Vicky bristled. For her sister’s sake, she wanted nothing more than to tell Dain how despicable he was, preferably before a crowd of witnesses. But now, thanks to her mother’s orders, she wouldn’t even be able to berate him in private. She pressed her lips together, remembering her resolve to act as Fanny Price and keep her opinions to herself.
Taking Vicky’s silence as acquiescence, her mother changed the subject and pointed out a young gentleman Vicky had met during last year’s season, one Lord Waring who would one day inherit a marquisate. Last season, he’d been very much in demand amongst the ladies by sheer virtue of his future title. Vicky had only spoken to him once or twice. But as she followed her mother toward him, Vicky pictured him asking her for the first two dances and finding her company utterly charming.
“How do you do, Lord Waring?” Vicky’s mother said.
“Well, Lady Oakbridge, and yourself?” he replied with a bow.
“Very well, indeed. You remember my daughter, Lady Victoria?”
“Of course. How do you find the evening, Lady Victoria?”
“Well, it’s barely begun,” Vicky said with a smile.
“Indeed,” he replied. For a moment he said no more.
“The duchess has outdone herself,” Vicky’s mother said.
Lord Waring nodded, glancing around him.
Vicky spoke to fill the silence. “I wonder if the food will be brimming with chili peppers. I’ve read that the food in India is filled with spices and chilies, though I’ve never sampled the cuisine myself. Have you, Lord Waring?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Vicky nodded. “Which would make it all the more interesting if we had the opportunity to sample some this evening, don’t you think?”
“Yes, quite. Perhaps I shall see you ladies at dinner.” He bowed to them both and walked away.
Vicky blinked. She’d thought their exchange had been going well. Apparently, Lord Waring hadn’t thought the same. She made a passable imitation of one of her mother’s elegant shrugs.
Her mother nodded. “Don’t worry, dear, his looks are slightly less than average anyway.”
Vicky wouldn’t have gone that far, though he was certainly no Mr. Darcy. Then she realized she hadn’t acted like Fanny Price at all. “I should have spoken less, I suppose.”
“His father isn’t much for conversation either.”
Still, if she wished this evening to progress like Fanny Price’s triumphant first ball in Mansfield Park, then she shouldn’t back down from her plan now.
Her mother directed Vicky’s attention to one of their acquaintances, Mr. Carmichael. Mr. Carmichael was an attractive gentleman of twenty-five or so, whose fortune was as vast as his holdings. Last summer, he and Vicky’s father had bought land adjoining the Kennet and Avon Canal. Primarily a boggy marsh, the land could not be farmed, but if the canal company decided to expand, they’d need to drain water from the property.
Two months ago, Mr. Carmichael had come down to Oakbridge with news that the canal company was expanding; he’d negotiated a lucrative deal for their property’s water rights. In addition, they could use the property, once drained, as farmland. Her father had put their success down to Carmichael’s business acumen and had nothing but admiration for him. Vicky had thought Mr. Carmichael very agreeable at Oakbridge, and they had even flirted a little, but it had gone no further.
At this moment, Mr. Carmichael stood by the refreshment table speaking with a gentleman Vicky didn’t know. The man looked slightly younger than Carmichael and had rather average good looks.
“Stand up straight, dear,” her mother said, signaling for Vicky to follow.
Thinking of Fanny Price, Vicky pasted on a demure smile. She intended to be very much a success tonight.
Before they reached the gentlemen, the unknown man departed in the direction of the card room. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about assessing someone new just yet. And she knew Mr. Carmichael considerably better than Lord Waring.
Vicky’s mother extended her hand as they approached. “Mr. Carmichael, what a pleasure. We have not seen you since the winter.”
Mr. Carmichael took her hand in his. “Lady Oakbridge, the pleasure is mine entirely.”
Vicky watched as Carmichael’s dark head bent over her mother’s hand. The man was more attractive than she remembered. Black hair waved about his ears in an unaffected style. His expensive black coat and trousers had been tailored to show off his broad chest and muscular frame to their best advantage. His facial features, if considered separately, were rather sharp, but as Vicky gazed at him, she mused that his aquiline nose, cleft chin, and square jaw and forehead rendered him strikingly handsome when taken together.
“And how is your lovely mother? Is she in Town?” Vicky’s mother asked.
Carmichael nodded. “I’m certain you will see her shortly.” He looked around. “She is about somewhere.”
Vicky’s mother gestured to her. “Of course you remember my daughter?”
“Impossible that I should forget such beauty.” Carmichael turned to smile at Vicky. “Lady Victoria, are you not taller than when last I saw you?”
Vicky gave him an arch look. One thing she hadn’t forgotten about him was his height. At just an inch over five feet tall, Vicky was accustomed to looking up at men’s faces, but the contrast between her and Mr. Carmichael was somewhat absurd. If they stood closely together, she had to crane her neck upward at an uncomfortable angle to avoid holding a conversation with his chest.
Speaking to him now was equally as uncomfortable as it had been two months ago, of which he was no doubt completely aware. How typical of him to follow a compliment with a jibe. At Oakbridge, he’d made a habit of trying to catch her off-guard.
“Not unless you have shrunk by some mysterious method, Mr. Carmichael.”
Inwardly, she winced. She must remember her aim. Fanny Price, Mansfield Park. She repeated the words like a mantra in her head. Be delicate, restrained . . .
But Carmichael laughed, and she held out her hand to him with a smile. He bowed over it slightly, gazing down into her eyes as he brushed the back of her glove with his lips. The action was rather scandalous, and he watched for her reaction. But if he wanted her to blush or simper, Vicky wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“I don’t believe this roguish demeanor quite becomes you,” she said.
His brows shot upward.
“Victoria,” her mother hissed.
“I had no notion I was affecting one, Lady Victoria,” Carmichael said, though his lips quirked up at one side.
“Or perhaps you have different manners in Town than you had in the country.”
“Victoria,” her mother said in a warning tone.
“Lady Victoria is quite right, Lady Oakbridge,” Mr. Carmichael said. “I shall endeavor to better behave myself.” He nodded at her, but Vicky bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to tell him how to behave—he was a capable, grown gentleman.
Fanny Price would never have been so forward. “No, I should apologize. I did not mean to imply—that is, I hope I have not . . .” She trailed off, unsure what to say next. This was why she hated society. At Oakbridge, he might have tried to tease her, but she never would have worried over her conduct and made such a blunder. Well, she might have spoken her mind and floundered in the process, but it would have been far less embarrassing in the comfort of home.
He shook his head. “There is no need for apologies. You have done me a favor, Lady Victoria. I should hate to appear insincere.” He said it with a smile, but mortification still clawed at her.
“You are too kind, Mr. Carmichael,” her mother said.
“Not at all,” he said.
Vicky smiled at him, but resolved to keep her lips firmly pressed together from this moment on.
“Oh, there is your charming mother, Mr. Carmichael,” Vicky’s mother said, gesturing across the room at a group of ladies. “Do excuse me a moment.”
Mr. Carmichael gave a
shallow bow. Vicky widened her eyes to signal her mama to stay, but her mother simply smiled at them both before sweeping herself away.
Vicky let out a slow breath. Her mother was only slightly less subtle than Mrs. Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. If not for Vicky’s dowry, she shuddered to think what blunt tactics her mama might employ to gain her a husband.
Vicky gave Mr. Carmichael an awkward smile. Carmichael smiled back at her. She couldn’t very well not speak to him now.
“How have you been since we saw you last, Mr. Carmichael?” she asked, thinking that would be a safe, proper subject.
“Oh, pray, let us speak of the fascinating state of each other’s health—I am quite well, by the by, as indeed you seem to be. Or perhaps we could discuss the even more enthralling topic of the weather.” He clasped his hands behind his back.
She laughed, then pressed her lips together. Leave it to him to come to the point and avoid idle chitchat. “What do you wish to speak of?”
He frowned, considering. “Have you been in London long?”
“That is hardly a scintillating topic,” she replied with a smile.
He nodded. “True, but I ask so I may discern whether you’ve had sufficient opportunity to see the sapient pig yet?”
She tilted her chin down. “The ‘sapient’ pig?”
He inclined his head solemnly. “The most intelligent performing pig in all England. His name is Toby. He and his owner appeared at Vauxhall Gardens this past week.”
“I had not heard.” She raised her brows. “What does a sapient pig do?”
He shrugged. “I could not say what all sapient pigs do, but Toby spells, figures sums, reads the time, and finds points on the globe.”
Her lip twitched. “Remarkable. If only he could read thoughts as well.” Her eyes widened. “Or tell fortunes. I have always thought the world needed more oracular pigs.”
“Then he will not disappoint.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“Well, Lady Victoria, for one indisputable reason.” He leaned in and down so his face was only marginally higher than hers. “The advertisement said so.”
She blinked. Then she laughed. Louder than she’d meant to.
Mr. Carmichael straightened with a grin.
“I see,” she said, not daring to look around to see if anyone was currently watching them. “Then you did not actually experience the wonder that is Toby firsthand.”
As he laughed—a rich, warm resonance emanating from deep in his throat—Vicky’s lips curved into a smile. She hoped he laughed often, because it would be a shame to deprive the world of that sound.
“Regrettably, no,” he said.
“A great loss, I am certain,” she pronounced, still smiling.
He grinned back at her, and her stomach did a little flip. He was quite handsome. Especially when his sable eyes fixed on hers.
“I didn’t know you possessed such talent for levity, Carmichael,” said a familiar, unwelcome voice. Vicky slowly turned.
“You know me, Dain,” Mr. Carmichael said. “I am a veritable fount of frivolity.”
“Hardly how I would describe you.”
Carmichael shrugged. “Perhaps I find myself in the right company,” he said, inclining his head in Vicky’s direction.
“Quite so,” Dain replied, turning to face her.
Vicky shuddered. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but Dain had not grown fangs, or attained a ghastly green pallor. He appeared to be his usual, composed self. Though he was of medium height and build, Dain carried himself with the self-assured confidence of a man who believed himself the superior of everyone else in the room. His light brown hair curled around his forehead in the popular Greek fashion he favored. His mouth curved in a smug smile.
Vicky struggled not to sneer at him.
“My dear sister. How are you on this fine evening?” he said without a trace of sarcasm.
Vicky thought of Althea. She thought of all the days her poor, lovely sister must have spent trying not to anger this man, all the times she must have cowered away from him. He’d fooled her whole family with his charm.
Outwardly, Dain hadn’t changed since Vicky had last seen him, but now the sight of him made her sick to her stomach.
“I am well. Thank you.” She kept her tone curt, her answer concise. She had no wish to speak to him, but if she made a scene, everyone would know Dain and the Astons were on unfavorable terms. For Althea’s sake, they all had to minimize the scandal.
Vicky tried to catch Carmichael’s eye, but he’d focused his gaze on Lord Dain. She racked her brain for a new subject—anything to get the conversation going again or induce Dain to leave. “Have you attended the new opera, Mr. Carmichael?”
Carmichael shook his head and started to respond, but Dain cut him off.
“Sister, I was wondering if we could take a turn around the room?”
She stared at him. This was exactly what her mother had warned her of. And exactly what she shouldn’t allow to happen.
“I’m afraid I am engaged at present.” Vicky smiled at Mr. Carmichael, hoping he’d catch the hint. Maybe he would ask her to dance. But no, the music hadn’t started yet.
“So I see, but it concerns your sister,” Dain continued. His countenance betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “She has a request—one she would rather I apprise you of privately.”
Vicky suppressed a scowl. She couldn’t very well refuse without Mr. Carmichael wondering why. She scanned the room for her mother as subtly as she could, but she was hidden amongst the masses.
To Vicky’s amazement, Carmichael seemed to sense something amiss. “Lord Dain,” Carmichael began, “could I trouble you with something before I forget? It’s a business matter.”
Vicky sighed inwardly. He’d saved her, if only for a moment. She looked around the room again.
Meanwhile, Dain turned to respond to Mr. Carmichael.
“Surely it can wait,” he said, sounding irritated. “We can discuss business at a more appropriate occasion.”
Vicky frowned. Did Mr. Carmichael and Dain actually have business dealings?
Lord Dain offered her his arm. Gooseflesh rose on the back of her neck. What more could Mr. Carmichael do? Vicky swallowed hard. What could she do?
At that precise moment, a booming voice announced, “Lord Thomas Sherborne, the Earl of Halworth.”
Chapter the Fifth
I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself.
—Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
As countless feet pivoted and scores of heads craned to focus on him, Tom forced himself to look past the sea of scrutinizing eyes and make his way down the staircase with a modicum of dignity—no easy task since every giggle and whisper made him want to do something unspeakable to his brother. This night—the night Tom had anticipated for weeks—could make or break their family. He had thought he’d made Charles acutely aware of that fact.
Charles had even sworn to stand by him, all in the name of family honor, brotherly love, and other such gibberish. But tonight at eleven, when Tom had sent his butler to track his brother’s progress, the man had returned with an apologetic frown, saying, “Mr. Sherborne says he shall be another quarter of an hour.” When, sometime past midnight, the butler’s response devolved into “Mr. Sherborne says he can meet you there if you’re impatient, my lord,” Tom had been too offended to do anything but leave for the ball.
He took a deep breath and tried to shake off his annoyance. He should be accustomed to people disappointing him by now.
Tom scanned the room for anyone he knew but only saw curious, unfamiliar eyes. It was no surprise. His father had cut him off without so much as a shilling when he was still in his early years at Eton. He’d lost contact with all his school friends; as a result, he knew nobody in society other than a few acquaintances of his parents. The Duchess of Rutherfurd was one such connection and the reason he’d received an invitati
on.
Tom’s mother felt it high time he take his place in the social order. She wanted him to reclaim all his father had denied him five years ago. But Tom’s ambitions for this evening had little to do with regaining his social position.
If not for his mother’s family, Tom would have been the only fourteen-year-old lord living on the London streets. The price of survival came complete with room, board, and permanent employment in his uncle’s hotel in the Swiss city of Solothurn. Eventually he’d worked his way into the position of assistant manager of the Bodmerhaus am Fluss.
His experience helping his uncle had given him the idea to open London’s very first European-inspired luxury hotel. With Napoleon Bonaparte now safely exiled to St. Helena, travel was safer, and it was considerably simpler for people from the Continent to journey to England. If a city as small as Solothurn could accommodate more than one successful hotel, a city of London’s magnitude could certainly benefit from such a place as Tom envisioned.
Unfortunately, the brother who had promised to help him in this undertaking by introducing him to potential backers had proved unreliable. Leaving the town house without him may not have been the wisest course.
No, he should have dragged Charles down the stairs, into the carriage . . .
But Tom didn’t finish the thought. The duchess’s grand staircase ended, and as he reached the bottom, he smiled as though he were greeting the wealthiest patron of his uncle’s hotel and bowed over the duchess’s extended hand. He could bloody well do this on his own.
“Lord Halworth, I am honored to be the first in London to have you as a guest,” the duchess said grandly.
“Duchess, it is I who am honored by your invitation.”
“Come now, your mother and I have been friends since her first season out in society. The Sherbornes have a standing invitation to my annual ball,” she said.
Tom inclined his head in thanks.
“Where is your charming mother?”
“I’m afraid she elected to remain in the country. She is still in mourning.”
“But surely she is now in half mourning. It has been more than a year since the earl’s passing.”
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