The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,29

that continued to singularly fascinate Emma. As one whose own mother had betrothed her as a babe, it was a bond Emma hadn’t known was a real one between a mother and a daughter.

Yes, Emma’s parents had allowed her and her sister to attend . . . but they’d put up a fight whenever Emma went against societal norms. They’d allowed her to attend, but they’d not believed in what she’d helped found, or in the mission of their group.

“It is so predictable, is what it is.” Brenna Kearsley stormed back and forth, pacing before the hearth. “Time and time again we will be expected to justify our purpose, and assure Polite Society that we aren’t a threat.”

Except . . . while the women around her spoke to one another, frantic in their mutterings and whisperings, Emma’s gaze was on three amongst their ranks: Sylvia, Valerie, and Annalee, the ones who lived at the Waverton Street townhouse. Or, rather, the latter two ladies lived there, as Sylvia had recently wed.

Now, the trio sat silent. And then over . . . to Brenna, rightly ranting, and yet . . .

She puzzled her brow.

“What is it?” Olivia asked at her side.

“Anwen isn’t here.”

“Yes,” Isla muttered.

“But . . . it does not make any sense. Her absence was included amongst the loss of our members, but it isn’t . . . consistent with the others,” Emma said, motioning with her hand.

Her sister, Olivia, and the ladies seated nearby followed that gesture over to where the dowager viscountess soothed the still-inconsolable Kearsley sister.

“And there is also Cressida,” Emma noted. Miss Cressida Alby, their most recent member, a timid, quiet young lady whose brother had inherited a bankrupt title and betrothed her to a scapegrace lord, had approached Emma at Almack’s when Cressida made her Come Out. Bonded by the fact that she’d also been betrothed against her wishes, they’d struck up a quick friendship, and Emma had taken her under her wing.

“We have a specific answer on her whereabouts. She sent a note,” Valerie announced, brandishing a page.

Before anyone else could move, Emma was quickly across the room and rescuing the folded page. Breaking the seal, she read:

It is as I feared . . . the inevitable. Since I ended my betrothal, my brother disapproves and has forbidden my attendance. I’ve been unable to convince him. I don’t have that ability. I’m not as strong as the rest of you. I shall miss you forever.

Emma crushed the page in her hands, cursing softly. This was to be their continued lot . . . women arriving, asserting themselves, only to be ripped out of their fold and thrust back into the neat societal role the world had for them.

“Is she lost to us?” Isla whispered.

“Yes,” Emma said tightly. For now. She wasn’t abandoning Cressida.

“That doesn’t account for Anwen’s absence,” Olivia murmured as Emma reclaimed her seat. “What of her?”

Lady Sylvia sailed to her feet, so self-possessed she managed to command a room to silence with a stoic quiet of her own. “I suspect I know the reason for the changes.”

When all the conversation had ceased, she stepped forward. “I’ve called an emergency meeting, as you know, and I’ve also requested the attendance of a former member who might be able to provide us with the details we seek regarding the current changes to our group and our group’s membership.”

The door opened, and Eris, at five the youngest of Lady Sylvia’s sisters-in-law, skipped in. “I got him for you. Clayton is coming,” she said in a singsong voice as she skipped over to Sylvia.

“Splendid! Thank you, Eris.”

“Can I stay?” the little girl piped in hopefully. “Can I pleeeease attend this meeting?” she begged, clasping her hands together and looking to her mother.

“Oh, I think it would be a good idea for you to be here for this,” the dowager viscountess allowed.

Olivia’s brows came together. “Has Lord St. John rejoined our ranks?”

Something was amiss. The same warning bells that had chimed at Emma’s mock wedding at the age of six blared loudly now. “Not . . . to my knowledge,” she murmured. Best friend to her former betrothed, and yet as different from him in every way as it was possible for two men to be, Viscount St. John was nearly as tall as Emma’s father and in possession of heavy features. He would never be called handsome, but he loved his wife with an enviable devotion. He was serious and supportive. Unlike Emma’s own faithless, Michelangelo-subject-of-sculpture-worthy