“Adjustments?” Landon echoed.
Why was he repeating back everything so? “Yes, adjustments. I’m not suggesting that they don’t meet.”
Scarsdale straightened, looking more like his usual composed, sober self. “What are you going to suggest to her, then?”
“That some changes be made to whatever discussions are taking place. I’m sure they can’t mean for all women not to marry. Just as I’m sure rebellion is not what she set out to create.” And yet, here they were.
Both men looked at him, and he bristled. “What?”
“You’re going to be the one to speak to this lady?” Landon didn’t give him a chance to answer, clearly feeling further clarification was required. “You.”
Clayton bristled. “Yes, me.” Was that really so hard for them to contemplate? Yes, his volunteering to show up at the residence of a scandalous lady’s household was uncharacteristic enough to merit those looks. It was the manner of boldness that would have always been better suited to the colorful, sociable men he’d called friends over the years. But still . . . they needn’t look quite so surprised.
For the first time since Clayton had arrived to find Scarsdale bereft, the man burst out laughing. Nay, it was more a hysterical fit that left the earl sputtering and wiping tears from his eyes.
Landon joined in. “You . . . ? You . . . ?” He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t get anything else out before dissolving all the more into paroxysms of hilarity.
And Clayton couldn’t sort out whether Landon was trying to determine if that single word he’d sputtered in between his merriment was what exactly Clayton intended to say when he paid the Waverton house a visit. Or whether it was a rhetorical utterance, at the overall preposterous idea of him doing what he’d stated he’d do.
“Oh, bugger off,” he muttered, swiping his glass from the table and drinking down the contents.
When both men’s laughter had dissolved to the periodic chuckle, he gave them a look. “You may laugh, but if the both of you and the gentlemen of London on the whole had it their way, they’d be sitting here licking their wounds and their sorrows while this scandalous society carries happily on.”
“Whereas you intend to go and be the voice of reason.” Landon apparently wasn’t anywhere near close to done with his amusement, his words sufficiently cracking him up once more.
“Laugh as you may,” Clayton said on a frown. “But anyone can be reasoned with. Anyone,” he added for good measure.
“I’ve it on authority that the angry papas and guardians who’ve attempted to speak with the lady of the household have all been turned away.”
He scoffed. “That is . . . rubbish. They can’t simply turn everyone away.”
“They have. And they do . . . After all, remember, there are three of them.”
His stomach fell. Yes, he’d forgotten that detail.
“Three,” Landon reiterated with more of that obnoxious amusement in the emphasized word.
Oh, hell. It was daunting enough to have taken on the job of speaking with the lady responsible for Scarsdale and the rest of the broken hearts at White’s. But . . . three women? Three, when he’d never been known for being . . . well, anything of a charmer.
Clayton pushed back his chair and stood.
His friends looked up questioningly.
“Where are you off to?” Scarsdale asked.
“I have a meeting with the Wantons.”
“Wait . . . You were serious?” Shock laced Scarsdale’s query.
“Deadly so.” Clayton didn’t have time for this Marriage Mart revolt. No doubt this was fate’s way of manipulating his life, a means of ensuring that he broke the promise he’d made to his sisters, one that had been relatively easy to make because their futures depended upon it. Clayton hardened his jaw. He’d be damned if he allowed some free-spirited women to turn every lady against that state. Not when he was in need of a damned wife himself. He grabbed up Landon’s copy of The Times.
Landon jumped up quickly enough that his chair went tumbling back and skidding over to a nearby table of equally aggrieved patrons. “Wait. You’re really doing this?”
“I am.” It was somewhat unlike him, but also what needed to be done. As such, there wasn’t time for the nice gent he usually was . . . but rather a gent in action.
“There is something else you really need to know before you make that visit.” Landon spoke quickly. “The lady—”
“I already know everything I need to.” The last thing he had time for was finding himself at the source of Landon’s baiting and jesting.
Ready for a battle, Clayton quickened his stride and headed out of White’s and off to Waverton Street.
Chapter 4
Sylvia hadn’t intended to create a stir amongst the ton.
Just as she hadn’t planned to forge and form a society.
Alas, after a little more than a month of living on Waverton Street, that was precisely what she and her new living partners had, in fact, created.
They had set all the peerage abuzz.
And Sylvia had never found herself happier with her changed circumstances.
Thunk-Thunk-Thunk.
The silver lorgnette, the makeshift gavel that began and adjourned all meetings, landed three times upon the turquoise-painted pine desk. “This meeting is called to order,” the most vocal of their group, Lady Annalee, announced to the crowded room of women. She paused to take a draw from her cheroot, and exhaled a perfectly formed circle. “First order: new business.”
Sylvia looked to her sister, Lila.
Lila, who, following her attack at Peterloo, had withdrawn from the world, and had recently returned to the living, thanks to the support of her now husband, Hugh. And yet, Sylvia still detected a tension and palpable unease in her sister at her changed circumstances. Perhaps it would always be there. “Lila has something to share with the group,” she volunteered in a bid to help her sister along. “Lila?”
All eyes went to the dark-haired woman, now proprietress of her own establishment, where men and women learned the art of self-defense. Lila cleared her throat. “As you are aware, my husband is a carver. He fashioned this for our group and our meetings.” Reaching into her bag, she withdrew a small, circular disc, carved and painted yellow. Next, she took out an intricately detailed gavel; with a ribbed handle and a daisy carved upon the top and bottom of the head, every part had been lovingly attended to. Holding both aloft, she came forward, extending the set to Annalee.
Annalee stubbed out her cheroot in the little porcelain tray of ashes and discarded the scrap, then reached for the offering. “This is . . . splendid,” she said in reverent tones as she took the gifts and held them up for the gathering to admire.
A number of sighs went up.
Nor did Sylvia believe for a moment those exhalations of air were anything but romantic expressions.
After all, it would be impossible to not be in awe of a husband as devoted as Lila’s.
Sylvia stared on, her gaze fixed on that lovingly crafted set Annalee showed to the room at large. A devoted husband, one who supported her dreams and efforts. In short, it was what Sylvia had wanted . . . and for a while, what she’d believed she had.