Chapter Twenty-One

Things seemed to happen both very quickly and very slowly after that. Clayton felt as though he were frozen in place.

Of course, there was nothing he could do. A swift fist to the jaw might stop Lord Raisin from speaking momentarily, but the question of The Wager would now not go away. Short of blurting it out himself – and his tongue had gone numb in his mouth, it seemed – there was nothing he could do but watch and listen, entirely aghast.

"This man here," Lord Raisin said, clearly enjoying himself, "accepted a wager with one Mr. Simon Dudley. The terms of the wager were quite simple. Boasting that he was a fine flirt and rake, and able to secure the attentions of any lady he wished, the viscount claimed that he could thaw even the Ice Queen's heart. Mr. Dudley wagered that he could not, and since then, you'll notice that the viscount has spent a great deal of time with Lady Isolde. To win his bet, you understand. I believe the wager was for some fifty pounds," he added, as if it mattered.

"That's not how it happened," Clayton heard himself say, voice weak.

Lord Raisin raised his eyebrows. "No? Do correct me, then."

It was Simon's idea. He chose Lady Isolde as the mark. I… I wanted to back out, but… the words queued up in Clayton's head, refusing to come out of his mouth. It was probably for the best. They were excuses, and he had never seen them laid out quite so clearly and disgustingly before.

I am a truly vile man.

"There has been some interest in the wager since it was originally set," Lord Raisin continued, once it was clear that Clayton was not going to continue speaking. "Side bets, and so on. That is how I came to know about it, of course. Most gentlemen find it a shocking thing, myself included, but it seems that Viscount Henley does not feel the same. I don't wish to level accusations, Lady Isolde, but I can't help but feel that your recent attention in the gossip columns might have been due to his efforts. That would make it look like he was thawing your heart, would it not?"

Clayton's eyes were drawn to Isolde, as they always were. This time, however, he would rather have kept his gaze fixed on the toes of his boots. He didn't deserve to look her in the eye. He didn't deserve to look at her at all.

Her face was deathly pale. Perhaps it was the moonlight, or perhaps it was simply news that he'd made a bet over her affections, like he was casually wagering on a horse at a race.

"Isolde…" he began, voice raspy, but James cut him off.

"Don't use my sister's name in that manner!" he hissed. "How dare you speak to her at all? Lord Raisin, is this true? Can you provide proof?"

"I have several friends who will attest to the existence of the wager, I am afraid," Lord Raisin responded. Perhaps he was trying to be serious, but a smile kept tugging at the corner of his mouth, no matter how firmly he tried to pull it down again.

"Oh, heavens," the duke moaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Did anyone see her come here with the viscount?"

"She did not come with me," Clayton tried to point out desperately, but nobody was listening to him.

Frankly, he didn't blame them.

And then Isolde turned to face him, and it was as if all the noise and chaos stopped. The distant music faded away, the noise of chatter and laugher stopped dead. There was only him and Isolde, and he could not bear the way she looked at him.

"Is it true?" she said quietly. "You haven't contradicted anything Lord Raisin has said. Is it true that you accepted a wager to make me fall in love with you? Can you deny it?"

Silence. He couldn't bring himself to lie and say that it was not true. No doubt Lord Raisin would love to provide his proof.

But neither could he admit to it. Perhaps the truth was just too awful to face.

"I meant what I said to you," he heard himself say at last, voice trembling. "I… I was trying to tell you the truth. You deserved to know it."

"You are nothing but a deceiver," she declared coolly, her voice controlled and measured. "I can scarcely comprehend how I ever placed my trust in you. I can hardly believe that I ever entertained such notions...." she trailed off, shaking her head. "I'm such a fool."

"It's not your fault, Izzy," James said urgently, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Lord Raisin was shuffling closer, as if he were thinking about putting a consoling arm around her, but she stepped abruptly away, into her brother's embrace. "None of this is your fault. He is the one to blame."

This remark was punctuated by a glare from James. Clayton regarded him steadily, not saying a word. There was nothing to say, was there?

"We can't stay here all night," the duke said, avoiding looking at Clayton at all. "We can talk about this matter in the morning, but nothing is to be gained by standing here and hearing… hearing the whole sordid story laid in front of us."

"Your Grace, I…" Clayton began, but the duke held up his hand. He looked tired, more than angry.

"No, thank you. We have heard enough from you. As you can imagine, me and my family do not wish to see you, speak to you, or be reminded of your existence in any way. We are leaving now. Don't contact us again. It goes without saying that you will not contact Isolde ever again. If you consider yourself a gentleman at all, you'll take it upon yourself to make sure that the two of you never meet again. Good day, sir."

Putting an arm around his daughter's shoulders, the duke steered her away. No more words were exchanged. Lord Raisin hurried after them.

James, however, hung behind, turning to face Clayton.

Clayton knew what was coming. James was no boxer, and he saw the fist coming in plenty of time to duck.

He did not duck. James' blow caught Clayton on the jaw with an echoing crack, hard enough to send him staggering sideways.

Face white and teeth clenched, James advanced, fists curled tight at his sides. Clayton straightened up.

"Come on, then," James hissed. "Hit me back. Demand satisfaction. I'll meet you anywhere, with your choice of weapons."

Clayton sighed. "If you wanted to challenge me to a duel – which is illegal, by the way – you shouldn't have hit me first. Now it's up to me to challenge you to a duel. Or not."

"Go on, then. Challenge me."

"No."

"No? Are you a coward?"

"I am not a coward, and I will not fight you."

"Why not?"

Clayton regarded him for a long moment. "Suppose I killed you."

"Then I would go to my grave with my sister's honour avenged."

"Avenged, but not restored," Clayton shot back. "And now she would have to grieve a beloved brother. Duels are foolish and selfish, boy, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Now, are you going to hit me again?"

James was staring at him, a baffled expression on his face, and his fists slowly uncurled.

"No," he whispered. "But I don't understand. How could you do this to her?"

Clayton closed his eyes. "I have asked myself the same question over and over again."

He half expected another blow to land, but apparently James drew the line at punching a man who had his eyes closed. When he opened his eyes, James was striding away, shoulders hunched under his ears, hurrying to catch up with the others.

Clayton was left alone. Entirely alone.

What have I done?

***

It was clearly a priority to get Isolde back to the boat and home as quickly as possible.

Isolde let herself be steered through the crowds, her father's arm around her shoulders and James' hand at her elbow. Her brother kept darting ahead to clear a path through the ladies and gentlemen, resorting to a few stiff shoves here and there.

It all felt rather surreal, she thought. She kept looking at the faces of passers-by, wondering why their faces were twisted in happiness, surprise, or occasionally in a wide yawn. She felt… well, she felt as though she'd been turned to wood.

No, not wood. Of course not wood. Ice. Her heart had frozen over at long last, and that was that. This was how she would have to live her life from now on.

She spotted her mother up ahead. Beatrice was sitting on a bench, watching some fire-eaters. Murmuring a few words to James – to her mild surprise, Isolde found that the words sounded like gibberish, and not words at all – Richard left Isolde with her brother and went running ahead.

She watched as Richard spoke a few quick, hurried sentences, and she watched the happiness drain from Beatrice's face. Both of them glanced her way as James hurried her forward. Lord Raisin was somewhere behind. Isolde did not care very much where he'd gone.

He was right, though. It was all a lie. From the very beginning, it was all a lie. A ruse. A joke of the worst kind. I am probably the laughingstock of countless gentlemen's clubs. Heaven only knows whether it will reach the gossip columns or not. If it does, I will have to leave London. I doubt I'll be able to return.

They reached the bench, and Beatrice leapt to her feet, hooking an arm through Isolde's.

"Richard, take her other arm," she said, in a business-like fashion. "James, go ahead and make sure the boat is ready. If Lord Raisin is not here, we leave without him."

"But it's his boat," James objected.

"I do not care. Go! Go!"

He obeyed with no further objections, and Isolde found herself hustled forward by her parents.

"My poor girl," Beatrice murmured, voice breaking.

"I… I think I was a little in love with him, Mama."

Isolde wasn't aware of deciding to say those words. She heard her father give a low groan, hastily smothered. Beatrice's hand tightened on her arm.

"Oh, that I were a man," she whispered. "I would eat his heart in the marketplace."

Isolde blinked. "That's Shakespeare, isn't it?"

"Yes, and I am not sure I fully understood the meaning of the words until just now. Come, my dear, let us return to your abode and begin to unravel this entire unfortunate affair. I wish to assure you most earnestly that none of this rests upon your shoulders."

"The gossip columns will think differently."

"Then I will burn every copy I can get my hands on. Ah, here is the boat."

They crossed the pier, and Isolde found herself sitting in the same seat as before, in the prow of the boat, facing out onto the moonlit water. The boat bobbed up and down, and there was a distinct chill coming off the water now. Some people were starting to leave Vauxhall, laughing and joking among themselves as they went. Isolde watched them go, wondering how they were able to feel things so deeply.

One girl was crying, apron pressed to her eyes, a friend on either side consoling her. A middle-aged woman walked hand in hand with a middle-aged man, the two of them staring adoringly at each other.

A group of girls, none older than seventeen or eighteen, walked together, shrieking with laughter and telling stories.

Will I ever feel that way again?

He lied to me.

In the distance, Lord Raisin came puffing along the path, hurrying towards the boat. Richard and Beatrice had an argument about whether to wait the two or three minutes it would take for him to arrive. Richard won, it seemed, and the boat stayed where it was.

Somebody touched Isolde's elbow, and she flinched. She didn't turn around.

"I'm so sorry, Izzy," James whispered. "I'm sorry. I know that… I know you liked him."

She said nothing, and James did not seem to expect a response. The boat bobbed violently up and down as Lord Raisin climbed in, out of breath, and they set off at last.

One tear, hot against her chilled skin, crawled down Isolde's cheek, and dripped off her the tip of her chin.

She let it fall.