Damsel in Distress (12 page)

“They are much too dear,” she said in a quiet aside. “Five guineas for a bonnet!
C’est incroyable!”
This seemed a strange objection for one of the Season’s greatest heiresses, until she added, “Imagine how much food that would buy for the émigrés
.
”

“Comte Edouard could dash off a few stanzas on that, I wager,” Newton said supportively, and actually won a smile. Or bought one, for Helen soon followed up by selling him six tickets to a fair for the émigrés
.

Newton had some reason to assume he was finding favor with the charmer. Helen did most of her talking to him. Caroline was struck by a different idea; Helen did not want to converse with her. Her papa had ordered her to be polite, but friendship cannot be commanded.

When they passed a small jewelry shop, Helen said, “Would you mind stopping in here a moment? I brought a brooch with me. The pin is loose and has to be repaired before I wear it.”

Newton interjected a note of discord by saying, “Was the lock of your diamond necklace loose, by any chance?”

“No, Papa had just had it looked at,” she replied. It was the first time the subject of the necklace had arisen.

Caroline was determined to follow up this lead, despite the girl’s obvious distaste for the subject. “It was a terrible and shocking thing to lose it. I do hope it was insured?”

Lady Helen turned to her. “No, it had sat in Papa’s safe for years. As it was not worn, he did not have it insured.” She turned away immediately, but while she spoke, she looked Caroline directly in the eye with no sign of wavering.

They went into the shop. While Caroline examined a simple day brooch done in citrine and marcasite, Helen opened her reticule and drew out a handkerchief edged in ecru lace. She gasped, and exclaimed in a stricken voice, “It is gone! My emerald brooch is missing!”

Caroline felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach by a mule. Not again! Their eyes met. Helen did not look guiltily away, but said in heartfelt accents, “Oh, pray do not look at me like that, Lady Winbourne. I know you did not take it. My reticule must have fallen open at Madame Lanctot’s. Let us return at once and see if she has put it away for me.”

“It may have fallen out of the handkerchief,” Caroline said. It seemed odd that such an obvious thing had not occurred to the girl
—
almost as if she knew the brooch was not there.

Lady Helen rifled through her reticule. “I had it in my handkerchief. It must have fallen out. No, it is not here.”

“Let us go to Lanctot’s, at once,” Caroline said, and they all rushed out of the shop, back to the milliner’s.

Helen spoke to Madame in French, showing her the reticule and the empty handkerchief. Madame shook her head firmly.
“Mais non. L’épingle n’est pas ici. Vous n’avez pas ouvert la sac à main ici, mademoiselle.”

Helen turned to look at Caroline. There was no accusation in her eyes, but a definite air of slyness. Caroline was morally certain the brooch was not stolen, but had been put aside by Helen. And if she was prevaricating now, then very likely she also knew what had happened to the necklace.

“It must have fallen out on the street,” Newton said. “Let us retrace our steps.”

“Or it might be in the carriage,” Lady Helen said, leaping on other possibilities. She turned to Caroline and said with a dramatic air worthy of Mrs. Siddons, “I don’t know what
Papa will say. The brooch belonged to Mama.”

“You should notify him at once if you don’t find it,” Caroline said. She had no rational reason for wanting Dolmain to be apprised of it immediately. It loomed like a trip to the tooth drawer as an unpleasant thing that must be done, and the sooner it was over, the better.

They retraced their steps, discovering no sign of the brooch. They then hailed the carriage, which had been driving alongside them, and searched it, also in vain.

“Let us go to Berkeley Square and write a note to your papa,” Caroline suggested. She wanted to be present to hear how Helen explained the loss of the brooch to him.

As the carriage bowled along, Helen became quite voluble. “The brooch was not that valuable,” she said, addressing herself to Caroline now, quite ignoring Newton. “The stones were quite small, but Papa values it highly. He gave it to Mama as an engagement gift, and anything of hers is sacred to him, you must know. He loved her so very much. There has never been any other woman for him. There never will be. She was extremely beautiful. It pains him so to speak of her death that he never lets us discuss her at home, but we have her portrait, made up into a sort of shrine. There are always fresh flowers beneath it. Mama loved roses. It was a great love affair. His parents forbade the match, but he would not heed them.”

Caroline listened to this outburst with avid interest. Obviously this was why Dolmain had never remarried. The question was, was he still in love with his dead wife? What chance had she against a ghost, who would never do any wrong, never lose her temper, but live forever green in memory? Even if he married her, would she take second place to a ghost?

Helen was looking at her expectantly. To break the silence, Caro said, “I know how he feels. I still treasure the golden locket my husband gave me as an engagement token.”

“You certainly don’t hesitate to talk about Julian. You never shut up about him,” Newton reminded her.

“Lady Winbourne is an outgoing sort,” Helen said. “What we call in French a lady of
esprit.
Papa keeps things all pent up inside, but he feels very deeply. He showed me the house in Brighton where Mama lived when he was courting her. It is a modest cottage on Bartholomew Avenue, around the corner from the Town Hall. Papa bought it for Mama. She gave it to a cousin after their marriage. It is still used by the émigrés
.
”

Lady Winbourne listened with interest to all of this, thinking how shattered Dolmain must have been when his wife died. She had been shattered at Julian’s death, too, but now she felt ready to go on with her life. Why could not he?

Helen ran on with other details of her mama. “I was named after her. My name is actually Marie-Hélène. Mama was called Marie, so she called me Hélène. Englishmen cannot pronounce it properly,” she said, “and even on my birth certificate it was written as Helen.”

This sudden spate of confidences was unlike Lady Helen. It occurred to Caroline that the girl was rattling on with this ancient history to prevent talk of how the brooch had got lost.

She cut into the story. “Are you certain you had the brooch when you left home, Lady Helen?”

“Miss Blanchard did not take it, if that is what you are implying,” the girl shot back angrily.

“No one is accusing her.” How quickly she leapt to Blanchard’s defense! “I meant you might have left it at home.”

“No,” Helen said, settling down. “I looked in my reticule last thing before I left the house. I do not plan to involve you in this, Lady Winbourne. I know Papa will agree with me that we must keep this
entre nous,
in case of gossip. We both feel very badly that you were drawn into the other affair.”

Keeping it quiet might prevent more gossip, but it did not solve the matter. As soon as they reached Berkeley Square, Lady Helen wrote her note and dispatched it to the Horse Guards. Caroline expected Dolmain to come bolting at once, but they sat an hour before he arrived. Everyone’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Georgiana sat with them; she had been told the story but had little to say about it. She just looked at Caroline and shook her head ruefully, as if to say,
“
You have done it again.”

As soon as Dolmain entered the saloon, Helen rose, burst into tears, and ran to pitch herself into his arms. “I am sorry, Papa! I don’t know how it happened, but Lady Winbourne did not steal it this ti
—
did not take it. My reticule never left my hand.” She then fell, sobbing, on his neck.

Caroline sat like a kettle on a slow boil, growing hotter by the moment.
Did not steal it this time
was what Helen had meant. It was as good as saying they believed she had stolen the necklace.

Dolmain comforted his daughter, while looking at Caro apologetically. “There, there,” he said. “It is no great loss.”

Helen lifted her moist eyes and said in hushed accents, “But it was
hers,
Papa. You must be
devastated.”

“It is a pity, but you have plenty of other mementoes.”

He drew Helen’s arms from around his neck and took a seat. His daughter sat on the floor, curled up at his feet like a puppy, with her head resting against his knees.

“We shan’t bruit this one about town,” he said to Caroline. “I had hoped to foster a friendship between you and my daughter, but I fear I have only caused further mischief.”

Caroline noticed that Helen’s tears were drying. Her mask of chagrin was transformed into a sly, satisfied smile.

“Lady Winbourne and I got along splendidly, Papa,” she said, smiling up at him. “I like her excessively.”

Caro sat like a stone. She had an odd way of showing it! What a consummate liar the girl was.

“Well, that is something,” Dolmain said. It was clear to Caroline that, whatever about the brooch, he valued his cunning rogue of a daughter above rubies and believed every lie she uttered. “That being the case, let us all go out together this evening,” he suggested.

Helen’s smile faded, then her pretty little face hardened to anger. But when her father looked down at her, she put on a smile and said, “How lovely. I would like it of all things. Let us all go to Aunt Miriam’s rout together.”

“I have made other plans for the evening,” Caroline said, with a long, cold look at Helen.
Find someone else to blame the loss of your jewels on,
that look said.

Dolmain stared at her in dismay. In his innocence, he thought his plan of sending the ladies out together had succeeded admirably. It was unfortunate about the little brooch
—
a strange coincidence, but Helen had gone a mile out of her way to make clear Caro had not taken it. He would quiz Helen more thoroughly when they were alone. It was demmed odd that Caro had been present both times.... She would hardly dare to cadge another piece of jewelry. Surely she had not taken the necklace? But then, why did she refuse to accompany them? “Your escort will no longer be necessary,” she had said last night. Was the hussy leading him a merry chase?

“I am sorry to hear it,” he said, forcing himself to maintain civility. “Go and get your bonnet, Helen. We have taken enough of Lady Winbourne’s time.”

Helen hopped up with the greatest alacrity. She thanked Lady Winbourne effusively for a lovely afternoon, and even remembered to nod to Georgiana and Newton before leaving.

When they had gone, Caroline said, “What do you make of that, Georgie?”

“The chit is a conning rogue,” Georgiana replied. “She as well as said she thinks you took the necklace. I know you noticed it, for your face froze like ice when she said, ‘Lady Winbourne did not steal it this time,’ or practically said it.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Newton objected. “Said as plain as day Caro didn’t take it. You wasn’t listening, Georgie.”

“I was listening with my heart,” Georgie replied. “That girl dislikes you, Caro. What is more, she fears you.”

“With good reason.”

Newt’s jaw dropped an inch. “You never mean you did steal the trumpery thing!”

“Of course not! She has it herself, hidden away somewhere. And I mean to find out what she is up to. She nearly leapt down my throat when I asked if she was sure she had not left the brooch home. She assured me that Miss Blanchard had not taken it. Now, that is odd, you must own, to go defending the woman when no one had accused her, or even mentioned her name.”

“Don’t forget Bernard,” Newton said. “It is pretty clear the pair of them are preying on poor little Helen.”

Georgiana and Caro exchanged a look that spoke volumes.

* * *

Lady Helen drove home with her papa while the groom took the other carriage to the stable.

Dolmain was reluctant to cast aspersions on Caro, even indirectly, but it was beginning to seem the charmer was nothing else but a conniving thief, using her beauty to disarm suspicion. He felt a deep aching need when he remembered their drive to the Hound and Hind.

“When you were walking, Helen, what did you do with your reticule? Which hand did you hold it in?” he asked.

“In my left hand, as I always do. Mr. Newton was on my right side. I know you like Lady Winbourne, Papa, but I hope you will not make me go out with her again. I had a horrid time.”

“Did anything else unpleasant occur, other than losing the brooch?” he asked, instantly wary.

“She had something horrid to say about every bonnet I tried on. Do you know, Papa, I just remembered that when I was trying on bonnets at Lanctot’s, I set my reticule on the counter beside Lady Winbourne. But I am sure she would not steal
—
would she?” She turned her innocent eyes on him.

“No, of course not,” he said mechanically. But who else could have taken it? It was just as well Lady Winbourne had refused his invitation that evening. He could not go on seeing her. He was too easily led into folly by her. If she was innocent, he had done what he could to defend her name; and if she was guilty, then he had been very foolish to lift a finger in her defense. And a complete ass to fall in love with her. His heart felt like a ton of lead in his chest.

He fell into a morose mood for the remainder of the drive home, gazing out the carriage window. In an effort to stifle the pain of Caro’s treachery, he tried to think of how he could solve this mess, once and for all. He had put out word to all jewelers to call Bow Street if anyone tried to sell the necklace. He had sent word out on the grapevine that there was a reward of ten thousand pounds if it ended up at Stop Hole Abbey, where stolen jewels were fenced. The necklace was worth three times that, to say nothing of the emotional value.

He did not even glance at Helen again, or notice the triumphant smile lifting her lips, as she slid her little gloved hand trustingly into his.