The Importance of Being Wanton by Christi Caldwell

Chapter 23

THE LONDONER

DANGER!

Society is abuzz with questions as to which member amongst Polite Society should prove a vengeful villain of the Mismatch Club? No one is safe.

M. FAIRPOINT

Charles was going to marry her.

That was, if she agreed to wed him. If she wanted to. As he wanted her.

And these past weeks, she’d given him every hope that her answer this time might be . . . would be different.

But it also meant other aspects of his life needed to be different, too. Change had been due long before this moment.

“You summoned me, chap.” Landon strolled into Charles’s office ahead of the butler, cutting off the formal introduction with only the ease of one who was very much at home in this household.

Coming to his feet, Charles motioned to the wingback chairs situated at the front of his desk. “I have.”

Tomlinson backed out of the room, and Landon plopped down in one of the seats. Slumped in the chair with his legs spread, he’d the look of bored calm personified. And yet the other man’s astute gaze took in everything: the ledgers and notebooks stacked on Charles’s desk. The room in general. “Not your usual place of play,” he remarked.

“No,” Charles said. Over the years, he’d really not committed himself to endeavors and matters as he should. Oh, he’d handled the finances for Miss Lee and Miss Linden. He’d not been a wastrel, but neither had he devoted his efforts to business. Not as he should. “I’ll not be joining you at Forbidden Pleasures anymore.”

“Is this about the buxom beauty and my attempts to help you?” Landon sat up straighter in his seat. “Because it wasn’t my intention to offend you.”

“No, no. It’s not about that.” At least, not directly. “I’ve come to see that my attending a place such as that is . . . wrong. Through my attendance, I’ve lent support to an establishment that has harmed women.”

Landon stilled, then released a groan. “You’re doing it.”

As in marriage. “It,” however, was the way the other man had always referred to matrimony when his finances had been at their most dire and he’d had to entertain the possibility of finding a wealthy wife. Thus far he’d been saved by windfalls at the gaming tables. He wouldn’t always, however. It was Charles’s hope that some honorable, loving, good woman would rescue Landon from himself. “I love her,” he answered, not pretending to misunderstand.

“She’s worthy of you?”

At least, this time, it was a question from his friend.

“Even more so,” Charles promised.

Landon sighed again, this one more resigned than the one to precede it. “Yes, well, I’ve fought you on that from the start, but someone who brings you this much happiness can’t be all bad.”

Charles gave him a look.

“Very well. At all bad,” the marquess allowed. Landon glanced about the room. “And then there was one.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows. “Perhaps not for long?”

Landon burst out laughing.

KnockKnockKnock.

They looked to the entrance of the room, and Landon pointed. “Perhaps that is my future knocking, even now?”

The door burst open; Charles and Landon stood.

Seamus came sprinting forward, with Camille following along at a more sedate pace behind him.

“As I said,” Landon called. “Fate was knocking.”

Glaring at his friend, Charles moved out from behind his desk. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned before turning his attention to the little figure hurtling his way.

Landon winked.

“Scarsdale!” Seamus cried happily, rushing into Charles’s arms, and he caught the boy to him, pretending to stagger back under his slight weight.

“Grown a stone in the week since I’ve seen you, you have!”

“I know what I am,” Seamus said, as if remembering himself, and with the need to be a mature figure in the presence of older gentlemen, he stepped stiffly out of Charles’s arms.

Camille rested a hand upon her son’s shoulder. “You are a strong, mighty boy.”

“The fiercest!” Landon exclaimed, and made a show of squeezing Seamus’s biceps.

The little boy giggled.

His friend shifted all his focus to Charles’s sister. “Lady Camille! The only sunny spot in—”

“England,” she said drolly. “You must find some new material, Landon.”

He staggered back. “Never tell me—”

“You’ve used that before? Indeed. Several times, in fact.” Going up on tiptoe, she kissed her brother on the cheek. “Charles.”

“He’s becoming rusty in his doddering years, isn’t he, sister?” Charles asked, vastly preferring having fun at his roguish friend’s expense to the earlier flirting he’d been doing with Camille.

“No. No!” The other man clucked his tongue like an angry rooster. “Not doddering. I’m like a fine bottle of brandy, richer and better with age.”

“Hardly richer.” Charles couldn’t resist, and his boyhood friend threw up his fists and boxed at the air.

Landon let his arms fall to his sides. “I always enjoy having my reputation as a rogue and gentleman challenged. Alas, I will leave you to your family business.” Lifting a hand in salute, he waved to Charles’s assembled family and left.

The moment he’d gone, Charles started for the bellpull. “I’ll ring for refreshments.”

“No. No!” Camille called quickly. “That will not be necessary.”

“For Seamus, then.”

“I am fine,” his nephew insisted.

Even so, Charles continued, and rang the bell. A young maid appeared almost instantly. “Have a tray brought of the Bakewell tart that Master Seamus prefers, please.”

Seamus’s face lit.

“I said no, Charles,” his sister admonished, settling into the mahogany two-seat settee in the middle of the room, Seamus taking the place beside her.

Charles opened his mouth to make a quip, but something stopped him—the serious set to her features. The tension at the corners of her mouth and eyes. All earlier levity faded as he pushed the door shut and joined the pair. “What is it?” he asked quietly after he’d sat on the Gainsborough chair closest to his nephew.

“I told Mother and Father I was coming. That I wished to speak with you”—Camille glanced over at the child next to her—“about . . . Seamus.”

He immediately tensed. “Is everything—”

“Please,” she interrupted.

“She’s planned out her speech,” Seamus said on a loud whisper, and that teasing camaraderie in his nephew’s playful voice drove back some of the tension.

“We should let her continue, then,” Charles said with a wink.

“Ahem. As I was saying.” His sister favored each of them with a frown. “Seamus is a clever boy.”

“The cleverest,” Charles said automatically, the words born of truth.

“There’s never been any matter he couldn’t solve,” Camille went on. “He sees everything, and knows even more.”

All earlier lightness aside, his nephew stared down at his lap, and a sense of dread returned and grew within Charles. “What is it?” he asked for a second time.

Camille looked at the boy. “Tell him,” she urged in gentling tones, maternal ones.

At last, Seamus looked up. “I know you’re not my father,” he said with a bluntness that knocked Charles back on his leather upholstered chair.

It had always been . . . understood. But neither had it been anything the family spoke of.

Charles found his voice. “I love you as if I were.” He spoke in solemn tones.

The little boy nodded. “I know that. I also know she is my mother.” As if there were another woman in the room and the statement needed clarification, Seamus pointed to Camille.

There it was. At last, they’d spoken the truth aloud. It was a conversation that had come about two decades earlier than Charles had anticipated. As such, he’d not put time into properly preparing.

“It was what I wished to talk about,” Camille explained, clasping and unclasping her gloved hands. “I have asked you to live a lie, and I know what this has done to you and Miss Gately.”

He shook his head, looking pointedly at his nephew.

“He deserves to hear and know everything, Charles,” she insisted with far greater strength than Charles could manage in this moment.

“Of course,” he said on a rush, nodding his head. “But I have no regrets,” he implored the both of them to understand. Not over caring for them. The only regrets Charles carried came from the fact that he’d not shared with Emma. And even so . . . the struggle had been that it hadn’t fully been his story to tell. “I would have you each know that.”

“But we have regrets,” Seamus admitted with an honesty that threatened to cleave Charles in two. “I don’t like living a lie. It is hard enough being a bastard,” he said with a bluntness that sent pain stabbing in Charles’s gut.

Camille reached for her son’s hand and held it tight. “It’s worse when you’re lying, too.”

Warning bells chimed. Oh, God. What was his sister saying? He was already shaking his head.

“I’m claiming him as my own, and acknowledging that you are not, in fact, his father.”

“No!” The denial exploded from him. There would be too much. Too much pain. Too much gossip. Too much of everything, when she’d already endured far more than any woman should.

A sad little smile wreathed her lips. “I’m not asking you, Charles. I’m doing this for me and Seamus. It is time that Seamus and I . . . and you . . . be set free. My mistakes were not yours to own. It was wrong of Mother and Father to ask you to make this sacrifice, just as it was wrong for me to allow it.”

“I didn’t—”

“Ask,” she murmured, interrupting his hoarse exclamation. “I know that. And I know you never would. But you have cared for me and Seamus.”

“And I will always care for you,” he vowed. His eyes burnt from the sting of moisture there, and he blinked several times as he looked to the solemn, silent little boy. “I will always care for you,” he repeated, more insistent, willing his nephew to hear that and believe it. Charles had been there for Seamus since the moment he’d entered the world and would be there until he took his last breath.

“I know,” his nephew said with the quiet, calm confidence only a child could be capable of.

Tears filled Camille’s eyes. “We both know.” Exhaling softly through her lips, she brushed back the tears slipping down her cheeks. “But it is time I do the same as his mother.”

She’d be shredded by society. Seamus, as well. And their parents. He grimaced. “Mother and Father—”

“Are not pleased.” Camille smiled her first real smile since she’d entered his offices. “But they know I am determined in this.” She stood, and stretched out a hand for Seamus. The little boy slipped his fingers through hers.

Charles exploded to his feet. “The tart.”

“I promised Seamus a visit to Gunter’s. There will be more for you,” Camille said gently but firmly, her meaning clear. Her refusal of that baked treat had more to do with her at last claiming her role as mother to Seamus and making the decisions for him.

Charles stared after the pair walking off hand in hand.

Seamus cast a lingering glance over his shoulder, and with one final smile for Charles, he was gone.

They both were.

The moment Camille and Seamus left, Charles sagged against the settee the mother-son pair had occupied. He raised trembling hands and ran them over his face. For so long, he’d been set on protecting Camille. She’d been right in her charges, that he’d been so intent on saving her that he’d not allowed her to be fully involved in decisions that had directly affected her and her son. He’d underestimated her, as he’d underestimated women until Emma. Until Emma had opened his eyes to everything he’d failed to see. And yet, though he was confident in Camille and sure of her strength, it didn’t erase the fact that there would be scandal . . . and struggle. The scandal he could give two rots about. But if he could spare her pain . . . he would.

Frantic footfalls pounded outside in the corridor, and he let his arms fall, facing the door. She’d changed her mind.

And yet—

“St. John,” he greeted. “A pleasu—” His greeting immediately cut off as he took in the other man’s strained features, etched in an expression he’d seen him wear only when their friend, the late Earl of Norfolk, had died. A different worry churned in his stomach. “What is it?”

“There was an accident . . .” The viscount’s throat moved as if he struggled over the emotion caught there to make the remainder of those words.

He tensed. Everyone knew of the Kearsley curse, and it had come to fruition . . . again. Charles took a quick step toward the other man. “Lady Sylvia—”

“She is fine.” His friend doffed his hat, and twisted the brim in his hands.

She is fine. “Thank God . . .” Except St. John arriving here in his cloak and hat and speaking those words meant . . .

Someone else was hurt.

Someone who had sent the other man fleeing here to Charles. Someone he cared about.

His knees knocked together, and he wrapped a hand over the curved back of the settee, gripping it so hard the carved wood dug into his palms.

No.

Charles shook his head, willing the other man to silence, edging away to ward off what was coming. What he couldn’t hear. Because nothing could happen to her. She was all that was joy and genius, and his happiness and very existence were inextricably twined to hers. “Mm. Mm.” There was no world for him without her in it.

St. John nodded slowly, his expression pained. “Someone threw a brick through the Mismatch Society window.” No. Charles continued shaking his head, but St. John’s words continued anyway. “Emma was struck.”

A keening wail better suited to a wounded beast spilled from Charles’s lips, and he caught his head in his hands, ripping at his hair. And he tried to breathe. To speak. And failed successfully at both, so that only a garbled combination of raspy, incoherent words left him. “Is she . . . is she . . . ?”

“Unconscious when I came here. Her brothers carried her home. I don’t know—”

Whatever the rest of those words his friend intended to utter, Charles didn’t stick around to listen.

He took off running.