Damsel in Distress (21 page)

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.

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.

“For my cousins to go on living in,” she had said, with
a doleful sigh. “They are not so fortunate as I,
mon cher.
I have you. I want to share my joy with them.”

But he had learned the Drouins with whom she had been living were no kin to her. It had been a plot to get a thousand pounds from him, while painting herself as Lady Bountiful. She had bought the house; she proudly showed him the ownership papers. Two years later, she had sold it to a boot-maker
—
or so she said. He had never cared enough to look into it. It was possible she had kept it for a trysting spot with her lovers. Bellefeuille might know of it....

Helen claimed French émigrés still lived there. How had she learned about the house? He had never told her exactly where Marie lived before he married her. He hadn’t mentioned Marie at all, except when Helen asked a direct question, yet she knew the house. Lady Milchamp, perhaps, had pointed it out to her. Of course Helen would go to view this shrine. Had she met Bellefeuille there?

It was not in Marie’s nature to give anything away, including her love. She had a great respect for property. She had probably not sold the house at all, but rented it to some French friends. In her will, she had left what she possessed to Bellefeuille. He might now be the owner of the house. If so, it was the logical place to take Helen. As it was not far out of his way, Dolmain decided to investigate. He had made good time; he could spare a few minutes.

He felt a sense of revulsion when he rode past the familiar cottage, the scene of his youthful folly. Lights were lit in the downstairs parlor, which was strange, for the house had an air of long neglect. Even by moonlight he could see the paint on the door and around the windows had weathered and peeled. The roof sagged, the garden was overgrown. Someone was making use of the house for only a short while, then, a sort of emergency stop. A tingle whispered up his spine.

He rode around the corner, looking for a place to tether his mount. There were tethering posts at the Town Hall. He dismounted and tied his reins to the post, unfastened the saddlebag holding the money and took it with him. It would be disastrous to lose the ransom money.

He walked swiftly back around the corner to the cottage. The shades were drawn in the parlor, so he went around to the back to see if any lamps burned there. As he turned the corner, he saw the ladder leaning against the house, and stopped dead. What could this mean? A derelict cottage was not the sort of house thieves burgled. Had he stumbled into an elopement? He secreted the saddlebag in the bushes, went to the ladder, looked all around, and put his foot on the bottom rung.

When Newton and Ankel heard his approach, they feared deVere had turned suspicious and come out to check. Their first instinct had been self-preservation. They darted behind the tangled hedge that separated the house from its neighbor. Once they were safe, common sense returned.

“We can’t let him crawl up there. He might harm Caro,” Newt whispered.

“Is it the bleater that stole her ladyship?” Ankel whispered back.

“Could be. It’s tall enough. Whoever it is, he’s up to no good. Thing to do, we
’
ll let him get well up the ladder, then yank it out from under him.”

“He
’
ll bust a leg. Hee hee. That’ll slow down his chase of the ladies. Best get moving. He’s scampering up pretty fast.”

What had impelled Dolmain to increase his speed was the sound of voices coming from the open window. Helen’s voice! His heart pounded in mingled fear and joy.

“You’re lying!” Helen said. “I’m not going with you. You’re not my mother.”

Dolmain clamped his hands over the window ledge, just as Ankel and Newton jerked the ladder out from under him. He managed to brace his foot against the wall until he could heave himself onto the window ledge. He leapt into the room, staring wildly at the incredible scene before him.

Fatigue, fear, anger, and confusion clouded his mind. He saw Marie, come back from the dead, trying to steal Helen from him. It was his worst nightmare. She cared nothing for Helen, but she often used her as a pawn, threatening to lure her away. That wreath of vines in her hair, the white rolled shawl he had seen scores of times in the portrait
—
she had not drowned at Weymouth after all. It had been a trick. Marie’s body had scarcely been recognizable after two days in the water. It was Bellefeuille who identified her by her clothing. Bellefeuille had found some woman who resembled Marie....

When he spoke, his voice betrayed no doubt or hesitation. “Drop that gun, Marie, or I will
—
”

The wreathed head turned to face him, and the nightmare turned to madness. Caro! Oh God, it was Caro who had stolen the diamonds
—
and kidnapped his daughter. He, blinded by love again, had taken her into his complete confidence, into his heart. He felt as if a mountain had fallen on him.

“Dolmain! Thank God you are here!” the vision said, and rushed to him with her arms open in welcome.

He pushed her off with a stiff arm and a stern face. Did she take him for a complete idiot? He spoke in the hollow voice of despair. “So it was you, all the time. I will see you hang from the gibbet for this, Lady Winbourne.”

Caro stared in disbelief, beyond words.

Helen pitched herself into his arms. “Oh, Papa, she said the worst things! She said Mama did not love us, that she ran away and left us.”

“You told my daughter that!” he exclaimed.

“She refused to come with me, Dolmain. And I wish you will lower your voice, for Bellefeuille is downstairs.” She heard a noise outside the door. “Hush! Oh God, he is coming!”

Bellefeuille had heard the ladder falling, seen it lying on the ground, and feared someone had come to rescue Helen. He darted quickly upstairs to take her away. The first indication of his approach was a running patter outside the door, then at once the door was thrown open and he entered, holding a pistol. A sneering smile disfigured his face as he glanced from Helen to Dolmain, scarcely noticing Caroline.