She shook her head and smiled as she left her bedchamber and walked toward the staircase. If anyone had come to her a year and a half ago as she was folding bed linens and told her she’d soon be living in a grand London town house, reading at all hours of the day, she would’ve thought them mad. Were it not for Tom’s insistence that she learn to read, write, and make basic calculations, and her reluctant acquiescence to sit through his daily lessons, Susie would never have been able to sign her name, let alone finish the massive A Comprehensive History of the Norman Conquest currently tucked under her arm.
She grinned as she started down the stairs. Soon she’d know more about English and French history than Tom and Charles combined. If, with the aid of other books in the library, she expanded her body of knowledge further, perhaps Tom would allow her to become a governess. As their financial situation grew steadily worse, she didn’t think it would be long before Tom accepted her help.
Her spirits buoyed by that thought, Susie opened the library door with a spring in her step. As she entered the room, a large book slammed shut. She turned in the direction of the noise; Charles stood at the desk, his stance rigid. At the sight of her, his posture relaxed.
“Ah, Susan. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Susie looked down at the closed book. Judging by its shape and size, it was one of the estate ledgers. Her gaze flicked up at Charles. His wavy, light brown hair fell over his forehead in a dashing style that complemented his square brow and aristocratic features. Within days of their first meeting, Susie had assessed him as the type of young man who liked to project a roguish air to perpetuate a rakish reputation. Whether he deserved his reputation or not, Susie had not yet determined.
When he and Susie were alone, he was always polite, but she knew he wasn’t at ease with her. She did not blame him, however. She must be a constant reminder of his father’s adultery. But, at this precise moment, Charles’s green eyes peered at her innocently.
She took the book from the crook of her arm. “I was just going to look for a new book.”
Charles walked over to her and held out his hand.
She gave him the volume.
“A Comprehensive History of the Norman Conquest. Good God, you must be bored to take this thing on,” he laughed.
She shrugged and smiled a little. “It was a bit dry. What about you? Why aren’t you at the club?” she asked, taking the book from him.
“I grew tired of it,” he said, turning to examine the shelves. “One meets such bothersome characters at White’s these days.”
Susie frowned, unsure of his flippant tone. Charles wasn’t often home at this hour. Had he truly tired of the club? And why had he been looking through the ledgers? Of course, he had every right to do so, but ever since she and Tom had come to England, Charles hadn’t shown the slightest interest in any estate business.
She wondered where Tom was now. She remembered him mentioning something about trying to find hotel backers, but she couldn’t remember if it was supposed to be today. He was usually here in the early afternoon, poring over ledgers and drawing up his hotel plans until it came time to dress for supper. This recent development would certainly intrigue him.
Susie walked behind the desk and opened the ledger to the middle. “What were you looking for?” she asked, her tone neutral.
Charles turned. “What do you mean?” he asked, looking down at the hand she held on the page.
“When I came in,” she elaborated, “you closed the ledger. Weren’t you reading it?”
For a moment, Charles said nothing. Then, he shook his head. “Not at all. It was lying open on the desk, so I closed it. Father didn’t like having important matters lying about for all the servants to see.”
Susie nodded and made an understanding noise. She didn’t know why Charles would be reading the ledgers, but she also didn’t know what reason he would have to lie about reading them. Perhaps, as he’d said, he’d simply closed the book. Susie looked at it again and shut it herself. She smiled at Charles.
“Where’s Tom?”
Charles shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest.” He took a book off one of the shelves and opened the front cover. “As the saying goes, I am not my brother’s keeper.” Closing the book, he turned and smiled enigmatically. “Nor, perhaps, should you be, Susan. You may be disappointed in the end.” Book in hand, Charles headed for the door.
Susie watched him go, wondering if he’d meant she’d be disappointed in him or in Tom. Whatever he’d meant, she had no other living family besides the two of them. She took a deep breath and straightened to her full height. Charles may not know her very well yet, but of one thing she was certain: she wasn’t about to let his surly behavior keep her from looking out for her brothers as much as she could.
Vicky’s eyes flew open, a strangled sound emanating from her throat. She rolled over to the other side of the bed. Images from her nightmare replayed in her mind. She slowed her breathing to calm herself. The dream had been a grotesque revision of that day she’d gone to Halworth Hall to find Tom all those years ago. The day she’d walked in on Tom’s father knocking him to the ground with his meaty fist. A maid had been crying in the corner of the drawing room, her face still blotchy with tears. But Tom’s father had greeted Vicky cordially—he’d said only, “Boys will be boys,” and strode from the room with a smile. Vicky hadn’t known what to think.
The maid had scurried off, and when Tom had pulled himself off the parquet floor, he wouldn’t answer any of her questions. They’d never had another conversation. She’d visited Halworth Hall every day until Tom had disappeared, but the butler had always turned her away. Then when her mother told her Tom wouldn’t be returning, she’d sent letters to him through his mother, but he’d never replied. In truth, she didn’t know how many he’d received.
Perhaps it was natural to dream of that day after seeing Tom so often in the last few weeks. She had slept fitfully the previous night, so she’d retired to her room to relax before it came time to dress for the Chadwick musicale. So much for a peaceful nap. She would have done better to stay awake.
She squinted at the clock on the mantel. Her snooze had extended far longer than she’d intended. She rubbed her knee to gauge its healing progress. Thankfully, it felt much better, so she went to ring the bell for Sarah. Settling in at her dressing table, she brushed her hair and wondered why Sarah hadn’t awoken her earlier.
Vicky dabbed lilac-scented water on the insides of her wrists. Perhaps Sarah was helping Althea dress. At breakfast, their father had told them that Mr. Barnes had managed to secure a proctor to begin the suit for Althea’s separation in the ecclesiastical court. They could begin proceedings very soon.
In the wake of that happy news, their mother had insisted Althea attend the musicale tonight. If Althea continued to absent herself from social events, she would soon incite curiosity. Their father agreed, and Althea had admitted Dain hated musicales and was unlikely to make an appearance.
Vicky knew her parents were being practical, but she secretly believed Althea unprepared to mingle at a social gathering. Althea had completely ignored Vicky’s attempts to draw her out at breakfast, and Vicky had given up for the day.
Whether Althea wished for her help or not, Vicky would be her shadow tonight. She narrowed her eyes into the mirror. Woe betide anyone who pained Althea while Vicky stood by her side.
Chapter the Thirteenth
Even now her self-command is invariable.
—Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility
Vicky stood close to Althea’s arm as they entered Lord and Lady Chadwick’s music room. Numerous sconces holding beeswax candles lined the walls and bathed the room in a yellow glow. Her sister had shown surprising composure in the carriage and as they’d entered the house, but as they walked farther into the room, Althea’s hands started to shake. In Sense and Sensibility, when Marianne first saw Mr. Willoughby in London after weeks of separation, she’d made a spectacle of herself and Elinor had
to take her home.
Vicky knew her sister had always been far more circumspect than Marianne Dashwood, but Althea hadn’t spent one minute in public since she’d escaped Dain. Vicky didn’t know how she’d behave if her fear got the better of her. Their parents seemed ignorant of Althea’s discomfort and allowed some old friends to whisk them away. Vicky hooked her arm into her sister’s to support her.
“Let’s find some seats,” Vicky said.
Her sister made no protest, and they started toward the rows of gilded chairs facing the front of the room. Vicky stopped short as she spotted Mr. Silby in the corner, conversing with a gentleman she didn’t know. His evening clothes were again fashionably understated; tonight’s dark blue coat was a far cry from that nearly violet day coat he’d worn to the park.
“What is it?” Althea asked.
“Mr. Silby,” Vicky murmured. “Let’s keep moving,” she whispered, but by then he had caught her eye.
Mr. Silby excused himself from his companion and moved toward them.
“Too late,” Althea said.
Vicky pressed her lips together. Of all the unhappy outings she’d endured thus far, Mr. Silby’s had been the worst. Pain stitched through her right knee, reminding her to never again allow a gentleman to dissuade her from riding her own mount or walking on her own feet.
Mr. Silby looked on the brink of nodding at her, but then something or someone else caught his attention. He changed course, heading for the hall beyond the music room. Vicky let out a breath and hastened to an empty row of seats.
“How odd of him not to greet us,” Althea said as Vicky pointed at the pair of chairs near the aisle.
Having spent an afternoon observing some of the workings of Mr. Silby’s erratic mind, Vicky wasn’t much surprised by his behavior. “Perhaps he sensed my displeasure the other day.” Of course, that might be giving his powers of observation too much credit.
“All the more reason for him to inquire after your health or offer his apologies.”
“I don’t disagree,” Vicky replied, casting her gaze toward the instruments at the front of the room.
The Chadwicks thought their four daughters highly accomplished, so every year they staged a musicale. Vicky thought the older girls only moderately talented, but the youngest daughter, Emily, was one of the best amateur players of the glass armonica Vicky had ever heard. The instrument looked much like a square pianoforte on the outside, but where the keys would have been were a series of glass bowls of descending sizes attached through the middle with cork and an iron rod. As the player touched the bowls with dampened fingers, and moved them with a foot pedal, music lighter than air transported the listener to an enchanted glade.
Assuming the musician knew what they were doing. No one, after seeing Emily Chadwick perform, would dare debate that fact. Sadly, Vicky had heard that Emily’s health had been deteriorating.
Vicky shifted in her seat, thankful she was relatively fit, save for her aches. She hated to admit it, but most of her body was sore from Thursday’s curricle vault. Bruises had formed around both knees and one elbow, which she’d been obliged to cover with a shawl. Still, Vicky hadn’t even considered allowing such trifling injuries to keep her in bed when Althea had to attend. And, as her mother had told her, Mr. Carmichael would also be present, which would perhaps give her another chance to speak with him and ask him to explain his behavior toward Tom.
Vicky felt a light tap on her left shoulder. She turned. Mr. Carmichael smiled down at her. Speak of the devil.
“Are you surprised to see me?” Carmichael asked with an amused expression. The coffee-brown flecks she’d noticed in his eyes the day they’d gone to Gunter’s, though nearly invisible by candlelight, drew her in nonetheless.
“Not at all. In fact, I was just thinking about you.”
Carmichael grinned and inclined his head toward her. “Indeed? Nothing unflattering, I hope.”
Vicky shrugged, offering a small smile. If only he wasn’t so likable. Then she’d have no compunction questioning him about his conduct.
Carmichael turned to Althea. “I’m glad to see you accompanying your sister, Lady Dain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carmichael,” Althea replied.
“May I join you?” Carmichael asked.
Vicky motioned for Althea to move down a seat. They both stood and moved down, leaving Mr. Carmichael the aisle. He lowered himself into the chair.
“How did you enjoy your outing with Silby?”
Vicky nearly snorted at the question. “It was memorable, I assure you.”
He raised his eyebrows. “In what respect?”
Vicky related what had transpired in the park the other day. Carmichael’s expression transformed from amusement to incredulity and finally, to anger.
“What the devil did Silby think he was doing?” He stopped and murmured an apology for his coarse language.
Vicky waved off his apology. “I am sure it was an accident.”
“He should’ve let you alight from the vehicle before fiddling with anything.” Mr. Carmichael twisted in his chair as though scanning the room for Silby.
Vicky exhaled. “What’s done is done, I suppose.”
“Were you hurt?” he asked, turning back to look her up and down.
She cleared her throat, unsure how much she should reveal. After all, she didn’t want to be responsible for Mr. Carmichael doing Silby an injury. She glanced at Althea, who merely raised her eyebrows. Vicky had no idea what that meant, so she said, “Only a little.”
He frowned. “How little?”
“I am well enough to be attending a musicale, Mr. Carmichael, so let us leave it at that.”
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” he said, inclining his head.
“Where are you going?” Vicky asked, though she thought she knew.
“You will forgive me, but such idiocy is not to be borne.” He started to stand.
Vicky’s eyes widened. “Mr. Carmichael, I shall not forgive you if you take one step in that direction.” He stared down at her. She stared back to show him she was in earnest.
“Mr. Carmichael,” Althea said calmly, “this is hardly the time or place.”
He muttered something under his breath and settled in his chair, but his brow remained furrowed. “Did you return in that clod’s vehicle? Or was it too damaged?”
Vicky let out a breath. “The pole had cracked, and I feared for the horses. But Lord Halworth happened to be in the park, and he was kind enough to escort me home.”
Mr. Carmichael sat silent for a moment. “Lord Halworth?”
Vicky nodded.
“I did not believe you were at all desirous of his company after the duchess’s ball.”
Vicky pursed her lips, knowing she had given him that impression. “At that moment, I would have preferred anyone’s company to Mr. Silby’s,” she replied in a lowered voice. “I was fortunate Lord Halworth was there.”
Mr. Carmichael said nothing. A muscle flexed in his jaw. Vicky had told her father Tom’s concerns about Carmichael, but he’d shrugged them off, assuring her that Mr. Carmichael’s boxing prowess was well-known. Her father had even hinted that he might have told Tom to leave her be if he’d attended the ball with them. He didn’t believe Mr. Carmichael would spread rumors about Tom, and in short, saw no misconduct in Carmichael’s behavior.
Vicky wasn’t wholly convinced. His vehement reaction to her glossy version of Mr. Silby’s behavior at the park didn’t instill her with confidence either. Like Colonel Brandon looking for his missing ward, she needed to probe to reach the truth. She looked behind them to see if anyone listened to their conversation, but the guests around them spoke to each other animatedly. She looked to Mr. Carmichael.
“Do you . . . that is, did you . . .” She paused, wishing this didn’t feel so awkward. “Do you dislike Lord Halworth?”
She felt Althea’s gaze penetrate the side of her head.
Mr. Carmichael turned toward her. “Why should I? I
barely know the man.”
Vicky shook her head, trying to make sense of his expression. He’d arranged his features to look perfectly innocent, but something belied his words.
“I heard you and Mr. Silby were quite rude to him at the ball and at a particular boxing match.”
Carmichael tilted his head, considering her. Finally he spoke. “I was rude at the ball because I could see how pained he made you. I’ve known your family a good while, so I take exception to anyone who would take advantage of your good nature.”
Vicky bit her lip. “I see.” So he had noticed her discomfort that night.
“And as for the boxing match . . .” He paused and gave her what appeared to be a rueful grin. “What can I say except”—he stopped and then shrugged—“men will be men.”
He wasn’t excusing his behavior. Yet something worrisome nagged at the back of her mind. Then it hit her. Tom’s father had used that phrase when he’d struck Tom all those years ago. Boys will be boys.
She frowned. “Do men publicly besmirch another man’s reputation by mentioning a lady’s name? A lady who told you she had no quarrel with that particular gentleman?”
A single crease appeared between Mr. Carmichael’s brows. “Perhaps if that particular gentleman deserved it.”
Vicky sighed and tilted her head away from him.
Carmichael exhaled. “You are quite right. It was beneath me. I have little patience for those who foist themselves on others, but . . .” He swallowed. “I should not have involved you. I do hope you can forgive me.”
Vicky peeked up at his face. His dark eyes had clouded with regret. Another crease marred his brow. She glanced at Althea, whose look echoed her own thought that his distress seemed genuine.
“I shall, if you promise not to speak another word about this to anyone else,” Vicky said, raising her chin.
He nodded slowly. “Of course.”
Vicky offered him a smile. “Then you are forgiven.”
Carmichael’s lips canted up at one corner. “Thank you.”
Althea leaned across Vicky and asked Mr. Carmichael if he’d ever seen Emily Chadwick play the glass armonica.
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