“I need to think about it,” she announced.
Beatrice nodded. “Of course, my dear. But don’t take too long, will you? This needs to be settled quickly. The sooner, the better.”
She gave a nod, and strode out of the room, not looking back. Isolde took the stairs two at a time, hurrying along the dark hallway which led to her room. Part of her had expected to hear running footsteps, to turn and see that one of her parents was coming after her, but there was no one. She reached her room and tumbled inside. Thankfully, none of the maids were in there. She just managed to get the door closed before the tears came.
***
He had drunk entirely too much, but Clayton could not bring it upon himself to care.
He’d received a few notes from Eliza since the fateful Vauxhall outing. Apparently, Auric had recovered enough to rise from his bed and greet his wife and children upon their return from Vauxhall, bellowing and throwing things until he went white as a sheet and slid to the ground. He’d been in bed since then. He had requested Clayton’s presence, but Clayton had not gone.
He lifted the whiskey decanter to his lips, only to discoverthat it was empty. Sighing, he set it aside.
Probably for the best.
There had been a few messages from Lucas, mostly left unopened. Clayton could not bear to read them. He could imagine his friend’s mournful, accusing stare, and had to put the notes aside.
I’m the unworthiest man in the world.
He kept remembering how Isolde had looked, how her face had lit up when he told her he loved her, and the way that excitement had slipped off her face when Lord Raisin had told her the truth.
Clayton was trying hard not to blame Lord Raisin. Yes, the man was spiteful, slimy little fellow, but he hadn’t lied. He’d only told the truth about what Clayton had done.
There was a tap on the door, and Clayton, lying flat on his back on his bed, grunted.
The footman took it as a sign to come in.
“A letter for you, my Lord.”
“I don’t want any letters.”
The man stood his ground. “It’s from Lady Wrenwood, my Lord. The butler said that you would want to read all correspondence from that house, and this one is… er, I suppose you’ll have to look at it yourself.”
Clayton wordlessly held a hand out above his head. An envelope was slipped into it.
He waited until the footman had gone before he inspected it.
The letter was sealed with a knot of black wax.
Clayton found himself sitting upright, even though the movement made his head spin. He glanced over at the clock over the mantelpiece. It was barely seven o’clock, and already he was dead drunk.
This has to stop.
Breaking the seal, Clayton opened the letter. It was a briefletter, written in Eliza’s familiar, sloping hand. He already knew what it was going to say, but he read each word carefully even so. His hand crept up to his mouth, the way it had when he was young, and he bit back a gurgle of hysterical laughter.
It was no good. The laughter came up, and by the end of the letter, Clayton was laughing aloud, biting down on his lower lip to keep quiet.
“My Lord?” came the butler’s tentative voice from the doorway. “Is all well? Do you need anything?”
“No, thank you,” Clayton answered, flopping back on the bed. “Some water, perhaps. I think I’ve had more than enough whiskey for one day.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
George was particularly pleased with himself. He’d managed the whole business well, and now had the club raising a toast to ‘Lord Raisin, King of Currants’, the same name they’d called him at Eton.
For some reason, the name tickled him more than usual. He swigged down the glass of brandy somebody had pushed into his hand and hauled himself up to stand on a table.
His friends laughed and clapped, some offering steadying hands. Since he’d offered to pay for the drinks of everybody at his table, his count of friends had doubled, it seemed.
