Damsel in Distress Page 16

  “I knew hot water would be needed and have both cauldrons full. Your things are laid out in the rose room, milady. Have you had any luck finding Lady Helen?” she asked hopefully.

  Caroline outlined what she had discovered, and what she meant to do. The rose room was prettily elegant. The combination of mahogany furnishings and rose lutestring window and bed hangings was a felicitous one. The walls were covered in a creamy paper dappled with roses.

  After Caroline’s bath, Mrs. Lorimer helped her dress and arrange Lady Milchamp’s white gauze shawl in the proper fashion around her shoulders. Caro’s rose shot silk did not expose as much breast as the gown in the picture, but the general effect was similar. She added Georgie’s pearl eardrops.

  “Now, if only Newt finds a wig,” she said.

  “It is nearly time for dinner, milady. Come and eat a bite first. The wig will be uncomfortable. You can put it on at the last minute? I intertwined a laurel branch with wire to make a crown of it. It turned out well.”

  When Caro went below, Newton had returned with a white wig he had bought in a pawnshop. The color was wrong, but the style was almost right.

  “I figured at night, it might pass for blond,” he said.

  Lady Milchamp added, “I daresay Marie-Hélène’s hair would no longer be that pretty reddish blond shade, if she were alive. Not the way she lived. She would be over forty now.”

  Georgie shook her head. “How fleeting life is.”

  “And beauty,” Lady Milchamp added, with a note of satisfaction. She had never been a beauty; it pleased her to see the Incomparables with whom she had made her debut sink into flesh and wrinkles, until they were no lovelier than herself.

  But for Caroline, it was a sad thought. Her youth and beauty were slipping by, and with Julian gone, she had no one with whom to spend the rest of her life. More and more, she knew it was Dolmain she wanted to be with. Would he ever risk marriage again after his disastrous experience with Marie?

  She pondered the incongruity of their positions. Both matches had been frowned on by the families. Yet she had had such a wonderful life with Julian that she feared she would never find anyone to replace him. Marie had shown Dolmain such a wretched time that he feared to love again. What they had in common was a wish to have a family. It seemed like fate that they had found each other. She knew he could replace Julian, but could she make him forget the faithless Marie?

  She was hungry, yet did not feel like eating. The turbot in cream sauce reminded her of Renée. She wondered if they were actually trying to eat that horrid concoction she had made. She wondered, too, if Dolmain had eaten yet. He had been on the point of exhaustion when he left, hours ago. She sipped her wine, brooding as the shadows lengthened into twilight. She and Newt would not go to Bartholomew Avenue until after dark. They would watch the upper-story windows to see which room Helen went to after dinner. A light would go on, briefly at least.

  “About the ladder, Caro,” Newt said, drawing her from her reverie, “I discovered one in an unlocked shed at the back of the Town Hall. The outfit looks good. Did I tell you I bought some makeup to try to make your eyes look bigger? Had a word with an actress in the pawnshop. Had black lines drawn around her eyes. She says all the actresses use it to make their eyes look bigger. Pity hers was so squinty.”

  Lady Milchamp and Georgie carried the burden of conversation over dinner. They discussed mutual friends from the days of their debut. Caroline let the talk wash over her. It was eight o’clock. Darkness was fast closing in. Was Dolmain on his way to Brighton yet? Had he got the money rounded up? She wondered how much Bellefeuille had demanded, and hoped it was a sum Dolmain could manage.

  When dinner was over she went to her bedchamber to try on the wig and to use the kohl pencil. Newt went with her. The pencil had a tendency to smudge at the slightest touch. Newton sharpened the point with his clasp knife, and she applied a line around her eyes. It lent her an exotic appearance. Then she put on the white wig, and was suddenly transformed into an old lady. She felt again that sense of urgency at time passing, at life passing her by. The crown of laurel leaves looked exactly like the one in the portrait. Perhaps it had come from the same tree. Lady Milchamp mentioned the portrait had been done in Brighton at the time of the marriage.

  “Lower the lamp,” Newt suggested.

  She did so, and the white wig became a pale blur. She smiled the coquettish smile of the portrait. The likeness was striking enough to fool someone from a distance.

  “By Jove! That’s something like!” Newt said. “Why, if I didn’t know you, I could fall in love with you myself.”

  She made a moue at him in the mirror. “Not to say that I couldn’t ... I mean ... Oh, dash it, you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I know. It is time to go, Newt.” She closed her eyes and uttered a silent prayer for success.

  “Take your pistol,” Newt said. “The Lord helps them that help themselves.”

  Lady Milchamp, Georgie, and the Lorimers approved of the impersonation, wished them well, and saw them off at the door.

  Lady Milchamp called from the doorway, “I just remembered something that might help, Lady Winbourne. Marie-Hélène was used to call Helen Minou as a pet name.”

  “Good, I shall call her that.”

  She and Newt climbed into the carriage, and were off to Bartholomew Avenue.

  * * *

  Lord Dolmain was not in his carriage, but mounted on a blood gray gelding, riding hell for leather toward Brighton. The ransom of fifty thousand pounds was in his saddlebag. It had taken him an hour to accumulate the sum. The majority of his funds was tied up in various investments. Fortunately, his credit was good, but if he lost that much money, things would be tight. He could hardly ask Caro to marry a man who would have to skint and save for ten years. Caro—Helen—the two cherished names and faces swirled in his brain.

  He had not stopped to eat dinner. His housekeeper had made him a cold beef sandwich to take with him. He had nibbled at it when he stopped to change mounts, but couldn’t swallow for the lump of anxiety in his throat. He had drunk a little wine. He didn’t want to become bosky, but needed some bottled courage.

  The note ordered him to place the money in the southeast corner stall of the fish market, which would be unoccupied at midnight. If he got to Brighton early enough, he could have constables or friends hiding to catch Bellefeuille as he collected the money. Of course, that was why Bellefeuille had sent the note to London and arranged the pickup in Brighton; so that he would have to scramble, leaving no time for plans.

  Riding back instead of driving saved him a few hours, but it was taking its toll on his strength. Every muscle ached; he felt as if he had been marched over by an army. A note telling him where he could find Helen was supposed to be waiting for him at half past midnight at the Bull, a tavern at the west end of Brighton, well removed from the fish market, of course. Bellefeuille had added a dozen warnings. Any wavering from his orders would be instant death for Helen.

  But who was to say the note would be waiting for him, or that Helen was even alive? If anything happened to her— If anything happened to Caro! No, she wouldn’t do anything foolish. She had promised she would not. Losing one of the women he loved would be bad enough. If he lost them both ...

  He dug his heels into the gray’s flanks, urging it on faster, faster, until he was flying through the night.

  Chapter Twenty

  Newton drove his carriage into the driveway of the Town Hall. He and Caro got out and peered through the bushes to Bartholomew Avenue. There were lamps burning on the ground floor of the little cottage, but none in the upper story.

  “They would be dining now,” Caro said.

  Newt’s groom, Ankel, had been conscripted to assist them. They watched the cottage for thirty minutes. Caro passed the time by describing in detail her visit to the derelict little cottage. It helped to keep her fears at bay.

  At nine-thirty she said, “The dinner was to be a simple one, with plenty of
wine for Helen. Half an hour seems enough time.” Yet there was still no light abovestairs.

  “Happen they’ve stashed her in a back room so’s no one would spot her at the winder,” Ankel suggested.

  “That’s it. Clever thinking, Ankel!” Caroline exclaimed.

  He touched his temple. “Just using what the good Lord give me. I’ll ankle along and have a peep, shall I?”

  “Good lad,” Newt said. “I’ll get the ladder. If a guard or such comes along, Caro, you must distract him.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “That’ll be no problem,” Ankel said. “He will take you for a lightskirt. Hee hee. A painted woman out alone after dark.”

  “Now, see here, Ankel!” Newt blustered.

  “Mind you, a very choice bit o’ muslin, meaning no disrespect, milady,” Ankel offered apologetically.

  No guard came while the men were away. Newt was the first one back, dragging a long ladder behind him.

  Ankel soon joined them. “Top left corner,” he announced. “Window shut, blind drawn, a light inside.”

  “That’s it, then,” Newt said. “Take an end of this ladder, Ankel. Caro, you run into the street and see no one is about.”

  “They’ll take us for a pair o’ ken smashers,” Ankel said, shaking his head and laughing. “Or are we eloping, sir? We will never live it down if word gets about. Hee hee.” He slapped his thigh in appreciation of his wicked wit.

  Caro went around the corner first and returned to tell them the way was clear. The street was dark, with only a fingernail of moon and a light sprinkling of stars to show the way. They kept to the shadows of a row of straggling houses that lined the street, moving so quickly that Caroline had difficulty keeping pace with them. At the cottage, they slipped along the side of the house to the rear. The ladder clattered as it was placed against the house.

  At once the rear door flew open and deVere peeked out.

  “Gorblimey, we’re for it!” Ankel whispered.

  “Who’s there?” deVere called. He came pacing forward.

  If he turned the corner and saw the ladder, they were done for. Emboldened by desperation, Caro walked forth into the light. She knew deVere was susceptible to women. She swung her hips and tossed her head at a coy angle.

  “Just taking a shortcut, melord. I hope you don’t mind.” She cast a wanton smile at him. “If a girl don’t get out early, all the best gents—like you—are gone,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said, and took a step toward her, his manner friendly. She mistrusted that wolfish gleam in his eye.

  Fortunately, Renée was not far behind him. “What is it, Michel?” she called from the doorway. Again, they spoke French.

  “Just a lightskirt, my dear. Nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. Come in,” she called, with a scathing sneer at Caroline.

  “Run along, girlie,” deVere said, and reluctantly followed Renée inside as Caro hurried back to Newt and Ankel.

  “You’d have found yourself warming the cove’s bed if he’d been alone,” Ankel said, and uttered another of his irritating hee hees. “The ladder’s in place. We’ll hold her steady so as you don’t tumble, milady.” He elbowed his master in the ribs and added lecherously, “No peeking up the lady’s skirt, mind.”

  “Behave yourself, Ankel,” Newt said severely.

  “Let us wait a moment to make sure deVere does not come back out,” she said. She was shaken from the brief encounter with him and wanted to steady her trembling limbs.

  “Do you have your pistol?” Newt asked her.

  She patted the pocket of her skirt. “Right here. I hope I don’t have to use it. There is no telling how this will go.”

  “Fear not, milady,” Ankel said. “We are ready for any cattingency.”

  They held the ladder, and Caro looped her skirts over her arm to begin the ascent. Now that the moment had come, a strange calm possessed her. Her decision had been made, and she allowed no fears or regrets to cloud her mind. She needed all her wits for the task at hand. Heights did not bother her. It was really quite simple to climb up one story and tap at the window. She steeled herself for the light that would show when Helen opened the curtain. She waited, nothing happened. She tapped again, more loudly, gauging the pressure so that it could not be heard belowstairs. Still the curtain did not open.

  Helen was asleep! They had given her enough wine to put her to sleep! Caro refused to be daunted. Helen’s being asleep might be a good thing. She wouldn’t be able to put up a fight, or cause a racket. Newt would have to carry her down the ladder. She was too heavy for a lady to tote. First she had to get in the window and determine that Helen was inside.

  She tried to get her fingers under the window to raise it, but there wasn’t so much as a quarter of an inch of space. Desperate, she knocked again, as loudly as she dared. After a short time, the curtain opened an inch. Caro tapped again, softly, now that she had the girl’s attention. The curtain was pulled wide open, and a face hovered just inches away, seen through a wavy pane of glass.

  The light from the room beyond made the features indistinct, but the silhouette was certainly Helen’s. She leapt back in astonishment, then slowly advanced to the window and gazed out. Caro smiled softly, not as the lady in the portrait smiled, but with love and yearning, as a mother should smile at her long-lost daughter. Helen continued looking at her with unbelieving eyes for a minute that seemed an eternity, then drew open the window.

  “Mama! Is it really you?” she asked, in French.

  Caro replied, “Minou, je suis revenue à toi, enfin.”

  “Oh, Mama!” Helen reached through the window and threw her arms around Caro’s neck. The ladder jiggled precariously.

  “Viens, viens vite, ma chère!” Caro said urgently.

  Helen drew back. “Oh, Mama, you did not have to come by the window!” she said, laughing. “Lord deVere is our friend.” She stared at Caro again, her eyes moving over the white wig, then to the face. “You look so young!” Then her pretty little face clenched in anger. “You are not Mama! You are Lady Winbourne.” She reached to slam the window, at the same time turning her head toward the door to shout for help.

  Caroline’s perch atop the ladder was insecure. She had few options, and neither arguing nor explaining was amongst them. She threw her upper body through the window, her hips resting on the ledge, and made a grab for Helen, catching her by the hair. Caught off guard, Helen fell against the window. Caroline drew out the pistol and pointed it at her.

  “One word and I’ll shoot,” she said. She climbed in the window, pointing the gun at Helen all the while. Caro was sorry the rescue had taken this harsh turn; she had hoped to lure Helen out in a civilized manner, but the girl’s life was at stake, and mere etiquette must not ruin her rescue.

  Helen was frightened but also angry. Sparks of fire shot from her eyes. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “You are coming with me.”

  “I will not! I shall call Lord deVere.”

  “I am not fooling, Lady Helen. I will shoot anyone who comes through that door to help you. Now, get out that window.” She felt her best weapon was intimidation, and although she was sorry, she did not hesitate to use it, for any show of uncertainty would be quickly taken advantage of.

  Helen stared at her in disdain. “You can’t make me. Go ahead, shoot me—if you dare.”

  Caroline had not thought the girl would have the courage to call her bluff. She was at point nonplus.

  “Don’t be an idiot!” she said. “DeVere is not your friend. He is using you.”

  “Why should I listen to you? You’re a common thief.”

  “Shut up, you foolish girl!” Caro’s pent-up nerves could no longer be controlled. “We know you gave the necklace to deVere. Your stupidity has cost your father a diamond necklace and may well cost him his life before this night is over. It is your dowry that will pay for your ransom, miss. How will you like being penniless?”


  “I would gladly give my money to rescue Mama. And Papa would gladly give the necklace, too. He loves her.”

  In desperation, Caro decided to tell Helen the whole truth. She had to know it sooner or later, and it seemed the only way to get her to leave. “No, you love her, because you don’t know the first thing about her. She ran off on your papa—and you—with another man. Monsieur Bellefeuille, whom you call deVere. Dolmain kept it from you to protect your innocence. Well, you are no longer so innocent.”

  Helen’s face tensed in denial. “It’s not true! Mama was working in France, risking her life. Papa only thought she was dead. DeVere found her.”

  “He did not find her. She is dead. She drowned in a storm off Weymouth half a dozen years ago. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s time you knew the truth. DeVere was holding you to ransom. He plans to get more money from your father. Dolmain is in London now arranging it.”

  “You’re lying. You just want Papa to marry you. Mama is alive. She is, she is” She stamped her foot in vexation.

  “Hush! They will hear us.” Caro brandished the gun again, desperately trying to get Helen to leave without creating a disturbance that would bring deVere rushing upstairs.

  The girl was young and wiry, and too close to her own size to compel her physically without making a good deal of racket. The only thing she could think of was to knock her out, drag her to the window, and call for Newt to come up and help her. She stood a moment, gathering her fortitude for this course.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  As Dolmain darted through the blackness of night toward Brighton, his mind wandered over the past, regretting his brief and bitter alliance with Marie-Hélène. Except for Helen, no good had come of it. Marie, an angel before she snared him, had been trouble from the day he married her—and a conniving deceiver before that, although he was too young and besotted by her beauty and her tantalizing sexual expertise to realize it. He should have suspected when she talked him into buying that cottage on Bartholomew Avenue just a week before their wedding.