Dangerous Alliance

by Jennieke Cohen

  “Then pretend they said nothing.”

  She inhaled. Despite her parents’ wishes, she was not bound to Mr. Carmichael. “You’re right, Thea. If I don’t care for him today, I shall find someone else to marry.”

  “Someone else with a large fortune, whom the prince regent approves of, with unimpeachable moral conduct,” Althea muttered.

  Vicky turned to face the window with a tiny pout. When Althea put it that way, the whole endeavor sounded quite impossible. “I did fancy I would have done better than I did last night. I danced a respectable number of times, but the only new gentleman I met was Mr. Silby, and I don’t think he cared for me overmuch, even if he did ask me to accompany him on an outing.” After they’d danced a set last night, Mr. Silby had asked her to accompany him to Hyde Park later in the week.

  “I don’t know that he’s much of a catch anyway,” Althea said.

  “Thea . . .” Vicky turned to look at her. “You always say one should have a plan, so I rather thought”—she hesitated, feeling silly—“that if I acted as Fanny Price did at her first ball, all the gentlemen in the room would find me irresistible.”

  Althea’s eyes widened. “This is no novel, Vicky. This is our lives!”

  Vicky exhaled. “I’m well aware of that, but there are lessons to be learned from books too.”

  Althea threw her gaze to the ceiling. “You’ve never agreed with Fanny Price’s actions, anyway. Why would you adopt her manners now?”

  “I wanted the evening to be a success.”

  “With two outings with two separate gentlemen, you cannot call it a failure.”

  Vicky blinked. “I suppose not. Though I was dreadful at acting like Fanny Price.”

  “I cannot say I’m surprised. If you must adopt a pretense, you’d be far better off imitating someone you actually admire.”

  Vicky chewed the inside of her cheek. Althea was right. By attempting to act like Fanny Price, she’d been trying to be something she wasn’t. Little wonder events hadn’t progressed as she’d imagined.

  “Mr. Carmichael actually said Elizabeth Bennet was his favorite of Miss Austen’s heroines.”

  “Did he indeed? There you are—you have much in common. You can spend the afternoon speaking of Pride and Prejudice.”

  Vicky nodded, her heart lightening. She grinned at her sister.

  “Just don’t expect him to be Mr. Darcy,” Althea said, looking down at her book.

  She was dismissing her, but Vicky turned back to the window. “I don’t imagine I shall find a Mr. Darcy.” Although she certainly wouldn’t object. “But I do wish to avoid someone like Dain. How can I?”

  “I’m hardly the one to ask,” Althea replied without inflection.

  Vicky clasped her hands together and grimaced at the window. Why could she never say anything right? As Vicky observed the activity of Mayfair, an elegant black barouche pulled by a pair of matching red chestnuts separated itself from the stream of traffic, and the driver stopped the horses in front of their house. Mr. Carmichael disembarked the vehicle wearing a charcoal coat and black hat.

  She took three deep breaths, but the knot in her stomach remained. “I’m sorry, Thea. I will not fail us.”

  With one last glance at Althea’s eyes, so large in her delicate face, Vicky straightened her spine and marched from the bedroom.

  Vicky reached the bottom of the stairs with what she hoped was a composed air. Mr. Carmichael stood at the foot of the staircase looking tall and broad-shouldered in his charcoal coat and blue waistcoat. He held his hat under his arm. One side of his mouth curved up in a slow grin at the sight of her, and despite her earlier worries, Vicky blushed. Her stomach gave a tiny flip as she held out her gloved hand.

  “Mr. Carmichael.” She inclined her head, feeling the epitome of prim elegance.

  Carmichael took her hand in his, bowing low over it as he looked into her eyes. “Lady Victoria.”

  She smiled, and he released her hand.

  Vicky introduced Sarah, who had materialized from the hall to her left.

  Carmichael nodded and smiled at Sarah. He offered Vicky his arm. “Shall we?”

  Mr. Carmichael’s barouche boasted neither crest nor symbols, but the black wood inlaid with gold trim carried an understated sophistication that suited him. His driver had lowered the carriage’s top so they could take advantage of the fine day.

  Vicky admired the red chestnuts pulling the carriage as Mr. Carmichael opened the door. He assisted both Vicky and Sarah inside before joining them. Happy she’d secured the forward-facing seat, Vicky smiled at Carmichael, who sat across from her and Sarah. When they’d all settled comfortably, Mr. Carmichael motioned to the driver. With a snap of the reins, the horses took off at a steady pace. The barouche commenced a gentle rocking as it traversed the cobbled street.

  As the sights of Mayfair passed by, Vicky recalled the incident in Sense and Sensibility when Mr. Willoughby took Marianne Dashwood for a drive to see the house he was meant to inherit, and they’d returned hours later. Of course, they’d been unchaperoned, but Vicky wondered how long Mr. Carmichael meant their outing to last. Would they have enough conversation to sustain such a duration? Would he even wish to speak about Pride and Prejudice again? Well, it was worth trying.

  “I do not believe I’ve ever met a gentleman who cared for Pride and Prejudice as much as I, Mr. Carmichael,” she said with a smile at him.

  “Most gentlemen cannot tell what is good for them.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “But you can?”

  He shrugged slightly. “I have little time for the Edmund Bertrams of this world. A gentleman should not be taken in by flattery or fripperies.” He inclined his head as a smile played upon his lips. “If he can help it.”

  He referred, of course, to Edmund Bertram’s ill-fated regard for the flawed Mary Crawford in Mansfield Park, despite the constant, unselfish love Fanny Price carried for him. “You prefer Mr. Darcy, then?” she asked.

  “At least he knows his own mind,” Mr. Carmichael said. “Though he is laughably stiff-mannered.”

  Vicky frowned. “Why laughably?”

  He seemed to consider the point. “Perhaps I simply find him lacking.”

  “But of course he is lacking in the beginning,” she said, trying to understand his reasoning.

  He nodded. “Objectively, there is nothing wrong with him that he himself does not mention by the end of the novel, but one wonders what kind of life he and Elizabeth Bennet would have. I imagine she would grow quite bored with his stony manner.”

  Vicky raised her brows. Althea had been correct as usual. He was no Mr. Darcy. But perhaps that was not necessarily a detraction. “I suppose that could be possible,” she admitted, though she’d never thought of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy living any way except happily ever after. But how delightful to find a gentleman with so many complex opinions about her favorite books! “I admit, I’m amazed at your knowledge of Miss Austen’s novels. I had no notion you had time for reading. Especially fiction.”

  “The mind cannot thrive on documents and ledgers alone. Or tracts on animal husbandry,” he said with a smile at her. “I must travel often, and I find novels the best diversion when one is stopping at a coaching inn.”

  She grinned at him. “That is admirable, I must say.” The image of them sitting side by side in a sunny conservatory reading the same book and smiling at each other flashed through her mind.

  He shrugged. “How did you find the ball last evening?”

  “I would have enjoyed it far more with the addition of an oracular pig.”

  Carmichael smirked. His eyes had appeared almost black the night before, but in the sunlight, they were closer to dark rosewood with medium brown flecks. “And what fortune would you have it tell?”

  Vicky looked away and considered her answer. “Good health and happiness for my family.”

  He nodded. Then, when she said no more: “Nothing else?”

  Vicky tilted her head. “Prosperity f
or Oakbridge.”

  Carmichael’s smile widened. “And for yourself?”

  Vicky raised her brows. “What more could I want?”

  For a moment, Carmichael only looked at her, his smile unwavering. “Well said.”

  Vicky blushed. “And you?” she asked. “What fortune do you wish for?”

  Still smiling, he shook his head. “Ah. A gentleman must have some secrets.”

  She frowned. The last thing she wanted was a husband with secrets. “Must he?”

  He eyed her. “Only those he cannot honorably disclose.”

  Vicky bit her inner cheek. “I see.”

  Carmichael opened his mouth to say something else, but the barouche came to a stop.

  “Oh!” Vicky exclaimed, looking to her left. “We’re here.”

  A little farther up the street from Mr. Carmichael’s barouche, various landaus and phaetons sat idly beside the lawn in the center of Berkeley Square. Elegantly dressed ladies, perched on the edge of their carriage seats, enjoyed their ices with delicate spoons, while the men accompanying them leaned against the railings surrounding the grass, paying more attention to the women than their own confections.

  Mr. Carmichael motioned to a waiter taking the order of a couple who had brought their children. The waiter scurried over, and as Vicky, Mr. Carmichael, and Sarah sat in the barouche, he told them the day’s ice flavors. After they’d ordered, and the waiter left to procure their ices, Mr. Carmichael sat back in his seat.

  “May I ask how you found Lord Halworth after so many years?”

  Vicky started at the mention of Tom’s name. She’d barely thought of him at all since this morning. “I found him . . . older,” she said.

  Carmichael chuckled. “As one would expect.”

  Vicky smiled and shrugged, hoping he’d grasp her wish to change the subject.

  But instead, he raised his brows. “Was that all?”

  “That was all,” she replied lightly.

  Mr. Carmichael brushed an invisible speck of dust from his knee. “Silby and I thought it rather shabby of him to ask you to perform introductions.”

  Vicky frowned. She’d felt the same way, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “It was no bother.”

  “Where was his family?”

  Vicky shifted in her seat. “I’m sure I don’t know.” It wasn’t a lie even if it was an evasion—all she knew was what Tom had told her.

  “I know for a fact that Charles Sherborne is in Town,” Carmichael persisted.

  Vicky pasted on a false smile. “If he is, he was certainly absent last night. Or did you see him at the ball?”

  Carmichael shook his head.

  “Then it is of no consequence. I take it you would not ask an old friend to perform introductions for you, Mr. Carmichael?”

  He considered the question. “Only if I were certain of my reception—certain I would not be causing inconvenience or pain.”

  She started. Pain. How had he known? Had her feelings been so obviously written on her face? If so, she must be more careful. What could she say now? Should she lie and act as though Tom’s behavior had no effect on her? Or admit the truth?

  Carmichael’s astute understanding of last night’s situation made her want to confide in him. Surely that was a desirable trait in a prospective husband.

  Thankfully, at that moment, the waiter returned, carrying their ices on a tray, and she didn’t have to think of a reply.

  Vicky sighed at the sight of her chocolate cream ice. Sarah had ordered a barberry water ice, and as soon as the waiter passed her the dish, she eyed it with glee. Vicky caught Sarah’s attention, smiled, and took a spoonful of her own. She closed her eyes in bliss as the frozen cream melted on her tongue.

  She ventured a glance at Mr. Carmichael’s dish. He’d ordered a light green pistachio cream ice. Vicky wrinkled her nose. It certainly wouldn’t be her first choice.

  He must have seen her expression, because he said, “Is it not to your liking?”

  “No. Oh, er, mine?” she sputtered. “No, it’s delightful. Exactly what I wanted.”

  Carmichael smirked at her muddled answer. “So, I believe you have an outing with Silby on Thursday?”

  Vicky nodded. “Are you well acquainted with Mr. Silby?” she asked, licking chocolate from the corner of her mouth.

  Carmichael inclined his head. “Tolerably so. He was a particular friend of my cousin Gerard Rackham.”

  “Was?”

  Carmichael nodded. “Gerard fell at Waterloo.”

  Vicky looked up from her dish. “I’m so sorry.”

  Carmichael nodded and thanked her. “I hadn’t seen him since we were boys. But Silby took it rather hard. He had planned to accompany Gerard to Belgium, but at the last moment, Silby’s father discovered the plan and forced him to stay. Silby is the heir, you know.”

  Vicky frowned and brought another spoonful of ice into her mouth. Poor Mr. Silby. Vicky certainly understood the pain of losing a cherished friend. Though Tom, thank goodness, had not died abroad. She could not imagine the pain of losing someone in that way.

  Vicky glanced up and saw Mr. Carmichael observing her with a bemused expression.

  “I believe I can perceive your thoughts.”

  Vicky arched her brows. “Indeed?”

  “Could it be my tale has endeared your tender heart to Silby?”

  Vicky smiled at his teasing tone. “I would rather have a tender disposition than eat that pea-green concoction you just devoured.”

  Carmichael looked at his dish. He laughed slightly before raising his head. “Pity him if you must, but I do not believe you will be so enamored after your outing.”

  Vicky was hardly enamored with Silby now, but she asked, “And why should that be?”

  “I would explain further, but I doubt you would believe me.”

  “Mr. Carmichael,” Vicky said, “you are being infuriatingly vague. Is there something I should know before my outing with Mr. Silby?”

  “Simply that he is not a man who deserves you.”

  Vicky pursed her lips and looked at him skeptically. “And who, if I may ask, is worthy in your opinion?”

  “Perhaps no one,” he said with a smile, “but those of us who endeavor to become so—those are the gentlemen with whom you should be spending your precious time.”

  He looked at her with those dark eyes, and Vicky’s breath caught. How did he have the ability to do that? He spoke so well, as though he were indeed a character from Miss Austen’s novels. Did he practice such pleasantries on all the ladies of his acquaintance?

  She broke the connection between them by looking down into her now-empty dish. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Carmichael dropped his gaze from her face and took out his pocket watch.

  “Now, if you will permit me, Lady Victoria,” he said, “I shall signal the waiter to take our dishes.”

  Vicky blinked. “Shall we drive home through the park?”

  Carmichael frowned. “I’m afraid not. Unfortunately, my mother engaged my services this afternoon.”

  Vicky’s brow furrowed. “Your mother?”

  “Indeed. She entreated me to accompany her to the shops before they close. I’m afraid I could not refuse her. Please forgive me for cutting our outing short, but I must join her by four o’clock.”

  “Of course,” Vicky said, but she frowned inwardly. How odd of him to invite her on an outing when he was engaged to go shopping with his mother.

  At Carmichael’s behest, the waiter returned and collected their dishes.

  Vicky’s mind revolved around the strange turn of events. Could it be he was not enjoying her company? She wrung her hands in her lap, feeling both foolish and irritated that she’d pictured him wishing to spend hours in her company like Willoughby had with Marianne.

  Vicky had never thought Mr. Carmichael the sort of man who would escort his mother to the shops. Nor, for that matter, had she thought of Mrs. Carmichael as a mother who needed her son for such an idle
task.

  After Mr. Carmichael seated himself across from her in the barouche again and told the driver to go back to Aston House, she said, “Mrs. Carmichael is fortunate to have such an agreeable son.”

  “’Tis no more than her due.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Carmichael,” she said in a teasing tone. “Such maternal devotion is rare and definitely to be commended.”

  He watched her, as though uncertain if she were speaking in earnest.

  She blinked. His eagerness to end their outing had actually disappointed her.

  She still didn’t wish to rush into marriage, but he was very agreeable. And he cared for his mother, which should be a good indicator of his character. She peered at him through her lashes, wondering what he thought of her.

  “Your father’s last letter intimated your family would not come up to London for at least another month. To what bit of fortune do I owe the pleasure of your company now?”

  “Er . . . yes.” Vicky arranged her features into what she hoped was a neutral expression. “As to that, Mr. Carmichael, I think it would be more prudent for you to speak with my father.”

  He frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes.” At the look of concern on his face, Vicky amended her statement. “That is to say, no.”

  This time his expression turned to one of confusion.

  What was she supposed to say? That life as she knew it would never be the same? That instead of being home where she belonged, selecting the very brightest rhubarb stalks, or watching the cherry trees blossom, or assisting with the lambing, she was here, desperate to find someone to marry her because her life was no longer hers to control?

  No. She couldn’t say any of those things.

  Vicky sighed. “Mr. Carmichael, I’m afraid it’s not my tale to tell.” She attempted to rescue the moment with a well-timed joke like Elizabeth Bennet might. “A lady must have some secrets, after all—just as men do.”

  His brow creased, and he settled back against the cushion. He did not speak again.

  Vicky exhaled and turned her head to the side. Courtship was pointless. And exhausting! It was just as well they were returning now. After all, Marianne and Willoughby’s unchaperoned outing had only led to unhappiness.