Under normal circumstances, Tom would have left Charles to enjoy his dreams. These were not normal circumstances.
The good-for-nothing had fallen asleep, never materialized at the ball, and left Tom to face the wolves alone.
Charles emitted a guttural snore.
Tom clenched his jaw. He was in no mood to be generous. Setting down his candle, he picked up the book Charles had been reading. He felt a nasty sort of pleasure in slamming it shut as loudly as he could.
His brother started and shook his head about, looking for the cause of the noise. He blinked before his gaze centered on Tom.
“Good morning. What time is it?”
“It’s three.”
“In the morning? What am I doing in here?”
“That’s a very good question. Especially since you were supposed to meet me at the duchess’s ball.”
Charles sat up and rubbed his brow with one hand. “Oh, the ball. Damn. Sorry about that.”
“Yes, the ball you are still dressed for. The ball we were supposed to use to introduce me to potential backers. Any of that sound familiar?” Tom walked over to the fireplace and banked the fire. He stood for a moment relishing the warmth before dropping into the leather armchair across from Charles.
“So how did you get on?” Charles stifled a yawn.
Before Tom could respond, a floorboard creaked behind him.
“Tom?”
A girl stood in the doorway, covered only in her shift and a thin night-rail. Susan had to be freezing, but her strawberry-blond curls bounced with excitement. “How was it?”
Tom exhaled. “Didn’t I tell you not to wait for me?”
“I heard you come through the front door. I couldn’t very well go to sleep without hearing what happened on your first night out in society.”
He sighed, but he wouldn’t have curbed one of her diversions in any case. “Come in. And close the door behind you. The hall is glacial.”
Susie did so and settled herself on a small gilded chair next to the fire. She tucked her bare feet up under her and rubbed her hands together close to the flames.
“If you become fatigued during your lessons tomorrow, you’ll have only yourself to blame.” Though they constituted the smallest portion of what he wished to do for Susie, Tom had arranged weekly dance and elocution lessons to prepare her for society.
“You’ve no need to worry, Tom,” she said with a wide grin that brought out the dimples in her cheeks.
Charles cleared his throat. “May we get on with it?”
Tom sent him a frosty glare. “Every woman in the room eyed me like a rib roast. Which might not have been disagreeable except I had no one to perform introductions,” he said with another pointed look.
His brother didn’t even bother to look sheepish. “What of the Duchess of Rutherfurd? She claims to be a great friend of Mama’s.”
“So she told me. But she fobbed me off on the Astons.”
Charles let out an undignified hoot of laughter.
Tom scowled. “Charles—”
“I beg your pardon,” Charles said. He cleared his throat, but his eyes betrayed his mirth.
“How did that go?” Susie asked, glancing back and forth between them.
Tom swallowed, uncomfortable. “She—Victoria—was cordial about it.”
Charles chuckled.
Tom took a deep breath. Charles knew just how to get under his skin. His younger brother had enough good sense not to emulate their father’s dissolute conduct, but he’d still become the idle second son of a lord. In the country, he hunted and rode, and in London, he spent his days at his club and his evenings dining at his friends’ expense. “Charles, our situation will soon make our social position precarious. We cannot afford to slight someone as socially powerful as the duchess. Or the Astons, for that matter.”
“I quite agree,” Charles said. “But asking Victoria for introductions? You avoided her society for a year, only to be forced to speak with her twice in the space of a fortnight.” He scratched his chin. “The irony is palpable.”
Tom wiped his features clean of any expression, trying to forget the way her face had fallen when she’d realized why he’d asked her to dance.
“Ignore him, Tom,” Susie interjected. “Whom did you meet?”
“She introduced me to three gentlemen. Lord Axley was the only one of any help.” In the card room, Tom had been searching for the game with the lowest stakes when Lord Axley had appeared. Tom had asked him where else he had traveled on his grand tour and had found Axley agreeable and very sensible. Axley had introduced him to more of his acquaintances. As the evening progressed, they’d spoken of Lord Axley’s interests in the funds and general investments. He’d even introduced Tom to a handful of men who might prove to be potential hotel backers.
Tom turned to Charles. “Do you know a Mr. Carmichael?”
“Everyone knows Carmichael. Why?”
Tom nodded, unsurprised. Charles’s favorite topics boiled down to society gossip, horse racing, and women, in that precise order. “He accused me of taking advantage of Victoria’s good nature.”
Charles sniffed. “Sounds just like the man. From what I hear, he has quarreled with half the gentlemen in London. I have it on the best authority that the Duke of Devonshire cannot stand the sight of him.”
Tom could well believe it, but he asked, “For what reason?”
Charles waggled his head, a look of disgust curving his lip. “The size of his fortune. I’ve heard his annual income measures in excess of seventy-five thousand pounds.”
Susie let out a breath.
Tom tilted his head and frowned. “You exaggerate.”
“Regrettably, I do not. His income is greater than the prince regent’s and rivals the duke’s.”
Tom’s frown deepened. “Where does his money come from?”
“Gentlemen of our station do not engage in trade. It’s all very well for Carmichael to be rich as Croesus and for you to sully the family name by partaking in business, but do not ask me about the source of other men’s finances.”
Bloody hell. Tom pressed his temples with one hand. He was too exhausted to cope with Charles’s classist prejudices.
“And,” Charles continued with uncharacteristic gravity, “he has many friends in the Lords and the Commons—powerful allies. Supposedly, he pays well for their cooperation. I wouldn’t care to be on the wrong side of a legal argument with him. You, on the other hand, have a seat in the Lords you’ve ignored, and you’ve severed all friendships with Father’s old supporters.”
“That was necessary—” Tom began.
“I do not fault you for that,” Charles interrupted with a wave of his hand. “However, Carmichael is not to be trifled with.”
Susie shifted in her seat.
“Actually,” Charles continued with an arch look at Susie, “my friend Kirkham challenged Carmichael to a bout over some inconsequential matter. It’s due to take place on the morrow at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon.” He looked at Tom. “Would you care to see Carmichael get a good trouncing?”
Tom shook his head. On his scale of enjoyable ways to pass the time, pugilism sat damned close to the bottom.
“A boxing match is the perfect venue to meet other backers for your scheme, I daresay. No ladies present to distract,” Charles said, raising his brows.
Susie let out a breath. “No one present but men who wish to beat each other senseless.”
“Yes, won’t they be rather more interested in the sport?” Tom asked with a smile at Susie.
Charles rolled his eyes. “Far be it from me to tell you both about the ways of society. I’d forgotten the sheer breadth of your collective experience,” he replied, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
Tom’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “Susie’s a member of this family now.” He shot a glance at her. She met his gaze with a small smile.
Charles’s eyes narrowed. His fingers smoothed a wrinkle out of the left sleeve
of his black evening coat. “As you say. At any rate, we can arrive at the club early and I’ll make introductions.” He caught Tom’s eye. “It will give me a chance to make amends for this evening.”
Tom sighed. “Very well. When you put it that way, how can I refuse?”
Chapter the Eighth
I believe he is one of the very best tempered men that ever existed.
—Jane Austen, Emma
Vicky spread a dollop of dark bramble preserves on her toast and took a dainty bite off the corner. She closed her eyes as the sweet tartness of the berries bloomed in her mouth. With any luck, the good weather would hold, and they’d have fresh berries before long. Vicky sent her mama a furtive glance, and as the countess sprinkled salt over her egg, Vicky licked a rather large bead of jam off the edge of her bread. She smiled to herself.
Only a few months more and she’d be relocating fresh, sun-warmed berries from their bushes to her mouth.
Of course, if she found a husband before the summer, she might be living on his estate by then. What if his estate didn’t have bramble bushes or a strawberry garden like Oakbridge? She put down her toast with a pout and sipped her tea.
She glanced at Althea. Her sister sat across from her, staring into her porridge bowl and lifting the occasional spoonful to her mouth. Vicky swallowed as her hatred for Dain washed over her. She couldn’t allow that disgusting brute to ruin their lives. She’d find a husband. Her pulse quickened unpleasantly, and she dragged in a breath to tamp down the panic.
She’d find someone kind who cared what she thought. Then they could secure Oakbridge and Althea’s separation, and all would be well.
From the head of the table, Vicky’s father speared a kipper with his fork. “Did you enjoy the ball, Victoria?”
She’d failed rather miserably at acting as Fanny Price would have, but it had been a moderate success overall. Vicky nodded.
“Your mother told me you danced with Mr. Carmichael twice.”
At least Mr. Carmichael hadn’t seemed to mind her dearth of Fanny Price–like qualities. “Yes, Papa.”
“And he asked to take you to Gunter’s this afternoon?”
Gunter’s Tea Shop in Berkeley Square was famous for its frozen confections. Vicky never missed an opportunity to indulge in a cream ice. Though Vicky adored their French chef at Oakbridge, the prickly fellow refused to make ices more than three times a year. However, in peculiar French fashion, he baked pastries—no matter how complex—with utter abandon.
“He arrives at two,” she said, imagining what flavors Gunter’s would have. The image of a luscious chocolate cream came to mind, and her spirits brightened.
“You’ll need a chaperone,” Vicky’s mother said over the rim of her teacup.
Vicky looked at her sister. “I wish you’d come, Thea.”
Althea raised her head from her barely touched porridge. Her shoulders lifted and fell as she took a deep breath. “I don’t—”
“That is out of the question,” Vicky’s father interrupted.
“Yes, I don’t think it advisable,” her mother agreed.
Althea dropped her gaze.
Vicky bit the inside of her cheek. “I know. I just . . . wish she could,” she murmured.
Althea caught her eye and offered a tiny, sad smile before looking away.
“Sarah can accompany you,” her mother said.
Vicky frowned. The rules of propriety allowed her maid to accompany her, but only if no other more appropriate chaperone was available. “Why not you, Mama?”
“Your father must go to Mr. Barnes’s office, so I must stay with your sister.”
Vicky nodded.
“And there is another reason,” her mother said, dabbing the corners of her lips with her napkin. She shared a glance with Vicky’s father. “Your father and I are pleased you and Mr. Carmichael seem to be getting on so well.”
“He’s an excellent fellow,” her father said, pausing in the midst of buttering a piece of toast.
Vicky raised her brows at him. “He’s very pleasant, Papa.”
Her father nodded. “And to that end, your mother and I feel he is the best candidate for your hand.”
Vicky’s mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”
Her father arched a brow and crunched into his toast.
“See what you think of him today, Victoria,” her mother said.
Vicky tapped her fingers on the table. She had liked Mr. Carmichael the best of all the gentlemen she’d met last night, but the fact that her parents were making their preference for him known so quickly unnerved her.
“But . . . he is untitled. Would that not be a factor for the prince regent when you ask him to choose the heir to Oakbridge?”
“Mr. Carmichael’s mother is the daughter of a baron in the north,” Vicky’s mother said.
“With Carmichael’s fortune he could buy a title if he wished,” said Vicky’s father, “however, that may not be necessary. I happen to know he did the prince a good turn that he is eager to repay. And, in addition, Carmichael has connections in the House of Lords and the Commons.”
Vicky sighed. “Papa, I know you think him brilliant because he thought to buy that land near the canal, but—”
“I’ve never met a man of his years with such a head for property and finance. But that aside, he is by far the best choice. The most logical choice,” her father pronounced, giving Vicky a pointed look. “I know we can trust Carmichael. Based on that factor alone, I would be happy to have him join the family. I would prefer not to be encumbered with another son-in-law like Dain.” He glanced at Althea and frowned with what seemed to be remorse.
Althea put down her spoon, refusing to meet anyone’s eye.
Vicky pursed her lips and exhaled. She tried to imagine herself married to Mr. Carmichael, yet she could not picture it. Admittedly, that might be because she didn’t know enough about him to guess what a life with him would be like. Oh, she could not deny his good looks and clever mind; he’d even made her laugh, which must be a good sign. Still, a part of her had no desire to know. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said rising from her chair, “I believe I need more rest before my outing.” She hurried from the dining room, fleeing the disappointment clouding her parents’ faces.
Vicky adjusted her bonnet and turned her head to the left, then to the right, to ascertain that it sat at the perfect angle. She practiced a smile in the mirror, assessing the overall effect. Not too shabby, if she did say so herself. But a moment later, her face fell. She turned from her reflection and collapsed into a nearby chair.
Just because Mr. Carmichael would be calling within the hour was no reason to behave like a preening goose. If only her parents hadn’t told her how much they wished her to marry Mr. Carmichael. If she’d thought this nothing but a social outing with an agreeable gentleman, she could have enjoyed herself.
Vicky turned to her maid, Sarah.
“Perhaps I should change? This yellow muslin makes me look like I’m trying to catch Mr. Carmichael’s eye.”
The girl shook her head. “Oh no, my lady. The dress suits you.”
“But I look too fashionable for such a short outing. What will he think?”
“Begging your pardon, my lady,” Sarah said, in a tone Vicky knew meant she was doing no such thing, “but a lady of your station can never look too fashionable. I suspect Mr. Carmichael will think you almost as handsome as you were last night.”
Vicky sighed, uneasy. Why was this so difficult? She was going on a civilized outing with a charming gentleman to safeguard the home and family she loved, not walking into a den of robbers.
What she really needed was her sister’s advice. After Tom’s exile, she and Althea had become closer than they’d ever been as children. Whenever Vicky had confided her fears about leaving Oakbridge and entering society, Althea always calmed her. She’d tried to teach Vicky the art of projecting a dignified, confident air at any event. Vicky had always admired Althea’s ability to navigate soc
iety’s treacherous waters without fear, and although Vicky hadn’t completely absorbed the finer points of her sister’s lessons, Vicky had loved her for the effort.
Vicky hurried down the hall to Althea’s room and knocked. Ever since that day in the conservatory at Oakbridge, Althea had avoided spending time alone with her. They’d barely spoken outside of their daily meals, which Althea did not always attend. Whenever Vicky thought of the silence between them, she had to swallow against an inexplicable pain in the back of her throat.
She couldn’t predict how Althea would react to her asking about men, especially now, but she had to try.
After hearing her sister’s acknowledgment, Vicky entered.
Althea sat near the fire in an upholstered armchair, reading a book. She glanced up from the pages. “Don’t you have an excursion?”
Vicky nodded. “Does it look like I’m trying too hard?”
“Not to my eye.”
“Thea—” Vicky began. She wanted to say she didn’t wish to marry anyone. That the thought of being trapped in a marriage of convenience terrified her. That she wished none of this was necessary, but she voiced none of it. It was the truth, but what good could it do? She’d made her sister a promise, and she would keep it.
Vicky walked to the window. Like her own room, Althea’s bedroom sat on the front side of the town house; it boasted a large window overlooking the square. Gentlemen on horseback nodded to women trundling along in open carriages, while nursemaids looked on as their young charges played on the grass.
“I wish Mama and Papa had waited to tell me.” She turned to face her sister. “What if Mr. Carmichael and I have nothing to say to one another?”
A line appeared between Althea’s brows. “Had you anything to say last night?”
Vicky looked down at her fingernails. “Yes. He was very pleasant.”
“But you worry he will not be today?”
Vicky bit her lip. What could she say that wouldn’t sound like she wished to break her promise?
Althea closed her book on her finger. “Do you like Mr. Carmichael less because our parents sanction him?”
Vicky frowned. “Of course not, that would be foolish.” She’d known how highly they’d thought of him. She just hadn’t known they wished her to marry him.
Dangerous Alliance Page 9