After a few minutes, when some color had returned to the dean’s parchmentlike cheeks, Jack suggested he return to the palace. “Tell the bishop we’ll do all we can, but if something serious has befallen Humphries, it’s possible we’ll never know. And if by chance Humphries does return, do let me know immediately.”
“Yes, of course.” The dean stood.
Clarice got to her feet. “I’ll take the Dean back to the palace in my carriage.” She met Jack’s gaze. “I’ve canceled all my appointments today. I’ll be spending the entire day at Melton House, organizing.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll send word there, and to the palace, if we have any news. That said, I’m not expecting to learn anything soon.”
He saw the dean and Clarice back to Alton’s town carriage, then strode swiftly back to the house.
“Gasthorpe?”
“Yes, my lord—I have the footmen waiting.”
He sent word to Dalziel, Christian, and Tristan, and roused Deverell from his bed upstairs. All of them went to work, activating a network of eyes and ears, concentrating on the areas south and east of the palace, and all along the Thames, searching for any sighting of Humphries, alone or with someone else.
The Bastion Club became their base; Dalziel sent word he’d have his men report there, too.
After lunch, Jack changed into merchant garb and went down to the river. Finding a team of bargemen with no work, he sent them to search the marshes at Deptford as far east as Greenwich Reach, the traditional place for bodies put into the river close to the city to wash up. That done, he returned to the club to receive any reports and coordinate their efforts.
The day wore on, and they heard nothing. Although he hadn’t expected anything else, Jack wondered if they’d ever learn what had happened to Humphries.
As the hours ticked by, he was glad Clarice was occupied, safely ensconced in the bosom of her family, surrounded by others and with too much to do to think too much about the missing deacon. To wonder if there’d been anything they could have done differently that might have deflected the sadly driven man from his determined course.
Jack knew there wasn’t. That when people like Humphries were caught in a web of intrigue and treason, they were too weak to break free. In this case, the spider—the last traitor—would devour Humphries, even if, as Jack suspected, it wouldn’t be he himself who did the deed.
When afternoon edged toward evening, and there was still no word, Jack left the reins in Gasthorpe’s capable hands and headed for Benedict’s. Finding Clarice absent, he went on to Melton House.
She was still there. He walked into the drawing room and saw her seated on a chaise surrounded by her sisters-in-law-to-be, her aunts, and a small army of female helpers. She looked like nothing so much as a general directing her troops.
Distracted, she looked up; across the room, she met his eyes. Swiftly read his expression. She didn’t need to ask whether they’d heard anything.
She glanced at the clock, blinked, then turned to her helpers. “Great heavens! We’ve forgotten the time!”
The observation triggered a torrent of exclamations, of orders for carriages to be brought around. The female gathering broke up. Jack surmised Clarice’s brothers had taken refuge in their clubs.
The departing ladies smiled shyly up at him as they trooped past him into the front hall. Clarice brought up the rear. Reaching him, she lifted a hand and lightly touched his cheek, then let her hand fall to grip his arm before moving past him.
Comforted by that fleeting touch, by the understanding and empathy it conveyed, he followed her into the hall. He nodded to her aunts as they kissed Clarice’s cheek and turned to leave.
“We’ll see you later,” Lady Bentwood told Clarice.
Jack wanted nothing more than a peaceful evening alone with Boadicea.
When the door closed behind the last of the ladies, she walked back to him. With a sigh, she halted before him.
He looked into her dark eyes. “Do we have to go out tonight?”
She studied his eyes, then grimaced. “I’m afraid so. It’s Lady Holland’s bal masque.”
Lady Holland was one of the ton’s foremost hostesses.
Taking his hand, Clarice led him into the drawing room. Inside, she turned into his arms; behind him, he pushed the door closed.
“We have to go. It’s an annual event, one of those must-attend events of the Season, at least among the haut ton.”
He pulled a face. “And it’s a masked ball?”
She leaned into him, smiled as he settled his arms about her. Raising her hands, she framed his face. “We have to go, but we don’t have to stay long.”