Damsel in Distress

  DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

  Joan Smith

  Chapter One

  Caroline, Countess of Winbourne, came tripping down the grand staircase of her mansion in Berkeley Square, ran into the Gold Saloon, and performed a graceful curtsey. Daintily lifting the tails of her skirt, she said, “How do I look, Georgie? Shall I set a new fashion with this gown, or is it too outré?”

  It would have seemed odd to any bystander, of whom there was none, to hear an out-and-outer like Lady Winbourne ask for fashion advice from a spinster of fifty-odd years who had not had a new gown made up for herself in a decade. Lady Georgiana Eden’s lean body was encased in an exceedingly plain blue sarsenet gown, and her gray hair was tightly bound under an aging silk cap with lace lappets.

  Georgiana’s rheumy eyes twinkled as they surveyed Caroline. No one had ever bothered giving Georgiana a nickname before. It had a dégagé sound to it that did not suit her in the least, which was perhaps why she liked it. She noticed Caroline was wearing violet again, not in half mourning for her late husband, but to match the unusual shade of her eyes, which were her chief claim to beauty. They were large, wide-set, and still bore the lustre of youth.

  A raven tousle of curls provided the perfect foil for her ivory complexion, suggesting a delicately carved cameo. Added to her manifold charms were an energy and irresistible liveliness that could still enchant, even on those occasions when they outran the bounds of propriety. She was altogether an enchanting creature, Georgiana thought, without a single tinge of jealousy. She was as proud of Caro as if the girl were her own daughter.

  “Very nice, my dear. You will knock their bonnets off, as Julian was used to say.”

  “You haven’t seen the best part,” Caroline said, performing a pirouette to show off the low back of her gown.

  A little gasp issued from Georgiana’s throat, followed by a simulated cough to hide her first sound of surprise. The gown really was very low-cut at the back, a good foot lower than any other lady would be wearing. It was laced to prevent it from falling off her body entirely, but a good deal of flesh was revealed between the x’s of the lace. In fact, the lacing added to the daringness of the gown by suggesting a corset.

  But there, Caro had a lovely back, so straight and trim, with a natural beauty mark just off center toward the bottom. Why should she not show herself off if it gave her pleasure? Other ladies displayed the half of their bosoms, which was much naughtier of them. She noticed that Caro’s gown was not cut particularly low in front. It allowed only a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts.

  The girl was a strange mixture of daring and modesty. Her conversation was occasionally “fast,” even bordering on the broad at times. Her romantic antics provided society with a good many minor scandals, but to the best of Lady Georgiana’s knowledge, Caro had not actually taken a lover yet, and Julian had been dead for three years. She winced to remember that she had warned her brother he was mad to marry a chit two decades younger than himself—and out of a provincial vicarage to boot. But she had been wrong. The two had remained passionately in love until the day Julian took a tumble from his mount and broke his neck.

  “He died as he lived, at full gallop,” Caro had said, blinking back her tears. “He would not cavil with the manner of his passing. Oh, but I cavil at the timing of it. How shall we go on without him, Georgie?” Then, after the funeral guests had left and they were alone, Caro broke down and sobbed for the first time.

  Georgie could offer no consolation but only a reminder that Caro and Julian had enjoyed seven wonderful years together, deprived of nothing but the son they both wanted so badly. Georgiana felt the fault was to be placed in Julian’s dish. He had not managed to father an heir by his first wife either. Pity, for it meant the title and estate fell to Cousin Jeremy, Julian being the only male in the immediate family, but at least there was plenty of money.

  Julian had begged Caro on his deathbed not to let his death deter her from enjoying a full life, and she had promised that she would try not to. It was for this reason that she had not prolonged her public mourning unduly. Only Georgiana knew that the private grief still continued. Julian’s portrait hung at the foot of Caro’s bed, where she said good morning to it each day, and even whispered a few details of her evening when she returned at night.

  When she went to the Rosary, her country estate, at the end of the Season, the portrait went with her. Caroline had spent a year at the Rosary after Julian’s death. There, tending the rose gardens that gave the estate its name, she had come to some sort of terms with her loss. At the end of a year, she had returned to London for the Season, as she would have done had Julian lived. He had left her the mansion in Berkeley Square, the country house, and ten thousand a year besides. Pretty good for a provincial miss whose face was her fortune, folks said.

  Ten years before, Julian had brought his seventeen-year-old bride to London, where he had dressed her in the first style of fashion, polished her country manners, and proudly presented her at court and to society, where she had been an immediate hit. The ton had been bored with the Season’s crop of debs, and delighted in Caro’s occasional lapses into rusticity. When Beau Brummell proclaimed her an original, the seal was set on her reputation. Julian’s elder sister, Georgiana, had lived with them from the beginning, acting as Caro’s companion, instructress in social matters, and, upon Julian’s death, her best friend.

  “I do not mean to flaunt myself,” Caro said, looking at her violet gown, “but only to let my shawl slip from time to time. I wager Emily Cowper will be wearing something similar by next week.”

  “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised. So you are off to the gaming hell. Don’t forget to lose two hundred pounds for me.”

  “I have our money in my reticule. I plan to lose five hundred. I hope it does not take too long, for I want to have time left over to dance. Life is so contrary; when I try to lose money, I seem to keep winning. The first year Julian and I held the gambling night, I won three thousand pounds, and had to play until two in the morning to lose it all again.”

  The gaming night had become, by tradition, the opening salvo of the Season, as the king’s garden party on June fourth was its finale. It had been Julian’s idea to catch the ton while its pockets were full, and they were in a good mood. The event had originally been held at Winbourne House, but as the crowd increased to unmanageable proportions, it had been moved to the old Boar and Castle Hostelry and Posting House on Oxford Street. This was no elegant establishment, but as Julian knew, the ton liked to go slumming from time to time.

  The proceeds went to his and Caro’s favorite charity: a home for orphans. Like so many things in the Winbournes’ life, the gaming night had been a bit scandalous at first, but as it was carried out under the strictest rules, and as it always raised at least twenty-five thousand pounds for charity, it had become not only acceptable, but virtually de rigueur. The Prince Regent himself attended when he was in town.

  It had been Caro’s idea to add a ball and a fine supper afterward, to repay the crowd for donating so much money. “In that way, people will still enjoy themselves,” she pointed out.

  “And besides, you would rather dance than gamble,” Julian had added with a knowing smile.

  Caro felt a little guilty leaving Georgiana alone. “Why do you not come with me?” she suggested. “I know you do not care for gambling, but you are not too old to stand up and jig it, Georgie.”

  Georgiana laughed at the mental image of her shaking her poor old racked limbs. “I am well past it, my dear, but you have a good time. Have a lovely time, for as long as you can. You’ll be old soon enough, like me.”

  She spoke with a surprising vehemence, and meant every word. Lord, how her mama had bamboozled her, putting her in a s
traitjacket with a hundred foolish admonitions. “Young ladies must not put themselves forward. Young ladies must not flirt, or tease, or be alone with a gentleman, or ever be vulgar.” But it was the ‘Vulgar” ladies who had the good times, and got a husband in the end, too, while the proper ladies like herself moldered into old age on the shelf, without even the solace of memories to warm their cold nights.

  “Oh, Georgie, you are not old!” Caro scolded. “You know perfectly well you can outwalk me in the country, and sit a mount better than any lady I know.”

  Georgie sniffed in satisfaction. This was true, and a great consolation, but she knew it was a smiling face and a flashing eye that got a lady a husband. Never mind, she had her little consolations. A bottle of Madeira and a novel from the Minerva Press would be her evening’s entertainment. A gothic novel for a gothic lady.

  “How long I shall be able to keep it up is another matter,” she said. “Who is escorting you this evening, Caro?”

  Caroline had gone to the mirror to adjust her hair. “Newt,” she said over her shoulder.

  It was Caroline’s custom to begin each Season on her cousin’s arm. As the Season progressed, she would gather around her a court of interested and interesting gentlemen. One of these years she would probably marry one of them. She had nearly come to the sticking point two or three times, but always the memory of Julian intruded, and she suddenly found the gentleman too loud, or too stiff-rumped, too dull or too rakish.

  At times she wondered if Julian was the only man she could ever love. Lately she had become aware that time was pushing hard at her back. She was twenty-seven. Her friends all had their nurseries started. Some of them had grown children. Her friends had been Julian’s friends, and many of them were a deal older than she. She wanted children. As she matured, she realized that life had little meaning without a husband and family.

  The door knocker sounded, followed by the heavy tread of Crumm, the butler, striding to the door. The scuffling sounds that ensued suggested two men were sparring. Crumm had been a bruiser before he took up buttling. He bore many tokens of his years in the ring: a broken nose, a twisted ear, and a sprinkling of scars amongst them. Caro could not remember what mischief Julian had been up to at the time, that he required a butler capable of ejecting unwanted guests by fisticuffs, if necessary. In any case, Crumm had long been established as a part of the household.

  “No need to announce me, Crumm,” Mr. Newton said, and sauntered in, chewing at the knuckles he had bruised on Crumm’s hard chin. He made a lumpish bow in the ladies’ direction, sat down with a sigh, and said, “Well, here I am.”

  Alfred Newton was not a famous conversationalist. He had two interests in life—horses and finding a wife, in that order. For as long as Caro had known him, and she had known him from the egg, he had been horse-mad. It was only when she came to London with Julian that she learned Newt had progressed to wanting a wife. To this end, he had new jackets made up every Season, each made by a famous tailor, and each looking worse than the last. Beau Brummell once asked him how he achieved such unusual dishabille, whether he slept in his clothes, or was setting a new style by having them specially made prewrinkled.

  Never suspecting an insult, Newt had replied without blinking, “Neither one. I just put them on and there the wrinkles are. Can’t help you. Sorry.”

  Besides his ill-fitting jackets, he was cursed with a short, portly figure, a shaggy head of snuff-colored hair, a round, pink face that belonged on a dissolute cherub, and a pair of blue eyes inclined to protrude from his head.

  Caro noticed none of this. She looked and saw her cousin and dearest friend, who was like a brother to her. “Would you like a glass of wine, Newt, or shall we leave now?” she asked.

  “Just as you like. It is no odds to me.” He examined his bruised knuckles, flexed them, and winced with the pain. “A bit of breakage there, I shouldn’t be surprised. Don’t like to leave my bloods standing in the street long. There will be plenty to drink at the party. Let us go.”

  Caroline arranged her wrap, gave Georgiana a quick kiss on the cheek, said, “Don’t wait up for me,” and they were off.

  As they left, Georgiana heard Newt say, “Where is it we are going, Caro? Ah, gaming night. I knew there was some reason why I was carrying so much blunt.”

  Georgiana shook her head, then rose and went off to the small parlor that was her private lair. She was soon having all the excitement she could endure, vicariously, through the trials of Drusilla Gascoyne. Despite her Spartan upbringing and lack of vulgarity, Drusilla was about to land herself an Adonis of royal blood. Only in fiction!

  Chapter Two

  The management of gaming night had been given over to professionals at Julian’s death. For the year of Caro’s mourning she had not attended at all, and although she still took an active part in drumming up business, she was not required to act as hostess. She entered by means of a paid ticket, like everyone else. At nine o’clock the gaming room already held a good crowd. The gentlemen’s black jackets predominated, interspersed with the brighter hues of ladies’ gowns and the sparkle of jewelry. A forest of feathers rose from the older ladies’ turbans to flirt dangerously with the chandeliers overhead. The buzz of high society at play rose to the rafters. There were tables for faro, macao, and whist, but the largest group hovered around the roulette table.

  “What’s your pleasure?” Newt asked Caroline.

  “My pleasure is dancing, but first I must lose my money. The roulette wheel for me. I don’t know how to play faro or macao, and whist takes too long.”

  “You don’t know how to play whist either,” Newt told her. “As to faro, nothing to it. You just bet on what order the cards will turn up in. You see, the banker—”

  “You go ahead, Newt. I know you like faro. But mind you don’t win!”

  “It is a rare night when I win at cards. Lose my shirt is more like it.”

  Caro bought her counters, choosing the hundred pound denomination to hasten her losses. She eased her way through the throng, smiling and greeting friends as she progressed toward an open place at the end of the table. The croupier announced, “Faites vos jeux,” and Caro put one counter on seven, her lucky number. The wheel was spun round and round, with other bettors placing their counters. As the wheel slowed, the racket around the table subsided to tense silence. The croupier called, “Rien ne va plus.” No more bets were allowed as the wheel slowed, finally stopping at number seven. The croupier called, “Sept, rouge, passe, impair. Seven, red, high, odd.” He raked in the losing bets and paid out counters to the winners.

  “Oh dear, I have won!” Caro exclaimed, as he shoved a pile of chips at her.

  “En plein, madam, thirty-five to one. Congratulations.”

  She was the largest winner at the table, and with a bet of one hundred pounds, she had won three thousand five hundred pounds.

  “Let it ride,” she said, hoping to lose it all so that she might proceed to the ballroom soon.

  “Oh, madam! Ça n’est pas possible! If you win again, you would break the bank,” the croupier explained. “Over one hundred thousand pounds. There is a limit of one hundred on en plein bets.”

  “What are en plein bets?” she asked.

  “Bets placed on an individual number, that pay thirty-five to one.”

  “Oh. Could I put one counter on each of the numbers?”

  The more experienced bettors in the throng moaned. “In that manner, madam, you are hardly betting at all,” the croupier explained. “One of the numbers must win; the other thirty-four will lose. You will win back your thirty-five counters, and lose thirty-four.”

  “At this rate, I shall be here all night,” she grumbled, and placed one counter on each of the first five numbers. The wheel turned, stopping at number five. She won again, thirty-five more counters.

  A little stir began to move around the table. “Caro is winning,” was whispered from ear to ear. Others in the room who had not yet chosen their method of losing the
ir money were drawn to the roulette table.

  The excitement lent a sparkle to Caro’s eyes and a rosy flush to her cheeks. It was fun to win so much money, even if she couldn’t in good conscience keep it. She clapped her hands and laughed, “I am rich!” while pushing counters quite at random onto various numbers.

  A distinguished gentleman advanced to the table, drawn by the chattering. He found a place across the table from Caro and observed her with interest. He was familiar with the flushed face and fevered eye of the inveterate gambler, and assumed Caroline’s excitement was due to gambling fever. A pity, but then, from what he had heard of Countess Winbourne, it was no better than he expected.

  A bit of a wild filly—but deuced pretty. His eyes roamed slowly, appreciatively, over her eager face and jet black hair, then down the column of her throat to her creamy shoulders, then lower to the swell of incipient bosoms. Very pretty indeed! Not one of those full-blown, voluptuous women, yet more than a pocket Venus. Not aging and worldly-wise, yet not a dewy-eyed deb. In a word—perfect.

  He observed her for a few minutes while she placed her bets quite at random, sometimes betting on both black and red, at other times placing a hundred-pound counter on five or ten individual numbers. A scatterbrained creature! Her luck had turned; instead of raking in counters, she watched them being raked away by the croupier.

  When she had lost over two thousand pounds, the newly arrived gentleman worked his way to her side to try to talk her away from the table. He knew she was a widow, and assumed she could ill afford such heavy losses.

  “Lady Winbourne,” he said with a bow more businesslike than graceful. “Determined to lose your fortune, are you?”

  At the sound of his deep voice, she glanced up to see a pair of cool gray eyes, set in a swarthy face, topped with straight black hair. A slash of dark eyebrows and a strongly chiseled nose lent a proud air to his face. The full, sensuous lips seemed at odds with the rest of him. His broad shoulders were sheathed in a jacket of exquisite tailoring. In his intricately arranged cravat sat a large cabochon ruby.