Her mouth nearly dropped open. She shot to her feet. “You—you are not my fiancé!”
Heads turned in their direction. She’d said it a bit too loudly. She pressed her lips together before her anger got the better of her.
“You didn’t say no,” he pointed out.
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t say yes,” she whispered back. She turned to Mr. Carmichael. “Mr. Carmichael, I must apologize. I—”
“There is nothing you need apologize for, Lady Victoria,” he said, rising to his feet and using his full height to tower over them both. “Lord Halworth was once again attempting to take advantage of your good nature. Just as I suspected he would. Did you tell him of my proposal?”
“Yes, I—”
“So he knew tonight would be his last chance to prostrate himself at your feet—to convince you to lend your dowry to rebuilding his crumbling finances. All while preying on the fact you would be so near Oakbridge as to make the change in your circumstances negligible. What a shabby device.” He turned to face Tom head-on. “You, Lord Halworth, are shabby in every sense of the word.”
Tom stepped forward. “My financial affairs are none of your concern, Carmichael.”
“But, Tom,” Vicky cut in, realizing she needed to know, “are you in financial trouble?”
He turned to her. “No. I will soon be building London’s first luxury hotel. I have just lined up all the necessary backers. I will gladly tell you all you care to know.”
A hotel? Like his uncle’s? She hoped that would make him happy.
“Convenient that he offers to tell you now that there is an audience to contend with.”
“And what of your secrets, Carmichael?” Tom rejoined, facing Carmichael again. “I saw you with Dain at the Chadwick musicale. I heard you speak of your mutual dealings. Perhaps you can explain once and for all how you can involve yourself with someone who has acted so despicably and how you can then presume to marry a daughter of the very family he has wronged.”
Vicky looked at Carmichael.
He glared daggers at Tom as his fist clenched at his side. “Business is business,” he ground out.
“Pardon me as I scoff at your dull platitude. I am certain it eased Lady Victoria’s mind.”
“See here, Halworth,” Carmichael growled, closing the distance between them. “If you believe for one damn moment that I will allow you to touch Lady Victoria—”
“And if you think for a bloody second that I will allow her to say yes to you, you arrogant clod—”
“Gentlemen!” Vicky snapped.
Their heads pivoted down to look at her.
“Not that you deserve that title! How dare either of you presume to tell me who I will be allowed to marry. This is my life.” She scowled at them. “I don’t know how I thought I could marry either of you. You don’t care a fig for my opinion.”
She pointed at Mr. Carmichael. “You still haven’t explained what ‘business’ you have with Dain.” He opened his mouth, but she raised her hand. “I am tired of your evasions.”
Then she turned to Tom. “And you.” He pivoted to face her fully. “Proposing just to keep me from him is no grounds for marriage. I shall not be another burden on your shoulders. Nor shall I assent because you feel the need to save me as though I were still a child.” She felt tears threatening behind her eyes. She held her breath to dam them back.
Tom’s eyes softened. “Vicky, I—”
“No,” she pronounced with a lift of her chin. “Leave me alone.”
She looked at Mr. Carmichael. His lips parted as he started to speak, but she was too angry to care. “Both of you.”
Tom watched as Vicky all but ran away from him into the bustling crowd. He truly was a louse. The urge to follow her and apologize swept over him, but as he started after her, Carmichael’s iron grip closed over his forearm. He turned and stared at Carmichael until he let go.
“Do not lay your hand on me again, Carmichael,” he said in a low voice as he tried to bury the outrage building in his chest.
Carmichael had the audacity to tilt his head. “What could you possibly do to stop me?”
Tom’s whole body tensed. The man’s demeanor and thinly veiled threats, which Tom had now been on the receiving end of on two separate occasions, were so reminiscent of his own father’s that his stomach churned. He fixed Carmichael with an inflexible glare. “You disgust me.”
Carmichael’s eyes narrowed. “I assure you the feeling is mutual.”
Tom clenched his back teeth and, with a backward scowl at Carmichael, he stepped away in search of Vicky. She’d been right. He’d acted abominably. He must apologize.
After a few paces, he thought he glimpsed her blue dress. Her delicate, shapely form maneuvered through the crowd as she left the ballroom. Could she be going to the retiring room? If so, she’d be out of reach. He followed her to the hallway adjoining the ballroom and looked both ways. To the right was the ladies’ retiring room; to the left, the foyer and front door. He couldn’t see her, but he turned left to be sure she hadn’t been so angry as to attempt leaving the ball completely. As he turned, he heard footsteps clack on the marble floor behind him. He spun around. Carmichael marched close at his heels. Tom swallowed his frustration and stopped to face him.
“What do you want, Carmichael?”
“Just making sure you leave, Halworth. Lady Victoria has been distressed enough for one evening.”
Tom shook his head and continued down the hall to the front entry. “I have no intention of leaving.”
“I say you are,” Carmichael rejoined.
Tom clenched his jaw harder but ignored the barb. He’d reached the foyer, but it stood empty. The front door was shut and not one footman waited about. It seemed everyone had arrived and the servants were occupied elsewhere. He went to the door and opened it, again looking both ways for Victoria. It would have been foolish for her to stand outside alone, even if waiting for her carriage, but he wouldn’t have thought it beyond her, especially in her agitated state.
Carriages lined the sidewalk. A few coachmen talking in a group threw glances at him. The guard who had shadowed Vicky at the theater stood among them facing the door.
Tom caught his eye. “Did Lady Victoria leave the house?”
The man shook his head.
“Thank God for that,” Tom whispered under his breath. She must have gone to the retiring room after all. He’d wait outside it until she came out.
He closed the door to the night air and turned. Carmichael stood mere inches away.
“And where,” Carmichael said, “do you think you are going?”
“Get out of my way, Carmichael,” Tom managed through his teeth.
“Not a chance.” He leaned even closer.
A hammering commenced in Tom’s left temple. “I need to see that Lady Victoria is well,” he said, deliberately emphasizing each syllable, partly in an attempt to keep his temper and partly to make his intentions clear.
“The best way to keep her well is to keep her away from you.”
“We were both told to leave her alone, as I recall,” Tom returned as the hammering increased. “But she has a habit of acting foolishly when she is angry.”
Carmichael’s gaze narrowed. “The only foolish thing she’s ever done was allow you to insinuate yourself into her regard. You with your debts and your knack for showing up whenever she happens to be in danger.”
Tom opened his mouth to reply, but Carmichael continued.
“Yet you never seem to actually help her when you arrive so propitiously. Somehow she is always injured.” Carmichael leaned closer.
Tom’s hand balled into a fist at his side. The pounding had expanded to behind his eye now. “What exactly are you saying, Carmichael?” He wanted to hear the lout say it aloud.
“That you have manufactured scenarios so she may feel indebted to you. That you have weaseled your way into her affections. All so you may profit from her sizable dowry and save your pathetic ex
cuse for an estate.”
Tom’s neck was afire now and the flames were traveling up to his ears. The pounding distorted into a roar rolling through his head. That anyone—even such a coarse brute as Carmichael—would believe him capable (and accuse him to his face!) of such deplorable behavior was all but inconceivable.
“I say, Lord Halworth,” Carmichael continued, “that whatever claim to honor you purport to have is lower than the dust beneath my feet.”
The fire licking Tom’s neck raged over the back of his head until it engulfed his face. Though he doubted his ability to speak with any efficiency, he spat, “Whereas your continued association with Dain is so honorable, it is incomprehensible, even to her. She would have no need to marry anyone if not for Dain’s behavior. Convenient that Dain’s friend just so happens to want to make her his wife.”
Carmichael stepped forward, closing the minuscule distance that remained between them. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Understand this: You. Will. Not. Have her.”
Tom’s entire body ignited. Even had he wished to, he could not have stopped his hand from flying forward and shoving Carmichael back. Carmichael’s eyes widened as he stumbled. Then his lips curved into a mocking grin so similar to Tom’s father’s that for a moment, Tom thought the devil had brought him back to life.
“So there is nerve in you after all. A duel then, Halworth. Unless your honor truly is as weak as your fist.”
This time, Tom wasn’t imagining the red that clouded his vision as outrage thundered through his ears. “I accept.”
Chapter the Twenty-Fourth
How she could have been so deceived!
—Jane Austen, Emma
Vicky flopped over onto her side, burying her head deep into her feather pillow. She yanked the coverlet over her head and squeezed her eyes shut, which did nothing to dispel the images of Tom and Carmichael ceaselessly churning in her mind.
When she thought of what they had said last night, she wanted to throw things at the wall and stamp her foot like a child. But she refused to sink to their level of immaturity. She was a lady, after all.
Her lower lip jutted out and she pressed her body deeper into the bed, throwing her fist into the pillow until feathers swirled in the air. Those horrible, loathsome, boorish . . . troglodytes! She was sick to death of them both: sick of their rudeness, their inability to listen, and their egotistical, high-handed behavior.
This must have been how Marianne Dashwood felt after Willoughby had broken with her or Fanny Price had after Henry Crawford ran off with her married cousin, Maria. Even in Miss Austen’s books, men were undeserving scoundrels. Marianne and Fanny had been well rid of them!
Vicky flipped onto her back and glared at the ceiling. She’d spent the remainder of the ball in the ladies’ retiring room just to avoid Tom and Mr. Carmichael. Which had not been particularly easy. Or pleasant. Eventually, her mother and Althea had found her. Vicky had refused to return to the ballroom, so they’d gone home early. She hadn’t been able to explain what had happened—had she tried, she would have broken into tears.
Her eyes started to prickle even now. Damn both Mr. Carmichael and Tom! She absolutely could not marry a Mr. Willoughby or a Henry Crawford. There had to be another way. Yet she’d humored that argument many a time before, and no solution had presented itself. Her stomach clenched; she knew the truth; she was in an impossible situation with appalling choices as her only solutions. She grabbed her nearly ruined pillow and thumped it onto the bed three times. Tears clouded her vision as she clouted the pillow one more time for good measure. Then she buried her face in it and sobbed.
Tom flinched awake as a hand shook his shoulder. His eyes flew open. Charles held a walking stick in one hand, his hat in the other, and was still wearing his greatcoat over his evening clothes. He must have just returned home.
“I heard about your little escapade last night,” he said, giving Tom a pointed look.
Confused, Tom shook his head.
Charles raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps if I mention a certain appointment you will understand my meaning?”
“Christ.” Tom swallowed. So Carmichael’s challenge hadn’t been a nightmare as he’d hoped. He scrubbed his hand over his face, then swung his legs out of bed. “How did you hear?” He went to the armoire to dress.
“Word gets around.”
Tom clenched his teeth as he retrieved a pair of trousers.
“You’ll be in need of a second—unless you secured one last night.”
“I did not.”
“Very well. I shall make the necessary arrangements. I suggest you do the same.”
“Thank you for your concern, but you needn’t bother,” Tom replied, tugging a shirt over his head. He turned and faced his brother. “I shall apologize.”
For a moment Charles’s mouth gaped open. He stepped forward. “You cannot be in earnest,” he pronounced.
“I am very much in earnest.” Tom fastened the buttons of his waistcoat. “I lost my temper, but I am not above admitting my mistake. Carmichael is”—he broke off as his pulse jumped the way it had the night before. He took a deep breath—“the worst of brigands. But I do not think either of us should die for that.”
“You seriously believe he will accept an apology?”
Tom shook his head. “I caused the offense. Therefore I have the right to apologize. He cannot argue with the rules of conduct. Had I challenged him he’d have the same right.”
Charles turned away. “This is madness. What of your honor? What of the family honor?”
“I am secure in my own honor. And the family’s is already tarnished, as I believe you know.”
Charles strode to the door. “This will damage it beyond repair. And you’ll have only yourself to blame this time.” He left without another word.
Tom threw his cravat around his neck and yanked it tight. “So be it.”
Tom stood in the foyer of Brooks’s Club, holding his body rigid as he stared at the man behind the desk with what he hoped was the air of an earl who knew his own worth. The man ignored him as he wrote in some kind of ledger. Another man had gone to fetch Carmichael from the bowels of the club. The men at the front desk had informed Tom that club policy stated all visiting nonmembers wait for an escort before entering.
Tom hoped his irritation wasn’t obvious. He wouldn’t have ventured into Brooks’s at all, except he’d already called at Carmichael’s town house, where the man’s mother—a surprisingly charming woman—had said Carmichael would not return until later that evening. Tom couldn’t wait so long. He had to conclude this business before he ended up with a pistol in his hand.
Resisting the urge to tap his boot against the floorboards, he glanced up the wide staircase for any sign of Carmichael or the man who’d gone to fetch him. Large portraits of gentlemen garbed in the ornate fashions of the last century stared down at him from the wall behind the stairs, mocking him and his situation. He set his jaw and turned halfway toward the door.
How had he let Carmichael bring him to this? He knew the man’s tactics well enough by now. Regardless of how Carmichael had baited him, he should have walked away. Recalling Carmichael’s insults, Tom glanced at the lacquered door. He willed his legs to stand steady, ignoring how his feet itched to take him home. Apologizing to that clodpoll was the last thing he thought he’d ever do. He could still leave. Leaving would calm the firestorm of righteous fury already pooling in his gut.
But to leave now would mean failing himself. It would mean every battle he’d ever waged to avoid becoming his father would’ve been for naught. If he didn’t stop this duel, he would truly be his father’s son—and how could he go on, knowing what he’d become?
Tom clenched a fist. The entire situation was his own doing. He’d told Vicky he was broken and then he’d proven it. Even Carmichael, for all his threats, had done no more than lay a hand on him.
Pride could not be Tom’s foremost concern now. He had plans for the future and people to care for�
�things far more important than damage to his ego.
“Our appointment is tomorrow, Halworth. Or were you hoping to postpone the matter? In truth, I’d expect nothing less,” Carmichael stated, descending the stairs from the first floor of the club.
Tom glanced up to meet Carmichael’s sneer and willed himself not to respond in kind. It was just what the oaf wanted. “I need to speak with you, Carmichael.”
“So I gathered.”
Tom gestured to an area farther away from the man at the desk and the fellow trailing behind Carmichael. The door to the club was closed, and if they stepped nearer to it, their conversation might be out of earshot.
Carmichael came to the bottom of the stairs but made no move to go where Tom had pointed.
Tom stared at him, then walked toward the door, not looking back. In moments, Carmichael’s footsteps echoed on the parquet. When Tom neared the doorway, he turned and faced him. Carmichael inclined his head with sarcastic civility.
“I shall come to the point,” Tom began. “I wish to apologize for my conduct last night. I was at fault.” Tom paused, his stomach swirling at the words. It had to be done.
Carmichael’s expression remained unreadable. He watched Tom with a face so devoid of emotion, Tom felt his patience slipping.
Fire licked its way up into his chest. “Do you understand me?”
Carmichael nodded slowly, and the corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Only too well, Halworth. I understand you are the most illustrious coward I have ever met.”
He said the last so loudly, the men at the desk looked up from their work. Tom threw them a scowl and their gazes shot down.
“Call it what you will,” Tom replied with what he thought to be amazing restraint, considering the blaze still spreading through his torso. “You challenged me. I have apologized. Consequently our business is at an end.”
Carmichael stepped closer. “I’m afraid it’s your business that’s at an end, Halworth. No woman in her right mind would marry you now, let alone Lady Victoria.”
The fire swirled faster. “What are you saying?”
“Lord Axley has chilled to your hotel scheme. I think you’ll find it is dead in the water.”
Dangerous Alliance Page 27