A liveried servant immediately came forward with a silver tray in hand.
Landon plucked free a copy of The Times and tossed it across the table.
Clayton caught it in the chest.
“Front page,” the other man instructed when the servant had gone.
Unfolding the paper, Clayton scanned the page.
The London Season Is in Upheaval
“Not a very clever title, is it?” he drawled.
“All fun and games to you until it affects you,” Landon charged.
He resumed reading.
All the while, Scarsdale’s pathetic, forlorn sighs punctuated each detail Clayton skimmed in the gossip column.
Ladies are calling into question not only the institution of marriage but also every institution this kingdom holds dear . . . crumbling marriages and shattered betrothals . . .
And his earlier confidence that his friend had, in fact, been exaggerating, as he was wont to do, flagged with every damning inked word upon the page.
London’s most notorious rogue, reformed, has been the latest to suffer the effects of a broken heart. Lord Scarsdale’s betrothal was officially severed and the nuptials . . .
“Canceled,” Scarsdale finished on a shaky whisper.
Oh, bloody hell.
In short, the Marriage Mart was officially closed.
He dropped the newspaper to find Landon smiling back, wearing a smug “I told you so” look.
“Surely not . . . all ladies are part of this . . . this . . . movement?” Clayton asked dubiously. After all, gossip columns were given to exaggeration. That was why they were gossip columns.
Landon shrugged. “Look around you, friend.”
And Clayton did.
From Scarsdale vacillating between pitiable sighs and agonized groans to the various other lords scattered throughout White’s being comforted by their own friends and acquaintances.
Clayton let loose a string of silent curses.
It should so work out that he had chosen to settle on the responsibility of finding a wife when all London’s ladies were in revolt—specifically against the state of marriage.
This time he did reach for the bottle and glass that had been set out for him and forgotten until now. “What in thunderation has happened?” Because revolts weren’t born of nothing. They rose from the ashes of firebrands.
Landon leaned back in his seat, stretching out the moment, relishing the attention paid him as he often did. “The Wantons.”
That managed to penetrate even Scarsdale’s haze of misery. The other man picked his head up.
Clayton scoffed. “There have been wantons and all manners of wicked sorts since the beginning of time. And yet there was not a revolt before now.” When I vowed to my family that I’d be the one to wed and secure their fates and futures.
“No, not as in a specific person or another,” Landon said in the frustrated tones that should be solely reserved for annoyed tutors. “As in a title. The Wantons. Of Waverton Street. They call themselves the Mismatch Club, or some such, but all the ton refers to them as the Wantons. It all started with three ladies living together. Now their membership is growing, and the number of ladies in the market for a husband is dwindling.”
Clayton tried to make sense of that. “It is a club, then?” A club comprised of women determined to break down societal order.
Landon nodded. “Indeed. They meet weekly and discuss ways in which to make our lives a living hell.”
Clayton scoffed. “I’m sure that is not the purpose of their group.”
“Have you seen the men around you?” his friend retorted.
He glanced around once more. Yes, his friend had a point there. “What, exactly, occurs at these meetings?”
“The ladies provide instruction to other women on how to avoid the state of marriage,” Landon said, rolling his snifter between his palms. “They school their members on how to instead push that task off onto brothers, guardians, and fathers, who will then see to the responsibility of raising a family’s wealth and status through marriage.”
Clayton couldn’t help it . . . nor did he even try—he laughed. He laughed until both friends were glaring his way, and every sullen peer was glowering, no doubt disapproving of the one person finding mirth that day.
“So glad you have a reason to laugh,” Scarsdale groused, tossing back his drink.
Clayton regained control of his amusement. “Forgive me. It’s just that it’s utterly preposterous to feel sympathy or pity for those men who allowed themselves to be so duped.”
“It’s all very amusing until it is you with the broken heart or you have become a victim of the Wantons.”
“I assure you,” he said in response to Landon, “I’ve no intention of finding myself anyone’s victim.”
“I remember when I was that arrogant.” Scarsdale’s shaky voice dissolved to a whisper.
Landon leaned over and gave the other man a commiserative pat on the back.
“Confident” was how Clayton preferred to think of it. Not “arrogant.” Alas, neither was he a person who’d belabor the point with a friend who’d already been knocked down.
As Landon’s earlier levity faded and an uncharacteristic somberness fell over the usually lighthearted lord, they sat in silence, each sipping their drink. While they did, each to his own thoughts, Clayton studied the room at large; the somberness that had fallen over it was an even more pronounced indication of the situation Landon had spoken of and about.
This place, usually so filled with conversations about Parliament and business and other casual discourses, had been reduced to a silent, solemn club.
But then, given what Landon had shared and the newspapers had written of, why shouldn’t there be that gravity?
The fate of futures and families fell to the men here, and those futures and families were reliant upon gentlemen making matches. It was, simply put, the way of their world.
And now that world was threatened.
And not only that but apparently their hearts, too.
Clayton glanced over at Scarsdale, sprawled out across more than half of the table, his head buried in his arms.
Granted, he’d not known the viscount’s heart was engaged either way, and yet it had been. Clayton picked up The Times and found the mention of Scarsdale there. Surely the women responsible for these unfortunate changes to society hadn’t intended for . . . this? Any of it? Or, at least, not the parts that had led to the complete breakdown in social order?
“What are you thinking?” Landon asked.
Clayton lowered his newspaper. “Someone needs to just . . . explain the chaos resulting from these meetings of theirs.”
“There’s a leader of the trio,” Landon shared. “They call her Madam Leader.”
“Of course they do,” Clayton muttered. That probably fed the lady’s ego and only further fueled whatever madness this was.
Landon waggled his eyebrows. “And is that what you intend to do, St. John? Patiently explain to her what she is doing wrong?”
“Why . . . yes.”
It was harder to say who was more shocked by Clayton’s pronouncement: the wide-eyed Landon; Scarsdale, who’d at last picked his head up from the table; or Clayton himself.
What in hell had he agreed to do? And yet . . . how difficult could it be to reason with the woman? “As I said, I’m sure if the lady has pointed out to her the effects that her meetings are having on society, she’d be more inclined to make some adjustments.” That pronouncement was met with silence, even managing to put a stop to Scarsdale’s infernal sighing and groaning.