“Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Tefft’s garden party.”
Saliva flew toward her, and Vicky shrank back until she stood inside the door. Of all the people to be having a garden party and to have invited him, it had to be Lady Tefft! “Possibly, Lord Blankenship,” Vicky replied, giving Sheldon a meaningful look.
Lord Blankenship stepped to the threshold. “Capital, capital—”
His final assault of spittle hit the door as Sheldon swung it shut.
As Mr. Silby turned his yellow-lacquered curricle onto the long, straight stretch of track in Hyde Park known as “Rotten Row,” Vicky schooled her features into what she hoped was a sympathetic smile.
“So I told the impudent fellow I would not buy one of his toothpick cases if the king himself were in the habit of singing their praises,” Mr. Silby said.
Thinking his smirk detracted from his classical good looks, Vicky nodded. Mr. Carmichael had proven quite right. Despite Mr. Silby’s recent hardships, he was distinctly unlikable. Which was a shame, really. Mr. Silby was only twenty or so. Vicky liked his features and his straight, dark hair, but he was also an utter dolt. Although after enduring men with obnoxious eyebrows, clumsy snuff obsessions, and projectile saliva, she supposed she should be grateful he wasn’t picking his teeth with one of the toothpicks he hadn’t bought a case for.
She’d just endured a twenty-minute story about Silby’s encounter with a shopkeeper. The merchant had had the effrontery to tell Mr. Silby pure gold was far too malleable a metal to make into an effective toothpick case. Silby had harangued the man, saying the son of a baron would have nothing but the best.
Vicky looked out at the trees of the park so he couldn’t gauge her disinterest. His quip to the shopkeeper about the king hardly proved his point since King George had been mad for some years. Her lips curved in a tiny smile as she pictured the shopkeeper sniggering at Silby’s snobbery.
Then she sobered, remembering why she was here today. Silby was certainly not the kind of man Vicky wanted to live with for the next forty years. She almost shuddered as she imagined such a fate. Her mind turned to Mr. Carmichael again. How had he known she would dislike Mr. Silby by the end of their outing? Did he understand her so well already? Or was this simply every lady’s reaction to Silby? She decided to believe it the latter.
After her experiences of the last few days, she couldn’t deny that Mr. Carmichael stood head and shoulders above everyone else she’d met—though that wasn’t difficult given the pool.
As Mr. Silby continued to prattle on about the incompetence of shopkeepers in general, Vicky gazed at the greenery of the park. It was a lovely day. A bit chilly perhaps, but the sun shone through the trees. Ducks waddled on the grass, idling the day away until the next pair of children with a nursemaid in tow came to feed them. A few gentlemen cantered around the track on horseback. The hour wasn’t quite fashionable enough for society to be out on parade, so Rotten Row was not yet crowded.
At the last minute, Silby had proposed they take his new curricle—a chariot-like vehicle only wide enough for a driver and passenger seated side by side and one groom sitting on the small back seat—instead of riding to the park as they’d originally arranged. Since her walk to the park with Lord Blankenship had been the briefest of her outings thus far, Vicky had thought a ride through the park would be even better. Driving through the park should be equally short, but she wouldn’t be able to set the pace, so Vicky had initially resisted, but when Mr. Silby had remained adamant, she hadn’t pressed the point.
However, as the narrow curricle seat forced her to sit closer to Mr. Silby than she would have liked, and to inhale his potent frankincense cologne, Vicky wished she’d insisted on taking her horse.
Beside her, Silby cleared his throat. Vicky flicked a glance at him. Two young men on horseback touched the brims of their hats as they passed the curricle. One of them wore a dark orange coat, the other a red waistcoat. Their ostentatious style of dress amused her. Vicky smiled politely.
“I never saw such a pair of posturing puppies,” Mr. Silby remarked after they’d passed.
Thinking Silby dressed in similarly bad taste, Vicky rolled her eyes. “Why do you say so, Mr. Silby?” she asked with an innocent smile.
“Didn’t you see that fellow’s bloodred waistcoat? Where does he think he is, the Continent?”
Vicky looked at Silby’s bisque-colored waistcoat and purple tailcoat and wrinkled her nose at the combination. The strange colors made his skin look unappealingly pale. He looked just as much a fop as the two riders. If it hadn’t been for his clothes, Silby might have cut a fine figure, for he’d looked perfectly presentable in his black evening clothes at the ball.
Silby went on to enumerate all the other fashion faux pas the two riders had committed. Vicky tried to ignore him and still nod at the appropriate moments.
“Did you notice that?” Silby asked.
“Pardon?” Confused, Vicky shook her head.
“I felt a jolt, and the horses are pulling unevenly now.”
“Oh.” Vicky glanced at the matched pair of grays. To her, they seemed to be moving at a steady trot. “I didn’t detect any jolt, but I’m sure you know your curricle better than I.”
“I’d best get out and inspect the vehicle.”
Silby stopped the horses and gave Vicky the reins. He dismounted and bent to look at the left side of the curricle.
Vicky twisted in her seat to look back at Sarah, who sat in the tiny seat on the back of the vehicle where a groom, or tiger, usually sat. Poor Sarah gripped the back of Vicky’s seat so tightly, her knuckles were white. How horrid it must’ve been for Sarah bouncing around on the cramped seat listening to Silby drone on, but Vicky’s mother had decided yet again to assign Sarah as chaperone, thereby giving Vicky some measure of privacy to assess Mr. Silby.
Vicky understood her mother’s reasoning, but she couldn’t help feeling guilty having subjected Sarah to the agonizing outings of this week. Vicky would do something especially nice for Sarah when they got home.
“Lady Victoria,” Sarah began, “would you mind if I got down?”
“No, of course not.” Vicky glanced at Silby, and after ascertaining he was still busy, she whispered, “I’m sorry about the seat. I didn’t think we would be taking this contraption.”
Sarah shrugged. She pointed at Silby discreetly and wrinkled her nose. Vicky hid her giggle with a small cough. Sarah jumped off her perch and onto the sandy track. Vicky started to turn forward when the horse nearest Silby whinnied. It reared up, causing the entire curricle to tilt backward.
Vicky’s torso slammed against the back of the seat. For a moment, she thought she might topple out and onto the hard ground. Instead, the vehicle leveled with a great THUURRUMP.
The horses jolted forward.
Vicky steadied herself with her right hand. Too late, she realized she’d let go of the reins in the confusion. She looked for the ends. They were slipping over the front edge of the curricle. With each shudder of the carriage, the reins slipped farther out of her reach. In a matter of moments, they’d be lost.
Vicky’s heart pounded in her ears. She had to do something, but she couldn’t make herself let go of the seat.
The reins were almost gone.
She forced herself to stretch and make a grab for them. As her fingers brushed the stiff leather, the carriage bounced, and the reins slipped over the edge.
Tom pulled Horatio to a stop as they reached the entrance to the park. Two dandies on horseback wearing orange and red trotted by. Even though they posted up and down in the saddle, they took the time to touch the brims of their hats. Tom nodded and sat back.
He patted Horatio’s neck. They’d ridden through a good portion of the city today, and Tom could tell the old boy was ready for a long rubdown. He pulled out his pocket watch. They’d left the town house three hours ago. Tom smoothed some of Horatio’s chestnut mane by way of apology.
Trakehners were sturdy horses bred eith
er for farm work or for the Prussian cavalry, and able to endure rigorous exercise, but Tom always took care not to overtax Horatio. To own the truth, he’d spoiled the animal. Tom never went to the stables without a treat in his pocket, and he allowed Horatio far more carrots and apples than he ought. As it happened, Horatio had already gobbled the three carrots Tom had brought with him today.
Tom sighed. He couldn’t bear to part with the big greedy beast, but tomorrow he’d have to. He and Charles were taking the horses to Tattersall’s Auction House in the morning. It was all so damnably unfair.
He patted the horse’s neck. Under his breath, he promised he would find a way to buy Horatio back. He could hardly believe this was his and Horatio’s last ride together. Still, he started to worry he’d ridden him too long today.
Tom stood in the stirrups and looked down the path. Cutting through Hyde Park would be the shortest route home. Unfortunately, all of society’s highfliers came to Rotten Row to see and be seen, and Tom was in no mood for socializing. Yet it wasn’t quite five o’clock. With any luck, the gossiping ladies of the ton wouldn’t yet be out in droves.
Tom took a deep breath and looked down at Horatio. For his sake, the risk was worth it. Tom patted the horse’s neck again before nudging him into a walk.
After they turned onto the Row, Tom scanned the track. It stood relatively clear. Only a handful of gentlemen on horseback and a few open carriages ambled along. Perhaps the journey wouldn’t be too trying.
He kicked Horatio into a trot and admired the landscape. Of course, it was nothing compared to the abundant grass fields and hills of Hampshire, or to the gentle green pastures outside Solothurn, but at least it served as an oasis in the center of the dirty, bustling city.
Down the track, a yellow-lacquered curricle some three hundred feet away had stopped. The driver, in an unsightly purple coat, descended. One of the two female passengers sat on the small back seat usually reserved for the driver’s footman. She wore the plain attire of a servant. The other passenger, judging by her bright yellow bonnet, was a lady. She turned in her seat to face the other woman, and Tom swallowed as he registered Victoria’s features.
The muscles in his shoulders tensed. He hadn’t seen her since the ball, but Charles had told him Carmichael’s accusations at the boxing match were now circulating through society’s gossip mill.
But no matter what the gossips thought, Tom would have to stop and offer help. Horatio nickered and Tom forced himself to relax. The last thing he needed was for Horatio to grow skittish. The sooner Tom discharged his duty, the sooner he’d get Horatio home. Tom urged the horse to move faster.
Vicky’s maid, as he assumed her to be, jumped off the back seat. The curricle didn’t appear to be going anywhere soon.
Then, one of the matching horses reared up.
The curricle tilted backward before the horse’s feet touched down again. Both horses took off at a breakneck pace with the curricle still attached. For a moment, Tom gaped. What the hell had happened? But he didn’t have time to think. The curricle was picking up speed.
He spurred Horatio forward.
Vicky collapsed on the floor of the curricle, cursing herself for not moving sooner. What was she to do? Without reins, she couldn’t stop a pair of team horses. Her only option was to jump. She looked down at the sandy track rushing past her, and her stomach lurched.
She changed her mind. No. There had to be a way to get the reins.
Grasping the front of the curricle, she raised herself up to her knees to look for them. They swung from the crossbar that connected the vehicle to the pole running between the two horses. She squinted as something caught her eye. The pole connected to the crossbar looked cracked, probably from when the horse had reared. If it broke, she’d certainly go toppling out of the two-wheeled body of the carriage. She’d be fortunate if the vehicle didn’t crush her in the process.
She swallowed and tried to reach the reins, but they dangled a good arm’s length farther away than she could reach. In order to get close, she’d have to stand and lean out over the lip of the curricle, which would hardly be safe. The curved wood at the curricle’s front appeared too thin to support much weight. She looked for anything that could help her reach the reins. There was nothing.
She had to risk it. Gritting her teeth, she stood, leaned forward, and stretched toward the reins.
Beneath her, the wood cracked.
Tom had never ridden Horatio so hard, but the horse didn’t seem to mind. Horatio sprinted toward the runaway carriage like a racehorse. As they drew near, Tom saw Vicky’s torso folded over the front of the curricle. What was she—
Her hand flailed in front of her, reaching for something. She must have lost the reins. That had to be why she hadn’t stopped the horses by now.
When he’d reached the horses, Tom slowed Horatio to match their stride. He maneuvered Horatio to the left, as near to the grays as he could. He stretched his arm out for the closest horse’s bridle, near the bit.
His hand was a foot away, then inches away. Finally, his fingers closed around the leather. He sat back on Horatio and pulled backward on the bridle. The horses ignored him.
He tried again, this time pulling harder. As he did, he noticed two large, open carriages ambling down the path toward him. Moving parallel to each other, one trundled down the right-hand side of the road while the other took up the center. At their current speed, it wouldn’t be long before he and Horatio collided with the center carriage.
Tom released the gray’s bridle and spurred Horatio. Little by little, they pulled ahead of the curricle horses. But they weren’t moving fast enough, and for a hair-raising moment, he thought Horatio wouldn’t make it.
The opposing carriages drew closer.
Tom didn’t have much time. He dug his heels into Horatio’s flanks. With a burst of speed, Horatio overtook the curricle horses. Tom pulled the reins to the left, and they veered away from the oncoming carriages just in time.
The air whipped at Tom’s hat. He threw a glance over his right shoulder to see how close the curricle horses were.
But they weren’t behind him.
He turned over his left shoulder. The curricle had left the track. It now sped across the grass toward the Serpentine.
If he didn’t act quickly, the horses—and Victoria—would careen into the lake.
Vicky looked back, trying to see what had happened to Tom. He’d appeared out of nowhere just as the front of the curricle began cracking under her weight. Then relief took over. He’d rescue her and they’d laugh about how close she’d come to disaster. That was before he’d lurched in front of Silby’s horses, causing them to turn off the road.
The Serpentine loomed before her. She turned one last time to look for Tom. He’d almost reached the curricle’s right wheel, but he didn’t seem to be gaining much ground. Vicky glanced at the water.
She edged herself to the left side of the curricle and peered over the edge. The grass blurred past.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and jumped.
Her knees hit the ground first. The momentum forced her torso to flop to the right, causing her to land on her arms. She slid on her side for a few yards before coming to a stop.
For countless moments, Vicky lay there on the ground, trying to sense if she’d broken anything. Eventually, she propped herself on her elbow and pushed herself up to sit. Her knees throbbed, but she could move them. No doubt they’d be bruised and sore for a few days, but she thought she could walk. She turned toward the Serpentine to look for the curricle. But the water remained undisturbed. On the bank, Tom was pulling the bridle of one of the horses and slowly directing them both to back away from the lake.
Vicky sighed. At least he’d saved the horses. She set one foot on the grass, but as she put pressure on her knee to stand, pain shot through it. She sat back with a grimace and cut a glance at Tom. He certainly had impeccable timing.
Inching the horses away from the bank of the Ser
pentine, Tom exhaled, quite pleased with himself. Victoria was unscathed, the horses safe, and the curricle undamaged.
Horatio had done marvelously and had caught up with the horses in what must be record time. As Tom turned to Vicky, his brows knit together.
He couldn’t see her.
He stood up in his stirrups to see if she was crouching on the floor of the curricle. His breath seized in his windpipe. She wasn’t there.
A throat cleared behind him.
His head whipped around.
Vicky limped toward him. Mud splattered the skirt of her dark blue riding habit. One sleeve gaped open at the elbow, and the other had ripped where her arm met her torso. Her yellow bonnet appeared to be the only unscathed part of her, though a few blades of grass had attached themselves to the ribbons at one side.
“Good God,” he breathed. She’d jumped.
Though he couldn’t guess how the curricle horses would react, he dropped their reins and dismounted, pulling Horatio behind him so he could approach Vicky. “Take my arm.”
She placed her hand on his arm without argument, but put no pressure on it.
He frowned. “Are you quite all right?”
Her brows knit together. “Not really.”
He splayed open his hand, palm up. “Press down on my hand instead.”
She glanced up at him, but she put her gloved hand on his and pushed down.
“Now try walking.”
She took a tentative step and made a noise in her throat.
“It will be easier if you hold my hand while you press down.”
She shot him a look, her hazel eyes widening slightly. “Er . . . of course.” She dropped her gaze, and her small hand closed over his. “I don’t wish to hurt you.”
A smile pulled at his lips. “I appreciate your concern, but your welfare is of more import at the moment.”
“Very well, if you’re certain,” she murmured. She gripped his hand, pushed down, and took a few steps.
“Any better?” he asked.
Dangerous Alliance Page 13