Someone Wanton His Way Comes

by Caldwell, Christi

  But were they honorable, though? That question persisted.

  Clayton dragged a hand down the side of his face. What the hell was it with the friends he had who seemed to think the best place to conduct private business was in a crowded private club or a boxing studio?

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Scarsdale put in, “others are saying if you, Saint St. John, have given your approval, then the society cannot be all that bad. Gentlemen have been less fearful about the motives of that organization since you’ve come along.”

  Clayton perked up. Well, that was certainly good news. After all, the entire reason Sylvia had invited him about was to achieve the very ends Scarsdale now spoke of. So in that, some good had come of his efforts for Sylvia.

  “And then others think . . .”

  Clayton snapped back to attention, and in a bid to make sense of Landon’s muffled words, he cupped a hand around his ear. “What was that?”

  “Others are of the opinion that you have your eye on one of the ladies in the bunch. Not in the fraternal kind of way.”

  He sputtered. His neck went hot.

  “That’s what my reaction was as well,” Scarsdale said. “Now, if it had been Landon, I’d probably wager the same as those gentlemen.”

  The two gentlemen began to play at sparring over the pretend insult.

  While they boxed like little boys, Clayton shook his head.

  Wagers. This was certainly a first . . . for him. Never before had he done something to land himself in the betting book of White’s.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” Scarsdale asked as he abruptly let his arms fall to his sides.

  All three of the trio looked to the front of the studio, and Clayton went stock still.

  Whereas he had forcibly made himself stop thinking about Sylvia, he’d not had to do so with the older gentleman now making his way through Gentleman Jackson’s. But he should have. If for no other reason than the closeness Clayton had once had to the gentleman’s family.

  “Prendergast,” Landon whispered.

  “Yes, I see that,” Clayton replied out of the corner of his mouth.

  “What is he doing here?” Scarsdale again asked the question they all had.

  By the purposeful stride and the focus of his gaze, there could be no doubting they were, in fact, who the marquess sought out. Of all the places for this man to be, he should choose this one? This place where his son had died?

  The marquess reached them. “Boys,” he greeted them, the same way he had when they’d returned from Eton with his son.

  Each of them hurried to sketch a deep bow.

  “Landon and Scarsdale.” Gentleman Jackson summoned the pair.

  As they rushed on for their session, both men looked tangibly relieved at that reprieve. And as Clayton was left alone with the marquess, never more had he wished he’d been a fan of the sport, and in the middle of the ring where Scarsdale and Landon now found themselves preparing to spar.

  To be left here with Norfolk’s father in the very place where his friend had died was a level of discomfort Clayton had never known in his thirty years. To the marquess’s credit, he gave no outward action to the agony this place surely caused him. Clayton had been gutted by the death of his father. To this date, he couldn’t enter the breakfast room at his family’s country estate without reliving the agony of that loss. As such, he studiously avoided it, taking his meals either in the kitchen amongst the servants, or in his offices. Or even on occasion in the formal dining room. Never, however, that room. And yet, Prendergast should be here. In this place.

  His hands clasped behind him, Clayton watched on as the two men settled into their fight. The silence between him and the marquess was magnified by the shuffle of Scarsdale’s and Landon’s feet as they moved about the ring, and the increased respiration that their efforts brought.

  “I sometimes come here to feel closer to my son. I trust that sounds peculiar,” Lord Prendergast murmured.

  “Nothing sounds peculiar where lost loved ones are concerned.” But then there was no explaining how each person navigated their own grief. Hadn’t Clayton and his sisters all responded in different ways following their father’s death?

  “I have kept in touch with Landon and Scarsdale over the years.”

  Clayton masked his surprise at that revelation.

  “They’ve been good enough to indulge an old, lonely man,” Norfolk’s father said as his gaze followed the dancing fighters around the ring.

  They’d been good enough to indulge an old, lonely man . . . where Clayton had not. The meaning, whether intentional or not, Clayton did not know. Once again, his own guilt could be the entire reason for internalizing what the older man was saying. “Forgive me for—”

  Norfolk’s father waved him off. “None of that. You are here now, and it is so very good to see you again.”

  They fell into another silence, this one more comfortable than the one before. “I have read about my daughter-in-law in the papers.”

  That change of topic came so quick, Clayton blinked.

  Lord Prendergast sighed. “That is the only way I can find out anything about her . . . or my grandson.” Pain twisted the old man’s features into a mask of grief. “Though there isn’t much one can glean about a three-year-old boy in the gossip columns.”

  This felt very different. And he may be the optimist his friends insisted upon calling him, but something in that statement stirred his unease. “No. I expect that is true,” Clayton said carefully.

  “I don’t think there’s anything untoward about your being at whatever club she has.”

  “Society,” Clayton automatically corrected, as he found himself having to so often do. People couldn’t even respect what Sylvia and the members chose to call themselves.

  “I think it is admirable,” Norfolk’s father said. “Your going there.”

  Clayton, however, wasn’t looking for the older gentleman’s praise or compliments. The last thing he wanted or intended to do was share anything about his private dealings with Sylvia. With him, or with anyone. Still, something in the steel of the marquess’s ice-blue eyes and the hard lines at the corners of them served as a contradiction to the smile on his mouth and the words on his lips. As such, Clayton proceeded with caution, directing Norfolk’s father away from talk about his daughter-in-law. “I trust that you and Lady Prendergast are well?” From what his mother had shared, the marchioness had retreated to the country and hidden herself away . . . with none invited to visit, and her visiting no one.

  “You’ve not come by. Not like Landon and Scarsdale.” There was an oddly detached, emotionless quality to that statement, which shifted them back to the older gentleman’s original words for Clayton. “That took me by surprise. You were closer with my son than any of the others.” The marquess spoke as if he were dropping casual comments about the fine London weather they’d been enjoying and not as though he were casting the aspersion upon Clayton’s character that he now did.

  Nor did it escape his notice that Norfolk’s father had failed to answer his question. And yet, the older gentleman was entirely right to that disappointment. “Forgive me, my lord. You are, indeed, correct.” There’d been an obligation to many whom he had failed. Not just Sylvia. Clayton, after all, had spent many of his childhood days visiting the household of the man who now stood before him.

  Clayton had never minced words. He’d only ever been direct and forthcoming. That did not mean, however, he was incapable of picking up on the subtleties of when someone was saying more than he was.

  “As close as you are with your own family, you see how wrong it is that she keeps me from my grandson.”

  “I was unaware that you have not been seeing your grandson.” Clayton pulled his focus away from the pair in the ring. But then he’d studiously avoided Sylvia, along with Norfolk’s father.

  The marquess dabbed at the corners of his eyes, in the first real show of emotion Clayton had ever recalled the other man shari
ng. “Oh, yes.”

  This was who Sylvia had believed was visiting her the day Clayton had first shown up, the person who’d been determined to see her. And yet, why would she turn the older man away?

  She wouldn’t have made the decision she had to cut out her in-laws if there hadn’t been some reason. That, Clayton would stake his very life on. Whether it pained her to do so . . . or for other reasons, he didn’t know. But there had to be something.

  “She is seeking to punish me,” the marquess whispered, his voice breaking. “It is her revenge against Norman for . . .” Having had a lover. Nay, not just a lover, but a woman whom he’d loved when he’d not Sylvia.

  And yet . . . “Lady Norfolk is not capable of unkindness.” That did not fit with everything Clayton knew about Sylvia or the woman she was.

  “Do you know how many letters I have written her? Daily,” he said, not giving Clayton a chance to answer, nor himself concurring with Clayton’s assessment of Sylvia’s character. “I am not guilty of sins that should keep me away from my grandson.”

  God, how he despised all the torment and unrest Norfolk had left behind. Now he felt compelled to help this aged man before him.

  Norfolk’s father rested a hand on Clayton’s sleeve. “You will speak to her.” There was an entreaty there.

  “Of course,” he promised. Although he could not promise to secure Sylvia’s permission, he could at least offer to try to help. And in that, in doing this, he could secure peace for the marquess and relieve himself of any obligation to the man who had been so kind when he was younger.

  In this, and by helping Sylvia, Clayton would be free of these two responsibilities.

  Clayton had left early, without time for even a goodbye, and since his sister had announced his departure from Hyde Park, Sylvia had spent the whole day thinking of him . . . and their exchange. Specifically, their discussion about marriage. Never had she believed a man could speak, would speak, as he had.

  Even when her late husband had been courting her, she’d once overheard him jesting to Lord Landon about the struggles of rogues giving up their bachelor ways. Sadly, she’d come to realize only after they’d married that’d been no jest on his part.

  Then, there’d been her brother, who—until he’d fallen in love—had thought of matrimony as a business arrangement.

  And then there was . . . Clayton.

  Clayton, who saw the woman he’d one day wed as a partner.

  We’ll be faithful to one another.

  Her heart spasmed and squeezed all over again at just how effortlessly those words had flowed from his lips.

  Of course, he’d said. As if he was absolutely certain he wouldn’t relent on the terms of his eventual marriage. He spoke of honoring his vows and being faithful, and she found herself jealous of whichever lady he ultimately made his bride.

  Devotion. Fidelity. Honor. They were all gifts that his eventual wife would be the recipient of.

  Her heart hammered hard in her breast, knocking there painfully.

  Not envy of the woman . . . but rather, of the marriage the couple would have. One that, following the forbidden embraces she’d shared with Clayton, would include passion, and not the cold, awkward exchanges Sylvia had known with her own husband. Yes, it wasn’t that she was jealous of the idea of Clayton with someone . . . rather, she was jealous of what that couple would share. That was all there was to it.

  Finding some solace in those silent reassurances she gave herself, she let her legs fall to the floor, grabbed her notebook, and snapped it open.

  Brides.

  Potential matches.

  Sylvia tapped the tip of her pencil against that heading, drumming it on the page. “Potential matches. Potential matches.”

  To give her fingers a purpose while her mind searched for names, she underlined the title. And then underlined it a second time for good measure. She needed to provide more than one for Clayton’s consideration. One would never do. He required choices.

  There was . . .

  Or mayhap . . .

  Why do you have to add others?

  Because the moment you present Clayton with one name is the moment this becomes more real, a voice taunted. When she suggested this lady, then everything would continue in a forward motion, and then her friendship with Clayton would be no more. Not given all the intimate moments they’d shared together. For even though she would never act on her passions with a married man, the undercurrents of it would always be there . . . a sexual tension that, when combined with the ease of their friendship, would never be fair to whomever he married.

  And the more time Sylvia spent with him, the more she found herself longing for the last thing she should be. Her mind shied away from putting labels to all those things. Institutions she’d shunned. Sentiments she’d sworn never to let herself be weak to, again.

  It was why she needed to be done with this.

  She underlined that name on the page.

  Miss Milsom.

  Miss Milsom, who’d only really just begun to find her voice in the Mismatch Society. A woman who, unlike many other members of the group, had expressed interest in the possibility of marriage. Yes, and the lady required a husband who would be supportive of her challenging propriety and societal norms. Furthermore, Miss Milsom was friendly with Clayton’s sisters.

  In short, Sylvia couldn’t think of a reason the match would be a bad one.

  There, she’d come up with one.

  And for some unexplainable reason, she felt an overwhelming urge to cry.

  Chapter 21

  Clayton had completed his first two weeks as a member of the Mismatch Society.

  When he’d initially signed on, the sole motivating factor had been checking in on Sylvia. Without her awareness, of course. In fact, there had been a mutually beneficial part to his being here. First, there was the opportunity to just freely visit with her. And she would receive that which she had hoped to attain—an easing of the fears amongst gentlemen of the ton. In providing Sylvia with that, he could relinquish some of the guilt he’d felt at his real motives for being here. Because there seemed something almost underhanded to it. If, however, he served some benefit for her, then he hadn’t really done anything wrong. That was what he told himself to alleviate the guilt. And it helped . . . some.

  But seated directly across the room from the leader of this eclectic group of ladies, he could acknowledge that he’d come to enjoy his time here.

  Listening in on what Sylvia, his sisters, on one occasion his mother, and the other women present were saying had been nothing short of enlightening.

  After all, men and women were treated as if they were entirely different species with nothing in common. Men oversaw parliamentary matters. Women were excluded from Parliament. Gentlemen attended their clubs, and ladies were barred entry.

  After formal dinners, men retired for their brandy and billiards, while the women went to some other parlor . . . and did Clayton still knew not what.

  Even when married, they kept separate chambers. Or . . . most did. Such a detail had been pointed out to the roomful of ladies, much to his horror, by his mother. And yet, regardless of how little he cared to think about his mother and late father being intimate in any way, there was no disputing the important point she had made about spouses living their separate lives . . . and the wrongness of it.

  The list went on and on.

  Always apart, never together. And therefore, by the very way in which society had been structured, completely unable to truly understand one another or live shared experiences.

  Nay, what had begun as a responsibility had transformed into something more.

  And as he was being honest with himself, Clayton could freely admit that much of his found joy in the Mismatch Society came from simply being with Sylvia. Near her. And listening to her.

  Just then, it was his sister Cora who commanded the floor.

  “Rousseau and Aristotle and vast numbers of the other Enlightenment thinkers didn
’t believe women were deserving of an equal place amongst society and in their own household, and I find it highly doubtful to expect a single one of us can locate one, let alone multiple”—Clayton’s sister jabbed her finger at the air, punctuating that word—“English gentlemen who are elevated in thoughts above and beyond the great philosophers.”

  He was equal parts appreciative of his sister’s articulate positioning and regretful at such a level of cynicism from a girl of just eighteen.

  “A female wit is a scourge to her husband, her children, her friends, her servants,” one of the ladies—Scarsdale’s almost sister-in-law, Isla Gately—called out to the hisses and boos of every woman present.

  The woman sitting next to him, a birdlike, petite young lady near in age to Cora, took mercy and explained, “Miss Gately wasn’t speaking ill of women, she was quoting Rousseau’s Emile. It was one of our first readings that we discussed.”

  “Ah.” He needn’t have bothered with a reply, however, as his seating partner had already returned her full focus to the lively debate unfolding around the room.

  “I assure you, my role is that of equal in my household,” Lila said.

  “But we’ve already ascertained that your husband is the exception.”

  Wordlessly, Clayton leaned over to Miss Dobson in hopes for some insight here.

  “Because he was raised outside the peerage,” she whispered in return.

  Yes, everyone knew the story of the Lost Heir who had been restored to his rightful rank of duke.

  “What of Wollstonecraft?” Sylvia spoke loudly enough to be heard over the ever-growing volume. “One of the greatest Enlightenment thinkers, did she not call for women’s rights in both public and private spheres?”

  “She was a woman,” Anwen pointed out.

  “Precisely,” Lady Annalee drawled, kicking up her bare feet on a nearby side table so that her skirts rucked up about her legs. “Now, if Sylvia was suggesting it would be wiser for women to marry their fellow women, to avoid all the headache that comes with having to fight men for freedom and equality within one’s household? I agree with the point.”