The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,118

said, supportive as always.

“Their butler told me to leave,” Charles responded.

“Well, that is pretty decisive, then,” the marquess allowed.

Yes, it was.

The irony wasn’t lost on him that he, who’d been capable of charming anyone, should find himself at odds with the viscount who’d called him friend.

“I’m sure you can reason with them. Eventually,” Landon said from where he sat alongside St. John. “No one is being logical. They are worried about their daughter.”

He stopped abruptly. “Worried I will hurt her,” he finished for the other man.

Landon scoffed. “They aren’t thinking rationally. Of course you didn’t hit your Miss Gately with a brick. Why, that doesn’t even make sense.” The marquess looked to St. John, and pointedly.

The viscount knitted his brows, and then nodded. “Of course he didn’t. Absolutely preposterous.” He paused. “Not to mention I was with him when he learned of the news. No one who was haunted and suffering like Scarsdale could have possibly been guilty of harming the lady.”

“Well, I wasn’t, and didn’t require that proof to know my friend isn’t a lady-killer.” Landon grinned. “At least, not in the literal sense.”

Ignoring that jesting, Charles resumed pacing. Frustration ate at him. A restlessness that came from the fact that he could be and was kept from her. That it was beyond his—and her—power.

What if she’s of the same opinion as her parents? a voice taunted. As soon as the insidious thought slid in, Charles thrust the thought aside. She knew him. As he knew her. She’d not doubt him in this.

A knock sounded at the door, and he abruptly stopped. He’d given word he wasn’t to be disturbed unless it pertained to— “Enter!” he called out, already striding across the room.

Tomlinson cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mr. Gately,” he announced, and then backed out.

The twins streamed into the room, speaking in synchronization. “Where is she?”

Oh, God in heaven. “What?” he asked dumbly.

Emma’s brothers shared a look. “She’s not here?” Morgan’s was a plea, one that Charles recognized all too well, one that contained the raw agony of a brother who’d failed his sister.

Charles moaned. Not again. No. No. No.

Pierce erupted into a stream of cursing.

“You lost her!” Charles demanded of the pair, even as he knew the guilt they carried, too fearful and furious to realize it was wrong to hold them to blame and yet . . . “She was attacked today, and no one thought to secure the damned house.” Me. I should have done it. I should have staked a place outside her family’s and demanded to be seen. Even if they’d thrown him out.

Morgan winced, his features spasming. “You are right.”

“Hey, now,” St. John murmured, resting a hand on Morgan’s shoulder and squeezing.

Charles struggled to order his thoughts and breathe.

“Of course we don’t think it is you,” Pierce rushed to assure him. “Even if—”

Their parents did. Charles had been correct. Either way, their ill opinion of him meant nothing right now.

Another knock sounded, and this time, Tomlinson reappeared . . . with a woman at his side.

Hope sprang in Charles’s chest as he took in the cloaked figure beside his butler.

Emma!

And yet . . .

She shoved back the hood of her cloak.

Not Emma.

“Olivia!” Morgan exclaimed. Desperation wreathed the gentleman’s face. “Is she with you?”

The young lady hesitated, and then silently, she shook her head.

Numbness settled around Charles’s chest as hope died once more. An ever-growing dread resurfaced, boiling inside.

“I am here about Emma.” That voice came soft and small, a pleading whisper, hoarse with grief, and he nodded to Tomlinson.

The servant immediately stepped out of the room.

“It was my brother.” The young lady’s voice broke, and she fisted her hands at her sides. “It is my brother. He is in love with her. I learned he intends to elope with her.”

Charles rode for two hours.

And with every bit of roadway traveled, the hell of the past merged with the present so that it became conjoined and twisted in his mind . . . Camille and Emma. In the end, Camille had been ruined but spared of marriage to the cad who’d hurt her. But also a man who’d been singularly interested in the wealth she could bring him. There’d been no love involved. No emotions at all.

Unlike Mr. Watley . . . Mr. Watley, who this day had been driven only by those sentiments . . . those volatile emotions that made a person unpredictable. And dangerous. And a man who could orchestrate an entire scheme to portray Charles as guilty in the