Someone Wanton His Way Comes

by Caldwell, Christi

  He winced.

  “I thank you for your time, Clayton. I shan’t bother you again.” Grabbing her reticule, she headed for the door.

  Chapter 12

  When Sylvia shut that door behind her, it didn’t come with a slam, as he was certainly deserving of. But rather, it came with a faint and somehow more damning soft click.

  More than half fearing he’d change his mind and charge after her, Clayton kept himself absolutely motionless.

  Because he had no place attending her meetings. Or joining her society. Or having any intimate dealings with her. That was something he’d known as far back as her first London Season, when they’d kept one another company through the monotony of tedious affairs.

  Knowing all that, however, didn’t change anything.

  For it had been one thing to turn his back on the request Norfolk had put to him all those years ago, to look after her. It was an altogether different matter when she had come to him, asking for help.

  Clayton scrubbed a hand over his face.

  It was the wrong thing to do.

  You did that thing with your hand and your face . . .

  For it forced him to recall Sylvia’s visit, and remember her words. Ones that suggested she knew him too well. Those little details she was in possession of needlessly reminding him how, at one time, they’d been so very close. As such, she deserved far better from him.

  He stared at the doorway, braced for an explosion from an army of Kearsley sisters storming in and blasting him as he deserved.

  And yet oddly . . . that invasion did not come.

  They did not come.

  And proving to be a coward for a second time that afternoon, he headed quickly for the door, determined to get himself out of this and the overwhelming guilt threatening to drown him, and from the inevitable visit from his siblings.

  Georges stood outside, his hand holding out Clayton’s hat. “Thought you might be needing this, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Georges.”

  “I took the liberty of having your horse kept out front, waiting for you.”

  “I don’t pay you nearly enough.” In no small part because there were hardly the rich amounts they were all deserving of.

  Guilt; it was the flavor of the day.

  Georges bowed his head. “You are as generous as you are able, and gracious enough, for me to put that first.”

  It was another reminder of the precariousness that awaited not only his family but also the loyal men, women, and children who served this household.

  Just like that, Sylvia and her favor and the quick leave she’d taken took root once more. Nay, his sisters were never going to be forgiving of this. Nor should they.

  He made his way, with Georges following close behind, through his household, eyeing older crevices and nooks his sisters had a habit of popping out from behind. Only, the places were . . . empty. Eerily so. It only increased the greater sense of urgency of getting the hell out of here.

  He reached the entrance to the foyer and skidded to a stop. Ah, so that was why they’d not invaded his offices or scared him at various turns.

  All six of the Kearsley ladies—seven, when one included their mother—stood in wait in the foyer. That line extended out through the front door that sat open. Not a single one of them said anything. They just looked at Clayton with cynical stares better suited to an old lord with forty years of age on the oldest one of them.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Georges said sheepishly. “Did I not mention the ladies had assembled?”

  “No, Georges,” he replied out the corner of his mouth. “You may have left out that detail.”

  “My apologies, my lord.”

  Though in truth his loyal butler, who even now rushed off, waving to each young lady as he went, didn’t have the look or the sound of one who was apologetic. Of course, Clayton could well commiserate with being cornered by the Kearsley sisters.

  “Hullo, Mother. Anwen, Cora.” He greeted them one at a time as he went, forced to make the ignoble march of shame past each of his kin, and all for daring to reject Sylvia. “Delia . . .”

  At last, he reached the outside steps.

  Clayton’s sisters’ disappointed stares followed him all the way out of the townhouse.

  “Shame!” Eris said from behind him. “For shame, Clayton.”

  “Cowards die many times before their deaths,” Delia shouted.

  He winced, that particularly accurate quote from Shakespeare finding its mark.

  The moment he accepted the reins from a waiting servant and swung himself onto his mount, his sisters were forgotten and only one person remained the source of his focus.

  Sylvia.

  She’d assumed the reason for his rejection had been because she was a woman.

  And in a way, she was not wrong. But it was not for the reasons that she’d believe. That low opinion that he’d let her to.

  It was because of who she was, specifically as a woman. She was a lady he had spent the better part of three years avoiding. The woman whom he’d wanted, and if there hadn’t been a curse, the one he would have pursued a future with. Instead, he’d put his yearnings aside, as the desire to see her happy above all else had driven him. It had driven him right into playing matchmaker between her and the ideal chap: Norfolk. Clayton’s best friend in the whole world. In the end, she had known only hurt. And he was too much a coward to be around her, drowning in the guilt and regret at all the ways in which he’d failed her. Sentiments that would always be there.

  And the situation surely wasn’t as dire as she’d feared. Society gossiped about everything and everyone. Or are you just saying that to alleviate the guilt of not being there for her? Of not doing what Norfolk asked and making sure she is well?

  Clayton fought off those uneasy musings.

  Either way, there could be only one certainty: between her palpable disappointment and the manner in which she’d stormed out, this would mark the last time Sylvia voluntarily sought him out. And he should be only glad for it. At last, he’d created the separation between them that he’d desperately been trying to resurrect since her reemergence in his life. Albeit he’d done so unwittingly.

  That satisfactory outcome should be all he focused on and, more, what he should be grateful for.

  So why wasn’t he? Why, as he rode through the crowded streets of North London, could he see still that glimmer of disappointment in her expressive blue eyes?

  He arrived at his club, grateful to escape the company of females determined to be disappointed by and in him.

  Landon lifted his hand in greeting. “I think the end is nigh,” the other man said as Clayton pulled out a chair and seated himself. “First Scarsdale, suffering a broken heart. And now St. John, showing up late to a meeting.”

  “It’s not a meeting. Not a formal one anyway,” he muttered. A glass had already been set out in anticipation for him, while the two before his friends sat nearly bone dry at the bottom.

  “He’s hiding something.”

  “I’m not hiding anything,” he said with a frown sent to Scarsdale that went unseen as both men were, at present, sharing a look. “It’s not a secret. Not really.”

  This time, his friends fixed annoyingly amused stares on him. They’d try to upend him? “And really, a little notice would have been appreciated before you sent me flying off to Lady Norfolk’s.”

  Landon broke into a laugh. “I tried to tell you.”

  “Yes, next time, when in possession of those details, try harder,” Clayton said under his breath. “My sisters have formed an alliance with Lady Norfolk and . . .” He silenced himself. He’d already said too much. The “and” was definitely too much.

  “And?” Landon leaned over with the bottle and poured some into Clayton’s glass, fully attending him.

  Alas, Landon wouldn’t ever be one to let it go.

  Scarsdale, less dejected but also with a heavy beard on his cheeks, stared on with more interest than he’d shown anythi
ng since his betrothal had fallen apart.

  Clayton resisted the urge to squirm. “Following my visit, the members of the society—”

  “Club,” both men corrected.

  “Actually, they prefer to be considered a society.” He scoffed. “Something about clubs being for men who only do things like drink and . . .” His gaze landed squarely on the snifter of brandy and the glasses held by his friends and—he looked out—all the gentlemen at the club. Clayton set his drink down and pushed it aside. “Anyway, as I was saying, following my visit, the members spoke, and they believe it would be a good idea if I becameanhonorarymember.”

  Landon leaned forward. “What was that?”

  “An honorary member. A temporary one, was how it was explained.”

  Landon laughed. “Surely you aren’t considering th—”

  Scarsdale shot up an arm. “I’ll do it!” he croaked, scrambling forward so quickly he sent his glass tumbling. The remnants of the nearly empty snifter splattered amber drops upon the smooth mahogany. Unconcerned for that mess, Scarsdale rested an elbow in the tiny puddle of spilled brandy. “I should do it. Be the one to go there. And . . . see . . .”

  “And see your former betrothed, the lovely Miss Gately,” Landon drawled.

  A flush splotched the swath of his face not covered by that hideous beard. “And see how she is doing,” he said gruffly. “To make sure she is well and happy. Yes. That would be the purpose of my being there. Because then I would know . . .”

  Clayton went absolutely still.

  See how she is doing . . .

  Make sure she is well and happy . . .

  That would be the purpose of my being there . . . Because then I would know . . .

  He closed his eyes. He’d spent all these years hating Norfolk so much that he’d failed to see that, in this, his former friend had been . . . correct. Clayton had let his hatred and guilt cloud his sense of right. He should have visited Sylvia. Not even out of an obligation to Norfolk but because she’d once been Clayton’s friend.

  And now, you choose this time, the moment when she probably won’t want to see you . . .

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  “What is it, Saint?” Landon pressed Clayton.

  “Someone should go there, and . . . verify that she is, in fact, well,” he finally admitted. To himself as much as his friends.

  The marquess’s brow dipped. “We should verify that Scarsdale’s Gately is well?”

  The other man bristled. “I beg pardon. If anyone is going there to see if my Miss Gately—”

  “Not Miss Gately,” Clayton said, exasperated. “Lady Norfolk.” Silence met that pronouncement. He cleared his throat. “She is . . . Norfolk’s widow, and as such, one of us should be certain the lady is well. The lady’s brother has been occupied with his new family. We should be certain she’s . . . well.”

  Clayton’s gut clenched. He had known that and still chosen to look the other way.

  He braced for the onslaught of amusement, the deep chuckles. The robust laughter from Landon, who was given to fits of hilarity. There was an aberrant sobriety to the always lighthearted lord.

  “Hmm,” the marquess said, rubbing his chin in a study of contemplation. “You aren’t wrong. I’ve heard Lord Prendergast has been troubled, thinking of his grandson living in such a household.”

  Clayton tensed as Sylvia’s words from earlier came back to haunt him. He’d specifically asked if her role as mother had been called into question. She’d insisted that hadn’t been the case. But . . . there had also been a hesitation there. And bastard that he was, he’d allowed himself to believe that which had been easier to see.

  “Between the three of us,” Landon was saying, “we should have invested at least some time into making sure the lady is doing fine. Widows are prey and all that.”

  Those muscles in his belly balled up all the more.

  Yes, widows, in fact, were marks for bounders and scoundrels.

  Just see that they are well. Occasionally check in on them. I know you have your own obligations and responsibilities . . .

  Me. It was supposed to have been me. And in the face of Landon’s virtue, he was struck with the depth of his own cowardice and absolute lack of honor. He’d owed it not to Norfolk. For what the late earl had intended, he could rot. But to Sylvia. Clayton’s sense of obligation and responsibility belonged firmly with the young woman whom he’d paired with a faithless, feckless husband.

  “Yes, as always,” Landon murmured, “St. John isn’t wrong.” He nodded. “It shall be Scarsdale, then.”

  Clayton looked back at Landon in confusion. “What shall be Scarsdale?”

  “The one responsible for visiting with the Mismatch Club,” the gentleman in question clarified.

  Landon pointed a finger in the other man’s direction. “Precisely. That. The responsibility should fall to Scarsdale.”

  Clayton dragged his chair forward, the mahogany legs creaking along the floor noisily enough to attract the attention of nearby patrons. “Whaaat?”

  Scarsdale bristled. “And just what is so shocking about the idea that I should be the one to go there?”

  “I . . . You . . .” The other man hadn’t seen much beyond the bottom of the bottle since the end of his betrothal. Not that Clayton would ever say as much. He wasn’t the manner of man to go about kicking a fellow when he was down.

  “Yes?” Scarsdale prodded.

  Clayton looked to Landon for help.

  Alas, there’d be none forthcoming there. The marquess turned up his palms, his meaning clear: Clayton was on his own with this one.

  “It just makes sense that it should be me.” He should have done this long ago. How was it that only today, after Sylvia had left, he should realize as much?

  Frowning, it was Scarsdale’s turn to make a silent appeal to Landon.

  Landon tapped the table twice. “It actually makes sense that it’s Scarsdale. He’ll have the opportunity to check on his Miss Gately and also ensure that Lady Norfolk is well, and steer them from any potential scandals or precarious situations. Birds and stones and all,” Landon explained, taking a sip from his brandy.

  Killing two birds with one stone was really what he’d say?

  “It’s decided, then,” Scarsdale said, wearing the first real smile Clayton had seen on him since he’d gone and made a muck of his betrothal.

  “No.”

  Both men looked to Clayton. “No?”

  He tried a different angle. “The lady asked for my help.” As had Norfolk . . . That voice taunted and tormented. It was something he should’ve done long ago.

  “And did you consent to do so?” Landon put to him.

  Clayton squirmed. “I’m doing so now.”

  Scarsdale slapped a palm on the table, attracting more looks. “But you don’t have a betrothed in there, St. John,” he said tersely in a rare lack of affability.

  Clayton spoke before he thought better of it. “Neither do you.” As soon as the words left him, he flinched.

  The brokenhearted lord’s eyes bulged, and he scrambled forward, and Clayton hastily backed his chair away. “That came out entirely wrong.” Words invariably did with him.

  “Enough,” Landon ordered, and Scarsdale sat back in his chair, glaring blackly at Clayton. “I don’t see why this is a fight. It seems fairly straightforward. We were all friends with Norfolk; as such, any one of us attending Lady Norfolk should suffice.”

  “I agree,” Scarsdale chimed in quickly.

  With that both men proceeded to talk as though the matter had been settled. And mayhap for them, it had.

  And Clayton should allow them to it. He should relent. He should happily let the other man to the task, and in that, he would be assured Sylvia was looked after by one of them, and he’d be spared from involving himself in her life.

  Except she was his friend. And that had to matter more than his own selfish need for self-preservation. “He asked me.” He spoke in tones so quiet that it fa
iled to penetrate whatever discourse Scarsdale and Landon had moved on to. Clayton made himself say it again, this time more distinctly and loudly enough to be picked up on. “I said, he asked me to do it.”

  All focus shifted his way. And he wanted to leave. He wanted to flee. Anything other than admitting to this.

  Landon shook his head. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

  Clayton’s palms grew moist and his stomach revolted. How was it possible that even as he’d had years to wrap his brain around those final moments with Norfolk, he still didn’t know what to say to the two men who had also called the earl “best friend.” Forgetting his earlier resolve to leave the spirits untouched, Clayton, in search of liquid fortitude, grabbed his glass and drank deeply from it. He drained the contents, and wiped a hand across his mouth. “I was the last person he spoke to before that fight at Gentleman Jackson’s.”

  Then he told them, taking care to leave out the most damning details, ones he would never breathe aloud for the pain they would surely bring Sylvia. Sylvia, who’d already been hurt far more than she ever should have been. He told them of Norfolk’s request that day.

  When he finished, he stared intently at the lone amber droplet clinging to the edge of his glass, unable to meet either man’s gaze. Alas, the time for hiding had come to an end. Clayton looked up but could make nothing out of Scarsdale’s or Landon’s expressions.

  “Why did you keep this to yourself all these years?”

  With that, they proved better friends than Clayton, for they didn’t bury his face in the shame, as he was deserving. Emotion formed thick and unforgiving in his throat, and he reached for his glass to drink it down before remembering the snifter was empty. But how to give voice to the truth—that he’d been unable to bring himself to face Sylvia in all her misery and know that he was the one responsible for it. He’d been the one to encourage a match that had proven disastrous and painful to her.

  Wordlessly, Scarsdale refilled his glass.

  “I didn’t know what to say,” he finally said, and there was no absolution, even in this. Because ultimately, the person whom he’d wronged most hadn’t been Scarsdale. It hadn’t been Landon. It hadn’t even been Norfolk.