Page 22 of The Notorious Dashing Viscount
“Well,” Lucas agreed. “Now, what are you going to do about it?”
Clayton didn’t answer immediately. It was fairly clear that the gossip column article was skewed against Lady Isolde. Most of their articles were. She was described almost like some man-crazy harpy, full of regret for not snaring a husband earlier, coming after Clayton with marriage in mind.
Well, that simply wasn’t true. The Lady Isolde he’d met last night wanted nothing to do with him, and she’d made it clear.
But who was going to believe that? Not any of the gossip column’s readers, that was for sure.
“Those things should be banned,” Clayton huffed, nodding at the scandal sheet. “Absolute nonsense.”
“Perhaps so,” Lucas agreed, “But people read them, even so. Do you have any idea what an article like this could do to Lady Isolde’s reputation?”
“Lady Isolde? What about my reputation?”
Lucas snorted. “You don’t have one. And you’re not a lady.”
“I certainly am not,” Clayton agreed, flinging back the sheets.
His bedroom was fairly untidy. He’d come home from the club last night, and apparently simply thrown his clothes and shoes every which way. His valet, a placid middle-aged man by the name of Thomas, had not been up by the time Clayton returned home. He’d always thought it unfair for servants to stay awake, fighting against nodding off while they waited for theirmasters and mistresses to come home. After all, the servants had to be up early the next morning, the masters and mistresses did not. So Clayton always told Thomas to get himself to bed, and they could clear up any mess in the morning.
And his room certainly was a mess. Crumpled clothes were tossed everywhere, and his fine ruby cravat pin seemed to have rolled off the dresser and landed on the floor. He was lucky it hadn’t gone under the rug, never to be found again. The bedsheets were twisted up, half hanging off the mattress, and there were empty bottles of liquor on the bedside table. There was also a distinct haze in the air, probably from cigar smoke. A little self-conscious, Clayton went over to the window and threw it open.
“Better get some air in here,” he said lamely, throwing an awkward smile at his friend.
Lucas did not smile back. He sat primly on the edge of Clayton’s unmade bed, lips pressed into a thin line. Clayton sighed, hands on his hips.
“Pray, enlighten me as to the matter that brings you here. You appear quite vexed.”
“Do I? Why do you think I’m furious?”
“I’d guess it’s about the wager.”
Clayton turned his back on his friend, pulling open the wardrobe. His clothes were in there, all well-pressed and tended. Thomas really was worth his weight in gold. Auric had never permitted Clayton to have a valet. He said that a gentleman should be able to dress himself.
Perhaps he had a point there, but he would also fly into a rage if Clayton appeared dishevelled, or if his clothes for the day did not suit Auric’s idea of what a gentleman should wear.
As if to highlight that point, a particular garment jumped out at Clayton. He reached out with a half-smile, pulling it from its hanger.
“What do you think of this waistcoat, Lucas?”
His friend, obviously balanced on the precipice of a lecture, was taken aback. He frowned at the waistcoat.
“Well, it is quite striking in its hues. Charming, indeed! A style I could readily envision you adorning. However, pray tell, what seems to be the matter with it?”
Clayton held the waistcoat up in front of himself, standing in front of the long mirror. Tipping his head to one side, he smiled softly, tracing the exquisite embroidery with one fingertip.
It had been an expensive purchase. At the age of eighteen, Clayton had not had much money to waste, but the waistcoat was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
It was yellow silk, trimmed in gold and silver, with green embroidery swirling around the edges. The body of the waistcoat featured a long, sinuous dragon, sewn on in red and orange, curling around the buttons. Perhaps it was a little gaudy, but Clayton was tired of plain cloth waistcoats, and fashions were changing. He had bought it for himself and had been so very thrilled to wear it for the first time.
In hindsight, he should not have worn it at the dinner table in front of his father.
“He went purple when he saw it,” Clayton murmured, mostly to himself. “Started bellowing at the top of his voice. Eliza, bless her, tried to speak up for me, saying that all the young gentlemen wore things like this. It didn’t work, of course. He tore it off me, and said I’d never wear such a thing again.”
He traced the thick black stitching where the garment had been sewn together. Clayton could still hear the awful sound of fabric tearing, the sound of his father ripping something apart with his bare hands. Thomas’ eyes had popped when Clayton finally summoned up the courage to present him with the garment, shortly after hiring him.
“I can fix it, sir, but it’ll not be pretty. Not wearable,”Thomas had said, frowning at the damage.
“That is quite acceptable, Thomas. Simply do what you are able.”
