Dangerous Alliance

by Jennieke Cohen

  “Let you what?” Vicky asked.

  “When I tried to tell you of my circumstances, you chose to ignore me.”

  Vicky shook her head. “When did you tell me? We’ve barely spoken of—”

  “Those last months I was in London. When I was all but a prisoner in my own house.” Althea’s dull brown eyes met hers. “You never once replied to my pleas for help. I worded everything vaguely in my letters, but I believed you, of all people, would understand me. Had Tom ever written you, you would have boarded the next boat crossing the Channel to aid him.”

  Vicky inhaled, ignoring her comment about Tom. “I never received any letters from you.”

  Althea spoke over her. “Every week, I waited for your assurances that Papa would come to help or that you would at least try to visit, at which time I could tell you what was happening in person, but you were too busy or too dense to understand.”

  Vicky swallowed twice. “I sent letters to you weekly. Your replies never reached Oakbridge, and I thought I had done something to offend you. At the very least, I thought you too busy to write.”

  Althea folded her arms across her chest. “Every week I received letters from Mama and Papa, but never once from you.”

  “Did it not occur to you that Dain might be intercepting them?”

  Althea’s lips parted. “It makes no sense. Why would he allow me our parents’ letters, but not yours?”

  “I cannot guess his motives, but I know I sent you many, many letters. Can you sincerely believe me capable of leaving you to suffer if I knew what he was doing to you?”

  Althea looked away, clutching the edges of her shawl as if to keep her balance.

  Vicky exhaled. “Hate me if you must, but if you care to know the truth, Poole will verify my statements.” Their butler at Oakbridge always supervised incoming and outgoing post so nothing was ever mislaid.

  “Very well, I shall.”

  “In the meantime, I must attend to Papa.” Vicky sighed and dropped her chin. “I’m sorry I told Tom without your permission. It’s been a trying few days for us all. Thank you for assisting me last night.”

  Althea wouldn’t catch her eye. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “If you hadn’t distracted him, I wouldn’t have thought to kick him.”

  “I nearly fainted. You saved Papa’s life.” Her voice held a petulant note.

  Was she jealous? Vicky frowned. “I couldn’t have done it without your aid.”

  “I rather doubt that. Excuse me.” Althea brushed past her and disappeared down the hall.

  Vicky let out a sigh. She wished she could comfort her sister, but she didn’t know what else to say. Her gut twisted with remorse. No wonder Althea couldn’t confide in her. She thought Vicky had betrayed her. Maybe when Althea heard the truth from Poole, she wouldn’t think so badly of her.

  As Vicky started again toward her father’s chamber, Althea’s comment about how Vicky would have done anything to see Tom came back to her. Well, her sister wasn’t wrong. To see Tom, Vicky would have braved the dangers of war. But to spare Althea from what Dain had done, she would have swum the Channel wearing little more than a smile.

  A while later, Vicky was wishing she’d picked a different novel—or at least left this one for her father to read on his own.

  “‘For one moment, perhaps for the last moment so long as we both shall live, I will believe her innocent!’ I stole a balmy kiss from the ripest lips that nature ever formed. She stretched out her arms toward me. I kissed her again. I felt one flash of the joys of heaven, on the verge of the abyss. I drank in madness as I stood.”

  Vicky cleared her throat. She’d forgotten the way Fleetwood spoke of his wife and his former mistresses on the Continent. Every time she had to read such an intimate passage, she glanced at her father out of the corner of her eye. He was lying on his back, keeping his gaze trained firmly at the ceiling. He didn’t stop her.

  She kept reading to hide her embarrassment. Fleetwood had allowed his friend to persuade him that his wife had been unfaithful.

  “‘Perhaps, indeed, you were never told how frequently they met.’

  “Thus did this damnable calumniator lead me on, with half words, with broken sentences, and ‘ambiguous givings-out,’ to the most horrible conclusions.”

  Someone scratched at the door and Vicky swallowed, thankful for the interruption.

  “Come in,” Vicky’s father said.

  Sheldon bowed his balding, white head. “Mr. Carmichael is downstairs, my lord.”

  Vicky’s eyebrows lifted. “Did you send for him?” she asked her father.

  “No, although I’m glad he’s here.”

  Vicky wondered if he was as glad as she to have an excuse not to continue the book together.

  “I have something to ask him. Go down and explain what happened so he isn’t too surprised when he sees me.”

  Vicky smiled. “Of course, Papa.” She rose from her chair. But as she left the chamber and walked down the corridor, she wondered at Carmichael’s unannounced appearance. Was he here to explain why he’d not returned to the musicale after disappearing with Dain? Whatever his business, she’d have to be cautious with him.

  Vicky descended the stairs. Mr. Carmichael stood in the entry, garbed in an immaculate black coat and trousers. His torso faced away from her, but his foot tapped against the floor in an agitated pattern.

  She cleared her throat.

  He started and turned toward her. “Lady Victoria, thank God you are well.” As she reached the bottom stair, he took hold of both her arms and looked her up and down, concern stamped across his features. When his gaze narrowed in on her scraped arms, his jaw tightened.

  Startled, by both his display of emotion and that he seemed to know about last night’s attack, Vicky stepped back.

  “Did my mother send for you, Mr. Carmichael?”

  Carmichael blinked. He lowered his hands from her arms. “No. I heard what happened, and I came straight away.”

  How could he possibly have heard? Could Tom be right—was Mr. Carmichael behind the attack? And was she imagining it, or did he look slightly guilty?

  No. Vicky brushed away such ridiculous thoughts. There had to be a perfectly logical explanation why he knew.

  “How did you find out?” she asked.

  “An acquaintance of mine who works at The Weekly Tattler knows of my partnership with your father. He told me this afternoon.”

  It certainly was a logical explanation.

  “I had to . . . persuade him not to print the incident.”

  “That was good of you.” If Mr. Carmichael hadn’t, it would have been the talk of the town. She wondered how much he’d had to pay to keep his acquaintance silent.

  “How are your parents and sister?” Carmichael asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  “My father was the only one hurt. He has two broken ribs and is badly bruised, but a physician has seen to him. He is resting now.”

  Mr. Carmichael let out a breath. “May I see him?”

  Vicky hesitated a moment. She didn’t want to give Tom’s theory credence, but she also couldn’t ignore the possibility that Mr. Carmichael might somehow be involved with Dain. She still hadn’t asked her father what would happen to his share of the revenue from his agreement with Mr. Carmichael in the event of his death—she’d wanted to wait until he was slightly more recovered. Whether Mr. Carmichael had planned the attack or not, perhaps it would be unwise to let him alone with her father. Unfortunately, her father had asked to see him.

  She briefly entertained the idea of asking Mr. Carmichael to leave and creating an excuse to tell her father, but it would involve deceiving them both, something Vicky couldn’t bring herself to do. And Tom’s theory was still just that—a theory.

  “I’m sure Papa would welcome a friendly face.” She looked at him pointedly, trying to gauge his reaction, but he merely nodded. Vicky led him up the stairs and knocked quietly on her father’s door. She entered with Mr. Carm
ichael in her wake.

  Her father had propped himself up with pillows and now sat up in bed.

  “Lord Oakbridge. How are you feeling?” Mr. Carmichael asked.

  Vicky studied his face. Carmichael’s brows were knit, and although his voice betrayed nothing, he seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Lady Victoria told me of your condition,” Carmichael continued.

  “I am as well as may be expected. Please sit. I would welcome the chance to turn my mind from the events of last evening.” Her father’s voice sounded strained. He must be in pain.

  Worried, Vicky interjected. “Papa, you shouldn’t speak too much. It cannot be conducive to healing.”

  “Victoria, you cannot begrudge me a little conversation with Mr. Carmichael. We shall not be long.”

  It was a dismissal. Vicky wanted to protest further, but when her father decided something, there was no changing his mind.

  “As you wish, Papa,” she said doubtfully. She turned and walked to the door.

  Carmichael bowed as she left.

  Vicky grabbed the handle and looked back at her father. He motioned for Carmichael to sit in the chair she’d abandoned next to the bed. She closed the door behind her, wishing she could stay. What could her father want to ask Carmichael that was so private?

  Of course, it might be possible to hear what they were saying if she bent close enough to the keyhole. Listening at keyholes was, perhaps, less than ladylike, but desperate times called for . . .

  She crouched and put her ear to the opening. The door was rather thick, but she could still hear parts of the conversation.

  “It was good of you to come,” her father said.

  “How could I do less?” Carmichael responded.

  Vicky raised her eyebrows. Had her father asked him to visit after all? Why would he deceive her about such a trivial matter? And when would he have asked Mr. Carmichael? She hadn’t even seen them speak at the musicale. Lost in thought as she was, Vicky missed the next few things said. Annoyed with herself, she concentrated on their words.

  “I’m glad you remembered,” her father said. “I am concerned about our solicitor Mr. Barnes.”

  “Has something happened to him?” Carmichael asked.

  Vicky frowned, thinking it suspicious that that had been Carmichael’s first assumption.

  “He hasn’t responded to any of my summonses. I wanted to keep this matter within the family, but circumstances have made that impossible. I wouldn’t ask this of you, but of course, Mr. Barnes is your solicitor as well.”

  Carmichael didn’t respond, but Vicky thought she heard him shift in his chair, perhaps leaning in. She pressed her ear closer to the keyhole.

  “As you know, we are suing Lord Dain for a legal separation from Lady Althea in the ecclesiastical court.”

  Vicky gasped and forced her ear even closer. Tom was right—Mr. Carmichael had known about Dain. So why had Carmichael questioned her when she’d asked him to keep Dain away from them last night?

  Her father continued, “But such things take time, so in the interim, Barnes was applying for a writ from the Court of Chancery that would keep Dain from having power over her.”

  “I shall speak with Mr. Barnes myself to see what’s happening,” Carmichael responded.

  “Thank you,” her father said. “I was hoping you would, but I also recall you mentioning having a friend in the Court of Chancery. Was he a clerk?”

  Carmichael didn’t respond immediately. “He is indeed. Shall I ask him if the papers have been reviewed?”

  “I should greatly appreciate it,” Vicky’s father said.

  Vicky frowned. Carmichael had hesitated to offer his services to her father. Why? Her frown disappeared when she heard footsteps coming toward the door. As quietly as she could, Vicky tiptoed down the hall and ducked into the nearest room—an empty guest chamber. She closed the door, but kept it slightly ajar.

  The door to her father’s room creaked as Mr. Carmichael opened it, wished her father good health, and walked down the hall toward the stairs. Vicky cracked the door a touch wider and peeked at Mr. Carmichael’s retreating form. As much as she hated to lend credence to Tom’s ideas, she had to admit Carmichael’s actions last night and his responses to her father’s questions did appear rather suspicious. Coupled with the strange conversation Tom had witnessed, it seemed possible Mr. Carmichael was tangled in some strange dealings with the man Vicky loathed most in the world!

  Vicky stared at Mr. Carmichael’s broad, dark form as he descended the staircase. He wasn’t a Mr. Darcy, or a Mr. Knightley, or even a Colonel Brandon, really. But he—

  Just before disappearing from view, he turned around. Vicky ducked back inside the room, unsure if he’d seen her. She listened for anything that might betray what he was doing.

  Finally, the thud of his footsteps grew farther away.

  Vicky inhaled, trying to calm herself. What a goose she was. It shouldn’t have mattered if Mr. Carmichael saw her standing in the doorway. After all, eavesdropping was no crime. Someone like Elizabeth Bennet might even have waved and said hello.

  But as Vicky recalled the speed with which he’d turned around, almost as though he expected to do battle with whoever watched him, she was happy she’d hid. Lizzy Bennet, heroine though she was, had never had to contend with the events of the last few weeks.

  Tom’s words played in Vicky’s mind: Just because sensational events happen in novels, that doesn’t mean they cannot happen. Though it pained her, he’d been right. Her life was looking less and less like one of Miss Austen’s novels and more and more like an utter mess.

  Chapter the Seventeenth

  She would keep the peace if possible.

  —Jane Austen, Emma

  Susie’s eyes widened as Charles strode into the kitchen. It was still some time before the evening meal. She sat near the hearth, trying to focus on reading. In a desperate bid to distract herself from worrying about what Charles had been up to this morning, she’d been trying to finish Pride and Prejudice, the first novel she’d allowed herself in months.

  A few minutes after Charles had disappeared inside that town house, she’d hurried home, only to find another pair of bailiffs demanding payment. When she’d inspected the bill, she’d seen it was for various game birds and two large hams from Fortnum & Mason. It was dated within the last week.

  Charles.

  There could be no doubt. Still, she wondered when he’d eaten them—she’d definitely seen no evidence of them at their meals.

  And now, Charles stood rummaging through the larder, shaking off Cook’s questions about whether she could make him something. Susie thought of Tom and all the sacrifices he had made for his mother and brother. He’d uprooted himself from Solothurn and the contentedness he had found with his uncle’s family; he’d returned to a home that had caused him nothing but pain and sold his cherished horse to cover Charles’s debts.

  And was Charles even grateful? He’d done as little as possible to help Tom find backers for his hotel—the one hope they all had to survive and keep the estate intact.

  Susie stared at Charles as he sliced a block of cheese and arranged the pieces on a wedge of bread. He truly did not understand what Tom was trying to do for them all. Perhaps he didn’t even care. The thought made her pulse quicken and her fingers tingle.

  She had to confront him. Tom didn’t deserve such shabby treatment—especially not from his own brother.

  “Charles?”

  His head swiveled over his shoulder.

  “Susan, I didn’t see you there.” He crunched into his bread and turned to face her.

  Susie doubted that. He knew this was one of only two rooms she could frequent in the afternoon because of the house’s lack of heating.

  “I knew you couldn’t maintain your schedule of dry history for much longer,” he said with a snort and a gesture toward her book.

  Susie ignored his comment. “How was your outing?” she asked.

  “Tolera
ble,” he said, turning back to rummage through the larder.

  “Did you go to your club?”

  He grunted in the affirmative. “You know, it’s warmer than this old pile of stones.”

  Susie pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t know, actually.”

  When Charles said nothing, Susie got to her feet and said, “Charles, would you accompany me upstairs?”

  His head turned, and seeing her determined stare, he furrowed his brow. He looked at Cook and the scullery maid, seeming to understand that Susie had something to say to him privately. He grabbed another chunk of bread and motioned for her to precede him as they exited the kitchen.

  Susie took him up the servants’ stairs until they had reached an empty hall. Tom only employed two footmen in the town house, and she knew neither of them were likely to be skulking around this semidark hallway at this time of day. Still, she peered in both directions before looking Charles straight in the eye.

  “Charles, more bailiffs were here today. They had a bill signed by you from Fortnum & Mason.”

  If Charles knew what she meant to ask, he showed no sign of it.

  “Well, what of it?”

  “The bill showed you had bought various meat and game products, including two hams.”

  Charles said nothing.

  “Charles,” she asked gently, “what did you do with the food?”

  “It was delivered here, of course.”

  Susie sighed. “We haven’t eaten ham since before we left Halworth Hall. And I’ve reviewed Cook’s ledger of food received. Fortnum & Mason hasn’t delivered anything to the town house since we took residence. What happened to it? I’m sure if you tell Tom he will understand—telling him must be better than having him furious when he sees the bill and isn’t given a reason.”

  Charles shrugged one shoulder. “Why should it matter to you?”

  “I worry about you. We are family.”

  He crunched another bite of bread. “Would it trouble you so much if your personal welfare didn’t depend on Tom?”

  Susie ignored the barb. “Perhaps you gave the food to whoever lives in that house you visited today.”