Damsel in Distress Read online

  Caroline’s heart shrank within her. It seemed impossible, but common sense told her it must be so. All his solicitude about trying to discover who was following her—it was just a pretext to get her to the Hound and Hind for the ultimate revenge. She had not been mistaken about his meaning when he suggested champagne to celebrate. Celebrate what? They had not found the necklace. He was trying to prove her a thief. Her first regret soon congealed to anger. She had to fuel her anger to keep her heart from breaking.

  “He has been at you, hasn’t he?” Newt asked angrily.

  “We went for a drive out the Chelsea Road. Dolmain said it would be easier to see if I was being followed away from the traffic. We stopped for supper. We were both hungry.”

  Newt sniffed. “He knew you wasn’t being followed. Next you will be telling me he took you to the Hound and Hind!”

  ‘Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “Good Lord, Caro, it is as well-known as an old ballad that all the gents take their high-class mistresses there. Nice and private, out of town, so no one will see them.” He looked at her ashen face. “He didn’t take you there?” he asked in a hollow voice.

  “Yes, but we didn’t—”

  “The scoundrel! I have a good mind to call him out. Only I will need a second.”

  “Not a duel! Good God, that would finish me forever. I have become shady enough without that.”

  “True. The deuce of it is, without his support, you are a social outcast. Mean to say, we have no chance of finding out what happened to the necklace if no one will speak to you.”

  And that meant she must keep her tongue between her teeth. She must smile and smirk at the hateful Lord Dolmain until she discovered who had taken the diamonds. Then she would tell him exactly what she thought of him.

  After a little discussion, it was decided that Caro would pretend she was unaware of Dolmain’s ploy. She would go out with him tomorrow evening as planned, but she would not let him pierce her defenses again.

  Crumm peered in at the door. “Your carriage is here,” he said to Newton.

  “I had my groom follow the fellow who was following me,” Newt explained. “I legged it home from Curzon Street. Dolmain was not there, so Ankel had to wait. He will tell us where the scoundrel lives.”

  “Ask him in. I would like to hear this,” Caro said.

  Newt’s groom was a small, wiry, dark-visaged man with a lock of black hair curling on his forehead.

  “Well, what did you learn?” Newt demanded.

  Ankel bobbed his head at Lady Winbourne. “The lad as was following us waited at Curzon Street until Lord Dolmain landed home. Five minutes after his lordship went in, out comes t’other lad, wearing a grin and patting his pocket. He was well paid, I’m thinking. Better paid than some,” he added with an accusing look at his master.

  “Never mind that,” Newt said. “Where did the bleater go?”

  “To an apartment on Poland Street,” Ankel announced. “And I, being awake on all suits, can tell you which set of rooms he went to. After he went in, the lights went on in the third floor. Checked the nameplates. Fellow calls himself Mr. Smith. An alias, very likely, but at least we know where to lay our hands on him. Shall we run along and pummel him a little?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Caro said in a dull voice.

  “You can run along, Ankel,” Newt said.

  “Was you planning to leg it home?” Ankel asked.

  “Wait for me in the rig, gudgeon.”

  “Never a word o’ thanks,” Ankel grumbled as he left.

  Caroline squeezed Newt’s fingers. “What would I do without you?” she said.

  Newt preened himself and said modestly, “My pleasure, I’m sure. I always knew you would come a cropper sooner or later. A complete greenhead, even if you have been on the town forever.”

  On this equivocal speech, he took his leave. Georgiana had still not returned. Her outings, while rare, included a supper that could go on until two or three in the morning. Caro was exhausted and went to bed.

  Julian’s portrait smiled commiseratingly down at her. “Buck up, my girl,” he seemed to say, as he had said countless times in the past when she had incurred society’s wrath by straying from the narrow precincts of propriety. “This, too, will pass.” But this suspicion of theft could ruin her socially, and Julian’s cavalier advice was of little use. A certain recklessness was acceptable in a noble young couple, with the title and estates at their backs. A young dowager, if she ever wished to make another respectable alliance, must be like Caesar’s wife, above reproach.

  Once her reputation was lost, she would be prey to all manner of unwanted advances. She felt a frisson along her scalp. Did Dolmain already consider her a fallen woman? Was that why he had felt free to take her to that iniquitous den? And here she had thought he was beginning to love her.

  Chapter Ten

  Caroline received a note from Dolmain the next morning that was part business correspondence, part billet-doux.

  Dear Caro: Re this evening, does Lady Sefton’s do suit you? Addie Derwent’s assembly in aid of the fire victims might be more amusing (she has set up faro tables), but I feel the wiser option is to stick to the haute ton for the present. Also, I plan to take Helen with us, and cannot like to expose her to the faro table at her tender years. Might your cousin, Mr. Newton, like to complete our party? As I am depriving him of his usual partner, the least I can do is supply an alternative. I leave the decision up to you. Any outing with you is bound to be delightful. If you feel strongly about attending Addie’s do, we could drop in there after the ball, sans Helen and Newton. I am particularly looking forward to “after the ball.” Shall we drive out the Chelsea Road again? Your faithful servant, D.

  Caroline read the note with a rising anger. Why did he keep harping on Addie Derwent’s faro table, as if she were a confirmed gambler? But it was the mention of “after the ball” that caused her jaw to clench. If he anticipated a repeat of last night’s performance, he would be disappointed. She did want to be seen at Lady Sefton’s ball on Dolmain’s arm, however, so she must remain civil. She was curious to see that Helen would be with them. Newt would be happy to accompany her, and between them, they might discover something from her.

  As soon as Newton received her note inviting him to join the party, he called for his carriage and drove to Berkeley Square in a frenzy, steaming at every pore. To her amazement, he entered wearing a bearish scowl.

  “If this is a joke, Caro, it ain’t fanny,” he said. “Mean to say, you know I have feelings for Lady Helen, even if her papa is a mawworm.”

  “Do sit down. Would you care for a drink?”

  “Passionately.” He ignored the coffeepot and poured himself a glass of wine, which he gulped down like a man who had been stranded in the desert for a week.

  “Are you not pleased with the invitation?” Caro asked.

  “Thrilled to minced meat. To tell the truth, I am as nervous as a chicken with a fox peering in at the door.”

  “Nervous of a schoolgirl?”

  “True, I have been on the town awhile. Know which side of the street is up.” Still his nerves refused to be tamed by mere facts. “Fact is, I am a martyr to self-doubts when it comes to petticoat dealings,” he explained. “If she was a filly, I would not have a care in the world. I understand horses, but women! I am head over heels in love with the chit. She is head over heels over shoulders above me. I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I know that much. All the bucks are dangling after her. I tell myself I am good as any of them—well, as eligible in point of fortune—but it does no good. Goes in one ear and out the other, like a dose of salts,” he said, with a very poor notion of anatomy.

  When she assured him that Helen had very little experience of gentlemen and could not be so very demanding, he found a new concern. “What cravat shall I wear? Do you think the Oriental, or is it too big? My face looks like a moon on a platter in those big cravats. I ain’t sure my man can do
it either. Should I send her a corsage? I don’t want to be encroaching.”

  She calmed him down, talked him out of the Oriental cravat and the Brutus do, which would not at all suit his full face, suggested a modest corsage of baby roses for a young lady just making her debut, and generally assuaged his fears.

  “What will I say to her?” was his next concern. “I hope she likes horses. I could talk an hour about my stable.”

  “Oh, I would not do that, Newt. Ten minutes is quite enough. What you must talk about is that trip to the Pantheon, and the missing diamonds and Miss Blanchard. I am sure Lady Helen knows more than she has told her papa.”

  “That ought to keep the chat rattling along. I hope she ain’t blue. If she starts talking books, I am done for.”

  With a heavy day ahead of him preparing for the ball, he soon left. By four he had arranged all the details with his valet and was free to drive to Hyde Park. He called on Caro, but she was entertaining her neighbor, Lady Jersey, so he left before that dame tried to induce him to attend Almack’s.

  His trip to the park was a success. He saw Lady Helen. She was accompanied by Lady Milchamp, but when Helen met up with a group of youngsters to stroll about the park, the chaperon remained in the carriage. Newt pulled in behind her and followed Helen’s group, hoping to overhear the conversation, to learn what interested her. His blue eyes narrowed when she fell a little behind the group. He watched as a handsome young scoundrel popped out from behind a tree and spoke to her.

  Newton was all set to pounce forward and rescue her from the mushroom when he recognized the fellow. It was that Bernard she had been dancing with at the Pantheon. He and Helen were chatting away, six to the dozen—in French. It might as well have been Dutch as far as Newt was concerned.

  He observed every detail of Bernard’s toilette. There was no hope of his own body growing six inches or of his brindle hair turning to black in four hours. What he might do was induce a bit of a curl into it. Bernard’s glossy black hair fell forward in a wave when he removed his curled beaver.

  Helen remained with Bernard for a good ten minutes, until her group returned. When Bernard left, she went back to her carriage with the others. A sly puss, meeting her fellow behind Lady Milchamp’s back. Just his luck that Helen already had someone else in her eye. Yet as he considered that meeting, it was not melting looks and soft smiles between them, but quick questions and answers. In fact, Helen had seemed a bit angry with him, but the smooth talker soon pacified her. Something to do with the girl Helen was trying to bring to London, perhaps.

  He went home, thinking about Caro’s hint that his face was full. A bigger head of hair might lessen the moonlike nature of his face. To this end, he had his valet do his hair up in papers to give it a curl. When the papers were removed, he looked like a Hottentot. Tight brindle corkscrews bounced all over his head, yet his pink cheeks looked as full as ever. His valet removed the curl as much as he could by an application of water, but they bounced back as soon as the hair dried.

  It was all Caroline could do not to laugh out loud when she saw how Newt had redecorated himself. His shirt points reached to his ears, to be met by the riot of curls. “I see you have changed your coiffure, Newt,” she said in a choked voice.

  “What do you think? Take it up and down and all around, what do you think of it? Is it even worse than before?”

  The hair could not be changed, and rather than add to his nervousness by disapproving of it, she said, “It looks fine.”

  “I want to look my best. I hope to offer for her tonight.”

  “Oh no, Newt! It is too soon. You hardly know her.”

  “You can’t leap a chasm in two jumps. It is now or never. She will soon have met other men; then what chance have I?”

  “You have a poor opinion of yourself! But only think, you would have to ask Dolmain’s permission first.”

  “Partis ain’t exactly thick on the ground. I own an abbey. Come from good stock. I’ll do it tonight, if I get the chance.”

  Caro intended to see he was not left alone with Dolmain. To rush his fence in this manner would ruin any slim chance he might have of winning Helen.

  “How do I look?” she asked, to distract his thoughts.

  She had changed her coiffure to a more sedate do to lend her an air of dignity. Her raven curls were held back by a silver ribbon and braided à la Didon, emphasizing her high cheekbones and classical nose. Her gown, a three-quarters dress of violet spider gauze over a cream satin petticoat, was stylish without being risqué. Diamonds sparkled at her throat.

  “You know you always look good,” he said. “Oh, before they come, I have something to tell you.” He emptied his budget about Helen’s doings with Bernard that afternoon. “Will you tell Dolmain?” he asked, when he had finished his tale.

  Her anger with the father was no reason to let Helen fall into danger. There was no question of Dolmain’s love of his daughter; he would certainly do what he should regarding her welfare. “He ought to know, yet I dislike to tattle on her. Yes, I expect I must tell him.”

  Dolmain and Lady Helen soon arrived. Caro could only assume he was a marvelous actor. The way he gazed at her, with a soft smile of admiration, was almost enough to make her question whether Newt was mistaken about her follower reporting to Curzon Street. She turned her attention to Helen, whom she had not had much opportunity to assess thus far. The girl was well turned out in a pale blue gown of sarsenet with a shawl of Albany gauze over her shoulders and a simple strand of pearls at her throat. She was pretty, but her smile was lukewarm.

  “Good evening, Lady Winbourne,” she said, dropping a small curtsey. Mr. Newton received an even smaller smile and curtsey.

  “A great pleasure, Lady Helen,” he said, bowing low, as if she were Queen Charlotte. “I have been looking forward to tonight. That is, to the ball. Standing up with you.” He struggled through the greeting as if it were a bramble bush.

  Lady Milchamp was also with them. She was an older lady, plump, smiling, and complacent, in a puce gown and satin turban with three short ostrich feathers. She had made her own debut thirty-odd years before, married, and removed to the country.

  It was not until the death of her husband ten years ago that she had returned to London for her own daughter’s debut. She had bounced her bran-faced Amelia off with such stunning success (a marquess with twenty thousand a year) that she was much sought after to chaperon motherless debs. Lady Milchamp would accompany Newton and Lady Helen in Newt’s carriage, leaving Dolmain and Caroline to use his rig. They all had a glass of wine, then left for Lady Sefton’s ball.

  “You are in high feather this evening, Caro,” Dolmain said, when they were on their way in the carriage. ‘“Very distinguished. I like that hairdo.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “We can drop in at Addie’s later in the evening for a quick visit, if you like.”

  “I am not a veteran gambler,” she said with a touch of asperity. “Everyone who matters will see me at Sefton’s.”

  Dolmain stiffened at her curt reply. It sounded as if she was only going with him to reclaim her reputation. The drive continued a moment in silence. He had been looking forward to the evening, and wanted to clear the air. “Have I inadvertently done something to offend you, Caro?” he asked.

  She would not charge him with having her followed, but she decided to mention Newton’s discovery. “Newt saw your daughter today at Hyde Park,” she said, and told the whole story.

  “I am sure there is an innocent explanation,” he replied. “Helen often mentions Bernard. She and Miss Blanchard help to raise funds for the French émigrés. Bernard is the secretary for the group. Very likely this woman they spoke of is some émigré they are helping, now that I think of it. He could have called on Helen at home. He does not run tame there, but he is allowed to call on her, with Miss Blanchard present.”

  “I thought I ought to mention it,” she said. His explanation jibed with what Newt had said, that it was not
a romantic tryst.

  “I appreciate your keeping an eye on Helen for me,” he said warmly.

  The ball achieved its aim of removing any shadow from Lady Winbourne’s character, but it achieved nothing else. Caro was on pins and needles with Dolmain. Every word he uttered was examined for a second meaning. She tried to behave as if she cared for him, but human nature can only be pushed so far. Dolmain sensed her reserve, and was impatient with it, and her.

  Newt’s evening was even worse. It was plain as a pikestaff that Lady Helen had no use for him. She did not care much for horses, her speech was liberally peppered with French, and after standing up with him for the first set, she joined a younger group and ignored him until supper was served. When Newt and Helen joined Dolmain and Caroline at their table, further unpleasantness ensued.

  Caroline made a few efforts to engage the chit in conversation, but received only monosyllabic replies. Yes, she had her court gown already prepared. When asked to describe it, she said only, “It is white silk.”

  This was a definite snub, and the other guests at their table knew it. Any deb could rave for hours over her presentation gown. Dolmain tried to cover her rudeness by making a joke about how much it had cost him, but it fell flat.

  “You told Aunt Milchamp to do it up in style,” his daughter snipped. “You know I would have preferred to give the money to charity, Papa. Comte Edouard de Lyons—so talented—is practically starving in a garret. Many of the aristos are suffering. Mama would prefer that the money be spent to ease their poverty and so do I. Ça va sans dire.”

  “If Comte Edouard is still starving in a garret after being in the country for over two decades, it does not say much for his ambition,” Dolmain retorted sharply.

  Caroline sensed that this was an old argument between them. She was surprised that Helen spoke of her mother as if she were still alive, and that Dolmain showed so little sympathy for his late wife’s countrymen.

  “He is a poet,” Helen said, tossing her curls.