imagined situation they’ll think can’t possibly be true.”
Somewhat to her relief, he nodded. “Dalziel didn’t know the details of the allegations either, although he has confirmed that assertions that James passed information to the enemy are being heard in the bishop’s court.”
Clarice saw he had a great deal more to relate. Crossing to one of the armchairs, she sat and waved to the other, facing her. “What else did your ex-commander say?”
He considered how much to tell her as he sank into the chair. Then he relaxed, shoulders back against the cushions, and proceeded to talk without reservation. She couldn’t say why she was so certain of that last, but she was. Listening intently, she questioned, and he answered as he gave her chapter and verse of his ex-commander’s crusade to uncover one last traitor and why that might be the prime cause behind James’s plight.
“How…”—she searched for the right word—“diabolical! That James, his reputation, even the family’s reputation should be so cavalierly jeopardized. Whoever this person is, he has absolutely no scruples.”