With no intention of helping her out, Clarice turned to greet Lord Fortescue, as did Jack, then they moved briskly on into the ballroom.
“My brothers should be here somewhere.” They were both tall; both scanned the room.
Without luck, but as she turned back to Jack, Clarice saw any number of interested faces; surveying Jack, still searching the room, it wasn’t hard to see why. She might be supremely elegant, but he was her equal; where she was regal and gracious, he was charming. Physically, they were well matched, both imposing, long-legged and graceful; they made a strikingly handsome couple.
It was clear many viewing them thought so; there was a much-struck quality in the glances thrown their way. Few had recognized her; she hadn’t appeared in these circles for seven years. But the whispered questions had already started. By tomorrow, all London would know that Lady Clarice Altwood was back.
“Come. Let’s stroll.” Jack settled her hand on his sleeve and turned down the long room.
Clarice kept pace beside him, her innate hauteur cloaking her, making her appear as minor royalty. Which, Jack reflected, was not far from the mark. Some of the older ladies they passed recognized her and opened their eyes wide at them, but when Clarice, calm and serene, inclined her head to them, they returned the gesture readily enough.
Jack sensed a slight easing in the fine tension thrumming through her.
Then she tightened her grip on his sleeve and nodded toward a set of windows. “There they are—Alton and Roger.”
They joined them; both brothers perked up as they did.
“What did you learn at the clubs?” Clarice asked.
“Not a great deal,” Roger replied.
“It seems,” Alton said, “as if quite a few have heard whispers, but they’re puzzled by them, and are playing cautious until they learn more.”
“Good.” Clarice’s lips firmed in cynical satisfaction. “Our sainted name is buying us a little time, at least.” She glanced at Jack.
He nodded. “Time enough for us to devise suitable countermeasures.” He met Alton’s gaze. “I seriously doubt that whoever is behind this will allow the whispers to fade and die. Their plan calls for as much sensation as they can generate, but exonerating James will nullify that.”
Roger glanced at Clarice. “Now you’re here, if you can think of any way to help me with Alice, I’ll be your slave for life.” His tone sounded hopeless.
Clarice raised her brows. “Very well. Jack can be my witness. Now!” Turning, she surveyed the crowd. “Where is she?”
Roger pointed to a young lady standing beside a chaise on which a bejeweled matron sat conversing with two others. The young lady was steadfastly looking the other way. Although two gentlemen hovered, neither seemed to be holding Alice Combertville’s attention.
Clarice grinned, eyes narrowing, the gesture intent. “This should be easy.” It was obvious to Clarice that Alice’s attention—her senses, her focus—were firmly fixed on their group, on Roger. “Wait here.”
She left them and smoothly circled the chaise. With Alice so busy looking the other way, it was easy to approach her, to come up beside her with a smile. “Miss Combertville?”
Alice started, and turned to her. She frowned, puzzled; she had no idea who Clarice was.
Likewise intrigued, the two gentlemen drew closer; Clarice turned to them and smiled graciously. She was sure neither recognized her, equally sure from the looks in their eyes that she could, if she wished, enslave them.
“Harry Throgmorton, fair lady.” Harry took the hand she extended and bowed with extravagant flair.
“Miles Dawlish, ma’am.” Mr. Dawlish, not to be outdone, was studiously correct.
Clarice hid a smile; they were far too young for her. Too inexperienced, too lightweight to be thinking what they were. “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I would like a private word with Miss Combertville.”
She’d given them no name; she gave them no explanation. Put on the spot, effectively dismissed, although clearly disappointed, they both summoned smiles, murmured “Of course,” and reluctantly moved away.
Turning to Alice, Clarice smiled. “I’m Lady Clarice Altwood, Roger’s sister.”
Alice blinked; her frown deepened. “His half sister…?” She scanned Clarice’s features. “No.”
Clarice let her smile turn grim. “No, indeed. Moira isn’t my mother. However, there’s no reason you should recognize me. I haven’t been out in the ton for many years. I’m pre
sently in town on business, and in light of Roger’s interest in you, I thought to make your acquaintance.”
With lustrous brown hair, and brown eyes that should have been bright but instead looked dull and weary, Alice stared up into Clarice’s face. She looked as lost in hopelessness as Roger. “I…Roger…”