The Importance of Being Wanton by Christi Caldwell

Chapter 9

THE LONDONER

A RAGING SUCCESS

The Earl of Scarsdale’s club continues to grow in membership, prestige, and greatness. Is it a wonder with such a leader at its helm?

M. FAIRPOINT

Over a few days’ time, not only had Charles established his club to counter Emma and her Mismatch Society, he’d secured a respectable venue and attracted a number of also respectable members.

In short, everything was going along swimmingly.

And certainly merited the likely celebratory invitation Charles’s footman, Wickham, held out.

Seated at the desk in his rooms, Charles accepted the sheet, and unfolding it, he made quick work of skimming the customary short, clever poem-like verse from his friend:

After the work you’ve done this week, it is a celebration we should of course seek. Glasses need be raised in toast, as we allow you that proper boast for everything achieved. Forbidden Pleasures at ten o’clock.

Be there.

L

With a laugh and wry headshake, he folded the note and set it down on the corner of his desk. “Please, send ’round my regrets to Lord Landon. I won’t be joining him this evening.”

Wickham, who’d hand delivered the missive and was already buried deep in Charles’s armoire, filling his arms with garments for the evening’s entertainment, glanced over his shoulder. “What?” Surprise lit the young man’s voice.

“I will not be joining him,” Charles reiterated, rubbing at the back of his neck, those muscles aching from the amount of time he’d spent with his head down, taking notes for his new endeavor. “If you would send on my regrets?” he repeated.

“Of course.” The young man returned the garments he’d selected to their proper places and brought the gold-painted panels of the armoire shut. “As you wish, my lord.”

Setting aside his notebook, Charles removed a sheet of paper, and dipping his pen into the inkpot, he dashed off a quick declination. After he sprinkled puce powder to dry the ink, then folded it, he handed it over.

Standing at his shoulder, Wickham continued to stare wide-eyed at the proffered response to Landon . . . as if he’d never before beheld a rejection of this sort.

In fairness, the young man hadn’t. As such, that shock was certainly merited. It was the first time in the whole of Charles’s adult existence that he’d declined to join his friend at their scandalous clubs.

Nay, the more wicked the venture, the more likely it was Charles would be there.

“It’s all right,” Charles said dryly. “It’s not going to bite your fingers.”

His cheeks flushing red, Wickham took the note and, with a bow, rushed off.

After he’d gone, Charles returned his attention to the place it had been for the better part of the evening: his work.

He dragged forth an old university notebook he’d repurposed, three-quarters of those pages dedicated to notes he’d made in his youth, the last quarter filled with hastily written potential agendas and topics.

Charles turned the page, updating the most recent changes to the attendance sheet.

From him, Landon, St. John, and Anwen Kearsley, the eldest of St. John’s brood of sisters, the organization had grown.

Sometime later, his old university notebook nearly full, Charles stole a glance at the clock. Twenty minutes past one o’clock. It was a new, unfamiliar way to find himself . . . particularly at this hour. For more years than he could remember, his time had been spent out, living his most improper life.

His gaze snagged on his visage reflected back from the enormous gilded mirror hanging on the opposite wall, and he stared contemplatively at himself. Emma hadn’t been incorrect in the charges she’d leveled his way—that was, with the exception of the one sin she and all society believed Charles guilty of. Over the years, he had drunk too much. And sat across from dealers at gaming tables, placing wagers.

Oh, with time’s passage, he’d tempered those wicked pursuits. They’d lost their appeal. But the image, however, remained.

Just as the perception of him as a libertine had, too.

Nor was it Emma’s fault for holding those ill opinions. Charles had stepped in and passed off Camille’s illegitimate son as his own, and in so saving his sister, he’d also shaped a narrative in which he was a reckless rake who’d not taken proper precautions to ensure he didn’t litter bastards about. Nay, Emma took him for the manner of man who’d leave some woman to the shame which came from birthing a bastard, and never offering that woman his name . . . because in short, that was what he’d done . . . on the surface.

And he’d do so again gladly. Protecting the sister he’d failed had been all that mattered.

However, he’d not properly considered . . . Emma. Nay, he had not considered her in any way—how such a scandal would reflect upon her. And more importantly, how she would feel at his having a by-blow son. In large part because at that point, she had still been a child and, in larger part, because he failed to see her as his eventual wife. Resentment and the age gap between them had made it entirely too easy to disregard how Emma would feel and be impacted by the lie of Seamus’s birth.

Given those reasons alone, why should her opinion of Charles ever be favorable? In fact, it was a wonder she’d not broken their betrothal off long before she had.

All this time, however, he had filled his days with largely empty pursuits. Until now. Until these past ten days.

What had begun as a way of challenging Emma’s views of him had morphed into something more. The short time in which he had begun his work in the Club D’égalité had been some of the most productive and rewarding, and also humbling.

For he’d not anticipated just how much went into the creation and organization of such a pursuit . . . and how little he, in fact, knew about it. Even more shocking had been the discovery for Charles that . . . he didn’t hate it. Not at all. Oh, he wasn’t good at any of the organizational details of the club. There was still a greater hint of chaos than order to the weekly meetings . . . which might or might not have resulted in a greater interest in his club than the actual content being discussed at this point. The structure of the meetings was not fully set.

But he was learning, and the Club D’égalité was growing, and . . . there had been an unexpected sense of . . . accomplishment . . . to it all.

Closing his notes for the day, Charles adjusted the leather notebook so it sat framed in the very center of his desk.

He patted the top of it, the gold lettering of his initials faded by time. And pushing his chair back, Charles stood and headed across the room. He shucked off his shirt and tossed it aside as he went; his trousers followed suit as he littered a path of garments on the way to his bed.

And climbing under the covers, he slept.

As a young child, Emma had been far from a dutiful, proper young lady.

Far from it. Swimming naked on the lake at her family’s estate. Fishing in the dead of night until she’d cleared out her father’s stock, then transporting those creatures to another pond so they might be saved from giving their fish-lives in the name of sport.

Dampening the powder used by her father and his guests on their hunts.

Undoing all the traps that had been set for those hunts.

The list went on and on, of scandals that had brought her mother to tears and her father to lecture and her siblings to amusement. Every last one of those outrageous acts had taken place before her twelfth birthday.

That was the year when everything had changed. She had changed. She’d been saddled with Miss Finch, a governess who’d praised Emma’s intelligence, schooled her in the art of using one’s mind, and urged her to present an image of solemnity to the world.

Until Miss Finch, no one had spoken to Emma about her mind mattering.

That stern, solemn instructor had reshaped every way that Emma wanted the world to see her, and the way that she chose to present herself.

Rather . . . she’d been . . . fascinated.

From that moment on, she’d presented herself in a way that she could be proud of. What she hadn’t anticipated was that she’d also become someone her betrothed could not stand being with.

As such, in the whole of her adult years, she could count on just one hand the number of outrageous actions or activities she’d taken part in. Really, she could count on just one finger: the visit she’d paid to Waverton Street, which had led to her cofounding of the Mismatch Society.

And from that moment, all manner of impropriety had sprung.

Perhaps her founding the Mismatch Society, however, had freed her in some way. For here she sat, poised to do something so shocking it made the formation of the Mismatch Society look like a Lady Jersey’s approved, sanctioned tea.

Yet, seated in the crowded hackney in the dead of night, with most of respectable society firmly in their beds for the evening, she didn’t feel the dread or horror or any other proper sentiment she should. Nay, with Olivia and Isla crammed on the seat beside her, and Owen stationed across from them, she found herself filled with an anticipation.

Alas, the indignation and anger she’d felt after learning of Charles’s rival society hadn’t been quite . . . what it was since he’d come upon her on Regent Street.

Stop being a ninny.Would a man feel any such compunction about calling out one’s rival? Would a gentleman let one mere interaction—even if it had been a special one such as what she’d known—allow his course to be altered?

No. Get your head clear, and remember, he is your nemesis.

Granted, a nicer nemesis than she’d taken him for. But still a nemesis all the same.

With that, Emma reached for the latch to let herself out. Olivia’s brother swiftly covered it, intercepting her efforts. “D-do you care to talk it out one more time?” he croaked. “Perhaps we . . . can come up with some other idea?”

Olivia slapped his fingers. “Oh, hush. We didn’t come up with anything.” She gestured between Emma, Isla, and herself. “We did. Now, if we may continue?” Even in the darkness of the carriage, Olivia’s eyes lit as only an angry sister’s eyes could.

“Yes, yes.” The more-loyal-than-they-deserved Owen promptly sat back in his seat. “Of course, forgive me. Carry on. As you were.”

Olivia peeked out the curtains at the impressive stucco, center-unit structure occupied by one Lord Scarsdale. “Are we even certain he is home?”

“If he’s not, I’ll wait,” Emma murmured, peering over Olivia’s shoulder. But for the sconces flanking the black lacquer doorway and the hint of light radiating from the foyer windowpanes, Charles’s townhouse had been largely doused in darkness.

“And you’ve prepared everything you intend to say?” her friend asked . . . for a third time since they’d set out.

“Yes.” She’d carefully scripted every part of her plan, and every word she’d say.

“I’m still not certain how you’re sure you’ll gain entry?” Isla asked with skepticism that could come only from a young lady’s naivete.

For Emma well knew how to gain entry into the household of a gentleman such as the roguish Earl of Scarsdale. All she need do was knock on the front door, gain entry, and . . . Risk your reputation and scandal, all in the name of boldness, a voice taunted at the back of her mind. Nay, it was more than that. In the name of the Mismatch Society, the future and success of their organization. She was fighting for their survival, and fighting for her members.

Owen cleared his throat. “You do know friends generally talk friends out of risky escapades?” he pointed out, edging away from Olivia before she could deliver another blow.

“Ah,” Isla said. Holding a finger aloft, she waved it in the direction of the fourth member of their party. “But I am a sister, and sisters cheer sisters on through every boldness.”

Olivia favored her brother with a glare. “And I may not share Emma’s blood, but we are as close as sisters. Isn’t that right, Emma?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fine. However, if I may,” he began, earning groans from all but Emma as, every bit the solicitor analytical in his business, he launched into a lecture. “I should like to point out—”

“No,” Olivia and Isla said in unison.

“One,” he continued over that interruption, as he ticked up a finger. “The risk to Emma’s reputation.” That for so long had been something she’d cared very much about. How much of her life, however, had been wasted worrying about what others might say, instead of focusing on what she truly wanted . . . and deserved? “Two, Scarsdale is a terrible chap. A libertine. A rake.”

“Those are the same,” Olivia pointed out.

Owen nodded so quickly his spectacles slipped all the way off his face. As he spoke, he fished about for them.

Bending down, Emma retrieved the wire pair and, cleaning off the smudged lenses, returned them to his face.

His cheeks went red. “Many thanks. Where was I?”

“You were wishing me the best of luck?”

His smile dipped, and he blinked in confusion. “No. No. I don’t think it was that. At all,” he said, with his endearing inability to recognize teasing. “I think I was attempting to convince you this is a rubbish id-aahhh.” Owen let out a quiet groan as his sister caught him hard in the shins.

“Do hush, Owen,” she admonished. “You have one purpose here and one purpose only—”

“Protection,” he muttered, rubbing at his injured leg. “I know. I know.” Olivia’s brother, a de facto friend of Emma’s over the years, looked past his younger sister and to Emma. “However, I would be remiss if I did not add my voice of reason to the mix.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Olivia and Isla said at the same time.

“You are not of the same mix,” Olivia added.

Owen bristled, his glass spectacles slipping again over the bridge of his slightly too-narrow nose. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re not a woman, Owen.” Olivia sighed her exasperation. “You are merely a stand-in for potential footpads and other unanticipated dangers that we might encounter.”

And it was an unlikely role, at that, for him to be assigned. Near in height to Emma, he was even more painfully thin than Emma herself. A strong gust could knock over the young solicitor. And a strong gust in the form of his sister’s slight nudge between his shoulder blades when she was displeased with him, in fact, had toppled him. An air of frailty had always clung to the young man, who’d battled yellow fever as a boy and grown up with his books for company when the other boys were . . . well, doing what other boys did. Thin, bookish, and usually buried away in his work, that still hadn’t prevented him from accompanying the three ladies in a mark of his goodness and loyalty. “Are you certain you— Owww,” he cried out as he was dealt a third strike.

Touched that he’d brave his sister’s wrath on her behalf, Emma leaned over and patted him on the knee. “My apologies for your sister’s ruthlessness.”

And before he could launch another attempt to talk her out of an already dangerously bad decision, she adjusted the hood of her crimson cloak, drawing it up and pulling it forward so the deep folds shielded the whole of her face. Reaching past Olivia, Emma pressed the handle and jumped down.

The moment her feet hit the uneven cobblestones, each leg rolled outward, and she tossed her arms wide, steadying herself. When she had her feet properly under her, Emma began the short walk to Charles’s residence.

Nay, to Lord Scarsdale’s.

Visiting the gentleman in his residence at this hour required that degree of formality between them. And as much as she wished to be reviewing the script she’d prepared, Emma found all her attention was required on the perilous path that came from the heeled satin articles she’d donned.

She silently cursed.

What woman would prefer a blasted heel?

God give Emma a comfortable, smooth flat slipper over the ridiculousness of such a shoe any good English day of the week.

“I told you, you should have practiced more,” Isla whispered scandalously loudly behind her, before Olivia grabbed the younger girl and dragged her into the carriage and out of possible sight.

Yes, and it was the first time she’d truly considered she risked not just her reputation but her sister’s, as well. And Olivia’s. Granted, Owen was there, and his presence would salvage his sister’s some. But . . .

Stop.

Get in.

Say your piece.

Get done what you need to get done, and get out.

That quick, and in that order.

And yet . . . it wasn’t that simple. She’d spent the better part of her adult life thinking about her eventual future as Charles’s wife and . . . imagining being in his life.

In his bed.

Even as she’d known all the while that he’d never desired her. Or wanted her, or been attracted to her in any way. Which was perhaps why she’d spent the better part of the day also considering precisely what she’d wear for this upcoming meeting.

As Emma reached the bottom step of Charles’s townhouse, she climbed her gaze up the center unit, sandwiched between a bright-orange stucco residence trimmed in black paint on one side and a pale-green one on the other. Charles’s, constructed of pale-white limestone, extended some fifteen feet above the ones that flanked it. And for all the ornate luxuriance of those other structures, Charles’s possessed an urbane elegance, perfectly suited to the sophisticated occupant who called this place home.

When she’d first arrived in London and learned he kept a bachelor’s residence, she’d had her family’s driver take her riding by . . . several times. All the while, she’d peered from around the edge of the gold velvet curtain, considering this very townhouse. She’d wondered if it was the place they would one day call home together, because a man such as Charles wasn’t one who’d spend all his time at the country properties. But neither were the townhouses in these streets those ones frequently lived in by husbands and wives. Instead, they were well-known residences of bachelors.

She’d gone back and forth. Wondering. Trying to answer those questions in her mind.

It had been on the fourth carriage ride by that she’d seen it.

Nay, not it.

Him.

Or, rather, them.

Charles had been meeting his family at the doorway—his sister, his parents . . . and the small boy who lived with his parents.

His son.

She’d stared at that small boy, holding the hand of his aunt, as the family filed inside.

It had been the first time she’d seen the child, her husband’s illegitimate son. Tiny. Blond. The very image of Charles. And it hadn’t been resentment she’d felt for the boy, born through circumstances he’d had no control over. But rather . . . the searing, red-hot burn of . . . jealousy and shame, all rolled up together. Over the fact that Charles had created a child with another.

All the while, he’d been assiduously avoiding any and every interaction with Emma. It had felt like the greatest failing on her part, the absolute inability to make the man she was slated to marry care about her—in any way.

Charles had looked up, and she’d promptly released the curtain, pressing herself against the back of the carriage bench . . . as she’d been confronted with all the ways in which she’d deluded herself about a marriage between her and Charles.

It had been a reminder that, where she’d spent her childhood and young adult years wondering about their future, her someday husband had been living a life without a thought of her in it.

No, he’d never expressed an interest in a relationship with her. Any interest at all, really.

Until that day at the lake.

Until she’d broken it off.

Until now.

“Get on with it already,” Olivia called in a furious whisper from across the street, jerking Emma out of the past and into the present.

She used the rail to steady her legs the remainder of the way; the unevenness of her steps now having less to do with the fine articles on her feet and everything to do with her impending meeting, she climbed up the seven steps.

Raising her hand, she lifted the polished brass fleur-de-lis door knocker and brought it down hard.

That metal clang echoed damningly loud down the still of the nighttime streets.

And as she stood there, huddling in her cloak, images filled her head of people poking their heads out to find her on Charles’s stoop. Not that, in her satin crimson cloak and arriving at the hour she had, they would suspect it was her. And yet . . . that reassurance brought little calm.

There came the shuffle of approaching footsteps on the other side of the black lacquer door panel, and then fiddling on a lock.

The door opened, and a sleepy-eyed butler looked about; his gaze settled on her, then widened.

Emma husked her voice and spoke. “I am here to see Lord Scarsdale.”

How many times had such similar words been uttered at this very threshold? And why, if she didn’t care about Charles and she’d moved on from his betrayals, did the idea of it still hurt?

“I . . .” Charles’s butler scratched at his tousled hair.

“He is expecting me,” she lied, taking advantage of the servant’s sleep-dulled mind.

Except the young man seemed to find himself. “His Lordship isn’t taking visitors at this time. Said he isn’t to be disturbed.” He made to shut the door, but Emma slid around him and let herself into the foyer.

Her heart raced faster as she found herself that much closer to the goal with which she’d set out that night. “Oh, trust me. He’ll want to see me.”

And he would, even if she had to go search him out herself.

“If you would be so good”—she lowered her voice another shade, attempting those sultry tones likely belonging to every woman who’d entered through these front doors—“as to provide His Lordship word that he has a very important guest, one who is very eager to see him.”

The butler hesitated, moving his gaze over the textured layers of her crimson cloak, then swallowed audibly. “If you’ll wait but a moment, madam?” With that he bustled off, climbing the curving staircase and heading down the hallway that fed off the right side of the main landing.

The moment he was out of sight, Emma hurried into movement and set herself on the same path to Lord Scarsdale.