From the brothers’ dark glances, it was clear they knew and understood her as he did; all four of them knew she’d make her own decision about him, about any relationship between them, and woe betide any who sought to interfere.
Her pause lasted for no more than two breaths, then, without glancing Jack’s way, she looked at Roger and Nigel, then met Alton’s gaze.
Jack’s heart solidified in his chest. Regardless of the past, her family was important to her; returning to their bosom might be something she truly yearned to do—
“Thank you, but no. I prefer to stay here.” Clarice suppressed the urge to look at Jack, to reassure and to see his reaction. Alton frowned and opened his mouth to argue; she held up a hand. “No. The last time I was at Melton House…the memories are too painful. I put them behind me when I left, a clean break. There’s no reason to go back, no reason in the present circumstances that I need to reside under your roof. I’m perfectly comfortable here”—she glanced briefly at Jack; despite her best efforts to appear aloof a faint smile lit her eyes, teased her lips—“and so here I’ll remain.”
Alton, Roger, and Nigel made grumping sounds denoting their unhappiness, but none of them attempted to argue further.
“Besides”—she sat straighter—“while you might think having me about to shield you from Moira is a good idea, in reality, having me and Moira under the same roof, especially that roof, is an untenable proposition.” She glanced at them, her gaze sharp. “The disruption would be significant, not just for you, but for the staff as well. Such an arrangement simply would not work.”
They grimaced, but accepted her decree. They all rose. She waited while they shook hands with Jack, then, before they could be difficult, steered them to the door, leaving Jack by the fireplace. Alton, the last to go out, threw a frowning glance back at Jack, but, after reiterating that the necessary invitations would arrive shortly, reluctantly left.
Jack watched her walk back to him. As she neared, he raised a brow. “They feel responsible for you, unsurprisingly. You’re not making matters easy for them.”
“My life is no longer any concern of theirs, as they well know.” With a swish of her skirts, she sank back into her armchair and watched while Jack subsided in a relaxed sprawl in its mate. “Now, how should we proceed?”
They agreed that the obvious division of labor was likely to be the most efficient. Jack, through his contacts, would investigate the three alleged meetings, searching for sufficient facts to disprove each one. Meanwhile Clarice, with her brothers’ assistance, would do whatever necessary to quash any rumors circulating through the ton, and via the family’s influence open any doors they might discover initially closed. In between, she would do what she could to counter Moira’s influence and smooth her brothers’ matrimonial paths.
“However, I absolutely refuse to propose for them. That they must do for themselves.”
Jack hid a grin at her sternness. He felt like grinning in general, no excuse needed, lighthearted—his heart lightened—by her choosing to remain at Benedict’s. Despite what she’d told her brothers, some part of her reasoning had to do with him. That brief smile she’d sent his way had assured him that was so. “I didn’t want to say anything while they were here, but your decision not to stand as a physical shield between your brothers and your stepmother was eminently wise. They’re at the point, Alton especially, of dealing with her themselves, but if you were there…”
“Precisely.” She nodded. “They’d regress.”
The promised invitations arrived. They read them, mutually grimaced, and agreed to meet at Benedict’s at half past nine to commence the journey to Fortescue House.
Jack stole a quick kiss, one that lasted five minutes, then left, still grinning. He walked back to Montrose Place, a light breeze in his face, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs.
His head remained clear, without a hint of pain.
Deverell and Christian arrived at the club shortly after Jack, and brought Tristan Wemyss, Earl of Trentham, another club member, with them. The three joined Jack in the library; stretching out in the large comfortable armchairs, gratefully accepting the mugs of ale Gasthorpe served them, they traded quips, sapiently remarking on their farsightedness in establishing this, their London bolt-hole.
“I swear to you,” Tristan said, “society being what it is these days, we’ll always need a place to vanish to. After the wedding, I thought I’d be safe, but no. Now it’s the married but dissatisfied matrons who set their caps at me.”
“I should think Leonora would have something to say to that.” Christian’s eyes twinkled. Leonora, now Tristan’s wife, originally the lady living in the house beside the club, was no meek and mild miss.
“Oh, indeed.” Tristan nodded. “But there’s only so much hiding behind her skirts I can stomach. Dashed demoralizing after facing and surviving Boney’s worst.”
They laughed, and caught up with news of their other comrades—Charles St. Austell, the most recently married, settling into domestic bliss in Cornwall, Tony Blake, also now married, learning to cope with a ready-made family at his seat in Devon, and Gervase Tregarth, Earl of Crowhurst, presently out of town dealing with family business.
“As for Christian and me”—Deverell stretched out his long legs—“we’ve been skulking around the fringes of the ton, reconnoitering as it were.”
“Trying our damnedest not to get noticed.” Christian grimaced. “Not the easiest assignment. I’m actually exceedingly glad to have something else to occupy my time for the nonce. I haven’t seen any prospect worthwhile pursuing in the ballrooms. I’d much rather pursue some villain.” He cocked a brow at Deverell. “What about you?”
“Same story.” Deverell sighed. “You know, I had such a lovely conceit when we started this club that finding the right lady would be…well, a dashed sight easier than infiltrating French business affairs and pretending to be one of them for over ten years.”
Christian nodded. “So, leaving the demoralizing subject of our matrimonial endeavors, what have we to report?”
“First,” Tristan said, “tell me what the game is. I want to play a hand in this. Far more to my taste than doing the pretty in the ton.”
Jack briefly outlined the threat to James Altwood, why they knew he was innocent and Dalziel’s suspicions, and their current plans to quash the allegations. “Before they transmogrify to outright charges of treason. Courtesy of the Altwoods, it’s likely I’ll be able to interview the man behind the allegations—Deacon Humphries—tomorrow. We’ve already got the dates, times, and places of three recent meetings the courier supposedly had with James—Deverell and Christian were looking into those. We’ve verified that James was in London on all three occasions, so theoretically the meetings could have taken place.”
“Just so.” Deverell nodded. “All three places are taverns in Southwark, within walking distance of Lambeth Palace, which is where James Altwood stays when in London. And the taverns are exactly what one might expect of such places in the stews. The only way we’ll learn anything is to watch, quiet and unthreatening, until we get a feel for each place. No point cornering the witnesses until we know how the ground lies and so have a chance of catching them out. They’ll have been paid to tell their tale, but if we can shake it, they’ll most likely retreat, but we’ll need a better understanding of each tavern to do that. No other way than the long way, I’m afraid.”
“I agree.” Christian looked at Jack. “We’ll set up the necessary surveillance. The information you drag from the good deacon might help us narrow our scope.”
“I have a suggestion.” Tristan set down his ale mug. He glanced at Christian and Deverell. “All three of us are at present fixed in London. All three of us have useful contacts here. But our contacts prefer to work only with people they know.” He looked at Jack. “You have three principal incidents you need disproved. I suggest each of us take one tavern and throw our people on that one incident alone. Concentrating, focus