Vicky hummed a tune as she stretched out her legs and splashed her feet around in the water.
Later, after she’d dressed and propped herself and her legs up on the bed with a mountain of pillows, she heard a scratch at the door. Vicky glanced up.
Althea closed the door behind her.
Vicky blinked, unsure what her sister’s appearance meant. “Thea, come in.”
Althea approached the bed with slow steps. A single crease between her brows marred her ivory face. “Vicky, I thought I should come. Mama told me about the accident.”
Vicky nodded and gestured at her knees. “They ache, but I should be better soon.”
Althea nodded. “Can I—that is, can I get you something?”
Vicky smiled, but shook her head. “Thank you, though. It was kind of you to ask.”
“Or I could ring the bell for Sarah?”
“No, Sarah deserves some rest as well. But perhaps you could hand me my book?” She pointed at the dressing table behind Althea.
Her sister fetched the volume and opened the cover. “Good heavens, Pride and Prejudice again?”
Vicky exhaled. “I read it when I want to escape,” she said, hoping the statement neutral enough not to lead to another argument. Though she’d actually picked it up again to see if Mr. Carmichael’s assessment of Mr. Darcy held any merit.
Althea handed it to her. “I still contend it is not Mansfield Park’s equal.”
“Lord Axley said the very same thing at the ball. Of course, that pantheon of moral correctness Fanny Price cannot compare to the prejudiced Lizzy Bennet,” she said with a smile. They’d debated the subject so often, Vicky knew all Althea’s arguments by rote. “I will never understand how you can like poor Fanny. She sits about watching everyone else, doing little to change her own position at Mansfield.”
Althea shook her head. “What could Fanny do? She has little power within the household. She does what she is able and still manages to marry the man she loves.”
“But not by her own actions,” Vicky replied, realizing this was the first time in weeks she and Althea had held a normal conversation. “One day Edmund realizes he loves her and she benefits from that lucky happenstance. You know, the other day Mr. Carmichael said he has no patience for the Edmund Bertrams of the world.”
Althea raised an eyebrow. “I cannot say I’m entirely surprised. What is your opinion?”
Vicky shrugged. “I’ve never disliked Edmund Bertram. Although, I have sometimes thought that if Fanny Price had tried reforming Henry Crawford, she could’ve changed his ways. They do say reformed rakes make the best husbands.”
Althea turned away. “Men cannot be changed.”
Vicky fell quiet. They were no longer discussing fictional gentlemen. “Still,” she began, attempting to lighten the mood, “I agree that the way Fanny’s character was written, she and Edmund were well-matched.”
“Vicky,” Althea said, turning back to face her, “I came to apologize.”
Vicky closed her lips. She held her breath so as not to say anything wrong.
“I’ve acted very badly.” Althea looked down at her hands.
When she did not continue, Vicky spoke quietly. “You’re suffering. But you must know I feel terrible about everything you endured.”
Althea sat at the foot of the bed and rubbed her eyes. “I fear I’ll never be free of him.”
Vicky’s chest constricted. “But the separation—”
Althea cut her off. “I’ll still have the memories. Even if the separation succeeds, he will keep haunting me.”
Vicky grimaced. “One day, the memories will fade. You’ll find some happiness again.” She reached across her legs for Althea’s hand. It felt cold and slight.
“But I cannot remarry.”
Vicky bit her lip. “Wasn’t there a scandal when we were young? Lord and Lady Boringdon’s divorce? Didn’t she remarry?”
Althea frowned. “A Sir Arthur Paget. But they were already . . . involved before her divorce. That’s why her husband could obtain a Parliamentary divorce.”
Vicky nodded, now recalling Parliament had dissolved Lord and Lady Boringdon’s marriage on the grounds of adultery. The scandal had appeared in every London newspaper and had been the source of local Hampshire gossip for quite some time. Vicky hadn’t attended to the legalities of it all, but she’d remembered it because not only was Lady Boringdon the daughter of the Earl of Westmorland, but she and her second husband had married in a village church not too far north of Oakbridge.
“Where are they now?” Vicky asked.
Althea threw her a glance. “Who knows?”
Vicky bit the inside of her cheek. “I suppose you’d miss society if you had to retire to the country.”
Althea sighed, confirming the statement.
Vicky had thought as much. If she’d had to leave society, she’d dance a jig to celebrate.
Althea was different.
Althea put her free hand on top of Vicky’s and squeezed. “I am sorry about your knees. I blame myself.”
Vicky rested her other hand on top of the two on the bed. “That’s ridiculous. It was an accident.”
“But if not for me, you wouldn’t be looking so hard for a husband, and you certainly wouldn’t have been out with Mr. Silby.”
“By your reasoning, Dain is at fault. If he hadn’t been so monstrous, you wouldn’t have had to leave him.” For the first time, it occurred to Vicky that Althea had always loved children, but now, with the future uncertain, who could say if she’d have any. “Are you certain you don’t, er—care to commit adultery with someone? Then Dain would want a Parliamentary divorce and you could eventually remarry,” she said in a rush.
Her sister’s eyes widened. “You would have me besmirch my reputation further?”
Vicky shook her head. “I only thought that if it gave you the option to have a family of your own one day, it might be worth considering.”
Althea pursed her lips and looked at the floor. “I’d best let you recover.” She stood, turned, and whispered something Vicky couldn’t make out, immediately followed by the words “when I was imprisoned in his house.”
“Thea, what about when you were imprisoned?”
But Althea hastened to the door.
“Althea!”
Her sister did not stop. Vicky swung her legs over the side of the bed to catch her. But her right knee buckled as she stepped forward; she gasped at the pain.
“Blast!” Vicky collapsed back onto the bed. She rubbed her knees with a whimper. For now, she’d have to preoccupy herself with Mr. Darcy.
Chapter the Eleventh
He was suffering from disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and wishing for what could never be.
—Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
Tom took a swig of his whisky. The peat of the malt coupled with the pungent odor of pipe tobacco and cigars permeating the club started to turn his stomach. He set his glass on the round oak table. He shouldn’t have let Charles talk him into coming to White’s.
Today after they’d left the horses at Tattersall’s (Tom couldn’t bear to watch Horatio’s actual sale), Charles had proposed they come in for a drink to ease their sorrows. Tom had agreed under the condition that Charles help him meet possible hotel backers, but Tom soon discovered that the men Charles knew were either young and dissolute, or over fifty and spoke of his father with fond remembrances.
Tom had no intention of entrusting his livelihood to anyone remotely connected with his father, so in the mode of a man who’d accepted the day would bring him nothing but misery, he’d consented to remain as his brother’s guest while he mentally berated himself for becoming someone who needed a drink to feel ordinary.
The longer he drank, the tighter Tom’s shoulder muscles grew. It couldn’t be wholly due to this illicit whisky from Scotland he never could have afforded the excise taxes on, were he to attempt to buy a bottle himself. His father had put Tom’s name down on the club
’s membership waitlist when he was a boy, but had switched his name for Charles’s while Tom was abroad. If Tom had needed further evidence proclaiming his father would never have understood him, he’d have gained it today. The club’s leather wing chairs were slick and uncomfortable; the air was thick with smoke. In this particular room, men sat drinking or eating slabs of roasted meat. The club supplied the sort of food his father had loved to eat, and the members exuded the bland, aristocratic pomposity his father had proudly projected. The only pastime Tom might’ve enjoyed was the billiards table, but two gentlemen from Bath currently monopolized it.
Yes, the membership would’ve been well wasted on him. Tom swallowed another sip of whisky and set the glass down with a clunk.
Charles looked up from his own glass and gave Tom a boorish scowl. “Do you have to make such a bloody racket? You’re disturbing my perfectly good sulk.”
Tom shook his head. “Damn your sulk. Today I had to sell the best horse I ever had because of your penchant for fine foods.”
“It wasn’t all mine,” Charles replied, looking down at his drink.
“I’m sure most of it was Father’s,” Tom allowed, “but you kept making purchases even though you knew our financial state.” He dragged in a ragged breath.
Charles was silent a moment. “Someone had to keep up appearances. I couldn’t allow all of London to think we have no money.”
“But we have no money,” Tom grumbled under his breath.
Charles picked up his glass and brought it halfway to his lips. “Well, that’s hardly common knowledge,” he said, sipping his drink.
Tom’s back teeth clenched until his jaw hurt. “I blame you.”
“I don’t care. You’re not the only one who lost a horse today.”
Tom sat forward to launch into a tirade enumerating all the reasons Charles was at fault when Geoffrey Murton entered through the carved wooden doorway. Tom clamped his mouth shut and looked down into his glass. He eyed Murton, or Dain as Tom now remembered was his title, in his peripheral vision.
He nearly groaned aloud when Dain walked toward their table. Why in hell would he seek Tom out? They’d never liked each other. When they were at Eton, Dain had been nothing better than a bully. He’d forced the smallest boys to do his bidding and take the blame whenever he landed in trouble. Although Tom had been two years younger than Dain, he’d often been obliged to interfere; through subtle subversion, he’d saved more than one student from a beating they would’ve suffered at one of the Master’s hands thanks to Dain’s scheming.
Eventually, Dain had discovered what Tom was doing. Unlike the rest of Dain’s prey, Tom had experience with bullies, and Dain soon learned Tom was immune to intimidation. Throughout their school days, they’d maintained a silent enmity.
“Gentlemen.” Dain nodded at them both.
Tom nodded in return. “Dain.”
“Mr. Sherborne,” Dain said, nodding at Charles.
“Lord Dain,” Charles said.
“How are you acquainted?” Tom asked.
“Mr. Sherborne attended my wedding,” Dain replied.
Charles nodded.
For a few moments, none of them spoke, and Tom hoped Dain would simply walk away now that they’d said their hellos. Unfortunately, he lowered himself into the empty chair opposite Tom. Tom took another sip of his drink, bracing himself.
“I cannot help but notice neither of you seem inclined toward conversation,” Dain commented.
Tom regarded him with cold eyes.
“Yes, as you can see, we required fortification.” Charles lifted his glass as proof. “The events of the day have been rather trying.”
“That is unfortunate,” Dain said, not taking the hint. “Let me order you another round.”
Tom swallowed uncomfortably at the thought of more peaty heat burning down his throat, but he remained silent, waiting for Dain to get to the point.
Charles shook his head. “Thank you, Lord Dain, but that won’t be necessary.”
Tom raised a brow. It wasn’t like Charles to refuse a drink. Maybe he’d caught on to Tom’s disapproval of Dain.
“I insist,” Dain said with a smile. “You see, I have cause for celebration.”
Tom didn’t know how much more small talk he could endure. “Why does your good humor extend to our table?”
Dain, apparently unaffected by Tom’s hostile tone, answered jovially. “I have just acquired two beautiful stallions at Tattersall’s. One is a Thoroughbred—”
“A fine breed, Thoroughbreds,” Charles interrupted, swirling the remaining amber liquid in his glass in a distracted manner.
Nodding, Dain continued, “And the other is rather unique. I admit I was surprised to see its kind at the auction. They are only bred in Prussia.”
Tom’s jaw threatened to crack.
“Some breed called Trakehner.”
The rat had bought Horatio. Tom’s knuckles itched to knock the innocent smile off Dain’s face. He forced himself to stay silent, reveal nothing, but Charles shifted in his chair.
“The odd thing was, the previous owner of the horses wished to remain anonymous. I had to go to quite a bit of trouble, and surrender quite a few sovereigns, to discover who had sold them.”
Tom tilted his chin downward and looked Dain squarely in the eye. “And what did you achieve by obtaining this information?”
Dain returned Tom’s stare. “Leverage.”
Tom’s gaze flicked to Charles, who held his glass loosely; he seemed unmoved.
“What could we possibly have that you want, Dain?” Tom asked, keeping his tone neutral.
“It seems fairly obvious to me that the Sherbornes have fallen into dire straits. If not, why sell two such fine animals anonymously? The Halworth name alone would’ve raised the minimum asking price.”
Tom could not deny it. Dain smiled.
“Of course the integrity of the Halworth name would be significantly damaged if someone made your financial situation known. Since I have always considered myself a benevolent fellow, I offer you a proposition to ease your economic burden.”
Tom leaned forward in his chair. “I do not make bargains with extortioners. As far as I’m concerned, my father tarnished his title and the Sherborne name far more than you ever could. So I suggest you leave.”
“Tom,” Charles interjected, “let’s not be hasty. We can at least listen to Lord Dain’s offer.”
Tom glared at his brother.
“What is it you want?” Charles asked.
Dain’s smile widened. “I want Halworth.”
Tom wasn’t sure he’d heard Dain correctly. “Halworth? You want the estate?” he asked, incredulous. He looked at Charles. His brother’s frown proclaimed him as puzzled as he. “Halworth is entailed to the legitimate male heirs of the Sherborne family. I could not sell it to you any more than I could breed a flying hedgehog.”
Charles snorted.
“I am no imbecile,” Dain said, his tone icy. “I am fully aware of the entailment. However, there must be large portions of your estate that can be sold.”
“Isn’t your primary residence in the north?” Tom asked.
“One can always have more, Halworth,” Dain replied with an arched brow.
Dain was greedy as the devil—as he’d always been. “Your wife will likely inherit Oakbridge. Why do you need our land?”
“Because it is ripe for the taking.”
Tom grunted, annoyed he’d let the conversation go on this long. “Thank you for your offer. Halworth is not for sale. I couldn’t care less if you shout our situation from every rooftop in Mayfair.” He was bluffing—anything Dain spouted about their finances would hurt Tom’s chances of finding support for the hotel. Still, he stood and gave Dain a condescending smirk worthy of his father. “Take your wagging tongue to the devil.”
He looked to Charles, but his brother made no move to follow. “Are you coming?”
“When I’ve finished my drink. I shall see you later.
”
Tom glared at Charles in disbelief, but his brother did not rise. He didn’t even blink.
Tom’s hand clenched into a fist. Dain had nearly pushed him beyond his stores of self-control, and now Charles—
For a full quarter minute, he forgot to breathe. He was sick. Sick in the mind and on the verge of causing a scene. Without sparing either man another glance, he pivoted and stalked out of the club. It took every ounce of control he had to tamp his rage back down as he stepped out onto the street and turned toward home.
He dragged in an unsteady breath. He could control his anger—stop the fury from exploding to the surface. Yet the one thing he could not stop was the relentless thrumming of his pulse in his ears and the nauseating feeling that he was merely deluding himself.
Chapter the Twelfth
She has great discernment.
—Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
Frustration was not an emotion Susie often indulged. As she saw it, there’d been many disappointments in her sixteen years—most notably the early death of her mother—and if she were to dwell on them all, she’d be a very unhappy person.
And yet, even as Susie reminded herself of her luck—a half brother who loved her and had saved her from a life on the streets—she couldn’t suppress the frustration that’d been bubbling inside her ever since Tom had refused to let her help with their financial problems. After selling Horatio yesterday, Tom had been moping about the house, looking at turns either angry or forlorn.
If only he would allow her to find some employment!
When she’d kept house at Tom’s uncle’s hotel, she’d always had something to do. She’d grown so accustomed to working that she still hadn’t gotten used to living the idle life of a proper English girl.
It didn’t help that there was little to do in the Halworth town house other than read, and Tom wouldn’t let her leave the house unaccompanied. He claimed he feared for her reputation if someone recognized her out on her own. Since no one on the fashionable side of London even knew she existed, his argument made little sense, but she attributed it to his overprotective nature.
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