Someone Wanton His Way Comes Read online

  And with that, the group came to their feet and, following behind their mother, filed from the room, leaving Clayton thankfully and blessedly alone.

  Chapter 3

  One week later

  White’s

  London, England

  Clayton had inherited his friends through his connection to Norman, Lord Norfolk, at Oxford. He’d always been the odd man out of the group.

  With their penchant for womanizing, drinking, and wagering, that much remained true.

  Their friendship, however, remained strong.

  And given the state of his best friend, the Earl of Scarsdale, his head buried in his arms on the table, the man was in dire need of friendship.

  Waving off a servant who came forward to pull out his chair, Clayton availed himself of the seat closer to his other best friend, the Marquess of Landon.

  Landon cupped a hand around his mouth and whispered, “He’s in bad shape.”

  “I . . . see that.”

  As did all the other patrons and servants stealing curious looks the way of their table.

  Scarsdale groaned. “Broff-off, shedid.”

  “Another drink will do.” Leaning over, Landon patted Scarsdale hard between the shoulders. “It always does.”

  Clayton was in possession of an entirely different and unpopular opinion to the one Landon now spouted. At this particular moment, however, that seemed neither here nor there. Broff-off, shedid. Broff-off, shedid. Alas, no matter how many times Clayton tested those mismatched syllables in his mind, he came up empty with the deciphering. “What was that, Scarsdale?”

  The Earl of Scarsdale downed a drink, and hadn’t even finished the swallow before he had his arm up, gesturing to a White’s servant for another.

  The notorious rogue, who’d recently decided to settle down and see to his responsibilities as earl, set his glass down hard. “She . . . broff it off.” With that, the man slumped forward, letting his head fall hard on the table with a thunk that earned winces from Clayton and Landon.

  Clayton slid a questioning glance over to Landon.

  “Broke it off. His betrothed, Miss Gately.” The other man silently mouthed the latter part.

  Ahh. So this was the reason for Scarsdale’s misery. “But you didn’t want to marry her anyway.”

  “Notthepoint, St. John.” Either grief or too much drink added a slur to Scarsdale’s response.

  “Uh . . . isn’t it?”

  Landon lifted his half-empty brandy Clayton’s way. “It is because you are the optimist of the group.”

  “It is trueyouare.” That response, buried into the smooth mahogany, came muffled.

  Clayton frowned. “I’d hardly call myself an optimist.” His sisters and his mother, yes. Clayton himself? Decidedly not. After all, a man who’d accepted his fate was to die young and likely to leave a family of hoydens and hellions to their own defenses would hardly ever be confused as someone with a rosy-by-nature look at life. “But as I said before, you didn’t even want to marry the girl.” In fact, Scarsdale had done nothing but complain about his fate since the day he’d offered for the young lady.

  “That’s not the point.” The other man surged forward, but Landon put a calming hand on his arm.

  “Tsk-tsk, St. John,” Landon chided. “Bad form, piling on a man when he is down.”

  “I’m not attempting to pile on; I’m just pointing out that detail for solace’s sake.”

  “Solace’s sake,” Scarsdale muttered. “As I said . . . optimist.” Grabbing Landon’s glass, the earl saluted Clayton, then drank down the remainder of their friend’s fine French brandy.

  A servant arrived with another bottle.

  No sooner had the young man left than Scarsdale let his head fall to the tabletop once more.

  Landon continued. “Either way, it isn’t just you, Scarsdale,” he pointed out commiseratively. Grabbing up the bottle of brandy, he refilled Scarsdale’s glass and put it within reach of the other man’s fingertips. “Lots of men are in the very way you are.” That managed to bring the earl’s head up, revealing tired, bloodshot eyes. “Why, look at Bowick over there.” Landon gave a discreet nudge of the chin, and they followed that gesture over to a gentleman with his head in his hands and a drink framed between his arms. “And Cobham.”

  Cobham, who was currently cradling a whiskey in each hand and alternating sips between the two.

  “All of Polite Society has gone insane; you are just one of the many, many victims,” Landon said, helping himself to another drink.

  “Whatever are you talking about?” Clayton asked, looking about the room at the men Landon had listed.

  The marquess paused midpour. “You gentlemen don’t know?” There was an almost gleeful relish from that member of their group, who’d always taken delight in being the first in possession of any information.

  Scarsdale turned his head so he rested his chin upon his palm. “Know what?”

  Dragging his chair closer to the table, Landon spoke in hushed tones. “Ladies everywhere are refusing to wed. They are breaking their betrothals, turning away suitors, and calling for greater freedoms. All of society is in an uproar over it.”

  What? When there was a whole time of the English calendar dedicated to that very institution? Clayton snorted. “That is preposterous. I’ve heard nothing of this.”

  Landon shrugged. “You aren’t often abreast of what is happening in society.”

  No, that much was true. “Gossip,” Clayton corrected. He’d at least have his friend call it what it was. “I don’t bother with it.”

  “Which is why you don’t know,” the other man pointed out. “Either way, call it what you will, it also happens to be how I know, and you”—drink in hand, he stretched his littlest finger out and wagged it in Clayton’s direction—“do not.” He shot his left arm up, and held two fingers aloft.

  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 o
f 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.

  “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 a
uthority 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.