“Hmm . . . I see.”
Vicky turned, unable to help herself. “What do you see, Mama?”
“You mistrust him,” her mother said.
“What? Well, yes. That is, no, I—” She snapped her mouth shut. She didn’t know how many of Tom’s suspicions she should tell her mother. She’d told Althea, but her sister hadn’t mentioned it since. Vicky caught Althea’s eye. Her sister dipped her chin but said nothing. It seemed she didn’t intend to repeat Tom’s doubts. Which was just as well. Vicky wanted to question Mr. Carmichael herself. Tom’s concerns could still prove unfounded, and she didn’t want her parents to think badly of him if that were the case.
“But do you like Mr. Carmichael?” Althea asked.
Vicky inhaled. “I . . . well, I . . .”
“That is the material point,” her mother confirmed.
Vicky closed her lips. Did she like Mr. Carmichael? An image of his dark eyes gazing deep into hers as though he could read her thoughts—and liked what he read—brought a tiny smile to her lips. She had liked him. Until Tom had planted doubts in her mind. Yet she had no evidence to condemn Mr. Carmichael. And she had enjoyed his company.
Of course she liked him. What remained to be seen, however, was whether she could trust him.
“Lady Oakbridge, Lady Victoria, what a pleasure.” Mr. Carmichael’s mother greeted them with a smile as she rose from her seat and dipped into a polite curtsy. At the edge of the box, Mr. Carmichael turned and bowed. Their box was well appointed with red velvet chairs and curtains. Gold-plated candle sconces adorned the plush walls. As it was just off the center of the theater, the box afforded a perfect view of the stage.
Vicky smiled and curtsied.
Mrs. Carmichael kissed Vicky’s mother, and then Vicky, on both cheeks. Mr. Carmichael’s mother should have been an imposing figure with her glossy black hair, still untouched by gray, and her height allowing her to tower over both Vicky and her mother, but her demeanor was so warm and inviting that Vicky couldn’t help but like her. “I know that Lady Dain is residing with you. I am sorry she and the Lord Oakbridge couldn’t accompany you, but”—Mrs. Carmichael lowered her voice—“Simon apprised me of the accident. Is the earl recovering well?”
Vicky’s mother nodded. “Very well. He’ll be as good as new in a week, I’d wager.”
“Days, with his strong constitution,” Mr. Carmichael interjected. He stepped forward. “Lady Oakbridge, thank you for joining us.” Then he stepped to Vicky and smiled.
Vicky smiled back, despite her reservations. He looked into her eyes in that same way he always did. Yet, this time her stomach fluttered and she didn’t know what to think. She cast her gaze to the floor. Their mothers moved to the front of the box as Mrs. Carmichael pointed out a shared acquaintance in a box across the theater.
Vicky licked her lips. “Do you know the play, Mr. Carmichael?”
His mouth tilted up at one corner. “I cannot say I know much about it, other than that it’s a sort of romance.”
She raised her eyebrows. “The Conquest of Taranto? What could be romantic about a conquest?”
He laughed, and she recognized what she’d said.
She exhaled. “Unless, of course, Taranto were a person,” she said, shaking her head at herself.
He cleared his throat. “But then the play would hardly be suitable for ladies,” he said, gazing into her eyes.
She felt color rise in her cheeks. “You’re quite right, of course.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Although, I’m sure it would be perfect for the sort of men who frequent boxing clubs.”
A slow grin spread across his face.
Her stomach flipped again. What was wrong with her? Surely she’d insulted him, but he didn’t seem to mind one bit. And she, it seemed, was growing more susceptible to his charms.
She ventured a glance at their mothers, but they still talked near the edge of the box. Vicky turned and saw their two guards standing awkwardly at the door. Then she realized the box contained only four seats. The poor men couldn’t stand for hours.
She leaned closer to Mr. Carmichael. “Would you be so good as to speak to someone about securing more seats for our . . . companions?”
He seemed to notice the guards for the first time, even though he must have known they were coming. Her mother had written as much in her reply to the invitation.
“Ah, an oversight, I assure you,” he said, and left the box to procure the chairs.
Vicky smiled at the guards and wandered over to her mother and Mrs. Carmichael.
“Oh, Victoria,” her mother said as she came near. “I was just telling Mrs. Carmichael how thoughtful Mr. Carmichael was in visiting your father so soon after the accident.”
Vicky groaned inwardly, remembering how strange his visit had seemed.
“No, no, Lady Oakbridge, it was the least he could do. Indeed, he should have done more.”
“But what more could he have done?” Vicky’s mother asked.
Mrs. Carmichael flourished her fan in the air. “A number of things! Ferret out the villains, perhaps?”
“Surely that would be a job more suited to a Bow Street Runner than Mr. Carmichael,” Vicky’s mother protested. “Indeed, one is currently on the case.”
Actually, the runner had not yet found anything to report. But when Vicky opened her mouth to say so, her mother looked at her, urging her with her eyes to let the matter lie.
“Indeed, Mrs. Carmichael,” Vicky said instead, “would you not prefer to keep your son safe at home? If only so he might be available to accompany you to the shops? To be sure, that must be preferable to worrying what trouble he’s getting into elsewhere?” she said with a smile.
“Oh, bless you, my dear. Simon hasn’t the patience to accompany me to the shops.”
Vicky gaped at her for a moment. “But, the day we went to Gunter’s, he said he was going with you.”
Mrs. Carmichael laughed. “To the shops? Dear me, no. The poor boy would be less than useless.”
“Oh—oh, dear. Then I suppose I must have misunderstood.” She thought back. Only a few days later, Tom had told her about the boxing match. Was that why Mr. Carmichael had left her that day?
“Think nothing of it, my dear.” She inclined her head. “My son tells me you are fond of horses.”
Vicky nodded.
Mrs. Carmichael’s easy smile deepened. “Simon has such a lovely stable of Thoroughbreds at our house in East Anglia. And it’s so near Newmarket—very convenient for racing. Has he told you of it?”
“I don’t recall him mentioning it.”
Mrs. Carmichael shook her head fondly. “The poor boy has so much on his mind. But I shall see he tells you all about it.”
Vicky nodded and started to reply, but Mrs. Carmichael continued in her unaffected way. “Your mama tells me you enjoy learning estate management.”
“Oh . . . ” Vicky glanced at her mother uncertainly. She didn’t usually tell people outside the family about Vicky’s odd interests. But her mama beamed at her with encouragement. “Indeed, yes. I help at Oakbridge as much as I can. With all aspects of the estate.”
“How extraordinary. My mind could not grasp the minutiae of running such a large estate as Oakbridge.” She touched Vicky’s mother’s arm. “Countess, how fortunate you are to have an enterprising young woman for a daughter.”
Vicky’s mother nodded.
Mrs. Carmichael faced Vicky again. “Did you know Simon recently purchased a property in southern Hampshire?”
Vicky started at the news. “No, I—”
“Well, as I say, it was a recent acquisition. He’s having the most dreadful time trying to find a land steward in the area. Of course, he’s having to do it all by post, which can be a challenge—oh, there he is. He will tell you of it himself.”
Vicky turned. Mr. Carmichael had returned with two chairs. The guards thanked him but did not yet sit. He waved off their gratitude and joined the ladies.
“Simon,” his mother said, “
do tell our guests of the Hampshire property.”
“Yes,” Vicky’s mother said, casting a sly glance in Vicky’s direction, “I had no notion you were looking for anything in the neighborhood.”
Vicky eyed her, wondering if that were true. She was becoming acutely aware that the possible match between her and Simon Carmichael seemed to be the only matter preoccupying the thoughts of both their mothers. It was the same as when Fanny Price’s relations at Mansfield Park tried to convince her to marry Henry Crawford. Vicky furrowed her brow and looked at the carpet. She didn’t wish to think of Mr. Carmichael as someone as faithless as Henry Crawford, even if Tom already did.
“It is hardly in the neighborhood, Lady Oakbridge,” Mr. Carmichael said. “The house is a converted abbey on the edge of the New Forest. There is some surrounding parkland, however. I believe it is situated some twenty-five miles from Oakbridge.”
Only half a day’s journey by carriage if the roads were good. Vicky’s throat went dry. Had he bought the house to appeal to her? It must be ideally situated if it sat on the edge of the New Forest. Her parents had taken her and Althea there various times in their childhood, and Vicky had loved the little forest hamlets and the wild ponies roaming free in the woods and villages. She’d asked her father if they could take one home to graze at Oakbridge, but he’d told her only the king had the power to do such a thing. And now Mr. Carmichael owned a house there.
“Tell Lady Victoria your woes in finding a steward,” his mother urged.
Before he could begin, the orchestra finished tuning their instruments, signifying the play would soon begin. Mrs. Carmichael and Vicky’s mother took the pair of seats at the front of the box, leaving Vicky to sit behind her mother and beside the last empty chair while Mr. Carmichael closed the door to the box.
She took a deep breath. The entire evening had been one great maneuver to facilitate the match. Why couldn’t their parents let well enough alone? If he wanted to propose, he would do so. And she—well, she didn’t know what she wanted. She wondered if Mr. Carmichael’s mother had persuaded him to buy the Hampshire property or if it’d been his own doing. Tom’s contention that Mr. Carmichael already owning multiple estates wouldn’t keep him from acquiring more had proved correct. But surely he wouldn’t have bought an abbey in Hampshire if he thought he’d one day gain control of Oakbridge?
“I’m sorry.”
She turned to him. She’d been so preoccupied she hadn’t noticed him sit. “What for?”
He gave her a sideways glance. “About my mother insisting I bore you with the details of finding a steward.”
She frowned. “Why should that bore me?”
He raised a brow. “Simply because we are at the theater.”
She stared at him. “And what should that matter?”
He leaned closer. “Most young ladies have no interest in such affairs.”
She pursed her lips. “Indeed.” She should’ve known. He thought—as so many men did—a woman’s role was strictly ornamental.
“Have I offended you?”
She let out a breath. “If you’ll recall, I’m not completely out of my depth on the subject of estate management.”
Mr. Carmichael raised his brows, then winced. “Of course. It slipped my mind.”
“Just as it slipped your mind to tell your mother you cut our afternoon at Gunter’s short to take her to the shops.”
He exhaled. “I apologize. I had another engagement I could not miss.”
“Yes, I know. Your boxing match.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t care for being lied to.”
He caught her gaze. For a few moments, he said nothing. “No more do I.” He chuckled without humor and looked away. “Unfortunately, one cannot always voice everything one thinks.”
“Perhaps not, but one needn’t obfuscate the truth either.”
“Sometimes, needs must. For propriety’s sake, or safety’s sake, or even to gain an advantage over an opponent.”
Vicky frowned. “For safety I can understand, but I’m afraid we do not agree on the other matters.”
He eyed her. “You do not cease to surprise me.”
Realizing more from his gaze than his words that he was complimenting her, her lips parted.
“Thank you,” she said after a pause.
She angled her body to face him. When they were sitting, his face was not so uncomfortably above hers. “Why did you buy that abbey in Hampshire?”
His unguarded expression became enigmatic. “I did not own a house in Hampshire.”
“And owning estates everywhere else does not content you?” she said, fishing for an answer.
“Evidently not,” he said with an exasperating grin.
She sighed at his evasiveness and faced forward, turning her attention to the people taking their seats in the box opposite theirs. How could she ever get to know him if he wouldn’t answer direct questions with direct answers? How could a union between them ever work under such circumstances? He’d admitted he was often evasive. And then there was the fact that he’d apparently known about their situation with Dain at the musicale and had still questioned her when she’d asked him to make the scoundrel leave.
“Is something vexing you?”
Vicky started at the words whispered so close to her ear. He’d leaned closer. “Yes, I—” She considered what she should admit. Then she realized she had to make him understand. Otherwise, she’d have to concentrate her efforts on someone more forthright. “Forgive my bluntness, but let me be so clear as to say I would always prefer the truth in future. If you do not feel you can accommodate this request, I cannot see the wisdom of us continuing in this way.”
She ventured a furtive glance at their mothers. They were chatting away, seemingly oblivious to the conversation behind them. Vicky continued, “I was most grateful for how you removed Lord Dain from the musicale, but why did you not say you knew the truth about him and my sister?”
He blinked—uncertainly, she thought. “Your father told me sometime after we went to Gunter’s. I do not recall the precise date.”
“I’d deduced as much. Yet, at the musicale, you acted as though you did not know.”
“I did nothing of the kind,” he argued.
She shook her head. “Mr. Carmichael, I am no shrinking violet who swoons at the mere mention of violence—”
“Victoria!” Her mother turned and whispered, “Lower your voice.”
Vicky glowered at her but closed her mouth. Her mother faced forward, doubtlessly to expound to Mrs. Carmichael on Vicky’s myriad virtues. Mr. Carmichael smirked. Vicky harrumphed and folded her hands in her lap. She watched the sceneshifters finish placing various small trees in front of the curtain, ostensibly to approximate the greenery of the Spanish seacoast.
“I do apologize,” Mr. Carmichael said after a moment had passed. He sounded in earnest, though a trace of a smile played upon his lips. “You would be unmistakable for a shrinking violet.”
She nodded.
“And you have my vow I will tell you no more falsehoods in future.”
She looked at him askance.
“My vow as a gentleman.”
Finally, she allowed her frown to subside.
“And, so,” he said, leaning close with a contrite smile, “am I forgiven?”
She tilted her head as the brown flecks danced in his dark eyes. His charm troubled her; Henry Crawford came to mind again. She couldn’t let herself be persuaded so easily. “Not until you fully explain why you hesitated when I asked you to remove Dain.”
He sat back. “God’s teeth, woman! Is a man not allowed some hesitation? I had no wish to air your family’s dirty laundry in public.”
Mr. Carmichael’s mother turned around and graced him with an icy stare. He said no more. Vicky had never heard such an outburst cross his lips, and for a moment she sat in stunned silence. But as she replayed his mother’s comical glare, and his obedient compliance, Vicky let out a short giggle. Then another. She looked
at Mr. Carmichael. He eyed her warily. She nearly burst out laughing on the spot.
He began to chuckle. She giggled again. “God’s teeth!” she imitated. Then, he, who was usually so controlled in his actions, let out an unregulated hoot. And very inconveniently too, because at that moment, the theater had just grown very silent as trumpets declared the hero’s arrival onstage to begin his first speech.
At Carmichael’s laugh, all heads in the upper boxes craned their way. The actor whose opening lines had just been trod upon looked up as well, regarding them with an indignant expression. Vicky sat stock-still with embarrassment, horrified as another round of giggles threatened to burst free. One glance at Mr. Carmichael told her he was similarly afflicted. So, the pair of them did the only thing possible. They simultaneously bent over their laps, clapped their hands over their mouths, and gasped with muffled laughter.
As Tom turned the corner into the upstairs lobby of the theater, hoping to utilize the intermission to obtain something better than the gin many were swilling in the pit, he fairly skidded to a stop. Victoria stood in the lobby in a curve-hugging, yellow satin dress, arm in arm with Carmichael. The pleasure on her face was unmistakable as they strolled; she spoke with animation. Tom’s gut tightened as Carmichael leaned close to her ear and whispered something. She gave him a wry grin, but he looked very pleased with himself.
Tom took three strides toward them before realizing that breaking up their little tête-à-tête would only cause a scene. He ground his back teeth together. Why were they suddenly so intimate when only days before, Vicky had agreed to be cautious with the man who could have ordered the attack on her family? Tom glared at them both.
He took a steadying breath. What could Carmichael do in such a public place? Without doubt, Vicky had a chaperone present. And if Carmichael wished to marry Vicky, he had no reason to harm her until he’d wed her. Frowning, Tom sidled back the other way. After all, he hadn’t come to the theater to enjoy the play, to have another altercation with Carmichael, or even to help Victoria. Still . . .
He looked back at them. He should greet her anyway. If only to let Carmichael know someone else was watching him. As Tom turned, a large, broad-shouldered man emerged from the crowd to tower over Victoria’s back. He shadowed her gait. Carmichael ignored the fellow, but Vicky glanced back and smiled at him. The man watched the crowd as he followed her. He must be some sort of guard. Occasionally, dukes from Austrian principalities had visited Solothurn, and men of similar aspect and bearing had often guarded them. It seemed the Astons were taking extra precautions as he’d hoped.
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