Someone Wanton His Way Comes Page 3

  Sylvia winced. “I rather think you’ve summed it up quite sufficiently.” Yes, when her mother put it that way, she could certainly see her point. “I have reached an agreement with Lord and Lady Prendergast. No one is going to say anything about . . . about . . . what happened.” All the evil perpetrated by a woman whose mind wasn’t sound would remain secret. Wealth and power could buy anything—and that included sweeping away, into silence, Lady Prendergast’s deeds. “It is in their best interest to say nothing. And few others”—aside from her family and her late husband’s—“are aware of any of this.” Even knowing that hiding the family sins would protect Vallen’s title and future reputation, guilt still reared its head. In her opting for silence to protect her son, Sylvia’s brother-in-law, Hugh, and the other fighters would go without the justice they deserved.

  Her mother threw her hands up. “Secrets such as this, they do not stay secrets forever,” she insisted. “And certainly not with you helping it along as you are.”

  Nor could there be any disputing the world would devour such a scandal.

  As if she sensed a weakening, her mother shifted closer. “Having that woman in your life will raise questions about how you know her, and about her identity.” The dowager countess looked to Lila. “Tell her what I’m saying is true.”

  Sylvia glanced over at her youngest sibling.

  “Mother is correct, in that you will be closely scrutinized and questions will be asked.” Her younger sister held her eyes. “The question is, do you care?”

  Their mother sputtered. “Of course she cares. She has to. If not for herself, then for Vallen.”

  As her younger sister and mother launched into a quiet debate, Sylvia sat silently, asking herself Lila’s question: Did she care? Yes, there was merit to their mother’s warnings. Both logic and reason said moving in with these two women was the last thing she should do. And yet, perhaps that was the fuel to her determination. From when she’d been a girl to when she was a young lady out for her first Season, and then through her marriage, she’d always done what was expected of her. This, this was her stand. And despite her mother’s horror over Sylvia’s decision, it remained hers. In a world where men were free to exist in any way and have complete control over their choices and decisions, she should have, at the very least, the right to decide where she would live.

  With her resolve firmed, she spoke quietly, interrupting the debating pair. “I’ve told you what I intend to do.”

  The dowager countess went absolutely still, and Lila edged closer to Sylvia.

  She braced for the fireworks, which was why she was thrown off balance when her mother’s face fell and her words came out not with a shout, but with a whisper. “She hurt you, Sylvia.”

  “It was not her fault,” Sylvia said simply. In the immediacy of learning all she had about her husband’s betrayal, that realization had come surprisingly easily to her. “She wasn’t aware he was married.” He’d lied to Valerie Bragger just as much as he’d lied to Sylvia. As such, she’d felt more of a kindred connection to the woman for how she’d been wronged than she ever had resentment at the relationship she’d had with Sylvia’s late husband.

  “I knew it was a horrid idea when you insisted on finding this woman,” her mother spat. “No good could come of it, I said. But no. You had to search her out and meet her”—Sylvia bit the inside of her cheek; it was better not to point out that it had, in fact, been Valerie who’d come to her—“and now . . .” The dowager countess gave her head a hard shake. “Suggesting that she live with you? I cannot allow this.” Only, those four words emerged as an entreaty from a woman whose tone indicated she knew she would not and could not win.

  “It is already decided, Mother,” Lila said gently.

  Sniffling once more, their mother set aside her favorite dessert in favor of the steadying tea.

  “That doesn’t change the fact that there will be a scandal,” the countess persisted, her voice restored to its earlier strength. “Is that what you want for Vallen?”

  She’d gone there. To Sylvia’s one and only weakness. The child whom she’d sell and barter her soul for.

  “That is also unfair, Mother,” Lila chastised.

  “Unfair because the truth hurts?” their mother countered. “Because it is true. Do you think society will be kind to a child who lives with a drunkard socialite and a street-born woman who was his father’s lover?”

  Sylvia winced. Yes, well, when presented that way, she could see the damning possibilities, and yet, her husband had opened her eyes to one truth.

  “He will be fine.” Sylvia’s assurance came from a place of knowing.

  “Oh?” Her mother shot a brow up. “And what makes you so very certain?”

  “Because he is a male,” she said, “and a future marquess.”

  And as such, he would never know the lack of freedom and control of his life that Sylvia and all women did.

  Ever.

  A fortnight later

  Waverton Street

  Sylvia had done it.

  She had moved out and into a new residence, free of her life as a married woman.

  The newspapers had been intrigued, but unlike her mother had feared, there’d been no great uproar caused. There’d been, at worst, mild curiosity.

  And there was something so splendorous in having a household that a husband or a mother or an older brother truly wasn’t in charge of. For here she had something she’d never known: people who accepted her and allowed her—nay, encouraged her—to speak and think freely. And however worried her mother might be, Sylvia had found herself thriving in this new environment.

  “This is all yours,” Valerie murmured. Wrapping her arms about Sylvia’s waist, Valerie hugged her, resting her chin atop Sylvia’s shoulder.

  Sylvia glanced back at this woman who’d become her friend, and then at Annalee, who looked over the room with a like happiness. “This is ours,” Annalee said. And after living without ever really having anything of her own, there came a thrill of triumph in this.

  The moment proved short-lived.

  Someone shoved the door open hard, and as one, Sylvia and her new living companions whipped their gazes in that direction.

  Their butler, Mr. Flyaway, a former fighter Lila’s husband had arranged to work in the new role of head servant, frowned at them. “There be someone at the door,” he said without preamble or bow. Unconventional in his delivery, the burly man had nearly brought Sylvia’s mother to a faint upon her first visit. “Not a relative.” Sylvia, however, found his direct style refreshing. “It be a young lady.” He handed over a card.

  Accepting it, Sylvia looked at the name emblazoned there. “Miss Emma Gately,” she murmured, and looked questioningly to her friends.

  Valerie shrugged. “You know I don’t know . . . any of those sort. Not ladies.”

  Yes, having been born outside the peerage and living on the streets of East London, she hadn’t had many dealings with members of Polite Society.

  “And she’s not someone I keep company with,” Annalee offered, and then she flashed a wicked half smile. “Which likely means she’s polite people.”

  Polite people. As in members of the ton.

  “Shall I send her away?” Mr. Flyaway asked impatiently.

  “Yes,” Annalee said. Uncorking her flask, she took a sip. “See that you do.”

  And yet . . .

  “Wait!” Sylvia called. Three sets of eyes went to her. “Show her in. I’ll see her.”

  “She’s got company with her. Two other ladies, one a sister. One a friend, she said.”

  Sylvia’s intrigue redoubled, along with her worry. What reason would not one but three ladies have to seek her out? Unless they were somehow connected with the Fight Society?

  The moment the thought slid in, she shook her head, refusing to let herself think of it.

  “Sylvia?” Valerie spoke in a gentle voice. “Are you certain you want to receive them? Annalee and I can go see what they are
here about.”

  They would shield her. It was thoughtful and kind, and yet, Sylvia was tired to her soul of being someone whom people felt they needed to protect.

  “Please send them in, Mr. Flyaway,” Sylvia repeated, and the butler hurried off.

  A short while later, he showed in a trio of ladies. The three, all dressed in meticulous white, high-necked, heavily ruffled gowns, filed into the room. That was, however, where all similarities ended: one possessed crimson curls, another dark ringlets, and the third, the somewhat gangly, tall leader of that group, honey-blonde hair that had been drawn back severely at her nape.

  Though Sylvia assessed the tall one to be a mere eighteen or nineteen, the young lady had a serious look to her. She also possessed a determined set to her mouth as she glanced amongst Sylvia, Annalee, and Valerie . . . before ultimately settling all her attention on Sylvia.

  Mr. Flyaway drew the door shut behind them.

  “May I help you?” Sylvia asked gently.

  “Are you the Countess of Norfolk?” the blonde asked in surprisingly firm and decisive tones for one so young. Sylvia hadn’t been anywhere nearly as self-assured when she’d been this girl’s age.

  Annalee reached for her silver case and removed a cheroot. Touching that tip to a nearby candle she always kept lit for such a necessity, she took a draw and exhaled out the side of her mouth. “Who is asking?” she answered for Sylvia.

  “I told you,” the dark-haired woman whispered none too discreetly to the lady at the center of her group. “This was a silly idea—”

  “Hush,” the blonde lady said dismissively . . . and commandingly. She proceeded on with introductions. “My name is Miss Emma Gately, and this is my younger sister, Miss Isla Gately.” Her sister dipped a curtsy. “And my dear friend, Lady Olivia Watley.” Lady Olivia offered a curtsy of her own.

  There came a brief pause. “And how may I help you?” Sylvia asked, looking at them.

  There came the first spark of indecision in Miss Emma Gately’s eyes. “You are independent. Establishing this . . . society. And I would ask to be part of it. To learn from you, how to assert myself and to be interesting, and . . . also, to determine what I might do to win the heart of a gentleman.”

  A . . . society? Sylvia rubbed at her temple, wholly befuddled. “I’m sorry?” she ventured, as even Annalee, who was always ready with a retort, found herself gape-mouthed and silent.

  “Her betrothed doesn’t like her,” Isla Gately blurted, earning a sharp look from Emma. “What?” The younger girl shifted back and forth. “He doesn’t.”

  Miss Emma Gately bristled. “That is neither here nor there; the part that matters is . . . learning how to assert one’s independence. How to be in control of one’s life and future marriage and—”

  “Why don’t we slow down a bit,” Valerie interrupted.

  Sylvia motioned to the sofas. “Please, won’t you sit?”

  Moving in unison, the girls ventured deeper into the room and claimed the indicated seating.

  “Now,” Sylvia began when she and Annalee and Valerie had also found their chairs. “Perhaps you might explain a bit more about who you are and how you think I might help you, Miss Gately?”

  “Emma,” the young woman offered. “My name is Emma, and”—she drew in a breath—“I’ve been betrothed since I was a babe of only six.”

  Silence met that pronouncement.

  “That is . . . horrific,” Annalee said, and took another pull from her cheroot.

  “Indeed,” Emma agreed. “To the Earl of Scarsdale. Our families are close and thought the best way to cement that connection was through two of their children.”

  Sylvia stiffened. The earl, one of her late husband’s closest friends, was a rogue of the first order.

  Emma’s gaze homed in on Sylvia. “You know him.” It wasn’t a question but an astute observation for one so young.

  “I do.” And perhaps it was only that she’d just moved in and was tired from the work they’d done in their new residence, all while caring for a child, but Sylvia spoke without restraint. “And neither do I think you should go about transforming yourself for him, or for any man. But especially not him.”

  “I told you!” Lady Olivia exclaimed, and then shifted her attention from Emma over to Sylvia. “I’ve told her time and time again that she doesn’t want to win such a man.” Unfamiliar to Sylvia until now, the young woman grew in her estimation.

  With her cheroot clamped between her lips, Annalee clapped her hands. “Clever girl.”

  “I’m twenty-one years old. Not so much a girl,” Lady Olivia replied.

  “You came here, asking me to help you marry a man?” Sylvia said to Emma. “Well, I’d be more inclined to tell you how and why to avoid marriage to such a man.” She paused. “Any man,” she amended. “Not a single one of them is worth tying oneself to, particularly a scapegrace like Scarsdale, who wouldn’t have the sense to see you.”

  Color leached from the young woman’s cheeks. Oh, dear. She’d said too much. “Forgive me,” Sylvia said quickly. “I don’t know what came over me.” Actually, she did. She knew scoundrels everywhere who were still attempting to swindle young women out of their hearts and then carry on as her own late husband had.

  “No,” Emma whispered. “Please, do not apologize.” The young woman came to her feet, and Sylvia winced, bracing for the lady to storm off.

  Instead, the girl began to pace. “I have attempted to snare his attention. I’ve wondered as to my failings. And for what?” Her strides grew increasingly frantic. “Why? And”—Emma abruptly stopped midpace—“I love everything you’ve said here,” she whispered. “I’d not thought of it, but that . . . You are right. For seventeen years, I have been lamenting his lack of interest.”

  For . . . seventeen years? Sylvia studied the young woman before her, reassessing her youthful looks. Her self-possession made a bit more sense now.

  The lady’s sister interrupted Sylvia’s musings with an admirable display of loyalty. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” she said. “He is the one.”

  “Yes!” Emma exclaimed, her spine growing more erect with every word of truth she spoke. “Why should I change and seek his approval? Or be different? Or proper or . . . any of it?” Her jaw hardened. “When all along I should have been asking, ‘How might I live an independent life, free of some cad?’ It is just that it is—”

  “Ingrained in us?” Sylvia supplied.

  “Exactly,” Emma said with a firm nod. “And I appreciate the society you’ve formed for opening my eyes to this grievous fault that exists amongst society.”

  Sylvia was nodding in agreement until that last statement registered. She stopped mid–head bob. “Come again?”

  Valerie leaned in. “I believe she called us a society,” she whispered.

  Confusion creased Emma’s brow as she returned to the sofa she’d vacated. “Do you prefer a different name?”

  Hopelessly, Sylvia looked to Annalee. “What are we?” she mouthed.

  Her friend gave a little shrug.

  Sylvia turned back to her suddenly enthusiastic guest. “Forgive me, I believe you’re mistaken. We are not a society.”

  “You’re not?” Emma asked, bewildered. “A club, then?” She continued before Sylvia could disabuse her of the notion. “And here I thought a society a more officious and elevated group than a club.” Her nose wrinkled. “Those clubs that all those men spend their time at.”

  Sylvia shook her head. “We’re not either.”

  Emma’s face fell for a moment, and then she brightened. “Well, you should be.” The young woman folded her arms across her chest. “We should be. All of us. After all, I gather we’re of a like opinion on . . . men. It would be worthy of us to help not only one another in seeing the light, as I have done with your guidance, but also other women, as well.”

  Silence met Emma Gately’s declaration.

  A society. It was . . . a peculiar thought. And yet, an interesting one. One that
, the more Sylvia turned the idea around in her head, grew upon her.

  “What are you thinking?” Valerie asked.

  “That perhaps we might be an accidental society, after all,” Sylvia murmured. “A mismatch society.”

  Miss Emma Gately started, laughing brightly. “I like that very much! The Mismatch Society. After all, there are so very many women who are in need of similar saving.”

  It was certainly a truth that resonated with Sylvia.

  Annalee looked questioningly over at her. “What say you, Sylvia?”

  This was . . . preposterous. The height of absurdity. Assembling here with her friends, and now strangers, to debate. But mayhap . . . mayhap it could be more than that. Mayhap it could be a way of helping young women find their voices and assert themselves in a world so very determined to keep them silent.

  “Welcome to the Mismatch Society, ladies.” Sylvia smiled. “It is an honor to have you amongst our ranks.”

  Chapter 2

  One Month Later

  Every girl from age four up to twenty-four had gathered.

  Given the sheer size of the Kearsley family, it was a rarity to have all six ladies assembled. Seven, when including the mother of their impossibly large brood.

  It was even rarer to have the utmost silence from any of them, let alone all of them, at the same time.

  Something was decidedly amiss.

  With a wariness born of knowing just how much trouble each lady present was capable of, Clayton eyed the collection of his kin, crammed three sisters per Louis XV Marquise settee, with their mother at the head chair.

  Each woman and child stared back innocently, saying absolutely nothing.

  There wasn’t a tangle of words all rolled together as they vied to have their story, request, or question put to Clayton first.

  There wasn’t screeching and squealing over having another sister’s story, request, or question addressed first.