“Perhaps, as we are speaking about progressive marriages as being the only marriages we should consider, we might hear from Sylvia on her expectations after she weds?”
All eyes went to Sylvia. What did she want . . . ?
“I expect to have a partnership.” Which they would. Because it’s what they’d always had in terms of their relationship. “And I expect my husband—”
“Clayton,” Anwen substituted.
“Clayton will be supportive of me and my decisions. And there will be love,” she said softly. “And honesty. Of what one another is thinking or feeling and wanting of life.” None of which she’d had with Norman, and had despaired of ever knowing.
“I wish Sylvia much happiness,” Miss Gately said. “However, I still fail to believe such a marriage exists.”
When the group’s attention shifted over to the young lady and the latest debate on marriage, Sylvia felt Clayton’s eyes on her, and looked up.
“I do need to talk to you,” he said quietly. “When the meeting is adjourned?”
“You’ve changed your mind.”
“No,” he said with a solemnity that made her smile.
God, how she loved him. Why had she, for so long, resisted the idea of a future with him? Leaning in, Sylvia touched her nose to his and whispered, “I was teasing.” How very endearing he was . . . How had she for so long fought the possibility of a future as his wife?
“Oh, yes. Right. Uh . . . of course. But there is something we need to discuss.”
Despite her attempt at teasing him, there was a . . . seriousness not only to those words . . . but also to the tone of his voice, an added layer of deepness that sent the first stirrings of unease through her since she’d had the idea to offer for him.
Stop it. You are imagining trouble where there isn’t any . . .
She’d become so accustomed to all the worst happening that she was allowing that worry to creep into this unabashed joy.
And yet, no matter how many times she told herself as much throughout the remainder of the meeting, she continued to steal glances at Clayton . . . and found him . . . distracted. Serious. And unsmiling.
In short, no way that she’d ever remembered him being. And he should be this now, after accepting her offer.
And then there was the threat posed by her father-in-law. For she didn’t believe for an instant that he’d simply concede the right to see his grandson. Just as much as she knew that if he saw Vallen once, it would never be enough. Unless . . . that was the reason for this change over Clayton?
All those panicky thoughts robbed Sylvia of the ability to concentrate on the remainder of the meeting, and when it was at an end and the ladies were filing from the room, she’d never been more grateful. She stared on as Clayton’s sisters circled him, all taking turns teasing and ribbing. Periodically, he’d playfully tug a curl or ruffle the top of one of his sisters’ heads, the way he might a small girl, in such a tender display of brotherly affection and warmth that it was impossible, from the sight of that closeness, to feel the same crippling fear she had during the meeting.
The tension eased as Sylvia watched on, a silent observer. “I believe he will make you a good husband,” her mother murmured at her side, and Sylvia startled, having failed to hear her approach.
“I believe he will, as well.” A man who loved so absolutely and cared so deeply and gave his affection so freely would be a good husband.
“I know it is ill to speak unfavorably of the deceased and in bad form to say, but I never much liked your husband, even before you were married.”
No, her mother hadn’t. When the ton had been entranced by Sylvia’s whirlwind romance with society’s most notorious rogue, her mother had alternated between sniffing her smelling salts and lecturing Sylvia on his unsuitability.
Her mother leaned in and spoke close to her ear. “Before him, though, I had thought for a bit that you and Lord St. John would be a match, and I am so very happy that you did not let the husband who stole so much from you also steal your ability to trust another.” She paused. “But if he violates that trust, and he hurts you, I’ll hurt him more.”
Sylvia turned and placed a kiss on her mother’s cheek. “Thank you, Mother.”
Color splashed cheeks that were just showing signs of wrinkles. Waving a hand, uncomfortable with that display of affection, as she’d always been by any show of emotion, the dowager countess tossed her head. “None of that now. I’m still not like that woman.”
“That woman” being Clayton’s mother, who at that moment was in the midst of pinching Cora’s cheeks and touching her nose to the girl’s.
“I like her very much,” Sylvia said. She loved all Clayton’s family.
“I do, too,” her mother confessed, and then elevating her chin, she swept out of the parlor and past the noisy collection of Kearsleys. “Good day, Julia.”
“Hettie,” the viscountess said as she passed.
Seeming to take that as a cue, Clayton’s mother broke up the assembling of her children and paused to make her goodbyes to Sylvia. “We shall leave one by one for the carriage.” A twinkle lit the older woman’s eyes. “That way there is confusion as to who is outdoors and who is indoors.” With a wink, she took herself off.
“I adore them,” Sylvia said when she and Clayton were alone.
“I adore you. I love you,” he said quietly.
And yet . . . “You are troubled.” It wasn’t a question. Rather, it was a statement of fact that came from knowing this man as she did.
Presenting Sylvia with his back, Clayton scraped a hand through his hair.
You are troubled . . .
Troubled was the least of what Clayton was.
Terrified. Tormented. Tortured.
And ashamed. Ashamed of himself. One, for the initial reasons he had avoided her. Because that decision had been born of an act of cowardice. She spoke often of their friendship. And yet he had not been the friend she had deserved. Through so much. Friends were there for everything. The bad. The awful. And the really, really awful. Not just the easy times enjoyed beside a crowded ballroom floor.
And what was worse, he’d allowed his love for her to be the reason he’d stayed away from her. What did that say about the manner of man he was?
“Won’t you say something?” she asked, her voice pleading.
Years. Clayton had been in possession of years with which to prepare a response about this. Only to find himself guilty of yet another failing. Because he had no good words, or even so much as a place to start.
Nay, that wasn’t true. There was one place that made sense.
Clayton made himself face Sylvia. “We need to speak about the day Norfolk died,” he said, cutting to the heart of it. “Perhaps you might want to sit?”
Sylvia dampened her mouth. “I don’t . . . ?”
That was a restlessness he well understood. Clayton needed to be done with this telling. And the only way to end it was to begin. “Norfolk asked me to join him at Gentleman Jackson’s. I hated fighting. I hated boxing. I hated that place long before . . . that day. I never understood, and still don’t, the enjoyment in something so barbaric. Battering and bloodying another man?” I’m rambling. Stop. Just get to it. He took a slow and steadying breath. And then several more, until he found his way back toward words that mattered. “Norfolk knew it; I didn’t understand why he should ask me to go that day.” There was so much about that day, and that man he once called his best friend that he didn’t, and wouldn’t, and could never understand. Most of which stemmed from Norfolk’s inability to love Sylvia. “He . . . informed me that he intended to leave you.”
“What?”
There was no inflection in her tone to make sense of what she was thinking, and it was the first time in all the years he’d known her that he failed to gather what she was feeling. “He indicated that he was in love and wanted a future with her. He was going to leave you and Vallen, Sylvia.”
Neither of them said anything
for a long while. Or perhaps time ticked along quickly. Clayton wasn’t altogether certain of anything . . . other than his love for her. That was the constant.
Sylvia rubbed at her arms. “I expect I should feel . . . something? Resentment. Hurt? But I don’t feel anything for him. I don’t feel anything where he’s concerned anymore.”
How was she this strong? God, how he loved her. And yet, the story couldn’t end there, no matter how much he wanted it to. This . . . this proved the even more impossible part to get out. “There is still something more . . .”
“More than that?”
A commotion sounded outside the parlor, streaming in from the hallway, proving the salvation it wasn’t.
“Can’t go in there, I said.” Mr. Flyaway’s voice rose up, along with the distinct sound of numerous footfalls.
When the door opened, it wasn’t with an explosion but with a measured calm.
Lord Prendergast entered, and Sylvia went motionless. “What are you doing here?” she seethed.
Just then, a parade of servants piled in behind Sylvia’s father-in-law, each member of the staff colliding into the back of another. Everyone from the butler, to the housekeeper, to the footmen, and by the heavy pan wielded by one, the cook. It was both a remarkable display on the part of the loyal servants and on that of the man near his sixtieth year, who had outdistanced all of them.
“Company has arrived, my lady,” the butler said quickly. “Refuses to leave. Demanding to be seen. I’ll throw him out, I will. Or call the constable. Or—?”
Sylvia lifted a hand. “That won’t be necessary.” She spoke with an impressive level of coolness. And Clayton found he loved her all the more for her strength. “If you could just wait outside, so that you can then show Lord Prendergast out. This won’t take more than a moment.”
Mr. Flyaway hesitated, and then with a threatening glare leveled upon the older gentleman, he backed out of the room, pulling the door shut behind them. The absolute absence of retreating footsteps indicated there was a veritable household army waiting to storm the room, if Sylvia so needed it.
Clayton didn’t doubt Sylvia’s ability to handle herself, but even so, he moved closer to her. Because the level of ruthlessness this family had demonstrated had it so that Clayton would never trust they weren’t capable of other ugly deeds.
Lord Prendergast took in Clayton’s movement with a small icy smile before returning his attention to Sylvia. “How bold you are all of a sudden.”
“I am bold? This from a man who invaded my household?” Sylvia shot back. She took a sweeping step toward Norfolk’s father. “And let us be clear, the only reason you are here even now is because I want to say my piece and be done with you.”
Instead of displaying a hint of having been insulted, the marquess chuckled, a laugh as cold and empty as Lord Prendergast himself. “If you had that spirit when you were married to my son, mayhap you could have kept him interested.”
Rage pumped through Clayton’s veins. “By God, I restrained myself out of respect for your age, but I will be damned if I tolerate this.” He lunged, but Sylvia touched a hand lightly to his right arm. And that touch had an immediate calming effect. Not enough to quell his hatred, but enough to keep him from tearing Lord Prendergast apart with his bare hands.
“Unfortunately, it wasn’t until I made the mistake of marrying your son that I realized I had no interest in keeping his interest.”
She was magnificent. A fearless warrior.
“It did not play as you wished, did it?” she asked coolly. “Destroying my reputation, so that you could have a guardian call into question my fitness as a mother and thereby have the access you wish to my son?” She angled her chin up. “Well, let us be clear. You will never see Vallen. Neither you nor your wife. And I intend to see that which you managed to silence is silent no longer. The world will know about what your family did, and what you were involved in.”
And yet, the marquess didn’t so much as flinch at that promise of what she intended to do. And it was then warning bells went off.
Lord Prendergast dusted some imagined fleck of dust from his lightly puffed sapphire wool sleeve. “Given that insolence, I have more than half a mind to let you to your mistakes,” he said to Sylvia. And those bells rang all the louder. He lifted a monocle and looked her over, before shifting that same focus to Clayton. “You have St. John here unnecessarily trying to play the role of a hero, when you clearly don’t need his help. Alas, he doesn’t seem to be able to help himself, does he?”
Oh, God.
Sylvia stiffened.
He looked down his hawklike nose at her. “How smug you must feel. How arrogant . . . believing you’ve secured your respectability and gained complete control of your child . . . But tell me, how will it feel knowing you are once again nothing more than a responsibility to a gentleman driven by a sense of duty?”
Sylvia faltered, her gaze sliding over to Clayton before returning once more to the marquess. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that the sole reason he ever came back to you was because my son asked it of him. The day he died, he insisted that Clayton watch after you, and that is what he was doing and that is what he’s agreed to do forever.”
She stared at him with a pained expression. “Is . . . this true?”
Clayton squeezed his eyes shut. “Not . . . yes . . . no.”
And yet, his answer made even less sense.
“No yes no? Which is it, boy?”
Sylvia glared the marquess into silence.
Clayton lifted a hand that trembled. “I came because I cared about you. And I wanted to know that you were well.” How empty, and how insignificant, that all sounded.
Sylvia’s legs sagged, and she caught herself from crumpling by grabbing for the back of the sofa.
Lord Prendergast wasn’t done with him. “You have always wanted what my son had. And you saw your opportunity.”
“Yes, I always loved her, but I didn’t see it as an opportunity,” he said hoarsely. The marquess would make what Clayton had felt for Sylvia all these years something dirty and wrong.
Norfolk’s father scoffed. “My son even knew it. He pitied you. Lusting after his wife.”
Sylvia stood there, pale and silent, unmoving through that attack being launched on Clayton. And what was worse? Norfolk had known how Clayton felt for Sylvia . . . That secret hadn’t been so very secret after all, and now his twisted father would use and contort it, as he did everything else, to suit the narrative he’d spun.
“Get out.”
Clayton managed a wooden nod. “Of course—”
“You.”
An earsplitting scream that shook a person’s very soul came distantly but distinctly from somewhere outside the parlor. “The boyyyyyyyy.”
Sylvia froze, then whispered one word, a name: “Vallen.”
Lord Prendergast paled. And it was the first indication that the older gentleman wasn’t infallible, after all.
This time, the door did explode open. The little boy’s nursemaid appeared, out of breath, her hair disheveled, and her eyes wild. “Some woman is with the little master. Has a pistol, she does.”
Lord Prendergast’s cheeks went all the whiter. “She . . . she . . . wouldn’t harm him. She just wanted to see him,” he stammered. “I was trying to allow her time to see him. Just a visit, was all she said.”
“Oh, God.” Sylvia pressed a fist hard against her mouth.
Ignoring the older man’s ramblings, Clayton strode over to the maid, who had dissolved into a blubbering mass of tears. He took her lightly but firmly to steady her. “Where?” he urged in gentle tones.
Sobbing, the young girl raised a trembling arm over her head and pointed at the ceiling. “The . . . the n-nursery. Second floor, th-third door—”
Sylvia had already gathered up her skirts and taken off, and armed with directions, Clayton went flying past the servants, who all appeared to be immobilized by shock, and then past Sylvia. T
he young maid’s instructions played like a litany in his head, coming in beat to Clayton’s footfalls as he ran. “Call the constable,” he shouted at one of the footmen.
The young man nodded and rushed off in the opposite direction. Skidding upon the marble floor of the foyer, Clayton caught himself at the bottom railing, and used it to leverage himself upright. He took the stairs three at a time, and didn’t stop until he reached the third door on the left, which stood hanging open.
Out of breath from fear and his exertions, he entered cautiously . . . even as every muscle and nerve within him thrummed with a frenzied energy.
He immediately found her. Norfolk’s mother. But Norfolk’s mother as Clayton had never seen her or remembered her. Her lips, always composed in a perpetual line of her own pomp and self-importance, were now turned up in a wide smile that bordered on maniacal.
But then, this was the same woman who had ordered her son murdered. And she now held Sylvia’s son on her lap, bouncing the boy up and down. All the while she alternately hummed and sang a lullaby.
Goosey, goosey, gander,
Whither dost thou wander?
Upstairs and downstairs
And in my lady’s chamber.
There I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers,
I took him by the left leg,
And threw him down the stairs
Sweat slicked Clayton’s hands—hands that shook.
Vallen looked over Clayton’s way, and the boy’s eyes brightened.
Clayton frantically shook his head and pressed a fingertip to his lips, but it was too late.
“Clayyyy!”
Lady Prendergast abruptly ceased singing midverse.
Clayton forced himself to stop three paces away. So close and yet impossibly far.
The older lady’s smile widened all the more. “Clayton!” she called out happily. She pointed her gun at his chest, that deadly weapon a contradiction to the maternal look she wore and the cheerful greeting on her lips. “You have come to play with Norman. Isn’t that wonderful, Norman?” she cooed against Vallen’s ear. “Every little boy needs a friend. You always were such a dear boy,” she said to Clayton.
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