“We were about to discuss how best to counteract any rumor, to ensure it’s dismissed out of hand, or at least denied any chance to spread and grow.” Clarice paused to sip as Jack drew up a chair beside her. “I think”—she glanced at Jack—“that raising the matter ourselves, before any whispers can gain hold, and stating, flatly, that such an outrageous notion is, quite obviously, untrue, might be our best approach. What do you think?”
He considered, then nodded. Across the breakfast table, he met Alton’s eyes. “In most instances, I’d consider such a tack unwise, but in your case, you have the name, the status. It seems pointless not to use it.”
“Precisely.” Clarice nodded decisively. “Especially as we know James is perfectly innocent. There’s no risk whatever in the family’s supporting him.”
“And the fact that we are openly rallying behind him will give even the most inveterate gossipmongers pause,” Alton said.
“That certainly worked with Lady Grimwade and Mrs. Raleigh.” Clarice set down her cup. “I saw them last night, and if their expressions were anything to judge by, they were still being extremely cautious.”
“Actually”—Nigel pushed aside his empty plate—“I rather think old James will be safe enough, at least for the next week or so.” He glanced at Alton. “From what I saw and heard last night, the ton have found another Altwood to speculate about.”
“Alton?” Clarice frowned.
“No.” Nigel looked at her. “You.”
“Me?” Clarice sat up. “Why on earth…” Her words trailed away, but her puzzled frown remained. She studied Nigel. “What are they saying?”
“Not saying—speculating. Everyone’s wondering why you’re back, and regardless, who will, as many see it, pick up the gauntlet.”
“What gauntlet?” Clarice asked, her tone tending dire.
“The one you threw down last night,” Nigel replied. “When you waltzed with Warnefleet here down Mrs. Henderson’s ballroom.”
When Clarice looked stunned, Nigel snorted. “Good God, you haven’t been out of town that long. You know what subject’s closest to the old biddies’ hearts. French spies and traitors will do in a pinch, but give them the prospect of a highborn spinster still handsome and weddable, still eminently well heeled and eligible, and they’re not going to bother with treason.”
When Clarice continued to stare, apparently struck dumb, Nigel grinned. “At least you’ve solved the problem of them gossiping about James.”
Clarice groaned, shut her eyes, and slumped back in her chair. “I don’t believe it!”
But she did. As Nigel had said, her returning to the ton for the first time in seven years, and then waltzing in the arms of a handsome lord, himself a matrimonial target, was behavior guaranteed to capture the ton’s fickle interest.
“Never mind.” Abruptly she sat up, opening her eyes. She wasn’t going to dwell on it. “What’s done is done, and as you say, it will help shield James.”
“As long,” Alton said, “as you continue to feed the gossips.”
Clarice looked at him, caught him exchanging a glance she couldn’t interpret with Jack beside her. “What do you mean?”
Alton shrugged. “Just that, for James’s sake, it would be helpful if you continued to swan around in the evenings, being seen about generally, the usual sort of thing. While they’re focusing on you, they won’t be wondering about James.”
Clarice expressed her deep antipathy to the notion with a disgusted and dismissive humph.
Jack set down his coffee cup, drawing her attention; he caught her eye. “Think of it as achieving the objective you were aiming for, just by a different route. Just because you hadn’t planned it doesn’t mean it won’t work, and as Melton said, keeping the ton focused on you won’t require much effort.”
Jack wasn’t surprised when her gaze turned considering. He kept his lips shut, slanted a sharp glance at Alton to ensure he did the same. Somewhat taken aback by the unvoiced directive, Alton did, and was rewarded when Clarice wagged her head from side to side, weighing the matter, then reluctantly conceded, “All right. But only if there’s nothing definite to do in furthering James’s defence.
“Incidentally”—she looked at Alton—“before I forget, while I don’t imagine Moira will do anything truly drastic, like poison anyone, thinking back over her campaign to control you, I kept wondering why. She’s wealthy enough—as you said it’s not the money. So what else?”
Roger looked at his brothers, then replied, “We don’t know. She’s a female. Does there have to be a ‘what else’?”
Clarice narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes. There does. And I think I know what, or rather who, it is. Carlton.”
Her brothers blinked at her. Jack had no idea who Carlton was.
Alton frowned. “The succession?”
Jack recalled hearing that Moira had borne the youngest of the previous marquess’s four sons.
“Not precisely.” Clarice sat straighter “It would be amazing by any standard were he to inherit, with the three of you, all hale and whole, before him. However, while none of you are married, and there are no children in your nurseries, then…well, Carlton does have some claim. He’s third in line and is ten years younger than Nigel, after all. If the three of you go to your graves bachelors, then Carlton will inherit, no matter he might be old by that time. So as long as the knowledge that all three of you are about to marry remains secret, the perception that Carlton has some chance to eventually succeed to the marquisate continues unchallenged as the commonly held notion.”