“I tried to play at this life, St. John. I tried to be the dutiful, devoted husband, to the dull and proper lady—”
“Have a care,” Clayton snapped. “You may regret having wed her, but she is still your wife and as such deserving of, at the very least, your respect.”
Norfolk’s brows drew together. “I don’t regret marrying Sylvia.”
That gave Clayton pause. He continued trying to reach his friend. “If you don’t regret it, then you wouldn’t be doing what you”—he glanced about the bustling streets, confirming they were unobserved—“say you intend to do,” he substituted, unwilling to risk uttering the words aloud.
“You misunderstand me. I don’t regret it, as our marriage served its purpose.” Rage tightened each of Clayton’s muscles, every sinew coiled tense to the point of snapping. “There is a child, a future marquess, and as such, I’ve fulfilled my obligations.”
And yet . . . what if that was what might delay Norfolk’s flight? Perhaps if Clayton could stall his plans, the other man might see reason. “You don’t know that. Because you have already stated your intention to leave before your own babe is born . . . What if . . . what if it is a girl babe?”
“Then I’ll return when I must and give her another child until there’s the damned Prendergast hei—”
Clayton buried the remainder of that vile deliverance with a fist to his lifelong friend’s mouth.
Norfolk crumpled, landing hard on his arse. He gave his head a dazed shake. “Never felt you deliver a blow like that,” he said, the hand he had pressed to his bruised mouth muffling his words.
Nay, because there’d never been a reason to, before. Clayton’s knuckles stung, and his heart pounded hard as he stood over his friend. “I don’t even know you.”
“You know I love her,” Norfolk whispered.
“I thought she was . . . just your lover.” And even when he thought as much, nearly all his respect for the other man had died, and his resentment had burnt strong.
“Never. She is my everything, St. John. My everything,” he repeated. “And you don’t know what she’s been through. Hell,” he whispered. “She’s been through hell.” His features were a twisted mask of grief and regret, and it was the first time since the other man had revealed his wishes that Clayton felt a wavering . . . because . . . he did know about loss.
The moment proved fleeting.
For honor meant more.
“And instead, you’d rather put your wife through hell?” he asked bitterly.
Norfolk came slowly to his feet. “I never intended for Sylvia to be hurt.”
But he had no intention of altering course. That truth was clear. “There is nothing I can say?” Clayton asked tiredly. “No way to make you see reason?”
Color splotched Norfolk’s cheeks, and once more, Clayton thought he might have helped the other man see the wrongness and the madness of what he’d proposed here, with the public just out of earshot from the scandal they now whispered of. That hope proved fleeting.
Norfolk shook his head, and this time when, with a sound of disgust, Clayton turned to go, the other man rested a hand on his arm. “Can I rely upon you?”
He shrugged off that touch. “What does that entail? Caring for your wife? Raising the unborn child you are leaving?”
“Of . . . course not. Just see that they are well. Occasionally check in on them. I know you have your own obligations and responsibilities and— St. John,” Norfolk called after him. “St. John.”
“Go to hell,” Clayton shouted, ignoring that faint plea. He didn’t look back, just headed to his horse.
Later that afternoon, he learned it was the last time he’d ever see his friend alive.
Chapter 1
London, England
1829
The March family wasn’t one that had been left unscathed by tragedy or scandal.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
Lady Sylvia Caufield, the Countess of Norfolk, had been made a widow after her husband died from an errant blow on the fighting floor of Gentleman Jackson’s.
Her sister, Lila, nearly dead on the fields of Peterloo, had lived the life of a recluse after that tragic day, having only recently rejoined the world.
Then there had been Sylvia’s brother, Henry, the notoriously prim, proper Parliamentarian, the Earl of Waterson, who had been beaten and left for dead in the streets of East London, only to be saved and nursed by a former courtesan whom he’d gone on to marry.
One would think as such that their mother, the dowager Countess of Waterson, was capable of bravely facing anything where her children were concerned.
One would be wrong.
“Wh-wh-wh . . .” The dowager countess wept into her crumpled kerchief.
“Is that a ‘wa-wa-wa,’ as in she’s crying, or is she trying to ask a question?” Lila whispered behind her hand.
Sylvia peered at their blubbering mama. “I . . . cannot be altogether certain which,” she replied, keeping her lips absolutely motionless as she spoke. And if the countess was distraught over this small revelation, what was she going to say to the second item Sylvia had called her here to . . . discuss?
The door opened, and the sisters looked over.
A maid entered, bearing a tray in hand. The longtime member of the family’s staff hovered at the doorway, briefly considering the path over her shoulder.
“Lovely. Thank you, Patricia.” Sylvia smiled widely and, holding a hand up, gestured the girl over. “Refreshme—”
The rest of that announcement was lost to the dowager countess’s enormous gasping sobs.
And the usually attentive servant set the tray down, then fled without so much as a curtsy or waiting to see whether anything else was required of her.
Smart girl. Sylvia eyed the doorway covetously, knowing all too well how the young woman felt and envying her that escape.
Alas, this exchange had been . . . inevitable. There had been no way around informing her mother about her intentions. She was never going to take well to Sylvia leaving the respectable household she’d shared with Norman and moving not back in with her family but to another, less stylish street. Sylvia, however, was more than ready—and eager—to put this exchange behind her.
Donning another forced smile, Sylvia lifted the porcelain pot. “Tea?”
“I think tea is a splendid idea,” Lila exclaimed, albeit a bit too forcefully to be sincere, and yet her efforts were only appreciated. As was her support this day.
Sylvia proceeded to pour, and then she looked to her still-wailing mother. “Would you care for tea, Mother?” she asked loudly enough to penetrate the dowager countess’s noisy blubbering.
Her mother lowered the kerchief to her lap, revealing her swollen eyes and red cheeks. “Tea? Teaaaaa?”
Her mother managed to squeeze a whole four extra syllables into that single word.
Lila promptly looked down at her delicate floral cup and put a good deal of attention into stirring its contents.
Sylvia offered her most serene smile to their mother, the same one she’d practiced with her governesses to perfection as a girl. “You always did say tea is the great equalizer of sentiment and emotions.” Which she’d secretly thought to be vexingly redundant. Alas, using the countess’s oft-delivered lessons could only help in calming her.