Chapter Three

Markham lifted his paper and slouched in his favorite green leather seat at Sharpe’s Gentleman’s Club, avoiding the group of rowdy gentlemen who had just entered.

Why, exactly, had the most annoying of the Season’s young bachelors decided to congregate at Sharpe’s on the same night he’d sought refuge at his old haunt?

Couldn’t the new arrivals have, at least, chosen one of Sharpe’s many other rooms—the billiards room, perhaps? Or the cardroom, dining hall, coffee room, et cetera…but no. They had to invade the morning room, with its overstuffed chairs and warm, crackling fire—perfect for soothing one’s ruffled dignity.

Markham glanced over his paper. Sir Dalton was the only gentleman he recognized in his line of sight. Dalton was more typically found at the Season’s latest crush, or—in the wee hours of the morning—staggering out of a gaming hell or pleasure haven.

Markham no longer gambled. As for pleasure havens, he never frequented those, especially after hearing heartrending stories of how—and why—the young women came to work there.

He supposed he could rise and return home. But even at home, he’d been rattled.

Following the incident, he’d gone to his bedchamber and pulled off his shirt. He’d stared at the small pink cloud on his collar, remembering the pleasant feel of embracing Clarissa—if only accidentally and for a moment.

One hundred and fifty-one scowls.

What was the likelihood she’d ever welcome an intentional embrace?

Nonexistent.

He’d folded the stained shirt and—for reasons he did not care to parse—placed the bundle where his valet would not find it, and hastened to find some distraction.

His choices had consisted of the theater, a public house, or the club. He’d chosen the club, since it would be the most private of the three.

Or, so he’d thought.

“The betting book, please.”

Moultonbury.

Markham knew the voice without having to bend back his paper. Even though it had been years since their duel, Moultonbury’s voice still grated on his nerves.

“The Lady C declined to smile.” Quill-scratch sounds sliced Moultonbury’s words. “Henceforth, whosoever is the first to get her to…smile, wins this wager.”

The gentlemen joined in a lewd and chilling laugh.

“Might I be the first to volunteer?” Dalton asked. “Lady C may be wayward and coarse, but she has the most amazing,” he paused, “necklaces.”

Markham glanced heavenward. Hardly clever.

But who was this Lady C?

Lady Constance?

He frowned. Moultonbury’s pups would be fools to challenge Lady Constance. She would sweep the floor with them. Then again, Lady Constance did not fit Dalton’s physical description.

Which Lady C had impressive…necklaces?

He swallowed.

They couldn’t be talking about Lady Clarissa, could they?

His Lady Clarissa?

His?—he shook out his paper—Bloody not.

Just because circumstance had thrown him together with Clarissa on any number of occasions since Katherine and Bromton had married, that didn’t make Clarissa his.

She’d be mortified he had the thought.

As mortified as she’d be if she knew he’d tucked his shirt inside his pistol box like some sort of trophy, simply because the pink stain had been jasmine-scented.

And if Rayne knew Markham had saved the shirt just so he could occasionally inhale Clarissa’s scent in the confines of his bedchamber, Rayne would demand use of those pistols.

Besides, the unsmiling Lady C couldn’t be Lady Clarissa, even if she had impressive necklaces.

Clarissa was always smiling.

And her smile was never wider—or more annoying—than just after she’d lit the saltpeter behind some insult aimed at him.

He closed his eyes, recreating her smirk in his mind. Her glossy dark hair, her pinked, pixie cheeks, her pinched-lip I-told-you-so expression, the long, inviting column of her neck and her—

He shifted in his seat.

Stop.

“Now that I consider,” Lord Moultonbury continued, “would simply making the lady smile serve our purpose?”

“What exactly is our purpose?”

The question had come from a man whose voice Markham did not recognize.

“The Lady C,” Moultonbury replied, “behaved in a way utterly unbecoming a woman. She must be brought low.”

Markham’s unease heightened.

“Ladies,” Moultonbury continued, “serve to gentle and uplift the character of men. A lady who refuses to behave as she ought upends Society’s proper order. She is no better than a servant who will not wash.”

“A coachman who refuses to drive.”

“A whore who refuses to—”

An older gentleman pointedly cleared his throat.

Markham’s lip curled in anger.

He hated the word “whore.” “Whore,” as a word, revealed the nature of a speaker’s mind more than it captured a sense of a woman’s character or occupation.

The buck finished his sentence in a whisper inaudible to Markham. The gentlemen laughed again.

“Hear, hear,” Dalton said. “Lady C must be made to appreciate her place, else the whole of Society is in danger.”

Utter nonsense.

He’d like to see Moultonbury—or Dalton—demand a smile from one of the reigning patronesses of Almack’s. That would remind them how the gears of Society truly functioned.

“Dalton, you were willing to make the lady smile,” Moultonbury said, “but are you willing to sacrifice yourself on the altar of courtship for the good of Society? Will you pledge to court the lady, make her smile, and then cast her aside?”

“It would ruin them both,” said the unknown man.

Twice, the stranger had questioned their purpose, and he was right. Katherine had been nearly ruined because of a rake’s scorn and a gentleman’s offhand quip. Damage from this reckless wager was likely to be worse.

Uncomfortable heat rose under Markham’s collar.

“Wasn’t Lady C rumored to be betrothed?” Dalton asked. “That didn’t ruin the man. As it is, she shouldn’t have been permitted back in good Society.”

“Have you forgotten the lady’s brother?” another young man asked. “He will order pistols at dawn when he finds out about this wager.”

“But Lord Rayne has not yet returned,” Moultonbury replied. “Has he?”

Well, that dissolved any remaining doubt about whom they were speaking.

Markham stood.

He must put a stop to this. He could not allow the same disgrace that had fallen on Katherine to ruin Clarissa.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “don’t you think trifling with a lady’s affections because she refused to smile is a bit drastic? Perhaps the lady was ill.”

Moultonbury looked Markham up and down as if he were an insect. “The lady told me she would not smile simply because she did not wish to smile.”

Had she? Well done, Clarissa.

Markham shrugged. “Who among you hasn’t grown bored during an overlong soiree?”

A few of the bucks had presence enough to look chastened.

Not Moultonbury. He sent Markham a warning glance and then dipped his quill into a bottle of ink.

“Our intention being the restoration of proper order,” he spoke aloud as he recorded his words. “The gentleman named below promises to court and then abandon Lady C. Double the winnings if she is seen genuinely smiling in his presence.” He returned the quill to the stand. “I suggest you go back to your paper, Markham. That is, unless you wish to volunteer for the task.”

Markham stalked toward Moultonbury until they stood toe to toe. “Perhaps the lady did not wish to smile at you.”

Moultonbury did not withdraw. “Her impertinence was deliberate and must be punished.”

Moultonbury intended to ruin Clarissa, damn anyone who stepped in his way. And damn Markham’s own flawed sense of chivalry, he could not allow Moultonbury to succeed.

“Would you agree that faithfulness and loyalty are womanly virtues?” Markham asked.

“Of course,” Moultonbury replied. “But why would Lady Clarissa’s refusal to smile be a demonstration of those virtues?”

“Because,” Markham said slowly and clearly, “Lady Clarissa is secretly promised to me.”

If Markham hadn’t considered the consequence of what he’d just said, Moultonbury’s startled response was almost worth his lie.

Too late now.

“I do not believe you,” Moultonbury said. “You’ve never courted a marriageable lady. Why would you choose your brother-in-law’s castoff as your first?”

Markham heated with a full-body flush. “Take. That. Back.”

“Moult didn’t mean it,” one of the gentlemen said.

“That’s right,” chimed another. “Come on, Moultonbury—you don’t want to meet Markham, Bromton, and Rayne at dawn, do you?”

“The whole pack of cards, so to speak?” Moultonbury snorted. “Hearts would never—”

Markham crushed Moultonbury’s cravat in a tight fist. “Try me. Last time, I threw away my shot for my sisters’ sake. Now that one is respectably wed, I can aim true.”

“Gentlemen.” The older man in the corner stood. “I’ll have you both ousted from the club if you come to blows.”

Now someone decides to intercede?

Moultonbury visibly swallowed. “I’ll concede the lady is, as yet, untouched.”

Markham released him.

“But if you are courting Lady Clarissa,” Moultonbury added, “why haven’t you made your intentions known?”

“As your friend over there so helpfully pointed out—” Markham started.

“Pritchett,” the gentleman in question interrupted—the unknown voice who had been questioning all along. “Mr. Jeremy Pritchett.”

“As Pritchett pointed out,” Markham began again, “the lady’s brother has been traveling. When Rayne returns, I intend to formally request her hand.”

“Well then,” Moultonbury’s eyes narrowed, “it appears I have made a mistake.”

“Apology accepted,” Markham replied, though he knew none had been forthcoming.

Pritchett stepped in, looped his arm through Moultonbury’s and pulled the man back.

“We await your happy news,” Pritchett said.

Markham nodded once, rolled his shoulders, and—before he could make a greater ass of himself—strode from the room.

Later, much later, he would wonder why he hadn’t insisted the page be ripped from the book.

…

Through the open door, Clarissa overheard Philippa bid Mrs. Sartin, the last of her guests, good night.

She frowned. After Mrs. Sartin had invited Markham outside, she couldn’t recall seeing the woman for the rest of the night.

Had she met with Markham after all?

Maybe.

She tamped down a deep-seated sense of hurt.

So what if Markham had complimented her cheeks and gone off to bed another woman? She should be neither surprised nor hurt. After all, at the same time, she had been preoccupied with throwing her life into turmoil.

Wonderful, exciting turmoil.

Turmoil she’d created…unlike the prior scandals that had been thrust upon her, first by Bromton’s hasty marriage to someone else, and then by Rayne’s abrupt departure.

Clarissa leaned forward until Philippa and Mrs. Sartin came into view.

Mrs. Sartin dabbed at her eyes. Philippa kissed Mrs. Sartin on both cheeks.

If she had had a liaison with Markham, the meeting had not ended happily.

A footman escorted Mrs. Sartin outside. The front door closed. Philippa turned into her husband’s waiting embrace.

Clarissa sat back in her chair.

No doubt, Philippa was eager to join Lord Darlington abovestairs. However, she had expressly asked Clarissa to delay retiring. Likely because she’d come up with some plan to appease Moultonbury.

All Clarissa had to do now was work up the courage to tell Philippa she had a plan of her own.

Philippa entered the room and then removed her shoes. She closed her eyes and sighed, her expression bliss. “Those slippers are darling.” She indicated the shoes. “Diamond-studded heels, you know. But they are heavy. And they hurt like the devil.”

Stocking-footed, Philippa crossed the room and then prepared sherries for them both from the sidebar. She delivered one glass to Clarissa and kept the other for herself, taking the opposite seat.

“Now,” she said sternly, “you must tell me exactly what happened with Moultonbury.”

Must she? “Never mind Moultonbury,” Clarissa replied. “What on dit did I miss?

“What do you mean?” Philippa asked.

“Where was Mrs. Sartin most of the evening?” Clarissa sipped her sherry. “Or did I just imagine her absence?”

Philippa squinted. “Mrs. Sartin sat for a spell in my garden.”

“In the rain?”

“Was it raining?”

“It’s always raining this time of year.”

“Even if it was raining, a shelter runs along the side of my garden wall, as you are well aware.”

Clarissa hummed. “Yes, of course—the same wall that connects your residence to Lord Markham’s.”

“Yes,” Philippa replied drily. “That wall.”

Clarissa rose to her feet and went to the window. “The wall that has a shiny black door, which happens to be, even now, slightly ajar?”

Then again, Markham had gone home that way because she’d ruined his shirt, hadn’t he?

“I directed Mrs. Sartin to the shelter. What she—or Lord Markham—did or did not do once she left my house is none of my concern. Nor is it yours.” She drank from her sherry. “Besides, Farring is residing with Markham while Julia stays with my parents and Horatia. If Mrs. Sartin did have an assignation, it could have been with my brother.”

Clarissa snorted. “Farring was upstairs with your father, remember? But even if Mrs. Sartin met with Farring, it would have been only to play cards.”

“What are you implying?”

“Farring is head-over-heels for Katerina.”

Philippa’s expression acquiesced. “I suspected as much myself, though His Grace would never allow the match.”

Clarissa scowled down at the open garden gate. “Markham must be half Mrs. Sartin’s age.”

“My dear,” Philippa said, “age doesn’t matter. A woman has needs—needs that don’t change through the years.”

“I can hardly take your word—we’re nearly the same age and you are happily wed.” Clarissa folded her arms. “But if you are right, I’m sure Markham has been only too happy to satisfy her needs.”

“Careful, Clarissa.” Philippa closed one eye. “I might begin to believe you care about the gentleman.”

“Absurd.” Clarissa shivered—more to shake off her suspicions than from disgust.

Care for him she did not, but he did have a persistent way of claiming her thoughts.

“If you are developing a tendre for Markham, you may rest easy. Mrs. Sartin tells me they’ve made no arrangement.”

“I have no claim on Markham. Nor do I wish one.” Still, her heart danced a funny little jig. “However, if Markham had been minding his brotherly duty, he would have remained here with Julia, and the whole awful scene with Moultonbury could have been prevented.”

“True,” Philippa replied. “And if Rayne were here with you—”

“This is not about Rayne.”

“I agree.” Philippa sighed. “Nor is it about Markham, which invitations he chooses to accept, and which lady he chooses to please. This is about Moultonbury and the scene you created. As I said before, we must work quickly to undo any damage.”

“Your intersession is appreciated but unnecessary,” Clarissa said. “I did intentionally cause a scene. I have decided I am not inclined to marry. And because I’m not inclined to marry, I don’t need to worry what Moultonbury—or anyone else for that matter—thinks.”

Philippa blinked. And then blinked again. “Pardon?”

“I am finished with the ton.” Clarissa drank deeply. “I will either look into setting up my own household, or, when Rayne returns, I will convince him to take me with him on his next journey.”

“To New York?” Philippa shuddered.

“Yes, to New York. Maybe I could even set up a household there. I hear women can actually own property in the United States.”

“Women can own property here.”

“Not married women.”

“You just said you did not wish to be married.”

“Perhaps I could be persuaded to change my mind—if the laws were different. And we both know the House of Lords will never change any law to favor women.”

Philippa downed the rest of her drink and went to refill her glass. She rested against the sideboard and then downed that glass as well.

“I understand you’re upset.” She stared at the glass as if surprised it was empty. “But, surely, there must be someone among the ton with whom you can share your life.”

Share your life.

A pretty phrase for the loss of all legal autonomy.

“I can think of no one,” she replied.

“Not a single gentleman appeals?” Philippa’s gaze traveled to the window. “Not even Lord Markham?”

Why did Philippa return to Markham? Had she unintentionally displayed a preference?

“I told you I feel nothing for him.” Nothing but a heightened awareness of his presence, the ever-present need to smear away his smirk, and the occasional strange desire to tousle his hair. “And plenty of men appeal…at a distance. Not everyone can be as thoughtful as Lord Darlington is with you, nor as devoted as Lord Bromton is to Katherine. Besides, why are you so shocked? Katerina shows no intention of marrying, either.”

“Katerina is a widow. And, she is foreign. Eccentricity is expected.”

“Well then,” Clarissa replied. “Then I, too, will make myself foreign. An Englishwoman in New York.”

Philippa shook her empty glass toward Clarissa. “Don’t make me pour another.”

“Philippa,” she said soothingly. “I am not against the idea of marriage, per se. I merely object to its haphazard application to me. Can’t you see? I want the chance to…to live.”

Philippa set down her glass and rubbed her brow. “I understand, I really do.” She sighed. “My eldest sister made the same argument.”

Clarissa bit her lip—the eldest of Philippa’s sisters had passed away several years prior. She stepped closer to her friend, but Philippa quickly recovered.

“Really, Clarissa…to choose to be a spinster…this is not a decision you should make lightly.”

“I assure you,” Clarissa replied. “I am not.”

So then why was it, when she looked out on that shiny black gate, regret left a lingering pang like an oath she’d unintentionally uttered and dearly wished she could take back?

…

Markham entered his library, and Farring looked up from his novel. Farring was the picture of a gentleman at ease, with brown curls tucked into a respectable wave, tortoiseshell glasses resting on his nose, a banyan tied over a waistcoat. To top things off, he held a smoking pipe in his hand.

Farring had come to stay with Markham for seemingly altruistic reasons. When Julia had been at her most despondent about Rayne, Farring had brilliantly suggested Julia move in with the Duke of Shepthorpe’s family and share a come-out with his sister Lady Horatia Maxwell-Hughes.

Farring had insisted Julia would be helping Horatia—and his ruse was the first thing that had eased Julia out of brooding over Rayne.

However, having an unmarried, unrelated young lady in the house meant Farring had to stay elsewhere—a move Markham was certain Farring did not regret.

Markham threw himself into a chair and sank down into the pillowy softness.

“How was the club?” Farring asked.

“Terrible.”

Farring set aside his book. “That bad?”

“I have placed myself in an untenable position—I’m caught in a dilemma with the potential to become a catastrophe.”

“In other words,” Farring chuckled, “just another evening at Sharpe’s?”

Markham sent him a warning glance.

“Confess,” Farring continued jovially. “And please tell me it does not involve having gambled away another sibling. Julia isn’t nearly as forgiving as Katherine. And I’ve no wish to clean up the subsequent tar and feathers.”

Pleasant image. “I don’t gamble anymore.”

But he had gambled, hadn’t he?

He’d recognized the invigorating thrill that had leaped up his spine the moment he’d challenged Moultonbury.

He may not have wagered, but he’d taken a gamble, and his life—and Clarissa’s—hung in the balance.

Farring adjusted his glasses. “What happened, then?”

“I engaged myself to a lady.”

Farring opened and then closed his mouth. “You are going to have to explain how that impossibility came to pass.”

Markham grimaced. “Impossibility?”

“Well, yes.” Farring folded his arms behind his head and crossed his ankles. “The whole purpose of the club is to avoid the ubiquity of the fairer sex. Even if club rules have changed since yesterday, there are your rules to consider.”

By his smirk, Farring was enjoying this far too much.

“I’ve never mentioned any rules to you.”

“Ah, but your rules are discernable by observation.” Farring waved a finger. “One, restrict conversation with unmarried ladies outside the family circle to under five sentences.” He held up a second. “Two, always retain the protection of a crowd.” He raised a third. “And lastly, never dance with an eligible lady unless a patroness requests. I daresay you wouldn’t be invited anywhere if it weren’t for your fame among the wid—”

“That’s enough.”

Farring lifted his brows. “Hearts…do I deserve your anger?”

Markham supposed not. He deserved a bit of ribbing, but what Farring didn’t—and couldn’t—know was the genesis of those rules.

A little boy at the foot of a bed, completely at a loss of how to staunch his mother’s tears. A mother who suffered endless sadness despite his father’s lavish attention.

And if that hadn’t been enough for him to place strict restrictions on sentiment, there was the fact his father had succumbed to drink following his mother’s death, that his elder sister had been left shattered by her first love, and that his younger sister had fearlessly matched wits with a rake without realizing he’d crush her spirit.

As for himself, well, he’d been so distraught at his inability to help Katherine find peace, he’d literally gambled with her future.

An excess of sentiment ran in his blood. He was prone to act with indiscretion when a lady’s honor was at stake.

He needed his rules.

His rules kept him scrupulously contained.

“My rules do not count as one of my problems,” he muttered.

“What is the problem, then, pup?”

“Problems, actually. But the most pressing is the lady I betrothed myself to is unaware of our betrothal.”

Farring sat straight. Then, he roared with laughter.

Markham slouched farther into his seat. “Happy to provide tonight’s entertainment.”

“I am sorry.” Farring wiped his eyes. “Dashed rude of me, I know. But I always thought my gaggle of sisters was a cursed handful. But your family…”

“Farring—” he said warningly.

“What?” Farring snorted. “Things weren’t half as interesting when it was just myself, Bromton, and Rayne.”

“Rayne happens to be one of my aforementioned problems.”

Rayne was not going to take kindly to a betrothal—real or not—between his sister and the man who had practically run him out of Britain for simply kissing Julia.

Farring kicked the base of Markham’s boot. “Oh, settle down. It’s not as if Rayne no longer exists. You two will sort things out when he returns.”

“You don’t know the half.”

“So enigmatic. You had better get on with telling me the whole. Just how did you manage to become betrothed to a lady without her consent?”

“Moultonbury.”

Farring pruned his lips. “Distasteful name. I’m afraid, however, the name does little to clarify the situation.”

Markham sighed. “Tonight, apparently, Moultonbury requested a lady smile and—according to him—his request was roundly refused. Moultonbury and his cohort then went to Sharpe’s to discuss ways to make the lady regret her failure to embrace,”—he used Moultonbury’s exaggerated intonation—“essential womanly virtues.”

Farring scowled. “If only he would pay me some insult. But men like him never take on those who can truly harm them. He knows the ducal tentacles run deep. But how on earth did you get involved?”

Markham swallowed. “I claimed the lady was reticent to smile because we’ve been secretly courting.”

“Hearts the Gallant struck again, did he?”

Markham nodded.

“Who is the lucky lady?”

“Clarissa.”

Farring’s lips formed an O. He whistled. “You, dear pup, are in a devil of a pickle.”

“I know.”

“Rayne will have your head. Among some other choice parts.”

“I know.”

“Just tell me you didn’t do it as revenge against Rayne.”

“Of course not!” Markham exclaimed. “They were plotting Clarissa’s downfall!”

But would he have acted so impulsively if another lady’s name had been mentioned?

Now that he considered, he could have called on other club members to put a stop to the madness. Or he could have allowed the bet to proceed and simply warned Clarissa.

“So, you claimed a connection.” Farring pushed his glasses up his nose. “Did you actually use the word betrothed?”

“I don’t think so. I think I said she was secretly promised to me. And then I pointed out that no respectable courtship could begin until her brother returned.”

Farring thought for another moment and then nodded. “That much, at least, was clever. We may be able to devise a plan. So long as Lady Clarissa is amenable, we might just be able to avert disaster.”

Yes, but would Clarissa be amenable?

He imagined Clarissa’s scowl.

Most certainly not.