Someone Wanton His Way Comes

by Caldwell, Christi

  It had been Sylvia.

  But to have mentioned her in any way would have invited questions that he himself wasn’t even comfortable thinking in his own mind.

  “I told myself the lady was well cared for and hardly needed further assistance from . . . us. Everyone knows Waterson to be a respectable, honorable chap.” Just like Norfolk, a voice inside his head taunted. You freed yourself of responsibility with the same assurances Norfolk did. Guilt sent his stomach muscles spasming. “And then when Waterson found himself beaten up on the streets, we should have been there. One of us should have stepped up to at least inquire as to whether she was well.”

  He stopped, realizing he was rambling.

  They didn’t press him for the reason he’d been so defiant of Norfolk’s wishes, and whether that lack of questioning was intentional or not, he was grateful for it.

  “The fault is not yours alone,” Scarsdale murmured, more magnanimous than moments earlier, when he’d been close to leaping across the table for Clayton’s daring to snatch the role of honorary Mismatch Society member out from under him. “We all had an obligation to see that the lady was well . . . and we all collectively failed Norfolk.”

  Clayton clenched his hands so tight he left marks upon his palms. Norfolk could rot for his treachery. Would the other men feel the same were they to learn of those crimes? He couldn’t say either way, and neither could he say it mattered. Spilling Norfolk’s ugliest sins and crimes solved nothing.

  “Well, there is a change to our original consensus.” There’d been no consensus; Clayton bit the inside of his cheek to keep from pointing out as much to Landon. “It is decided. St. John will accept the invitation to join the lady’s society, and confirm that all is well with Norfolk’s widow . . . help keep her out of scandal. And then, perhaps, even Lord Prendergast might worry less, knowing we are involved?”

  Yes, there were many benefits to Clayton joining Sylvia’s group.

  It was decided.

  Neither would I allow someone to join our membership who doesn’t wish to be there . . .

  Now came the matter of finagling a second invitation to the society.

  Chapter 13

  “He rejected you.” Emma Gately’s whisper filled the meeting room.

  “Did we truly expect anything else?” Brenna asked the group at large. “My brother is quite proper and would never do something as shocking as join a room full of revolutionary ladies.”

  “We are no revolutionaries,” Miss Dobson whispered, stealing a frantic glance about, as if discovery were imminent. “Tell them, Annalee.”

  “Oh, I can say it aloud, but it doesn’t mean it’s not true.” That other member of their leadership slurred the last word, then promptly dissolved into a great big snorting laugh.

  She’d already begun drinking for the day. Not for the first time since Sylvia had issued Annalee an invitation and the other woman had moved in, Sylvia worried after her. Emotionally scarred by the memories she carried from whatever it was she’d witnessed at the Peterloo Massacre, the young woman’s dependency on spirits and free living was well known amongst all. The other young ladies, the majority unjaded by life, however, appeared oblivious to Annalee’s need for drink. Sylvia caught her slightly bloodshot gaze.

  “I’m fiiiine.” Her roommate’s assurances, however, emerged sloppy.

  “Who is fine?” Anwen elevated her head and scanned the room. “Who is fine?”

  “It is fine,” Sylvia hastily put in, sparing her friend from scrutiny.

  “What is fine?” the youngest of Clayton’s attending sisters asked quizzically. “I’m confused.”

  Oh, hell. Sylvia had always been rot at dissembling. Fortunately, Valerie stepped forward to the rescue. “It is just fine that Lord St. John rejected our offer of membership,” she put in smoothly, effortlessly redirecting the group away from Annalee’s current inebriated state and back to the focus of the day’s agenda.

  “Whoever should say no to Lady Norfolk?” Miss Gately cried.

  There were murmurs of assent from a loyal group of women who’d been more devoted to her than the man she’d married. It was a loyalty she didn’t understand, and yet one she was so very deeply appreciative of.

  “It does not matter,” she lied. For she didn’t know that it didn’t matter. She’d seen so many benefits to Clayton’s being part of their group. “It is important that all our members want to be here. As such, he didn’t prove a fit.”

  “Hear, hear,” Annalee said from around the cheroot clamped between her lips. She hammered away with her gavel, and a rumbling clamor went up as each member stomped the heels of her boots upon the floor.

  While each woman had that moment of shared solidarity, Sylvia allowed herself her disappointment with Clayton. Nor had it been the first time that day. She’d not ever thought he would reject her offer. Before he’d introduced her to her husband, she and Clayton had been friends. Nor did she resent him for arranging the meeting that had ultimately led to her disastrous marriage. After all, it was hardly his fault that she’d gone and made a mistake, falling for the idea of Norman. But Clayton’s having disappeared from her life? That was proving hard to understand . . . or forgive. She’d expected that he’d be supportive of her and his sisters. And that she could be a friend to him again.

  “But,” Anwen ventured when the room had quieted once more, “if Lady Norfolk believes it vital to secure support for our continued prosperity, does Clayton’s rejection not mean that we are still at risk?” A pall descended on the parlor. “Are we still not at risk of losing members because their families worry about perception and reputation?”

  Miss Dobson twisted her fingers.

  Yes, that much was true. And Sylvia had even more to lose if her name continued to have scandal tied to it. Resentment burnt strong inside her at the double standard that was a woman’s life. And frustration with Clayton, who could have helped her, but who’d chosen not to.

  “What of Lord Waterson?” Miss Gately ventured.

  “Married to a former courtesan and current music hall owner?” Annalee drawled. “Stuffy Waterson’s days of lending respectability with his name are at an end.”

  Yes, that much was also true.

  Sylvia glanced around at the young women who made up her membership. There was a despondency and silence to them. A dejectedness, the likes of which Sylvia had never witnessed from the always hopeful, feisty lot. Women she felt not only protective toward but also responsible for. From the moment they’d arrived at her doorstep, looking for her to lead a wave of change amongst Polite Society, she’d committed herself to them and their futures. They wouldn’t become this quiet gathering for her. She’d not allow it.

  Sylvia came quickly to her feet, and began to pace. “Yes, Lord St. John rejected our offer, but that doesn’t mean our society must or will close.” With every word spoken, the spines of the girls within her audience grew stiffer and straighter. “We will continue to talk. We will continue to discuss the future as we want it to look. We will continue to fight against the injustices that exist, ones that relegate women to the role of ornamental figures, where our opinions aren’t welcome.” She stopped in the middle of the room. “No matter how hard they try, they will not take from us the dreams we have for change and our plans to exact them.”

  And that was where she lost them.

  “They are trying to shut us down!” Lady Lisbette Davies cried. “We are not going to meet anymore?”

  “No,” Sylvia hurried to interject. “That isn’t what I . . .”

  Alas, it was too late.

  “It was rather inspiring . . . before that last part,” Valerie said over the din.

  Sylvia winced. “I should have stopped before that very last part.”

  “Given the current fears, I think that might have been the wisest course,” her friend confirmed.

  Cora slammed her fist against her open palm. “My brother would be the one to destroy the Mismatch Society.”

  T
hat was enough. She’d not hold Clayton to blame. She’d not wanted his assistance because he pitied her or because he felt a sense of obligation. She’d wanted him, yes, because it benefited her and the group, but she also wanted him to want to be there as much as their other members. Sylvia lifted her hands in the air in a bid to bring calm to the members. “He did not destroy—” Her efforts were for naught. Each lady was lost in her own outrage.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Flyaway appeared, wringing her hands, her face a study of agitation.

  “What now?” Annalee laughed uproariously, as though she’d told the funniest of jests.

  “What is it?” Sylvia called loudly enough to be heard over the group.

  “There be another visitor, my lady. A gentleman. Insists on seeing you.”

  Again with this? “I’m not accepting visitors. If you would . . .” She attempted to turn her attention to the other ladies, but Mrs. Flyaway would not be deterred.

  “But he insists he speak with you, my lady. Said it’s his right.”

  That proved the shot necessary to quiet the din in the room. Or, at least, divert it to a new source of outrage.

  “His right?” Valerie spat.

  Miss Gately gasped. “How dare he?”

  Annalee tapped the remnants of her cheroot next to the chocolate biscuit on her small porcelain dish. “Which angry papa is it this time?” she drawled.

  Yes, such was how members were plucked from their midst. Previously tolerant fathers reached their limits and showed up, demanding their daughters accompany them home. Only for those ladies to never again be seen at the Mismatch Society.

  Lady Lisbette and Miss Dobson drew closer to one another, clasping hands.

  “Not a father,” the old housekeeper said, then rushed to clarify. “At least, not anyone here’s father.”

  “Then there is even less reason to see him, isn’t there?” Sylvia said calmly, in a bid to instill a sense of ease amongst the troubled members. She turned back to the group. “Now—”

  “It be the Marquess of Prendergast, my lady.”

  Sylvia’s entire body jolted, her knee crashing against the side of the center table. Pain radiated up her leg. That discomfort was, however, forgotten. Her heart knocked a sickening thump against her rib cage.

  She’d avoided him. She’d avoided all contact with her in-laws. From the moment she discovered her mother-in-law’s involvement in a childhood fight ring and the role she’d played in coordinating her son’s death, Sylvia had vowed such people would never be allowed near her or Vallen. Before this, her father-in-law had made a pest of himself, sending notes requesting and then demanding to see his grandson. Never, however, had he shown up at her doorstep.

  And neither was it so uncomplicated as just sending him away. Because whether she liked it or not, his connection to her late husband and the child she’d given birth to had created a link that made the complete dissolution of a relationship between them impossible.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the looks the other women were casting one another.

  “Do you want me to handle it?” Valerie’s invitation came in hushed tones, a loyal, loving offer from a woman who’d been egregiously wronged by that family.

  It only cemented that Sylvia needed to take this meeting herself. “No. I’ll see to it. Where is His Lordship?”

  Mrs. Flyaway cleared her throat. “Showed him to the drawing room, my lady. Didn’t want to risk a repeat of when the last lordship arrived.”

  The housekeeper spoke of Clayton.

  Whereas Clayton had adeptly handled a gathering of boisterous females calling him out and challenging him, Sylvia’s father-in-law wouldn’t prove as tolerant or as understanding. Stuffy and proper, and yet complicit in that fighting ring his wife had been willing to kill her son over, given the lengths he’d gone to protect his wife from being prosecuted, he was a dangerous man in his own right.

  As Sylvia made her way through the household to meet her father-in-law, a pit formed in her belly. She’d made every effort to avoid any dealings with these people. They were a family of monsters and couldn’t be trusted in any way. No good could come from his being here.

  She reached the drawing room. The door stood open, with Mr. Flyaway waiting outside. After a quiet word of thanks, she dismissed the old fighter. He lingered a moment, his gaze straying over to the visitor and then back to Sylvia, then gave a reluctant nod and shuffled off. Sylvia drew a deep breath, eager to have this meeting over and done with, and entered.

  Her father-in-law remained stationed at the front windows with his back to her, examining something he held in his fingers.

  “Lord Prendergast,” she greeted coolly, not wasting her time with false pleasantries.

  The marquess tensed but didn’t immediately face her. Rather it was a pointed pause, one where he was determined to deny her complete control over their meeting.

  At last, he turned, and she struggled to mask her surprise.

  It had been a year since she’d last seen him. That night, she’d been in disguise, a guest at his masquerade, secretly there with her sister to search for evidence of the marquess and marchioness’s nefariousness.

  Since then, his black hair had gone streaked with strips of white at his temples and wrapping about his head, like a crown that marked his advancing age. His eyes appeared sunken and his cheeks gone, and for a moment, she found pity for the haggard figure before her.

  That weakening sentiment proved short-lived.

  “You’ve ignored my letters,” he said bluntly.

  He’d always been direct, but before, when his son was alive, he’d possessed a charm that had dulled what had now become sharp edges. Edges that had grown increasingly more jagged with his wife’s mental state having unraveled as it had. And as much as Sylvia wanted to hate him, she felt more pity for him . . . and his wife, whose unstableness marked her ill. Ill in ways that society went out of their way to avoid discussing, like a dirty secret people were more concerned with sweeping away than providing help that others—in this case, the marchioness—so desperately needed.

  Sylvia pushed the door shut behind them. “There didn’t seem a reason to respond, beyond the first one you sent.” One where he’d put demands to her that involved Vallen’s life. And where she promptly severed all ties in a bid to keep her son from the vicious family she’d married into.

  The marquess compressed his thin lips into a harsh, cold line. “It is unnatural for a boy to be cut off from his grandfather.”

  There’d been a time when he would have never abandoned the veneer of civility. They’d all changed, though. “Why don’t we sit, Lord Prendergast,” she urged as she swept over and indicated the painted fauteuil near her. This discussion with her father-in-law had been inevitable. That he was a man of such power and influence that he’d even managed to sway the courts and spare his wife’s life and imprisonment at Newgate, which she was deserving of, was proof enough of that. It was even more reason for Sylvia to be wary in her dealings with him.

  His mouth hardened before he joined her. He waited until she was seated before doing so himself, revealing a hint of the polite gentleman he’d once been.

  “I understand you have a desire to see Vallen,” Sylvia began, proceeding with the utmost caution, drawing from years of practiced pleasantries and a perfect ladylike demeanor. “However, given the circumstances, I trust you understand my reservations.”

  “I understand nothing of the sort,” he blustered. “The boy was born of my son and you’d deny me a relationship with him.”

  My God, the arrogance that was the man. He’d really make her spell it out, would he? Did he truly want her to breathe aloud the treachery and evil tied to the marquess and his wife? Sylvia had agreed to be silent, not only for her son’s future but also out of consideration for Lady Prendergast’s mental state. And still, that would not be enough for them? Sylvia resisted the powerful emotions boiling inside. He’d expect that of her. “You speak of natural ve
rsus unnatural, and yet, I believe we can both agree, after everything that has happened these past years, with your wife . . . it defies naturalness,” she said as gently as she could. Filicide was a manner of heinous evil reserved for sick Greek tragedy.

  A florid color splotched his crypt-like cheeks. “There is nothing wrong with my wife, Sylvia,” he snapped. He immediately glanced about, his eyes filled with fear. At the prospect of discovery, of course.

  She tightened her jaw.

  Perhaps if he’d been less concerned with protecting his wife’s reputation these years, and more focused on helping her when he knew just how very sick she was, then Norman wouldn’t now be dead and their families in turmoil. Then it would have been a different turmoil Sylvia would have been dealing with: an empty, loveless marriage.

  “You and I know that isn’t true, Lord Prendergast,” she said, letting go of some of the patience she’d shown him. “And you should have a care, as that is one of the reasons I have offered my silence.”

  “I am not speaking of my wife. Not with you and not with anyone. And it is in your best interest to not mention her.”

  His meaning was clear: Sylvia’s reputation, as well as that of her son, were inextricably intertwined with the marquess and marchioness. It was yet again a great travesty and an unfairness that a person could be so judged just by their connection to such a vile group. It was why she allowed he was right in this, and that for the sake of her son, she had to be conscious of just how much she said. Sylvia tried a different appeal. “You loved your son very much, Lord Prendergast.”

  The way his haggard features twisted served as more confirmation of her statement than any words would.

  “You hate that you were unable to protect him,” she said softly. “You no doubt regret that he found himself hurt.” The marquess sat stock still, his throat jumping as she spoke. “That is what I seek to do with my son.” Sylvia willed him to see. “I want to keep him safe.”

  That was the moment she lost him. His eyes formed thin, merciless pricks. “From me?”

  To hell with all men and their fragile egos. They were too self-centered to see that it wasn’t really about them. But somehow, those were the only parts they ever heard. “Yes.” And to hell with him if he couldn’t understand that.