Damsel in Distress

by Joan Smith

  “I can take the rest with me,” he said, and wrapped a piece of plum cake up in a napkin. In her distraction, Caroline had not noticed what he was eating. “Just to keep up my strength,” he explained, when she eyed it askance. “The servant said a beefsteak would take fifteen minutes to cook.”

  “At least we know we are on the right track,” he said, when they were back in the flying carriage. “Pity we don’t have an address. Plenty of places to hide, even in Brighton.”

  “Dolmain might have some ideas.”

  But when Dolmain finally arrived at the Royal Crescent at one o’clock, he was in such a state, he hardly knew his name, much less where his daughter could be. He had driven his sporting carriage, which made better time than a traveling coach. Caroline felt a heavy ache in her heart to see him so anxious.

  His face was chalk white with the strain and worry. His expression did not improve when she outlined what she had learned, including that DeVere was the same man who had been at the Pantheon with Helen. Caro felt in some manner it was her fault, but when she apologized, he brushed her words aside.

  “This is my fault. You tried to tell me, but I refused to believe my daughter was capable of subterfuge. I had no right to ask you to put yourself in jeopardy for her sake. It is I who must apologize, Caro. I have not spent enough time with her. She has turned to these people in her loneliness.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. How should Helen be lonely, when she had the excitement of her debut? She could have been busy every minute if she had wanted to.”

  Caro wanted to ease his suffering, but this was not the time for false comfort. There was a job to do, so she damped down her compassion and said sternly, “Have you eaten yet today?”

  “I don’t know. Some coffee, I think ...” he said vaguely.

  “We’ve not had a bite ourselves, barring a piece of plum cake,” Newt said. “We have ordered up a beefsteak.”

  “And you shall have some of it, too, while I tell you what we know,” Caroline said. “I fear it is not much,”‘ she added swiftly, when his eyes flew hopefully to hers.

  While waiting for lunch, she briefly outlined the recent events over a glass of wine. Dolmain listened closely.

  “Then it is clear she went of her own accord, and that she is somewhere in Brighton. I shall interrogate the servants in London about that message Helen smuggled out of the house, or perhaps write my butler asking him to do it. I wish I could be there myself. You have done an admirable job, Caro.”

  Her heart swelled at his praise. “Thank you, but the job is not done yet. Have you any idea where she could be in Brighton? Does Helen have special friends she might go to?”

  “Our friends are in London, with the Season beginning. In Brighton we stay at my house. We must look there, but I cannot believe she would take this man to my home.”

  “She might. She doesn’t know we know she has come to Brighton. Let us go,” Caro said, jumping up from the table.

  “I shall go,” he said, gently pushing her back onto her chair. “You shall have your breakfast.”

  She did not urge him to stay and eat. Of course he must continue looking for his daughter. She had no appetite herself, but nibbled at her peas and potatoes, which seemed to go down more easily than meat. Newt ate stolidly without speaking, which left her free to think.

  Helen had mentioned Brighton the day they went shopping. Her mama and papa met here. Dolmain had bought the house his wife had been living in for her, and later given it to the French émigrés. But what was the address? Dolmain was back before they left the table.

  “She is not there,” he said. “I keep the place open from April until October. The Lorimers will send word here if she comes. I cannot think it likely.”

  “Nor can I,” Caro said. “But the house where your wife used to live here in Brighton, do you remember the address?”

  His face closed up like a fist. “Bartholomew Avenue. The place was sold years ago. How do you come to know of it?”

  “Helen said you gave it to the French. They still use it.”

  “She is mistaken.”

  “But surely it is worth a look!”

  “There is something you must know about Helen,” he said grimly. “She lives in a dreamworld of her own devising. She imagines her mama and I lived some idyll of true love. That was far from being the case. When her mother ... left us, I saw no need to tell Helen the savage truth at such a young age. Marie ran off with a Frenchman when we were in Paris. I had been sent there on a job for the government. Her leaving was no surprise, to tell the truth.”

  “I am sorry,” Caro said.

  He brushed it aside. “Marie and I soon learned we did not suit. Our marriage was a hell. I was a young fool, marrying a lady I scarcely knew. I told Helen her mother had to return to France for patriotic reasons. When Marie died, I told my daughter I had word of her death in France, thinking that would be the end of it. Instead, she turned her mother into a martyr, a sort of cross between Saint Joan and Venus. Marie was pretty. Helen even set up a shrine to her. I did not give the house to the French. It was sold to a boot-maker. I had hoped that a strict upbringing would prevent Helen from developing certain traits she might have inherited from her mother. If I was determined to see no fault in her, that was the cause.”

  “I see.” Caro sat, stunned. Why had Helen told her such a plumper? Was she afraid Dolmain meant to saddle her with a stepmama? She must realize he had to marry to ensure an heir.

  Dolmain seemed eager to quit the subject. “What was it the servant at Hayward’s Heath said about Helen mentioning me?”

  “She said something about her mama and papa. As Helen was speaking French, Meg only caught the odd word.”

  “It seems clear the notion behind this is to extract money from me for her safe return. The kidnapper—I will call him that, for perverting a child’s mind is another way of stealing her from her parent—the kidnapper will write to me in London demanding payment. I should not have come here.”

  “This is where deVere was bringing Helen.”

  “There isn’t time to ransack every house and barn and stable until we find her. The note will go to my London house. He has colleagues there. I must return to London at once. I shall interrogate the servants about that message Helen sent and speak to my banker about assembling the money as well.”

  Caro had to bite her lip to keep from speaking. He was too fagged for another trip. He should rest and eat something.

  “Yes, you must go, of course. Newt and I shall stay here and try to discover where she is.”

  “Don’t take any more chances,” he said.

  He rose immediately. She accompanied him to the door to have a moment alone with him. “Your aunt and Georgie are going to Marine Parade,” she said. “Shall I join them there?”

  He rubbed his brow. “Of course. I should have asked you to. My mind is so full of this ... torment.” He seized her two hands and squeezed them tightly. “I do not believe Helen is the conniving creature this stunt suggests. Someone is exploiting her idolization of Marie. As I think over the past, I realize it was shortly after Miss Blanchard came to us that Helen set up that shrine in her bedchamber. I wonder whether Miss Blanchard was not preying on her weakness, encouraging her in this folly. I should have told Helen the truth. I wanted to protect her from the sordid facts.”

  “One worry at a time, Dolmain. Find her, then give both Helen and yourself a good scold for past indiscretions.”

  “I shall go, but first you must promise me you will not do anything dangerous. Promise me, Caro. I could not bear it if anything happened to you.”

  The naked fear in his eyes struck her deeply. “I promise,” she said. But it was not a promise she felt obliged to keep. His expression constituted emotional coercion. “Now, go.”

  He did not reply or say good-bye, but just gazed at her a moment, as if storing up this image of sanity, then he turned and strode quickly out of the hotel.

  After breakfast, Newt decided t
o scour Brighton, looking for Helen. Caroline opted to go to Dolmain’s house. She did not think deVere would let Helen roam the streets. He would keep her confined by either force or trickery.

  Lady Milchamp and Georgiana had arrived and were having tea when Caroline reached Marine Parade. Dolmain’s house was a handsome mansion, less formal than Dolmain House in London. Some ancestor, perhaps influenced by the Prince Regent’s pavilion, had done the saloon up in lacquered furnishings and other tokens of chinoiserie. Lady Milchamp looked up from her teacup and asked, “Have you found her, Lady Winbourne?”

  “No, ma’am, but I have spoken to Dolmain.” She explained that he had returned to London in expectation of receiving a ransom note, and to question the servants.

  “I knew from the first time I laid eyes on her that Marie-Hélène would be the ruination of Dolmain one way or the other,” Lady Milchamp declared. “She was monstrously pretty, of course, but five years older than Dolmain, and sly. That is how Helen comes by her deceitful nature. I never thought Marie would so forget herself as to run off with a penniless fellow. Mind you, she took plenty of jewelry with her.”

  Caroline was interested to learn what she could of Lady Dolmain—strange no one ever called her that. It was as if the family wanted to deny the relationship. She understood now why Dolmain seldom spoke of his wife. It was not sorrow at a love lost, but regret and shame at his own folly. Perhaps that was why he was reluctant to marry again, especially for love.

  “How did she die, Lady Milchamp?” she asked.

  “She drowned at Weymouth. She and her fellow ran off to Paris, but when the money ran out, she returned to London and tried to patch things up with Dolmain. Of course, he would not have her back. She did not ask for a divorce, and he was not eager for one because of the damage the scandal would do to Helen’s chances. He paid her a handsome allowance to keep out of London and away from Elmhurst. She settled in Weymouth with her fancy man, calling herself Madame Bellefeuille, her so-called husband’s name. They got caught in a storm during a yachting party. Bellefeuille made it to shore, but Marie could not swim. The solicitor who was handling matters notified Dolmain of her death as Bellefeuille could not afford the funeral. Bellefeuille had the gall to ask Dolmain to continue the allowance. Can you beat that for brass? He threatened to tell the world the whole story. Dolmain told him to go to the devil. Marie is buried in Weymouth.”

  “He never told Helen any of this?” Caroline asked.

  “No, my dear. He told her he had had word from France of Marie’s death. Only the family knows the truth. We let it out that Marie had died. People were too kind to ask for details, and of course, interest in her had dwindled by then. It was five years ago that she died. A blessing really, for of course, Dolmain must make another match to provide an heir. He thought Lady Mary Swann might do, but that did not come off.”

  “Could Bellefeuille be the man behind this scheme?” Caroline asked.

  “I shouldn’t be the least surprised. He pestered Dolmain for money for a year or so. Dolmain held fast. He can be stubborn as a mule when he gets his back up. I have no idea what happened to Bellefeuille.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I heard he was a handsome rascal. Marie was susceptible to a handsome face. He was tall, distinguished-looking.”

  “What age would he be now?”

  “In his forties. Why do you ask, Lady Winbourne?”

  “Lord deVere is a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman with silver at his temples.”

  “It could be him!” Lady Milchamp exclaimed.

  “That would explain why Helen was chosen for this wretched scheme. She is only a means of screwing money out of Dolmain. We must tell him your idea, Lady Winbourne.”

  “It is not much help, but at least Dolmain knows what Bellefeuille looks like, and might know his habits. Where he might have Helen hidden, I mean. I shall notify him.”

  “Do that, dear. I must lie down, for I am rattled to pieces. You look burned to the socket as well, Lady Georgiana.”

  Lady Milchamp left and Caro wrote the note to Dolmain.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Georgie asked, when she had dispatched the note.

  “Waiting is the ladies’ job, and no easy one. Oh, here is Newt!” she exclaimed, as he came pouncing in, big with news. Both ladies looked at him expectantly. “What is it?” Caro demanded. “Have you found her?”

  “No, but I have got a lead!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What is it?” Caroline exclaimed.

  “You remember the lady who was talking to Helen and Blanchard at the Pantheon. The good-looking one, Renée?”

  “Yes, have you seen her? Was she with deVere?”

  “What would deVere be doing in a millinery shop? She was alone. Bought a bonnet, peacock blue, with a dangling feather.”

  “I hope you followed her when she came out.”

  “I did, and you’ll never guess where she went.”

  “To the cottage on Bartholomew Avenue,” Caroline said. It was the only address in Brighton Helen had ever mentioned.

  “If you already knew where they have her, why have we been wasting all this time?”

  “It was an educated guess.”

  Georgiana cleared her throat and said, “Did Dolmain not tell you that cottage had been sold to a boot-maker, Caro?”

  “Yes, but Helen said there were French émigrés living in it. Perhaps it has been sold again, or rented. I wager Bellefeuille was the Frenchie she was referring to.”

  “Bellefeuille?” Newt asked. “You mean Lord deVere.”

  Caro told him what she had learned from Lady Milchamp, and her idea that deVere was Monsieur Bellefeuille, trying a new trick to get money from Dolmain.

  “Thing to do,” Newt said, “send in a constable.”

  Georgie said, “I am not versed in law, but I do not believe the fellow could be charged with kidnapping when Helen went voluntarily. You might find her, but as Dolmain is not here to force her to return, it might only result in her darting off with Bellefeuille again. Do not count on her to help you get him arrested. She will swear he is her uncle, or some such thing. He might even induce her to marry him, giving him complete control of her and her fortune. She might be harmed physically,” she added discreetly.

  Newt’s face faded from pink to white as the dame spoke. “If the bleater harms a hair on her head, I shall shoot him.”

  “And end up on the gibbet,” Georgie said calmly.

  “We do not know for certain that Helen is there,” Caro said. “If they have her secreted somewhere else, we have only alerted them that we are on to them, and given them time to make other plans, or get away.”

  “For that matter,” Georgie said, “we do not actually know that the lady in the peacock bonnet is involved. There was no lady with deVere when he took Helen away from Reigate. I would not like to tip my hand until more is learned.”

  “You certainly know how to take the wind out of a fellow’s sails,” Newt said. “I am off to keep a watch on the house.”

  “No!” Caroline said, in the authoritative voice that told them she had resumed command of the operation. “They will spot you, Newt. You must wear a disguise. A fishmonger—the streets here in Brighton are full of them. In that way, you could actually go to the back door and ask if they wanted to buy some fish. You might learn something from the servants.”

  “Where would I get the fish?”

  “At the fish market,” Caroline replied. “Buy enough to fill a basket and set up as a fishmonger.”

  “They talk funny,” Newt said, frowning deeply.

  Caroline felt the blood singing through her veins. Why should she not be a fishmonger? Plenty of fishermen passed the job of selling along to their daughters, and without undue pride, she felt she could do a better job of acting than Newt.

  “Someone ought to be there now,” Georgie said.

  Newt was fidgeting about impatiently. “She is right,” he said. “The impor
tant thing is to see they don’t spirit Helen off. Dash it, we know she came to Brighton. She mentioned that very house. That is where the bounders have her.”

  “Yes, you are right,” Caro agreed. “It will take time to don a disguise and buy the fish. You guard the house, Newt, and I shall pose as a fishmonger. Stay outside to make sure I come out alive,” she added unthinkingly.

  “Now, Caro!” Georgie exclaimed. “It is all well and good to help Helen, but to be throwing yourself at kidnappers and worse—deVere might take advantage of you.”

  “He will not be attracted to a street urchin reeking of fish,” Caro said. “Now, where shall I begin? I must ask Lorimer to buy a basket of fish. I can beg or borrow a servants’ gown and roll it in the dust. A mobcap to cover my hair.”

  “I am off,” Newt said. “I mean to camp out in the Town Hall. One of the windows on the north side will give me a view of the house. If deVere leaves with Helen, I will be on him like a burr on a dog’s tail.”

  When he had left, Caro said to Georgie, “Would you mind writing to Dolmain to tell him what Newt has learned, and what we are— No, don’t tell him what we are doing. He will only worry. Just tell him that we believe deVere is Bellefeuille, and that the lady we saw at the Pantheon is here in Brighton.”

  “Very well. I shall send the note off at once.”

  Caroline went down to the kitchen to speak to Mrs. Lorimer. “Would you please have Lorimer run over to the fish market to buy a large basket of fish, and do you have an old gown I could buy or borrow?” she asked. “The older, the better. And I shall need a mobcap as well. It is extremely urgent.”

  Mrs. Lorimer, an old and trusted family servant, knew of the crisis afoot and was informed of Caroline’s plan. “Anything, if it will help to find little Helen,” she said, and called for Lorimer to go fetch a basket of fish.

  She had a mobcap and sacrificed a gray muslin gown she had been saving to make into dustrags. Caro took them into the yard and gave them a thrashing in the dust. Mrs. Lorimer watched in consternation as Lady Winbourne gathered up a bowl of dust and shook it over her lovely raven hair until it lost its sheen, then applied it to her face as if it were powder.