Dangerous Alliance

by Jennieke Cohen

  Town houses passed by, and Vicky wished for the verdant hills and valleys of home. She closed her eyes at the sight of a dustman shoveling a new specimen into his wagon full of dung. How had her life transformed into such a fetid heap? Tom, Althea, Dain, and her parents had reordered the pattern of her life, leaving her helpless. Now all she could do was push ahead until her noisome existence returned to normal.

  Perhaps she should apologize to Mr. Carmichael. She opened her eyes to gauge his expression, but as she did, a man on the street caught her eye. He wore a black greatcoat and trousers, had black hair, and was staring straight at her. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him before, but something about him looked familiar. He stood on a corner with one arm bent behind him and continued to stare until the back of her neck prickled.

  She frowned to discourage him, but instead of looking away, he inclined his head a fraction of an inch. Vicky screwed up her face at his audacity and deliberately turned away. She should alert Mr. Carmichael. She ventured another glance with her peripheral vision, but the man—whoever he was—had disappeared.

  Chapter the Ninth

  It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble.

  —Jane Austen, Emma

  As Tom entered number 13 Bond Street at nearly four o’clock that afternoon, the smell of stale sweat assaulted his nostrils. Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon was a modest set of rooms where, most days, Jackson trained young gentlemen in the science of pugilism. Today gentlemen filled the large rectangular room near to bursting as they jockeyed for the best viewing position for the impending fight.

  Tom followed as Charles led the way through clusters of gentlemen discussing their predictions of how many rounds the fight would last, and the even larger groups of men placing last-minute bets. Nearly all in attendance were well-dressed men of station. In the center of the room, someone had drawn a three-foot square inside a larger circle.

  “It’s not yet four,” Charles stated. “We have a few minutes before the fight starts.”

  Tom started. “A few minutes? I thought you said it began at half past.”

  Charles tapped his chin. “Did I?”

  “You also said we’d arrive early.”

  Charles’s eyes widened innocently. “How odd. Well, I’ll make introductions after the bout.”

  Tom glared at Charles and rolled his shoulders back to relieve the tension.

  Ignoring him, Charles surveyed the room. Then he looked at Tom with a gleam in his eye. “Care to make a wager?”

  Tom decided not to dignify his brother’s question with a response.

  “What does the square inside the ring signify?” This would be the first fight Tom had witnessed in a saloon, and he didn’t know the official rules.

  Charles grunted, no doubt annoyed Tom hadn’t risen to his bait. “The square is where the men face off before beginning each round. The fight can take place anywhere in the ring once they have both stepped to the square. If a man goes to his knees, he has half a minute to get up and return to the square, or he loses the fight.”

  “How long do the bouts last?”

  “I’ve heard of them lasting some sixty rounds, but that is certainly not the average. Fights continue until one man is knocked out or someone resigns,” Charles said.

  It sounded so crude. Before Tom could ask another question, the din around them grew louder.

  Mr. Carmichael, Mr. Silby, Charles’s friend Kirkham, and another man walked through the crowd to the ring in the center of the room. Both Carmichael and Kirkham wore breeches and tan-colored coats without tails that Tom assumed must be the uniform they trained in since a handful of other gentlemen were dressed the same. With Carmichael’s stature and muscled biceps that were obvious even through the fabric of his coat, he resembled a well-dressed dockworker who pounded men into the ground for entertainment.

  Kirkham was a light-haired young man of eighteen or so who had a vaguely distracted air about him. He was a good half foot shorter than Carmichael, and quite a bit slimmer, but he looked agile. Perhaps Kirkham could evade Carmichael’s blows. The man walking next to Kirkham seemed to be supporting him with one hand. Tom assumed he was Kirkham’s second. Silby must be acting as Carmichael’s second.

  The few men standing in the ring moved to the sides as Kirkham and Carmichael took their places. The two seconds stepped to the edge.

  Without his second’s support, Kirkham wobbled.

  Charles spoke in Tom’s ear. “Kirkham’s drunk, the fool. This shouldn’t last long.”

  After both Carmichael and Kirkham had chosen an umpire from the men in the crowd, the combatants lined up at the center square, and the fight began.

  The men around the two fighters shouted encouragement.

  Carmichael backed up and circled Kirkham. He must have noticed Kirkham’s condition, because he appeared to be biding his time.

  Kirkham, on the other hand, charged Carmichael at every opportunity—he’d step forward and throw a punch, hit nothing, and step clumsily back.

  A few times, the men surrounding the ring stepped inside it, and the seconds and umpires forced them back.

  At one point, Kirkham stumbled and seemed about to fall. The crowd took a collective breath.

  Yet he regained his balance and continued his pursuit of Carmichael.

  Tom looked around at the gentlemen who all seemed so engrossed in the bout. He didn’t understand what was so fascinating about two grown men trying, however unsuccessfully, to pummel the life out of each other. Tom glanced at the door and calculated how long it would take to navigate the crowd. He had just delineated his escape route when Charles and the crowd roared.

  Kirkham lobbed his right fist wildly at Carmichael’s face.

  Carmichael ducked the blow with ease and then, while Kirkham’s side was momentarily unguarded, Carmichael stood, grabbed Kirkham by the hair, and punched him in the face.

  Some men cheered, while others, presumably Kirkham’s supporters, yelled. The umpires did nothing. Carmichael pummeled Kirkham’s face again and again until his body went limp and Carmichael could no longer hold up his weight by his hair alone.

  Carmichael released him, and Kirkham collapsed to the floor with a thud, covered in blood.

  Kirkham’s second rushed in to tend him.

  Carmichael turned and raised his hands to the men in the room. Silby clapped him on the shoulder. Tom’s gaze dropped to Kirkham. He was out cold.

  Carmichael had won.

  “Despicable,” Charles mumbled, turning away from Kirkham’s prostrate body.

  Tom had to agree. “Why didn’t they stop him?”

  “There is nothing in the rules to prevent it; in fact, I believe Gentleman Jackson himself used the same tactic against Daniel Mendoza to win his championship title. Still, it seems rather uncouth.”

  Tom shook his head. “Uncouth” was hardly the word. Carmichael was a brute in the truest sense. A brute, he had no doubt, who’d stop at nothing to get his own way.

  “Should you attend to Kirkham?” Tom asked.

  Charles shook his head and started to push his way through the crowd. “His second is taking care of him,” he said over his shoulder. “Besides, he was the one who decided to get drunk before the bout. He should never have challenged Carmichael in the first place.”

  “Kirkham challenged Carmichael?”

  Charles stopped as three men crossed in front of him. Tom pushed his way forward until he and Charles stood shoulder to shoulder.

  “Carmichael bumped into him at the theater, but he wouldn’t apologize because Kirkham had spilled some of his drink on him,” Charles said as they started toward the door. “Carmichael then insisted Kirkham apologize, but of course he refused since Carmichael had been the one to jostle him in the first place. So Kirkham challenged him—it was all rather foolish. Still, Carmichael didn’t need to bludgeon him. Anyone could see how foxed Kirkham was.” He paused. “Someone should put the bloody giant in his place.”

  Tom
was about to remark that Carmichael wasn’t that tall when boisterous laughter erupted from a group of gentlemen idling near the door.

  “Capital bout, Carmichael.”

  “He shan’t be leaving his bed for a good few days.”

  “Poor fool didn’t know what hit him, he was so soused.”

  Carmichael stood in the middle of the commotion, laughing heartily at all the comments.

  Grinning, he said, “He was already an unattractive fellow. I was merely improving the shape of his jaw.”

  The men in the circle roared with laughter.

  Charles’s hands tightened into fists, and he mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. Tom glanced at the men. Heads turned toward him and Charles.

  Carmichael smirked at them both. “Have you something to say, Sherborne?” he addressed Charles.

  Charles made no answer, but his jaw shifted.

  Carmichael continued, “Care for a lesson of your own? Or have you not the stomach for it?”

  His companions burst into raucous guffaws.

  Charles launched himself at Carmichael.

  Tom grabbed Charles’s arm. He struggled to get free, but Tom stepped in front of him and took hold of his opposite shoulder. Tom glared over his shoulder at Carmichael, whose grin only widened. “Since you are a self-proclaimed arbiter of gentlemanly conduct, Carmichael, I wonder at your unscrupulous tactics,” Tom said.

  “Wonder all you wish, Halworth. No one has ever accused me of taking advantage of a lady.”

  Tom’s narrowed gaze met Carmichael’s mocking stare. Tom would give the man one thing: he was remarkably arrogant.

  Tom’s back teeth clenched. He had never taken advantage of anyone, let alone a lady. But he’d be damned before he’d explain a thing to Carmichael or his cronies.

  “When I saw her last, Lady Victoria was less than complimentary of your behavior,” Carmichael continued, raising an eyebrow.

  The men around Carmichael bombarded Tom with black scowls.

  “Forgive me if I do not take your word on the matter,” Tom replied, although part of him wondered if she had confided in Carmichael last night. As Tom had spent the rest of the ball in the card room, he had no way of knowing.

  Tom pushed Charles’s shoulder and began to force him away, but before he had taken two steps, Carmichael reached out and grabbed Tom’s arm.

  Tom gaped at Carmichael. A quick-tempered man would have challenged him to a duel by now. Fortunately, keeping his emotions hidden was one of many things Tom had learned living with a father like Henry Halworth. It would be so satisfying to stop Carmichael’s overconfident tongue from wagging, but Tom wouldn’t risk his life simply because a bully had insulted him.

  He fixed Carmichael with an icy glare. “You would be well-advised to remove your hand.”

  Carmichael dropped Tom’s arm, but not before adding with a chuckle, “Leave the fisticuffs to the men, Halworth. I would expect nothing less.”

  Charles bucked against Tom’s grip again. Tom shook his head and forced Charles from the club.

  “The man’s unbalanced,” Tom said as they turned onto Albemarle Street.

  “If you hadn’t dragged me away—”

  “Charles, Carmichael outweighs us both.”

  “But that he would dare lay a hand on a peer of the realm,” Charles said with a sneer.

  “Are you suggesting peers of the realm should engage in street brawls when they disagree?” Tom asked, attempting to lighten the mood.

  Charles looked sideways at Tom and sniffed disdainfully. “He had the gall to do it before witnesses. He must think himself above the law.”

  Tom frowned. “I think you may be overstating—”

  “Are you aware that by not challenging him, you might as well have confirmed his accusations?”

  “His accusations are baseless.”

  “Which matters not one whit! He has besmirched your reputation.”

  Tom exhaled. Society was proving more tiresome than he’d anticipated.

  They turned the corner onto Palmer Street, and the town house’s gray stone facade came into view. A hackney cab sat in front of the steps. “What’s that doing there?”

  Susan never left the house unaccompanied. Tom acted as her escort if she needed to go out.

  “I haven’t the foggiest,” said Charles.

  Which left only one possibility. They had an unexpected visitor.

  Tom quickened his pace.

  As they strode through the front door, two men Tom had never seen before loitered in the entryway. In the corner behind the door, a burly, bald man flanked a short, dark-whiskered fellow rising from a chair. They were both professionally dressed in gray trousers and coats. Their attire and Charles’s hasty excuses led Tom to deduce they weren’t his brother’s acquaintances. Charles disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen.

  The shorter man addressed Tom with a bow. “Lord Halworth?”

  Tom nodded warily. “And you are?”

  “My name is Nathaniel Clarkson, Lord Halworth, and this is my associate Mr. Talbot. We are here on the matter of some three hundred twenty-seven pounds, six shillings, and tuppence owed to a Mr. Smithfield of Smithfield’s Food Purveyors in Broughton Street.”

  Tom swallowed hard at the number and nearly choked in the process. “Gentlemen, I assure you I have never entered that establishment.”

  Mr. Clarkson pulled a piece of paper from inside his coat and handed it to Tom. “As you can see, the Earl of Halworth’s account at Smithfield’s has been in existence since 1799. Invoices have not been paid in a number of years. It is commonly known that you inherited the earldom only a year ago, but regular purchases have continued since the late earl’s death.”

  Tom’s gaze slid down the paper, registering the accounting for the many crates of foodstuffs ordered in the last year. “I have not authorized these purchases,” he ground out.

  A rhythmic pounding began between his ears. He could easily surmise who had added to this specific debt of their father’s. And if he knew his brother, Charles was probably eating contraband caviar at this very moment.

  “Perhaps not, my lord, but Mr. Smithfield has brought suit against you. You must pay the debt or my colleague and I will be forced to take up residence in your town house.”

  “Move in here?” Tom sputtered. The pounding multiplied tenfold. “You cannot be serious, sir.”

  “Unfortunately, I am in earnest. We will move in and watch your spending until we find a way for you to pay your debts.”

  Tom scrubbed his face with one hand. He could wring Charles’s neck. Luckily for him, a lord couldn’t be detained in debtors’ prison. However, Clarkson was correct. Creditors could collect their money by installing bailiffs in the peer’s home. The bailiff would then take any money he saw coming into the household and return it to the creditor.

  Tom couldn’t contend with this today. “Look here, Mr. Clarkson,” Tom began, advancing toward the man.

  Mr. Talbot stepped in front of Clarkson, his bulk practically shielding the shorter man from view.

  “Tom!”

  Tom turned toward the voice. Susie hurried down the staircase, her strawberry-blond curls bouncing with every step.

  “Hello, Miss Naseby,” Mr. Clarkson said from behind Talbot. Tom watched as Talbot’s gaze shifted to Susie. The man bowed politely.

  Susie smiled at the men. When Talbot the brute started to blush, Tom nearly snorted. Susie’s kindness, coupled with her sweet face, made it hard for any man to dislike her. Even now, her smile and dimpled cheeks drew one’s eye away from her shabby, mulberry-colored dress.

  Tom’s pulse slowed, and he marveled that her presence never failed to lighten his spirits. But as she came closer, his calm faded. Susie’s sad dress only reminded him of their situation. He couldn’t pay these men, let alone buy Susie some much-needed new clothes. Tom had promised himself her life would be so much improved by returning to England, but at best, she looked like a poor relation and, at w
orst, like a servant. Meanwhile, she was the one member of the household who actually knew the value of money.

  “Susan,” Tom asked, “do you know these men?”

  Mr. Clarkson stepped around Mr. Talbot to face Tom again. “Miss Naseby was kind enough to greet us when we arrived, Lord Halworth.”

  Tom gave her a questioning look. Instead of offering an explanation, she smiled. “Gentlemen, would you excuse us a moment?”

  “Susan—” Tom said, but he quieted when she gave him a meaningful look.

  The men nodded, and Susie headed down the hall. Tom followed. They entered the library, and Tom closed the door behind him.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t speak with you before you encountered those two,” Susie said.

  “Maybe you can charm them into leaving. I want them gone.”

  “They have every intention of moving in if you do not pay them.”

  In theory, a bailiff living with you wasn’t quite the epitome of shame; apparently, Lord Byron had endured their presence in his home two years ago. But they’d be yet another reminder of how Tom had failed his family. It didn’t matter that the debts weren’t his own. As the Earl of Halworth, they were his responsibility.

  “I have some ideas about how to pacify them,” Susie continued.

  “Really? Have you also found a way to rid us of our infernal father’s debts?” he asked.

  “I have some thoughts on the matter.”

  Tom moved to the fire, motioning for her to go on.

  “I believe I’ve persuaded them to take something other than cash.” At Tom’s silence, she continued. “Your horse, Tom.”

  Instantly, new pain materialized at the base of his neck. He raised his hand to knead it away. “You must be jesting. How am I supposed to get around?”

  “We’ll still have the carriage horses. And you can walk. Besides, can you think of anything else to give them?”

  Tom sighed. Unfortunately, there was nothing else. All the family treasures, including paintings by Titian and Brueghel, were protected by a trust ensuring none of the Sherbornes or their descendants could sell them—another legacy from Tom’s grandfather, the seventh Earl of Halworth. The guest room furniture in both houses had gone a month ago, which had left them with almost enough to pay everyone’s wages on the estate. The only rooms Tom had approved for heating in the town house were their three bedchambers, the servants’ rooms, the kitchen, and the library. Heating those rooms alone sat on the edge of imprudence, but the house would be unlivable with anything less.