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?”
