by Joan Smith
“How long does it take to dash off a sonnet?” Dolmain asked.
“He is writing a tragic epic poem on the revolution,” Helen replied. “It takes years of research.”
“A poet, eh?” Newton said, and stored up this nugget. He might turn his hand to scribbling up a poem, if that was what Lady Helen liked. And it would not take him two decades either.
When he expressed interest, Lady Helen condescended to inform him that the comte’s epic was being written in the heroic style with rhymed couplets.
“I should like to read it, by Jove.”
“It is in French, Mr. Newton,” Helen said with a lift of her eyebrow. “Vous ne parlez pas français, je crois?”
“Eh? Daresay someone will translate it, if it is any good. They translated Homer and all those other foreigners.”
“Good? It is superb. I have read it. I am the comte’s sponsor. He will dedicate his epic to me.”
“A good-looker, is he?” Newt asked.
“His face is ugly and his back is humped. It is his brain that is beautiful.”
Having no luck with the lady, he turned his attention to the lobster patties instead and snabbled down half a dozen.
The evening was going so poorly that when Lady Helen announced she felt a migraine coming on, Caroline suggested they all leave. Caro and Dolmain left in his carriage while Newton had the ladies driven to Curzon Street.
“The evening is still young. Do you want to go to Addie’s for an hour or so?” Dolmain asked.
“No, thank you, I would like to go home, but if you want to play faro, you can go on after you let me off.”
“I do not particularly want to play faro,” he said through thin lips. “My hope was to provide some entertainment for you this evening. I have not seen any smiles so far.”
To cover the true cause of her chagrin, she replied, “I take no pleasure in being snubbed by a schoolroom chit. If you hope to see Lady Helen make a suitable match, I suggest you teach her some manners.”
“She is not usually rude. I don’t know what ailed her this evening.”
“Perhaps she shares the common misconception that I stole her necklace.”
“I doubt it. And by the by, the necklace is not hers, it is mine, entailed on the estate. Caro, let us take a spin to settle your nerves.”
In other words, he planned to take her to the infamous Hound and Hind again. Such a swell of fury rose up in her that she could no longer hold her tongue. “Why should she not think it, when you believe I am a thief? You had me followed, Lord Dolmain. Don’t trouble to deny it. The carriage that was dogging me yesterday reported back to your house.”
To his credit, he fought down the urge to deny it. “That was before I—we—before I knew you were innocent.”
“You let me believe you were trying to draw the man out by that drive out the Chelsea Road last night. You knew all the time who he was. You lied to me. It was just an excuse to take me to that horrid place, the Hound and Hind.”
“It is not a horrid place. Everyone goes there. It is perfectly discreet.”
“Yes, discreet for men and their mistresses. If we had been seen, you know what people would have thought.”
“I just wanted to be alone with you for a little while. I prevaricated because I felt badly about having hired Smith. I made the arrangement after visiting Lady Castlereagh that first morning. And no, I did not tell her I was doing it. There seemed some evidence that you—”
She shot him a baleful glare.
“Well, you were the only one who was actually sitting with Helen on that settee in the corner, just minutes before the diamonds disappeared. What was I to think? I called the man off last night when he reported to me.”
“Kind of you!”
“So that is what has been bothering you all evening?”
“Yes, when a person I consider a friend sets a spy to dog my tail, I take it amiss. In my opinion, you would be better advised to set your spy to watching Pierre Bernard.”
“How could he have taken it? He was not at the ball.”
Caroline could think of no reply to this, so she resorted to a stony silence. She was still sulking when the carriage reached Berkeley Square. He accompanied her to her door.
“I am sorry the evening was not more enjoyable,” he said. “Helen will apologize tomorrow. And I apologize now.”
She gave one short, defiant look at him. “You have done your duty, Lord Dolmain. No one cut me dead this evening. I have not received any notes asking me to please stay away from future parties. In fact, Lady Jersey condescended to visit me this afternoon, so I assume that even Almack’s has forgiven me. Your escort will no longer be necessary.”
His eyes narrowed to angry slits, and his heart pounded hard. “Am I being given my congé, Lady Winbourne, now that I am of no further use to you?”
“If you choose to take it that way ...”
“I don’t. I refuse to believe you could be so cunning and underhanded and treacherous as to make love to me, only to achieve your own selfish ends. Tell me that is not what last night was all about.”
She looked at him, with her mouth open in shock. He was accusing her of what he had done himself. “You dare to say that to me!” she exclaimed.
His tense face relaxed. An audible sigh of relief echoed on the air. “Forgive me that unconscionable piece of impertinence, if you can, Caro,” he said, and lifted her hand to his lips. “You gave me quite a fright, my girl. I shall do myself the honor of calling on you again soon, after you have recovered from your little fit of temper. Until then, good evening, and thank you for ... last night.”
He bowed and strode back to his carriage. Caroline went into the house, nodded to Crumm, and went straight up to her bedchamber. Georgiana had already retired. Caro sat on the side of the bed, reliving those last moments before Dolmain departed.
He had seemed genuinely concerned, and wonderfully worried at the possibility that she did not care for him. Was it possible she was mistaken, that he truly cared for her? Suspicion did point to her; there was no denying that. Was it so bad that he had hired a man to follow her? He had called off the man now, and apologized.
Her anger melted away. But as she lay in bed, she knew that nothing could be settled until the necklace was found. Society had been coerced into pretending to believe her innocent, but Lady Helen’s rudeness had raised doubts again. The notion had been growing that Helen had stolen her own necklace, hidden it somewhere, and told her papa it was stolen, but the girl’s cold behavior that evening suggested that she thought Caroline had it. What other reason could Helen have for being cold and rude to her? The girl would have been acting guilty if she had taken it herself. No, someone else had it, and she had to find it.
Chapter Eleven
Caroline was tempted to refuse Lady Helen’s invitation that arrived the next morning, for she sensed that Dolmain had forced her to write it. Helen apologized for her fit of the sulks the evening before, blaming it on her migraine. She asked if Lady Winbourne would do her the honor of accompanying her on a drive that afternoon.
Curiosity and a hope to learn more about Pierre Bernard inclined Caroline to accept. She suspected Dolmain was trying to confirm in the public eye that she was on intimate terms with his family, and was pleased with him. When Newton arrived and expressed the keenest interest in the trip, she wrote back accepting the offer.
Dolmain’s stately crested city carriage duly arrived at the door at three—his best carriage. Was this a compliment to her, or to his daughter? Lady Helen did not condescend to alight, but sent her footman to summon Lady Winbourne, who was highly incensed at this piece of impertinence.
“Rag-mannered! I am tempted to say I have changed my mind,” said Caroline, her eyes flashing dangerously.
Newt’s reply was to hand her her bonnet. “Cutting up your nose to spite your face. You might discover something. I could not get word one out of her last night.”
Caroline arranged her fashionable high po
ke bonnet with a cascade of curled feathers falling over the brim and said, “If she says one rude thing, I shall give her a piece of my mind.”
“She won’t,” Newton assured her, on what evidence, even Caro could not imagine. As they left the house, he said, “There is a day for you. Not a sky in the clouds.”
Glancing up, she saw that he had inadvertently given a correct description. London was blanketed by a solid gray cloud with no patch of blue visible.
It was soon clear that Dolmain had spoken severely to his daughter. Helen smiled and offered her hand, covered in a dainty blue kid glove, to them both.
“It is very kind of you to join me, Lady Winbourne,” she said, while her sharp eyes trotted from Caroline’s stylish bonnet to her equally elegant violet walking suit. “I thought we might visit Bond Street. Where did you buy that bonnet? It has a French look to it.”
“At Madame Lanctot’s, on Bond Street. I should be happy to accompany you.”
It was hardly an outing to suit Newt, but he said, “Lanctot’s it is.” He then steeled himself to peer at Lady Helen and said, “Yours is nice, too—your bonnet.”
She inclined her head gracefully. “Merci, Mr. Newton.”
“Pass doo toot.”
Conversation was stilted during the drive to Bond Street. Once the occupants descended to stroll along the street, the shop windows provided easier conversation. Lady Helen bought a painted muslin fan bearing a picture of the Ponte Vecchio. They stopped at Lanctot’s, where she tried on a dozen bonnets of a style much too sophisticated for her. Newton’s ingenuity was stretched to the limit to vary his compliments on them all, and Caroline’s to let the girl know they did not suit her, without sounding like a shrew. Lady Helen did not buy a bonnet, but it was not due to Caroline’s advice.
“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 Hele
n. 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.
