Dangerous Alliance

by Jennieke Cohen

  Dedication

  For Jonathan Cohen and Nasson,

  who both always knew this day would come.

  Here’s to the next adventure!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter the First

  Chapter the Second

  Chapter the Third

  Chapter the Fourth

  Chapter the Fifth

  Chapter the Sixth

  Chapter the Seventh

  Chapter the Eighth

  Chapter the Ninth

  Chapter the Tenth

  Chapter the Eleventh

  Chapter the Twelfth

  Chapter the Thirteenth

  Chapter the Fourteenth

  Chapter the Fifteenth

  Chapter the Sixteenth

  Chapter the Seventeenth

  Chapter the Eighteenth

  Chapter the Nineteenth

  Chapter the Twentieth

  Chapter the Twenty-First

  Chapter the Twenty-Second

  Chapter the Twenty-Third

  Chapter the Twenty-Fourth

  Chapter the Twenty-Fifth

  Chapter the Twenty-Sixth

  Chapter the Twenty-Seventh

  Chapter the Twenty-Eighth

  Chapter the Twenty-Ninth

  Chapter the Thirtieth

  Chapter the Thirty-First

  Chapter the Last

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Books by Jennieke Cohen

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter the First

  The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.

  —Jane Austen, Emma

  APRIL 1817

  OAKBRIDGE ESTATE, HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND

  The lichen-kissed stone dropped onto the rock pile with a hollow clack. Lady Victoria Aston rested her aching hands on the rough stone. She wiped her muddy palms down the front of her thighs, smearing muck onto her father’s old tan breeches. When attempting to save the lives of a particularly bothersome flock of sheep, one had to make sacrifices.

  With two more sizable stones, she would close the gap in the wall. Then she could scour Oakbridge’s 6,562 acres for the estate shepherd. Vicky narrowed her eyes at a shaggy old ewe: one of many she’d found out-of-bounds in the neighboring pasture. They’d jumped over the crumbling gap and gobbled a patch of indigestible clover. Soon, their bellies would bloat, and without the shepherd’s aid, they would certainly perish.

  Inhaling the clean morning air, redolent with the perfume of freshly drying grass, Vicky bent for another rock. This would never have happened to Emma Woodhouse. Or rather, Emma Woodhouse would never have let it happen to her.

  Having just finished reading Emma for the third time since its publication, Vicky had lately found herself comparing her own country existence to the heroine of said novel. Not that Emma was her favorite heroine from the four novels written by the author known only to the public as “a lady” (but whom most of the local Hampshire society knew to be one Miss Jane Austen). No, Vicky reserved that honor for Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Pride and Prejudice.

  A clear picture of Elizabeth Bennet muddying her gown to fix a stone wall darted into Vicky’s mind—after all, Elizabeth had walked miles unaccompanied to see her sister, Jane, when she was ill and staying at Netherfield. Vicky’s lips curved into a smile at the idea that her favorite heroine would approve of her behavior.

  As Vicky straightened, movement far in the distance caught her eye. She squinted. Amid the emerald-green fields on the other side of the wall, a rider in a russet coat and dark hat cantered adjacent to a short hedgerow. She couldn’t see his face, but his bearing looked familiar. She blinked.

  Surely, it wasn’t the one person she had no wish to see on such a morning. Fate wouldn’t be so cruel.

  She glanced down at her father’s muddy breeches. They didn’t exactly outline her legs, but they weren’t particularly loose either. They hugged her hips just tightly enough to allow her to tuck a muslin shirt into them and actually stay up without other assistance. She’d buttoned the top half of her olive-green riding habit almost up to her neck for a semblance of decency, but by any stranger’s standard, she was courting scandal.

  She peered at the rider again. His attire proclaimed him a gentleman, and although she still couldn’t make out his features, he rode a peculiar chestnut of medium height that looked something like a working horse. She had never seen the breed before.

  Well, if he—whoever he was—felt scandalized by her appearance, that was his affair. Breeches afforded more comfort on her post-dawn inspections across the estate and allowed her to ride astride. That meant she could be more efficient helping her father, especially when something went wrong, like today. Their management strategies shouldered the livelihoods of more than a hundred individuals; if her father or his steward couldn’t allocate funds or attention to one small piece of the puzzle making up the estate, someone less fortunate would suffer. Vicky helped wherever and whenever she could.

  She hauled the stone up and set it on the pile with an involuntary squeak before glancing back at the rider.

  He had jumped the hedgerow. Now he rode toward her, picking up speed. What was he—

  Vicky’s stomach tensed as his face came into focus. It was just as she’d feared: the rider was Tom Sherborne. Blast! She looked at her breeches again and winced.

  Still some fifty feet away, Tom raised his hand and something fluttered in her chest. But he wasn’t greeting her as she’d thought. With his whole arm, he pointed at something behind her.

  She frowned. As she turned, something hard collided with the side of her head. White-hot pain burst through her skull. Her vision pitched sideways and her neck whipped to the right. As her knees smacked into the soggy turf, everything went black.

  A rhythmic thudding invaded Vicky’s head. Was it her heart? The rumble grew louder with each thump. She inhaled, and the smell of wet grass, mud, and sheep droppings flooded her nostrils. She groaned and forced her eyes open.

  Her head sat askew on the ground, though it seemed she’d fallen face-first. A tender spot on the side of her head made her wince. She traced it with careful fingers, but that only intensified the pounding in her ears.

  What had struck her? Through the blades of grass, a blurred movement caught her eye. Each motion was an agony, but Vicky pushed herself off the soggy ground with both hands until she sat upright. Blinking to clear her vision, she concentrated on the moving shape coming toward her.

  Her cheeks blanched. The horse and rider she’d seen earlier—correction, Tom Sherborne and his horse—effortlessly jumped the stone wall. Her stomach dropped.

  She’d never seen Tom riding at such an early hour—not a single time since he’d returned to England. Although his own estate bordered Oakbridge, she’d only glimpsed him twice in the last year: once in the village from opposite ends of the high street where he’d promptly disappeared into a tavern, and once at the village fair where he’d bought a gingerbread square and promptly ridden away.

  Anyone else might have considered these circumstances coincidental, but Vicky knew better. She knew Tom Sherborne was avoiding her. Unjustly in point of fact, and he had been doing so for the last five years. Yet there he sat, reining in his odd-looking chestnut a mere two and a half feet away.

  “Are you all right?” he bellowed from the saddle.

  Her head whirled as she stared up at the face she’d known so well as a child. His hair fell in the same mahogany-brown waves around his forehead and ears, contras
ting slightly with his light brown eyes. He was clean-shaven just as he’d been at fourteen, but his jaw and cheeks now had the angular sharpness of a man. His nose and forehead could have been copied from a marble bust of some Roman emperor.

  Her pulse thrummed in her ears, so she pulled in a breath. “Er . . .”

  His lips compressed into a frown, and his dark brows knit together.

  How she’d missed that serious countenance. Yet that boy she’d known had thrown away their friendship and never given her a reason.

  “My head,” she muttered. She touched the lump materializing on her skull. “What happened?” She swallowed several times and wished for a glass of water.

  “A man attacked you. I tried to warn you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘attacked’? Who would possibly attack me?” She touched her head again.

  Tom caught her eye for a brief moment before looking off into the distance behind her. “Whoever he was, he had a horse tethered at the edge of the trees.”

  Vicky shook her head. “But why—I don’t understand—”

  “I can still catch him,” Tom interrupted. “Are you well enough to stay here?”

  She inhaled and tilted her head gingerly. The pain had dulled a bit. “I think so.” She looked up at him. “What do you mean stay—”

  “Stay here,” he repeated, kicking his boots into his horse’s flanks. Clods of grass and mud flew into the air as they raced away.

  “Wait!” But his horse had already carried him out of earshot.

  Vicky clenched her jaw as she watched horse and rider disappear into a nearby copse of trees. How dare Tom hurry off and leave her sitting in a field? Especially if someone had attacked her! Well, if he thought she’d allow him to fight her battles for her, he was very much mistaken. She bent her knees and pushed herself off the ground. Stars reeled before her eyes. She swallowed an unladylike curse as she drew in a deep breath. Then she glanced in the direction Tom had disappeared.

  If Tom had ridden that way, her attacker must have fled toward the road to London. If that were his goal, then the fastest way to head him off would be to ride across the field around the trees and intercept him. Tom should know as well as she did that he would never overtake the man by following him through the dense forest.

  But she still could. Moreover, she was not about to sit here like an invalid just because her head hurt. Who did Tom think he was, trying to act the hero now? He’d been the one playing the coward these last five years.

  Vicky stumbled to the tree where she’d tied her horse, Jilly. She unwound the reins, led her to an undamaged stretch of wall, and used it to jump into the saddle. A wave of dizziness washed through her head down into her stomach. She stilled and breathed, fully aware she was losing time.

  Just get moving. Vicky gritted her teeth, pulled the reins to the right, kicked Jilly’s flanks, and urged her to gallop across the field toward the attacker.

  Jilly’s ears pricked up, almost as though she sensed the urgency of the situation. They crossed the field in record time. The wind whipped Vicky’s loose hair back as she steered Jilly around the edge of the trees. Her heart hammered in her chest. Would she catch the villain before he reached the road to London?

  Vicky scanned ahead, her gaze narrowing in on the country lane that fed into the London post road. She glanced to the left, where Tom and the attacker should emerge. She couldn’t see them yet, but they would soon arrive.

  The thundering of hooves reached her ears.

  With a satisfied breath, Vicky urged Jilly forward until they reached the edge of the road. But what could she do now that she had positioned herself in front of the chase? She looked around for something to give her an advantage. Just a smattering of broken twigs and dead leaves lay scattered on the road; she couldn’t see one fallen branch or throwable rock—nothing she could use to slow the assailant.

  Several yards farther down, trees lined her side of the road. Opposite those trees, a tall, overgrown hedgerow began. If she could maneuver Jilly to stand across the road in that narrow space, the man would have to stop. She guided her horse to the spot and made her stand so her head was near the hedgerow. The gap wasn’t as narrow as it had looked. Just enough space for the man to maneuver around them remained, although there certainly wasn’t enough width for a horse galloping at full speed.

  Pummeling horse hooves resounded up through the earth as a man with a handkerchief tied around his nose and mouth charged down the road toward her, his black greatcoat flapping in the wind like the cape of a demonic villain straight from the pages of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s preposterous romances. Vicky’s stomach quavered. It was too late to question her plan. Tom and his stocky horse followed close at the man’s back.

  Vicky swallowed hard. The man wasn’t slowing.

  She tightened her grip on the reins, causing Jilly to totter beneath her. She pressed her knees into Jilly’s flanks, trying to steady her, but Jilly only jittered more. The horse sensed her fear.

  Vicky closed her eyes and breathed. “Stand, Jilly. Stand and stay.” Beneath her, the horse stilled. Vicky’s eyes flew open in triumph, but as she looked to the side, the man still barreled down the road.

  Only a few yards separated them now; they were so close she could see white foam outlining the horse’s mouth. The man’s eyes narrowed. He was not going to stop.

  “Move,” Tom shouted. “Move!”

  In that moment, time slowed to a crawl. She wanted to listen, but she could no longer feel her legs. All she felt was her pounding heart and the leather of the reins cutting into her palms. The man would hit her!

  Vicky closed her eyes, waiting for the impact. Then Jilly reared up on her hind legs, and the back of her head slammed into Vicky’s face. Sparks clouded her vision as the weightlessness disappeared and a wave of dizziness took its place. A rush of air blew past her as the assailant and his horse careened in front of them. Then she was falling, falling until she landed with a bone-jarring thud onto a muddy patch of ground.

  Vicky blinked. Once. Twice.

  She vaguely knew Jilly hadn’t yet trampled her, and through the pain and nausea, she forced herself to look to ensure she was in no more danger.

  To her left, Tom pulled back hard on his reins to keep from colliding with Jilly. For a terrifying moment, Vicky thought he wouldn’t be able to stop his horse. The muscles in the horse’s legs bulged and its shoulders strained until it skidded to a halt merely feet away.

  Vicky slumped back onto the ground in relief, not remembering the road’s damp condition until her hair squished in the mud. Ugh.

  Of the countless embarrassing moments in all her seventeen years, this one secured the prize for most ghastly.

  Tom’s mount pawed the ground with its front hooves. The horse’s hind legs clenched in anticipation, intent on continuing the chase. Evidently considering it, Tom pulled the reins sideways to make his horse go around her.

  Hope surged through her. Falling off her horse in such a useless fashion had dealt her dignity a serious blow, but if he continued on, at least she’d be spared the humiliation of conversing with him while caked in mud. To encourage him to leave, she pushed herself to sit upright, but an involuntary hiss of pain escaped her.

  Tom cursed and jumped to the ground. “I cannot believe your recklessness! Are you incapable of doing as you’re told?”

  Anger bloomed in her cheeks as she gaped up at him. He hadn’t said one word to her in five years, and now he was berating her?

  She squelched back the urge to lie down and cry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. During the last fourteen months since Tom had returned to England and settled in at Halworth Hall, Vicky had prepared herself for their first meeting. She’d known it would happen eventually, with him living only miles away, and the prospect of speaking with him again had actually kept her in alternating states of excitement and nervous anticipation for weeks. Yet despite her nerves she had wisely planned for their meeting. As her sister, Althea, often said: planning wa
s the mark of an evolved individual.

  So Vicky had intended to be perfectly composed when she met Tom again—absolutely radiant in her favorite pale pink, satin ball gown—and graciously allow him to take her hand as he bowed in greeting. He would see she was no longer the improper little girl he’d deemed unworthy to be his friend.

  She bit her lip until it throbbed. At the moment, she certainly wasn’t doing a brilliant job of showing him how grown-up she was. The backs of her eyes started to prickle. No. She absolutely would not cry.

  She lifted her chin and tried to look regal despite her pathetic, muddied position. “I do not take orders, Lord Halworth. Despite what you may recall, I am not a child.”

  “And I suppose many ladies lie down in puddles and dart about the countryside after they’ve been attacked by a madman.”

  She looked around her as though she’d only now realized where she sat. “Oh! Well, I may spend every pleasant spring day in mud puddles from now on! Doing so might be good for one’s constitution, I daresay.”

  He blinked in surprise or annoyance, she couldn’t decide which. Then his frown deepened. “How can you be so indifferent? You were knocked unconscious, fell off your bloody horse, were nearly trampled by mine—”

  “There’s no need to rehash it.” She straightened to her full height, or as full as she could manage while seated. “My memory was not damaged in the fall.”

  He scowled. Then he looked away and looped his horse’s reins through a branch in the hedgerow.

  She sighed. He was right, after all. She’d been foolish. “I thought I could head the ruffian off. Which I succeeded in, by the way! I didn’t bargain on him refusing to stop.”

  “How likely was it he’d stop to avoid harming you when that was clearly his original purpose?”

  She exhaled. Blast him for his indisputable logic! She’d acted rashly and now fate was punishing her with this humiliating confrontation. If experience had taught her anything, it was that an apology went a long way. Nevertheless, her eyes narrowed when her mind tried to formulate the words.

  “I am just as capable a rider as you are. As I recall, I bested you many times in the past and—”