Page 15 of My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman

A knock at the music room door jolted him from his thoughts, and he looked across to see one of the Fenton footmen.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the young man apologetically, “I know you are at work and don’t wish to be disturbed…but, ah…your family is here.”

Clayton brightened. Bea and Amelia had come to visit? It would be wonderful to see them, and his second cousin could give him tips on how to declare oneself without making a complete mess of it. “Not a bother, lad. Send them in.”

The footman bowed and disappeared, and Clayton relaxed and gazed out the window to the walled garden as he waited for the two ladies. No one would understand quite like them; they defied rules and propriety every day living together as lovers in their picturesque little cottage.

“Clayton.”

He froze at the horribly familiar masculine tone. Oh no. Hell no.

Never had he turned more slowly or reluctantly. But there his father Lord Irving stood, and worse, his mother and two older brothers Ewan and Fergus also. A fucking bland and joyless wall of blond-haired, soberly-dressed, sour-faced disapproval. Four people who had made his life miserable for as long as he could remember.

“Father. Mother. Brothers,” he said coldly. “You found me.”

“Only thanks to dear Lady Onslow,” said his mother. “She saw you at the theater and told us you might be found in the company of these…these merchants. We’ve come to fetch you away from this place of lowborn vice and return you to Cambridge where you belong.”

Clayton’s jaw clenched. “Can’t, I’m afraid. Too busy with a commission for Lord and Lady Fenton. A well-paid one, I might add.”

“Tainted money. Accepting it makes you no better than a merchant yourself.”

“So be it,” he replied tightly. “This is my occupation. And may I remind you, Mother, I’m twenty-four years old, not a child, and I don’t want your funds with chains attached.”

Lord Irving glared at him. “Such insolence. Splattering paint about is not an occupation, it’s a damned hobby. Preaching sermons and tending to his congregation, now that is a worthy way for a man to spend his days.”

“I’ve already told you I’m not returning to Cambridge. In that they’ve thrown me out three times already for breaking nearly all their rules, I can’t see them wanting me back, either.”

“That is where you are wrong, boy. I can donate again. They will accept you. The Irving name can be restored if you will just forget this art nonsense and behave like a wellborn gentleman for once.”

“No,” snapped Clayton.

“Do not speak to Father like that,” said Ewan, his brow furrowing.

“Or what, brother? You’ll send me to my room without supper?”

Fergus snapped his heels together. “Time in the military is what you need. Discipline. That would break you of your bad habits soon enough. The drinking. The gambling. The women.”

Clayton bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Don’t forget the men.”

Lady Irving gasped. “No! You were cured of that nasty affliction. All those treatments…”

“On the contrary, ma’am. As it turns out, the purification process of being beaten, starved and doused in icy water didn’t do the trick. Can’t think why.”

“You are an abomination,” bit out his father. “Unworthy of the family in every way. I thought perhaps you could be reasoned with one last time, but you are clearly too far gone down the path to purgatory. You are no longer my son.”

“Then by all means go,” Clayton replied, so rigid with angry tension it felt like he might snap in half.

“An excellent idea,” said a voice from the doorway, and he winced in embarrassment to see Joseph standing there, an expression of such fury on his swarthy face that it made him look even more fearsome than usual. “My footmen will escort you out. And remind you to never again darken this doorstep.”

“No need, Fenton,” said Lord Irving. “We will gladly leave this scum behind. All of it.”

And with that, his family, or at least those closely related to him by blood, departed the room.

Clayton stalked to the window overlooking the garden and braced his hands on the cool wooden sill. Bloody hell, he needed to punch something. Tear it in two. Crush it under his heel. Every fucking audience he had with them was so similar it was as if they were actors reading from a script. They would mock his art then put pressure on him to become a vicar, as third sons

were supposed to. After that came the threats and insults. As dear Bea also knew, if you were an Irving who did not conform, you were tormented and cast out into the night. Considered worthless. By now he should be immune to the hurt and rage his relatives provoked, and yet he was not.

It still clawed him to the soul, remembering those hideous times they had taken advice from the local vicar and tried to break him of his attraction to men. Was it any wonder he wanted no part of the church? Between that and his parents’ utter dismissal and rejection of his beloved art…fuck.