Shutting the door with her hip, she carried the pitcher to the washstand. Ignoring the lounging figure in the armchair, she poured water into the basin, washed her face and hands, then blotted them dry. And felt considerably better.
Lowering the towel, she looked at Jack. His eyes were closed. He appeared to have fallen asleep. His chest rose and fell in a slow, regular rhythm; his hands lay lax, long fingers relaxed on the chair’s broad arms.
She glanced at the bed. It had a dimity-covered comforter spread over crisp white sheets. The pillows were plump and plentiful. The bed-curtains gathered at each post with wide ribbons matched the comforter; once released, they’d cocoon the bed in spring clouds of tiny blossoms.
Just like the apple blossom in the orchards at Avening.
The idea of rolling in that cushioning expanse, naked, with Jack, filled her mind; the mental vision she conjured stole her breath.
“Just think of it as an extrawide daybed.”
Jack watched her gaze flash to him. He lifted his lids fully and met it.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then, chin lifting, she walked to the bed, with a swish of her skirts, turned, and sat on the end. “What are we going to do once we reach London? What should we do first?”
He noted the change of subject, noted, too, her defiant stance. He’d foreseen the need for them to share a room, to pretend to be man and wife. That didn’t mean they had to share a bed, yet it wasn’t in his nature to pass up such an opportunity to steer her in the direction he wished.
“First, you should explain the situation to your family and see what support they’re prepared to give, what connections and contacts they have to exploit. I, meanwhile, will alert my own contacts and see what I can learn, what’s known from outside the Church.” He hesitated, then added, “I sent a letter a few days ago to someone who should know what’s going on.”
She studied him. “To the man you used to work for—that ‘certain gentleman in Whitehall’?”
He recalled she’d been present when James had used that phrase, their private code for Dalziel. “Yes. He was in command of His Majesty’s covert operations on foreign soil for years. He’s still in the position, but now in the sense of tying up loose ends.”
“Loose ends like traitors as yet uncovered?”
He heard the rising concern in her voice. “I told him about James because there’s one fact that more than any other proves James is no traitor, one my ex-commander in particular won’t miss.”
She looked her question.
He smiled. “Me. The very fact I’m here, alive, proves beyond doubt that James is not a traitor.”
“He knew what you were doing?”
“Not only what I was doing, but where I was. And I’d lay odds my ex-commander knew that James had that information. Very little escapes him.”
She frowned. “But surely that means James is in no real danger?”
“Not of being convicted of treason, no. But neither you, your family, nor I, nor my ex-commander, and even less the government, would want this business to go to a public trial. The current charges against James are private, entirely within the Church. If they can be dealt with and dismissed within that forum, all will be well. But unfortunately, with the case being within the Church, the secular authorities can’t s
imply intervene and quash it. All we can do is provide information and evidence to James’s defender. However…”
He stopped, visited by an urge to keep the more dangerous aspects from her.
Too late. Lightly frowning, she studied him, then said, “We know James isn’t guilty, which means someone is going to considerable lengths to fabricate these charges. Why? There has to be a reason.”
He grimaced. “That’s the point I imagine my ex-commander will find most interesting.”
A knock on the door brought a summons to dinner.
“Ah, yes.” Clarice dismissed the maid with a wave. “We’ll be down in a moment.”
Puzzled, Jack closed the door. He watched as Clarice crossed to her open trunk; bending over it, she rummaged beneath the layers, then rose, a jewelry box in her hands. Placing it on the dressing table, she opened it. He drew near, blinking at the blaze of jewels revealed. He frowned as she sorted swiftly through the pieces. “This is an inn.”
“Indeed.” She nodded. “An inn where we’re supposed to be man and wife. Ah—there it is.”
She picked out a simple gold ring supporting three small emeralds. Holding up her hand, she slid the ring onto the ring finger of her left hand. Turning the emeralds to her palm, she flexed her fingers. She examined the ring, now masquerading as a wedding band. “That should do.”
Shutting the jewelry box, she replaced it in the trunk. Straightening, she fixed him with a superior look. “If one is going to carry off a charade convincingly, one has to think of such little things.”