Damsel in Distress

by Joan Smith

  Caroline forced herself to answer in kind. “You are too ridiculous. I have not had an offer from either one of them.”

  “So standing up twice with Alton was a ploy to bring Dolmain up to scratch! You are up to all the rigs, Caro.”

  She darted off before Caroline could deny this charge. Newton came wandering forward, looking remarkably like a badger walking on his hind legs and wearing a red wig.

  “No word from Georgie?” he asked, sitting beside her.

  “No, but I should like to leave now.”

  “Haven’t had a dance with Lady Helen yet. Daresay her card is full by now. Meant to tell her I am writing a poem.”

  This unlikely statement diverted Caro. “You, writing a poem? Pray, what is it about, Newt?”

  “King Arthur,” he replied so promptly that she knew he was actually trying his hand at poesy. “Mean to say, an epic. Can’t write an epic about mad old King George, nor Prinny. Has to be heroic or about a great action achieved by a hero. Read it in Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary. Comte Edouard is already doing the revolution in France. King Arthur has King Louis beat all hollow, the round table and knights and all.”

  “To be sure. Very lively stuff.”

  “Just give me a minute. If Helen’s card is full, I shall go with you and get at the epic. I’ll just mention my epic poem to her, see what she has to say.”

  He was back in five minutes. “Called for the rig,” he said. “Her card is full. Might have known. She thought the epic a dandy idea. Said something about Le Morte d’Arthur. Sounds French. King Arthur wasn’t a Frenchie, was he?”

  “No. I believe some Frenchman wrote a poem about him.”

  “You mean it’s already been done!” he exclaimed.

  “Not recently. You could update it. Shall we go now?”

  “Already been done, eh?” he said, his outrage dwindling to a smile. “That simplifies things. I’ll have a look at this Morte d’Arthur to refresh my memory. I know there is a round table in there somewhere.”

  Caroline was just looking for her hostess when Lady Marlborough came hastening forward, a frown on her kindly face. “A note from Lady Georgiana, Caroline. I hope it is not bad news.”

  Caroline took it and scanned it. “She has taken ill. She should not have eaten that lobster, but she does love it so. I had best go home. A lovely ball, Lady Marlborough.”

  “Thank you. My best to Lady Georgiana. I shall tell Dolmain you left. He will be sorry he missed a dance with you.”

  “Thank you,” Caroline said weakly, and escaped.

  The carriage rattled along for a few blocks. Newton stuck his head out the window and said, “He’s following you again.”

  “Who is?”

  “Mr. Smith. He has changed one horse and the carriage to try to fool us. I would recognize that bay with the white stockings anywhere. I thought Dolmain called off his man.”

  “It seems he has called him back on,” Caro said grimly. There was no deceiving Newt where horses were concerned. All her vague regrets hardened to anger. “I knew he did not trust me. Helen got to work on her papa as soon as they left Berkeley Square this afternoon. She convinced him I stole that brooch.”

  “If she convinced him, then someone convinced her.”

  “She is not the innocent you take her for, Newt. She is as skilled as a professional actress. All that childish display of pitching herself into Papa’s arms in tears, sitting at his feet like a puppy, and all the while she was a scheming sneak.”

  Yet Dolmain had seemed friendly when he first arrived at Marlborough’s ball. It was only after she accused Helen of stealing her own jewelry that he stiffened up. Perhaps she should not have done it. A father was bound to stick up for his own flesh and blood. But she still felt in her bones that Lady Helen was behind the whole affair. And furthermore, Dolmain had already set his man to follow her when he was flattering her, telling her she was the fairest of them all. That carriage must have followed her from Berkeley Square. She had not told Dolmain where she meant to go this evening.

  “Can you not have John Groom speed the team up? I hope Crumm has discovered something interesting.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Crumm was back on duty at the door when Caroline and Newton arrived at Berkeley Square.

  “What is it, Crumm? What did you learn?” she asked eagerly, before she had crossed the threshold.

  “Ye’d best have a glass of wine, your ladyship.”

  “Good God, what is it?” she exclaimed, her eyes wide in fear. It was not like Crumm to make a mountain of a molehill.

  “I’ll get the wine,” Newton said, and led her into the saloon, where Georgie was sitting, pale and shaken.

  “You’ve heard?” Georgie asked.

  Crumm rushed forward to prevent Lady Georgiana from stealing his thunder. “That Miss Blanchard mort you asked me to keep an eye out for—she’s been done.”

  “Done what?” Caroline asked in confusion.

  “Done in,” Newt translated. “Dead. Ain’t that it, Crumm?”

  “It is, sir.” In the excitement of the moment Crumm forgot himself and poured three glasses of wine. Georgie already held a glass of Madeira. He took a sip before commencing his tale.

  Caroline felt a strange whistling sound in her ears. Miss Blanchard was dead, her chief suspect murdered. How was anything to be solved without her to follow or question?

  “How did it happen? Who did it?” she asked.

  Crumm shook his head in apology. “There was no getting a peep at the cove at all, milady. I was stationed at the corner in Ned Stork’s plain black rattler with one eye on the front door of the ken and one on the road.”

  “He means he was in a hackney, keeping an eye on the house,” Newt interpolated.

  Crumm continued, “Aye, that’s it. The door opened at half past nine. The malkin you described to me come out, leading a dog on a leash—to do his nightly business, I figured. Odd they would choose a lady for the job, but there was a footman with her. They headed south, toward Piccadilly. At the corner, she sent the lad back. I went along after her on foot, with the rattler and prads coming behind me. If she got into a rig, I’d need the rattler to follow her. She looked behind her, nervous-like, but not so frightened she turned tail and went home. I lost sight of her when she turned the corner. Before I reached her, I heard the shot. I went flying for’ard, but there was neither man nor boy to be seen, only the old lady laying in the road, and a rig flying away like old Nick was after him.

  “Not knowing for sure the shot came from the rig, I let the dog go, thinking he’d have the wits to go after whoever done it. The unnatural animal just set there, letting out a mighty howling. I stopped to see if I could get a word out of her, but she was past it. I called for Ned and hopped into the rattler. We chased t’other rig, but it got away from us. It turned right at Tiburn Lane, heading out of town. There was nothing to tell it from a hundred other rattlers in town.”

  Newt, who had been listening with complete absorption, said, “Did you notice the nags?”

  “Only that they was darkish, big fellows. One had a blaze on the forehead, like half the prads in England.”

  Georgie said, “I wonder if Miss Blanchard was just walking the dog, or was she meeting someone. Her sending the footman back looks as if she wished to be alone, does it not?”

  “Did you just leave Miss Blanchard lying in the road, dead?” Caroline asked Crumm.

  “Nay, I have more respect for a corpse. I didn’t want her coming back to haunt me. I wrote up a note giving Blanchard’s name and address and all, and had it delivered to Bow Street by a linkboy. A Runner will be sent off to Curzon Street. But I am getting ahead of myself. Before I left the scene, there was already a footman scuttling out of the house nearest to the body. She’ll be took care of prompt-like, never fear.”

  A frisson scuttled up Caroline’s spine to think of the poor woman lying on the cold ground. “God only knows how long it will take Bow Street to handle the matter. We shoul
d notify the servants at Dolmain’s house at once,” she said. “They must be worrying that Miss Blanchard has not returned. Helen will be dreadfully upset,” she said, speaking distractedly.

  Newton had a different worry. “Let us hope no one saw you, Crumm, or they’ll report that you killed her.”

  Crumm spared him a tolerant glance. “What they saw, if they saw anything in the dark, was an elderly country gent in a fustian coat, with white hair pulled into a tail. I didn’t come down in the last rain. I’ve been on the earth a few years.”

  Georgiana said, “I scarcely recognized Crumm myself when he came in. He gave me quite a start.”

  “I never left the house all evening, as her ladyship can testify,” Crumm added, with a commanding look at Georgiana.

  Georgie felt again that excitement that sent her heart racing. But when she spoke, she said calmly, “Quite right, Crumm—but I hope I am not obliged to repeat that plumper under oath. I cannot like the thought of perjuring myself.”

  “You soon get used to it,” he assured her. “Nay, don’t faint, your ladyship. They’ll take a gentry mort’s word for it without using the oath book.”

  Caroline and Newt asked Crumm a dozen questions, but no new information was forthcoming. The next matter was: What should they do about it? The murder had been reported to Bow Street, who would notify Curzon Street. The servants there would see that Dolmain was informed. There was nothing more they could do except wait and worry—especially worry.

  It now seemed clear that Miss Blanchard was involved with some dangerous criminals, and it looked very much as if she had managed to involve Lady Helen as well. It was no longer just a matter of stealing. Now Helen would have to tell what she knew.

  “You have certainly done your job well, Crumm,” Caro said.

  “That ain’t the whole of it,” Crumm said, with a wise look that promised trouble.

  “Good Lord, there’s more?” Newt said in a choked voice.

  Crumm’s hand went into his pocket and came out. He held his closed fist out to Caroline and slowly opened the fingers to reveal the missing emerald brooch. “I did a quick search when I seen she was dead, thinking there might be a note in her pocket, which there weren’t, nor in her reticule either. I never touched the guinea and two shillings and three pennies, though it wouldn’t surprise me much if the Runner pockets them. I just took this set o’ sparklers, which was wrapped up in a handkerchee. I have the handkerchee as well,” he said, and fished it out of his other pocket. It was a delicate linen square, edged in ecru lace, an exact replica of the one Lady Helen had held when she announced the brooch was missing.

  Caroline was overcome with a feeling of nausea. “So Helen did give the brooch to Miss Blanchard,” she said.

  “Rubbish!” Newt replied angrily. “Proves Blanchard stole it out of her reticule. That’s Lady Helen’s handkerchief.”

  “Helen said she had the brooch when she left home. She made a point of saying Miss Blanchard had not stolen it.”

  Shoved to the corner, Newton said, “That’s as may be, but there must be a good reason for it.”

  Georgie cleared her throat and said in a nervous voice, “You had best hide the brooch, Caro. There is not much point my pretending Crumm was here all evening if Bow Street should come pouncing in and find the stolen brooch in his possession.”

  Caro looked alarmed and handed it back to Crumm. Crumm handed it to Newt, who smiled gently. “I’ll give it back to her,” he said. “Bound to soften her up, a memento of her mama.”

  “Don’t be a fool, man!” Crumm said, and snatched the brooch back. “Who will believe you didn’t snaffle it when you’re found in possession?”

  “It should be returned, though,” Caroline said. She wished Crumm had left it in Miss Blanchard’s pocket. That would have exonerated her in the second theft at least. In any case, his finding it on Miss Blanchard was proof of her involvement. She could not be the moving force, though, or she would not now be dead. She was a pawn. The king was still at large.

  “Do you think it possible Miss Blanchard was shot by an ordinary robber, Crumm?” she asked.

  “I never seen a prigger yet that left his victim’s purse in his pocket—to say nothing of the green sparklers. The mort had a meeting planned, or why did she send the footman off?”

  “Crumm is right, Caro,” Georgie said. “She might have been meeting the man to give him the brooch.”

  “That makes sense. If only we knew who he is. Bernard?”

  “Would Miss Blanchard’s cousin murder her?” Georgie said.

  “If he is her cousin,” Newt said.

  “I knew a jarkman as killed his own pa,” Crumm announced. “He was up for being a vagrant. Figured the judge might go easy on a orphan.”

  “This is impossible!” Caroline said. “There are too many mysteries. I have half a mind to tell Dolmain the whole.” But when she remembered his cold stare and the odious way he had called her madam, she shrank from confronting him. He would think she had stolen the brooch—and probably killed Miss Blanchard into the bargain, since she had left the ball early.

  “What are you going to do about the brooch?” Georgie asked.

  Four pairs of eyes turned to the brooch, which had found its way to the sofa table, where it gleamed malignly.

  “Thing to do,” Newt said, “take it back.”

  “Back where?” Georgie asked.

  “Where Blanchard was shot. Let Bow Street find it.”

  Caro caught the gleam of interest in Crumm’s criminal eye and said, “Someone will find it and put it in his pocket. I want to make sure that Dolmain receives it.”

  “Send it to him,” Crumm said.

  “Anonymously, you mean.”

  “Eh? I mean in a plain wrapper with no name, milady.”

  “He would recognize my servants’ livery.”

  “Thing to do,” Crumm said, “I’ll have one of my friends drop it on his doorstep, give the knocker a rap, and run. The household is bound to be up with such wicked goings-on.”

  Caro glanced at the longcase clock in the corner. It was nearly midnight. Dolmain should be home from the ball by now.

  “Very well, Crumm, do it at once. And make sure the brooch is wrapped in Lady Helen’s handkerchief. Oh, and you had best slip out the back door, for I am being followed again. How long will it take to find one of your ... er, friends?”

  A broad grin split Crumm’s face, giving him the air of a gargoyle. “Happens Ned Stork is in the kitchen now, milady. We was going to go out for a bit of a celebration after you got home. Nay, now, don’t blanch and tremble so, madam. No one got a look at Ned tonight. Why, Townshend hisself could walk into that kitchen and not blink an eye. Ned ain’t known as a murderer or a thief. He just lends a cove a rattler and prads upon occasion. Nothing illegal in that, eh?”

  “To be sure, quite unexceptionable,” she said in a choked voice. She suspected what the carriage and horses were used for, and that Ned Stork took a share of the illicit proceeds.

  Crumm wrapped the brooch carefully in the handkerchief. “I will come home before we go out to celebrate, to let you know that all went well, milady. If my services are not further required, I’ll leave ye now—via the back door.”

  “Thank you, Crumm.”

  He left, and the others exchanged a stricken look.

  “Looks like it is going to be a long night,” Newt said, reaching for the wine bottle.

  In half an hour Crumm returned to announce that the plan had gone off without a hitch, as his plans always did. Ned had done exactly as he had been told. After leaving the brooch in the handkerchief on the doorstep, he had used the knocker, then darted behind the yews to see that the door was answered.

  When the butler came out, Dolmain was not a pace behind him. The butler had picked up the handkerchief and handed it to Dolmain. In their surprise, they had not even bothered to look into the street to see who had left it. Ned Stork had told Crumm that his lordship looked “stricken all of
a heap when he opened the handkerchee and spotted the sparklers.”

  Caroline was so relieved, she gave Crumm twice his usual bonus. He left with his pockets jingling and a smile on his vast, misshapen face. The excitement was over for the night.

  Newt said, “I will call early in the morning. I am on nettles to learn what Dolmain has to say now.”

  “And Lady Helen, too,” Caroline added, but she still regretted that Crumm had not left the brooch in Miss Blanchard’s pocket in the first place.

  As she lay in bed with one lamp burning low, she smiled ruefully at Julian’s portrait. He would have enjoyed this evening. It was quite in his style, except that he would have gone to spy on Miss Blanchard himself, and he would have known enough to leave the brooch where it was.

  Then she wondered what Lord Dolmain would say tomorrow. Would he come full of apologies, or would he wear his stiff face, thinking she had stolen the brooch and returned it out of fear? Perhaps he would not come—and that would be the worst of all. Sleep was a long time coming. Had she known what he would have to say when he did call, she would probably not have slept at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Caroline knew Dolmain usually went to the Horse Guards early in the morning, due to some crisis brewing there. With this in mind, she was in the breakfast parlor at eight-thirty the next day, feeling like a limp dishrag. Her mirror told her she looked nearly as fatigued as she felt. A light touch of rouge gave the illusion of color to her wan cheeks, but did nothing to conceal the purple shadows under her eyes.

  At the expected sound of the door knocker, she tensed visibly. When Crumm appeared at the doorway, Dolmain was right behind him. He had not waited to be announced, but came pacing in with a distracted air about him. He stopped when he saw her looking so pale and vulnerable. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and carry her off to some safe place where neither of them would ever have to think of the necklace or scandal again, and instead he had the temerity to ask her to voluntarily pitch herself into the middle of his troubles.