by Joan Smith
“They said it would be dangerous for you to be involved when you were active at the Horse Guards in the fight against the French. That it might be misunderstood, and the Cabinet would suspect you of spying or some such thing. I was a fool to believe them.” She scowled.
“Next time you are in doubt, talk to me,” Dolmain said.
“She is young,” Lady Milchamp said forgivingly.
“I wanted so badly to believe it was true,” Helen said. She looked so forlorn that no one chided her further.
Dolmain continued his story. “Miss Blanchard was induced by greed to go along with stealing the necklace, but when Bellefeuille escalated the affair to kidnapping Helen, she dug in her heels and refused. She did care for Helen, after her fashion. She foolishly threatened Bellefeuille that she was going to tell me, instead of doing it. That was when he shot her. She had acquired the habit of taking Rex for a walk at night. I fancy those walks were used to exchange messages with Bellefeuille. He arranged to meet her to pick up the brooch Helen had given Miss Blanchard. The strange thing is, he insists he did not get the brooch from her. Someone was coming, and he had to leave before getting it. It is odd he would stick at that trifle when he has admitted to all the rest.”
“He didn’t get it. Crumm did,” Newt said, and explained in his disjointed fashion Crumm’s part in the affair.
“I meant to tell you,” Caro said, “but things got so lively after that that the moment never seemed right. I wished Crumm had left it where it was.”
“It made no odds in the long run,” Dolmain said. He felt her subterfuge was his fault. If he had not ripped up at her at the ball, she would not have had to defend herself.
“Killing Miss Blanchard meant one less to share the booty,” Dolmain continued. “Bernard was no relation to her, by the by. He was one of Bellefeuille’s gang. Renée spilled the whole story. Word has been sent to Bow Street to round the rest of them up. They have not even the excuse of acting for their country. It was not a scheme to get money to help Boney—they are French, that could be forgiven—but pure greed.”
“What did they plan to do with me after they got the money, Papa?” Helen asked.
“They would hardly admit they planned to kill you,” he said, using the harsh truth to frighten her into more sensible behavior in future. “They said they meant to release you. I take leave to doubt it. You could identify them.”
Helen trembled to consider the fate planned for her. “And deVere seemed so nice. He gave me anything I asked for. Little things, I mean, like cream tarts and magazines.”
“Well paid for at fifty thousand pounds and a diamond necklace,” her father pointed out.
“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” Newt said wisely.
“He was not a Greek, Mr. Newton,” Helen said.
“Foreigner anyhow. All Greek to me, as the saying goes.”
“That is not what the saying means,” she said, laughing.
He was beginning to think Lady Helen was not quite the thing after all. Bound to be a handful, like her mama. He really hadn’t time to court a lady, just at the moment. There was a deal of work to be done on his epic. The Round Table Rondeau, he would call it. Had a nice ring to it, except that the dictionary told him a rondeau had only ten or thirteen lines, which was pretty short for an epic. He would have to write up a batch of them. Round Table Rondeaus, then, or would the French word have an x on the end? Round Table Rondeaux? Rum touch, the Frenchies. Terrible spellers.
“What is the plural of rondeau anyway?” he asked. The group around him blinked in confusion. “Never mind. I was thinking of my epic. Well, if we have got everything tied up here, I shall be off. Booked a room at the Royal Crescent. Ankel will want to hear all the details.”
“Drop around tomorrow, Newt,” Caro said, and rose to accompany him to the door.
Dolmain and Helen thanked him profusely for his help. “My pleasure,” he said, and nodded his head stiffly. He hadn’t discovered yet just how a bow was performed in King Arthur’s day, but he felt that a knight would make little of his deeds of derring-do. He meant to pitch himself into the thing whole hog. He left.
“What a funny little man he is,” Helen said, and yawned into her fist.
The older ladies felt the strain of their long day, too. Lady Milchamp rose and said, “Time for bed, miss.” She looked a question at Dolmain.
“Caro and I shall have a drink to celebrate the successful conclusion of this affair. Don’t wait up for us. We have a good deal to talk about.”
Georgiana cast an encouraging smile on Caro. Dolmain would be a fine catch. It had been a nice little adventure, but she was ready to go home. Meanwhile, she had found a marble-covered novel in the library here that would lull her to sleep.
Helen ran to kiss her papa good night. She looked at Caro, then, on impulse, kissed her, too, and ran out of the room at once, as if frightened by her own temerity.
Dolmain turned to Caro. “I don’t know whether to begin with apologies, or thanks, or a scold.”
“Do get the scold over first, by all means.” Smiling, she brushed her cheek where Helen had kissed her. That had come as a complete surprise. She should have returned the kiss.
“Consider yourself scolded—and thanked—and apologized to, most humbly. I can never thank you enough.”
“You are welcome, Dolmain. I shan’t quote Newt and say, ‘My pleasure,’ but it was exciting.”
“It was that. Now let us get on to the good part. Caro, I want to make it up to you.”
She turned a rebellious eye on him. “Don’t you dare offer to marry me to redeem my reputation!”
“Oh no! That is not why I am offering. The reputations that will require redemption when this scandal breaks are Helen’s—and mine, for being such a fool as to keep her in the dark all these years.”
“Misguided paternal concern,” she said, forgivingly. “You men always think you know what is best for us ladies.”
“No more, but I do know what is best for me. You! I have not felt so whole, so complete, for years.” He gazed at her softly, not touching her, except with his eyes. “I truly do not think I could go on without you. God, how selfish love makes us. Here am I prating of my feelings, when I should be concerned with yours.”
She smiled demurely. “You men are all selfish beasts. I know it very well.”
“Don’t be difficult, woman,” he said, drawing her into his arms, and closer against his chest until their bodies touched. “You know I love you to the edge of distraction,” he said in a ragged voice. ‘‘Your foolish behavior this night leads me to believe you are not totally disinterested in my welfare.”
“There was Helen, and my own reputation to consider as well,” she said, gazing at him. She felt humbled by the love she read in his eyes,
“Ah, Helen.” He placed a small kiss on first one eye, then the other. “You cannot anticipate living with her with anything like complacence.” A frown wrinkled his brow. She felt an overpowering need to smooth it away.
“Nonsense!” she said gruffly, drawing back. “Helen and I go on very well now that she knows I was only trying to help her. She needs watching, and a little more time to mature before she is sent off to choose a husband, though.”
He pulled her roughly back into his arms. “Exactly what I thought. Another year at Elmhurst, with some sensible lady to model herself after. Never having known a real mother, she has a craving for one, I think. There is no point fighting it, my pet.” His lips nuzzled her throat. “We have both chosen you.”
Her speech came out breathlessly. “In that case, I suppose it is unanimous.”
Dolmain lifted his eyes to the ceiling and whispered, “Thank you, God.” He drew her into his arms and ravished her with a long kiss.
It did not occur to Caro, when she went to bed much later that night, that Julian’s portrait was not there to talk to. Like Marie, he was beginning to recede into the mist of memory. She thought of dear Dolmain, and Helen, and how she could make t
hem happy.
Copyright © 1995 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest (ISBN 978-0449222782)
Electronically published in 2015 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
