Chapter Nine

Clayton rolled over, hazy with sleep, and a glass bottle clanked into his forehead.

Groaning, he cracked open one eye.

It was a brandy bottle, by the looks of it, tucked in between his face and the cushion of the sofa.

Looks like I didn't make it to my own bed last night, then, he thought wearily, hauling himself into a sitting position.

The garden tea party had been a great success, although its success wouldn't become official until the scandal sheets were printed and read. He doubted that even the most malicious of gossip writers could find anything to pick at concerning Eliza's well-arranged party.

Tossing the empty brandy bottle onto the rug, Clayton lay back on the cushions. He had spent the rest of the evening avoiding company and Lady Isolde as best he could, but the sense of unsettlement she'd sparked inside him would not go away. When he was in company, he found himself looking for her, watching who she spoke to, who she did not speak to, and the way she held herself.

He had fancied himself in love before, of course. A gentleman did not reach Clayton's age without some attraction or another, although the feelings had never been quite so strong. Also, immodest though it was to admit it, Clayton had always known that his feelings were requited to some degree.

Lady Isolde, however, seemed determined to keep her distance from him. The nickname of Ice Queen was well earned, however. She employed none of the fluttering and flirtation that even most debutantes could manage.

For a start, she seemed entirely uninterested in being fascinating, which in Clayton's opinion seemed to consist of asking a man clever questions about himself which left him feeling interesting and intelligent, and therefore benevolent towards the lady who was so very fascinating.

What nonsense.

Wincing against the pain throbbing in his temples, Clayton swung his legs over the side of the sofa, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Ugh. Am I going to be sick? No, I think not.

Lucas had been in a sulk with him for the rest of the evening, eventually leaving early. Clayton had gone to Tattersalls by himself and drank entirely too much whiskey. And then, apparently, he had tottered home, opened an expensive brandy bottle, and drank that too. By himself.

I'm going to have to apologise, aren't I? He thought sourly. I truly can't back out of the wager now. Simon would love an opportunity to tell all the world that I don't keep my promises, and that Iam a gentleman entirely without honour.

It was unsure how well-received his words would be, but Clayton had no intention of letting his reputation be further besmirched. His father already told anyone who would listen that his oldest son – his only child from his first marriage – was an ungrateful, undutiful profligate who deserved nothing and was a hellish rake into the bargain.

Well, I am a rake. That part is true, at least.

A tap on the door made him jump.

"What is it?"

The door creaked open, revealing a nervous-looking maid.

"If you please, my Lord, a lady is here."

Clayton blinked. Somewhere in his alcohol-addled, sleep-deprived mind, he thought that it was Isolde.

Then the madness passed, leaving him only with a lingering feeling of horror.

What is happening to me?

"Who is the lady, Mary?"

The girl flushed. "L-Lady Wrenwood, sir. Your stepmother."

Clearly the household had not been expecting guests at this time, which explained why a nervy little maid was left to answer the door. Thomas would have thought of some neat little excuse to turn Eliza away.

As it was, the girl had barely finished speaking and Clayton certainly had no opportunity to create some excuse or another, when there was an impatient sigh from the foyer.

Eliza pushed past the poor maid.

"Oh, I shall see myself in, girl. I know he's at home."

The maid flushed, glancing at Clayton. "Sorry, my Lord."

"Don't worry about it," Clayton sighed. "My esteemed stepmother is a hard woman to resist. Bring us tea, if you please."

The girl bobbed a curtsey and scurried out, clearly relieved to get away.

Eliza closed the door behind her and turned to face Clayton.

One would never have thought that Eliza had hosted a stressful garden party only a few hours previously. She was fresh and elegant, in a blue velvet walking suit, matching gloves clutched in one white hand.

The effect was marred by a smear of powder on her cheek, concealing a reddish mark.

A bruise.

Before Clayton could say a word, Eliza spoke up.

"You've been drinking."

"Yes," he answered, not bothering to point out a seat for her. He knew his stepmother well enough to know that she'd take a seat when she was ready, and not a second earlier.

"Not at my party, I think. I should have known if you were in your cups. You ought to give consideration to your health, Clayton."

He sighed, leaning back. "My health is my own concern. Can't a gentleman enjoy a few simple pleasures?"

Eliza sniffed, moving over to an armchair and settling down. "Drinking oneself into a stupor is not a simple pleasure. You had an argument with your friend Lucas, did you not? Concerning what?"

Clayton tipped back his head, resting it against the gilded back of the sofa. "Is there nothing your spies do not convey to you, Eliza?"

"Not really, no."

"Lucas and I had words, yes, but it's our concern, and not yours, with the greatest respect."

She sniffed again, lips pursed in disapproval. "I was not pleased to see you speaking so openly to that Belford girl."

"If you are talking about Lady Isolde Belford and that wretched article, I can assure you it is nonsense."

"Can you be so certain? Ladies can be quite elusive, you know. You are a young, handsome viscount, and....."

"And a rake," Clayton interrupted. "Lady Isolde is far too clever to want to try and catch a man like me. Let us leave it at that."

Eliza eyed him for a long moment, assessing. Clayton forced himself to meet her gaze. His stepmother had always been far too incisive, seeing things that he would rather keep hidden.

He broke the silence first.

"That's a nasty mark," Clayton said quietly. "On your cheek. How did you come by it?"

Eliza flushed, half-lifting a hand to her face before she caught herself and lowered it again. She began to strangle her gloves.

"I believe I knocked myself on the edge of a cupboard door," she replied, unconvincingly.

"I do not believe you."

"I do not care what you believe."

"Eliza…" Clayton leaned forward, reaching out for his stepmother's hand, but was obliged to sit back when the door opened.

The maid came shuffling in, bearing an overloaded tray of tea things. She set it down, beaming.

Eliza frowned. "You are meant to knock before you come in, girl."

The maid flushed. "Oh, I am sorry."

"Don't be so sharp with Mary," Clayton said. "She's not used to having to serve tea."

"Where are your other servants?"

"Eating breakfast or asleep, I would imagine. They're not expecting me up for hours."

Eliza sighed dramatically, flashing an apologetic glance at the girl. The maid bobbed another lopsided curtsey and scurried out of the room, clearly glad to go.

"I shall pour the tea," Eliza announced.

Clayton watched her, nibbling his lower lip.

"If my father's behaviour becomes too much," he said quietly, "you can come here, Eliza."

The colour drained from Eliza's face. "That is too shocking, Clayton."

"Why not? You've been a mother to me. If I had been able to help my own mother escape him, then…"

"I would be ruined."

"You would be safe."

Eliza shook her head firmly, pouring out first one then two cups of tea. Her hands did not shake one bit.

"If I left my husband's house, I would have nothing. Not a penny, not an inch of land. I would be obliged to leave my children behind, and we both know that Auric would not let either of us see them again. Ever. It is not a choice I am willing to make."

Clayton bit hard on the inside of his cheek. He tasted copper.

"Very well," he said quietly. "Just know that I am here for you, Eliza."

She faltered, dropping in two lumps of sugar into her tea. "Thank you, Clayton. That means a great deal."

There was silence for a few moments after that. Clayton sipped his tea, feeling it scald down his throat, and tried not to look at the blossoming bruise on his stepmother's face. He had seen similar marks before, both on Eliza and, as far as he could remember, on his mother, too.

"Why are you here, Eliza?"

Eliza sighed, picking up a biscuit. "It's about Amelia's birthday. Have you chosen her a present yet?"

"Not yet. I was thinking of ribbons."

Eliza lifted an eyebrow. "For the third year in a row? Really, Clayton."

"Well, what would you suggest, then? It's remarkably hard to buy things for a girl of her age. I can't just buy her dolls, now, can I?"

She bit delicately into the biscuit, chewing carefully. "There is a book Amelia has been talking about incessantly. Oh, what was it called? She already has one book by the author and wants the second. Here, I shall show you."

Diving into a pocket in her skirt, Eliza took out a neat, cloth-bound volume, handing it to Clayton.

"Sense and Sensibility," he read aloud. "A Novel By A Lady. The author is anonymous, then? Intriguing."

"Yes, I thought so. A female author is a rare thing, especially such a popular one. You know how Amelia longs to be a writer, although of course we would never mention such a thing to Auric. I've read the book myself, and I find it quite charming. Witty, emotional, and entirely fascinating. You should read it yourself."

Clayton sighed, opening the front cover. "You know I hardly bother with novels, Eliza."

She sipped her tea, eyeing him over the rim of the cup. "Perhaps it is time to try something new, then."

He flicked through a few pages while Eliza drank her tea, and had to admit that it was very well written, and it was witty.

"Where should I go, then, to find the new book by this author?" he asked, setting the book to one side.

His stepmother threw him a level look. "Perhaps you might try a bookshop, or a circulating library? Those are very popular. I would very much like Amelia to have a subscription to one of those libraries – I would like a subscription myself – but you know how your father feels about such things." She sighed, shaking her head. "Be grateful you are not a woman, Clayton. The smallest things in life are harder than you could ever imagine."

Clayton swallowed hard, clenching his jaw.

I believe you, he wanted to say. I see how my father treats you, how he treated my mother. Like things, to be controlled.

"If I did not have an independent fortune," he managed at last, "I would be controlled, just like you. Eliza, please consider coming to stay with me. You could bring the children."

She shot him a pitying look. "The children would be returned to Auric at once. The law sides with him."

"But…"

"I do not want to discuss it further, Clayton. Please."

He fell silent.

The quiet stretched on for a moment or two, broken only by an authoritative rapping at the door. For one awful moment, Clayton thought that it could have been his father. After all, would Mary, the nervy maid, know that the Earl of Wrenwood was not to be allowed entry to this house without Clayton's express permission?

By the way Eliza's shoulders stiffened, it seemed that she thought the same thing.

Mary appeared again, looking flushed. "It's a messenger for Lady Wrenwood."

She'd barely finished her sentence before a haughty-looking footman shouldered past her into the room, making a stiff bow from the waist. He wore the blood-red livery of the Camden footmen. One of Auric's men, then.

Eliza relaxed, but only a little. "Well?"

The man wordlessly handed her a folded piece of paper. As he withdrew, he shot a look of such contempt at Clayton that Clayton nearly got up and struck him.

Instead, he watched his stepmother's face. She paled as she read it, biting her lip.

"What's the matter?" he asked, gesturing for Mary and the footman to leave. Mary scuttled out, but the footman remained.

"I am to bring Lady Wrenwood home," he insisted, only to cringe back under Clayton's glare.

"Wait in the hall, man," Clayton snapped. "Go!"

The man retreated, albeit reluctantly.

"Nothing to worry about," Eliza said, unconvincingly. "Your father did not know I planned to go out, it seems. He will know, of course, that I came here, and you know how he hates for us to visit you. He says I'm to return home at once, and I suppose I'd better."

"Eliza, this is not fair."

She smiled sadly at him. "This is how the world works, my dear Clayton. Still, it hardly matters. We discussed what I came here for. Will you secure that book for Amelia? I planned to buy it for her myself, but your father has reduced my allowance again."

He flinched. "So much so that you can't buy a book?"

Eliza avoided his eye. "Your father is a rich man, and rich men do not stay rich by spending their money or lavishing it on their wives. I have what I need, Clayton."

He bit his lip hard to avoid speaking. "Yes, well. I'll buy it, of course."

"Thank you," she placed her hand on his shoulder, just for a moment, and squeezed lightly. "Amelia is lucky to have such a fine older brother as you. Many men would not think twice about a step-sibling."

She did not wait for a response and swept out of the room. Clayton followed her into the hall, where the sullen footman waited, lounging against a wall. He jerked upright with only the barest semblance of respect.

Eliza did not look at him. She sailed out of the house and into the waiting lacquered carriage. The footman hurried after her, bouncing up on the seat beside the driver. With no further ado, the carriage pulled away, leaving Clayton standing at the door, staring after them.

Footsteps echoed in the passage behind him.

"Forgive me, my Lord," came Thomas' voice. "I did not know you were awake, and I did not know we had guests."

"It's fine, Thomas," Clayton responded. He was not looking forward to seeking out a bookshop – or a circulating library – but at least it would distract him from the blank look on Eliza's face, or the bruise on her cheek. "I think we must update our rules concerning my father, however."

"What do you mean, my Lord?"

"I mean that not only is my father not permitted entry to my home without my express permission, but neither are his footmen or messengers. Nobody wearing Camden red is to set foot in this house without my say-so. Is that understood?"

"It is, my Lord."

There was a tinge of pity in Thomas' voice, and Clayton could not bring himself to turn and look at his valet. He heard footsteps retreating, followed by the clatter and bustle of breakfast being set out in the dining room.

Clayton squeezed his eyes closed. His headache was getting worse.