by Joan Smith
As she dressed for the do and had dinner with Georgie, she wondered what Dolmain was doing, and if he was thinking of her. Already he was becoming more than just a friend in her mind. He sent her a corsage of two white orchids. She was surprised at that streak of gallantry in him, and was touched that he had taken time out of his busy life to arrange for the flowers.
Newt arrived at the appointed hour, rumpled and inelegant as ever. “All set?” he asked.
“Ready to go.”
“Where are we off to tonight?”
“Castlereaghs.”
“Ah.” A frown creased his brow as he rooted through his pockets, drawing out various crumpled invitations and pieces of paper and mumbling to himself, “Abercrombie’s rout, a game of cards with Neill, Hoby—ten guineas for a new pair of boots.” He crumpled the paper up and tossed it in the grate. “Not one sou for Hoby until he gets the squeak out of those boots. Castlereagh’s seems to be the one card I left at home. I had one.” He scratched his head, further destroying an already bad head of hair. “No matter. They’ll let me in when I’m with you. Known to all the best butlers. Daresay you could walk in with Jack Ketch himself and no one would stop you.”
“Let us go,” Caro said, and waved good-bye to Georgie. She was so eager to see Dolmain again that she flew down the stairs and into the carriage. At the opening of the Season, the streets were alive with carriages. Lanterns blazed in front of the houses where a rout or ball was being held. The lineup of carriages in front of Castlereagh’s was a block long. The younger guests, including Caro and Newt, deserted their carriages and walked to the door, leaving John Groom in charge of the horses.
Newt was admitted to the ball with no difficulty. They were soon standing in line, waiting to be announced. Caroline felt the tingling anticipation that always preceded a great ball, especially the first ball of the Season. The sensation was heightened on that occasion by her eagerness to be with Dolmain. She saw Lady Jersey and Emily Cowper. Of course they would be there, sister patronesses of Lady Castlereagh at Almack’s.
How the debs and their mamas would be scrambling to obtain vouchers. Without a voucher to Almack’s, one might as well admit defeat and go back to the country. Only half a dozen of the three hundred officers of the Foot Guards had made it last year—younger sons of good and often noble families had been turned down.
Caro was a member. She was careful to attend a few assemblies each year to assure herself and society that she still belonged. Actually, the assemblies were an ordeal. Quadrilles and Scotch reels were the preferred dances, with only orgeat to slake the thirst. The playing of cards was allowed, but hardly more enjoyable, as the play was for chicken stakes.
Caroline’s eyes skimmed the room, looking for Dolmain. Her heart raced when she spotted his dark head amidst the throng on the dance floor. The opening minuet was already in progress. Her next interest was to see who he was dancing with. She felt a definite lurch of jealousy when she saw his companion, a young lady in white—a deb. It was not just that he was standing up with her, but the intimate way he smiled at her. Surely he was well past the age for debutantes. It seemed he had a colt’s tooth in his head. The girl was a pretty blonde, but young enough to be his daughter.
Caroline had the first set with Newton. Her major preoccupation was to keep away from his marauding toes; his was to spy out the new batch of young ladies making their curtseys.
“The one with the yaller curls,” he said, as the dance drew to a close. “Can you present me to her, Caro?”
‘Which one?”
“By the living jingo, she is coming toward us.” He twitched at his jacket. “Daresay I look like an unmade bed.”
Caroline looked around and saw Lord Dolmain coming in her direction, accompanied by the young lady he had been dancing with when they arrived. She felt a little surge of triumph.
“Lady Winbourne,” he said, with one of his businesslike bows, but his eyes spoke a more intimate story as they gazed into hers. “I would like you to meet my daughter, Lady Helen. She is making her debut this year.”
“Your daughter!” Relief and surprise mingled inside her. “Good gracious, you cannot mean your daughter is making her bows.”
As she turned immediately to greet Lady Helen and present Mr. Newton, she failed to observe the flash of embarrassment that Dolmain was suffering. He felt like an imposter. He hadn’t told Caro Helen’s age.
Caro assessed the girl’s appearance and demeanor as she made the introduction. She was pretty and well behaved. Very well turned out, too, in a properly modest white gown, but those garish diamonds! They did not belong on a deb. They looked more like the bounty worn by the muslin company. Why had he allowed his daughter to wear them?
Newt wasted no time in detaching Lady Helen for the next set.
“My secret is out,” Dolmain said, as his daughter left. “You may call me Lord Methuselah.”
“Why did you not tell me she is making her debut?”
“Because it makes me feel ancient.”
“Nonsense! She is very pretty, Dolmain. She does you proud. She must take after her mama.”
“Do I detect the aroma of insult in there?” he asked, smiling.
She waggled a playful finger at him. “Sunk to fishing for compliments, Dolmain? That was not my meaning. I am referring to her coloring and her general getup. She does not take after you. I never met Lady Dolmain.”
“No, she was gone before you hit London.”
“You make me sound like a tornado! So it is Lady Helen’s debut that accounts for your foray into society this year. I wondered, when I first saw you at the gaming hell, what had pried you loose from Whitehall.”
“Now you are making me sound like a barnacle. You must know a papa’s work is never done.” He turned to gaze at his daughter, who was talking to Newton across the room.
“Yours soon will be, Dolmain. She is very fetching. You will have no trouble getting her bounced off. Do you have other children you have been hiding from me?” she asked, with a teasing smile.
“Just the one, and to tell the truth, I am in no hurry to lose her. She has reached the ripe old age of seventeen, however, and her aunt, Lady Milchamp, tells me it is time to place her on the Marriage Mart, before she fancies herself in love with some uncouth country lad. Aunt Milchamp has volunteered to undertake chaperoning duties; for the Season, but for the first ball, I wanted to tag along.”
“It seems impossible your daughter is making her debut, Dolmain. You must have married very young.”
“Killed in covert, ma’am. A stripling of twenty years. To save you the bother of doing the arithmetic, I am eight and thirty years old. And you, if memory serves, must be—”
“There is no need to go into that, sir.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Vain creature. In any case, you do not look twenty-seven.”
“You are too horrid. Is a lady allowed no secrets?”
“Surely a lady’s life is an open book. She has no need of secrets.”
She lifted a well-arched eyebrow in derision. “What a dead bore she would be without them. We all have our little secret vices, you must know.”
“And yours is an unreasonable fear of arithmetic. Let us speak of other things. I see you are wearing the orchids. My uncle breeds them. That one is called the Incomparable, which is why I wanted you to have it.”
“A very pretty compliment, sir.”
The cotillion began and they took their place in the set with Helen and Newt and the other couples. When the set was finished, they went to the refreshment parlor. Dolmain procured wine for them and they moved to the edge of the room to talk. Several guests who remembered how the gaming night had begun congratulated Caroline on its continued success. She explained to Dolmain that it had been her late husband’s idea.
“I believe I remember it now. The first few years it was held at Winbourne House, if memory serves. A little risqué—like that gown you wore the other night.”
“You said yo
u liked it,” she reminded him.
“I did. It suited you.”
“Are you calling me risqué? I take leave to tell you, any gentleman who would allow his young daughter to make her bows wearing a set of diamonds more suitable to a lightskirt is no judge of ladies’ fashion.”
“A lightskirt! The necklace may be vulgar, but it is not the sort of present a man gives a lightskirt—unless he is a fool. It is worth thirty thousand pounds.”
“That much! What a waste of blunt. I could put the money to better use.” She thought of what could be done for the orphans with that sum.
“I oughtn’t to have let Helen wear them,” he admitted. “The diamonds belonged to her mama. She particularly wanted to wear them this evening. Helen is a very well-behaved girl as a rule, but headstrong. She is studious and full of good works, but undeniably headstrong. We did mention she takes after her mama,” he added with a grin. “If you could talk her into putting them in her reticule, I would be eternally grateful.”
“I doubt she would listen to me.”
“Now, there you are mistaken, ma’am. She most particularly admired your toilette. I think you might hint her into a more proper style, if you cared to.”
“My risqué style, you mean?”
He looked at her with the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “That would not suit my daughter. I meant your other style, the country girl I caught a glimpse of this afternoon.”
Caroline sensed that he was mentally sizing her up for the role of Helen’s stepmama. It was too early for this, but she liked Dolmain and was willing to take an interest in the girl. She had no notion of giving advice so early in the acquaintance, however. If, in future, they became friends, then she would drop Helen a gentle hint.
After they had drunk their wine, Caroline went to tidy her hair in the ladies’ parlor. The room, like the ball, was a squeeze. Helen was there, as was Lady Milchamp. Helen sat in a corner apart from the others. Caroline noticed she was wearing only one slipper. She went to have a word with the girl.
“What happened to your slipper?” she asked.
“Mr. Newton broke the buckle on it. A servant is having it repaired or replaced.”
“Oh dear. I am sorry. Newt is not much of a dancer.”
“We were not dancing. We were just standing there talking when Mr. Newton tripped over the rug. He was not even walking at the time. I cannot imagine how it happened. He spilt his wine, too. Fortunately not on me.”
“That was good luck. It would have made a mess of a white gown.” Poor Newt. Another lady displeased with him before he even got to know her.
Helen opened her reticule and took out her comb. She wore her hair pulled back from her face, fastened at the back with a jeweled comb, which had become loose from dancing. As she fumbled with the hair clasp, Caro offered to help her. She bent over and unfastened it, then combed the hair back smoothly and fastened it again.
“There, that is better,” she said.
“Thank you, Lady Winbourne.”
Caroline glanced at the large, unsuitable necklace, but decided it would offend Lady Helen if she said anything. She left in search of Newt. Perhaps a servant could do something with his jacket. She met Newt hovering in the corridor beyond the ballroom.
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, when she saw his cravat and shirtfront all blotched with red wine.
“Wouldn’t you know, I came out without a handkerchief,” he said, shaking his brindled head.
She rooted in her reticule and gave him hers. “A bit of water might remove the stain.”
“I’ll try it, but sometimes I find it doesn’t always work.” One of Newt’s distinctions was his making a fricassee of the king’s English. He took the handkerchief and wandered off in search of water.
Dolmain watched the interlude from across the room. He was still watching a little later when his daughter came out of the ladies’ parlor, without her diamonds. A small smile tugged at his lips. So the redoubtable Lady Winbourne had talked Helen into removing the garish necklace! He assumed the necklace was wrapped in the handkerchief she had entrusted to Newton.
He expected Newton was even then looking for him to return it. Unfortunately, he could not go after Newton. Castlereagh wanted to have a private coze with him in his study about the shipment of supplies to Wellington in the Peninsula. Castlereagh had learned that the last shipment did not reach Spain. Whether it had been sabotage or accident was not yet clear, but they had to discuss safeguards for the next shipment. He had no fears for the necklace’s safety. Caro knew how valuable it was and would see it was kept safe. He would pick it up when he called on her tomorrow afternoon. He had already given a footman a note to give Caro, explaining his absence from the remainder of the ball and asking permission to call on her the next day at four.
Newton managed to make such a mess of his shirt and cravat that he had to go home to change. When Caro received Dolmain’s note, she decided to leave, too. She had no interest in anyone else. She had Newt drop her off at Berkeley Square, where she discussed the ball with Georgie over a cup of cocoa, then went to bed early.
She didn’t think of the necklace again until the next morning when Dolmain came to call.
Chapter Four
Caroline was at breakfast at eight-thirty the next morning. Both the early hour and her modest serge suit were a surprise to her servants. Once the Season began, milady often slept late, and usually dressed in the highest kick of fashion. The plain suit was in honor of the ladies from the Orphans’ Fair Day committee (some of them high sticklers), who were meeting that day at Berkeley Square. A part of the proceeds from the gaming night went to sponsor a holiday in the country for the orphans. There would be contests, races, all sorts of games, and prizes and refreshments to be arranged.
She was surprised to hear the door knocker sound at eight-thirty, and simply astonished to hear Lord Dolmain’s accents. What could he want? Crumm knew she was up, so she waited for him to show Dolmain in.
“A tall drink of water has stopped to see you,” Crumm said. “I told him you was up and about. He is there now, burning a hole in the carpet.” He handed her Dolmain’s card.
“Show him in, Crumm,” she said, smiling.
Dolmain wore a distracted expression when he duly appeared at the door. He performed one of his curt bows. Caroline’s smile faded. She said, “Good morning, Dolmain,” in a questioning way, and invited him to take a cup of coffee.
“I expect you know why I am here,” he said, sitting down. Like her servants, he was surprised to find her up and about so early. He did not notice her suit. His attention was riveted on her violet eyes and dewy skin. Sunlight slanting through the window behind her cast shimmering lights of rose and amber and peacock blue on her raven hair.
“I hope you have not come to cancel our drive!” she exclaimed, with a pout of disappointment.
“Not at all. I look forward to our outing. I have come to collect Helen’s necklace.”
She stared at him, a frown puckering her brow, and asked, “What on earth are you talking about, Dolmain?”
His smile faded, and his face froze into a mask of incomprehension. “You do have her necklace, do you not?”
“The one she wore last night? No, why should I have it?”
“But she was not wearing it when she left the ladies’ room last night. You came out just before her. We had discussed your talking her out of wearing it. I made sure it was the necklace I saw you hand to Newton.”
“No! It was only a handkerchief. He spilled wine on his cravat.” She felt a jolt of something unpleasant. “Are you saying the necklace is missing?”
“Lady Milchamp was waiting for me when I returned last night. She said Helen’s necklace was missing. I assumed you had it.”
“Did Helen say so?” she demanded. The vaguely unpleasant sensation was quickly rising to anger.
“No, Helen did not mention it at all. I can only assume she did not notice it was gone, nor apparently did Lady Milchamp, a
t first. It was half an hour after Helen was in bed that Lady Milchamp decided the thing ought to be put in the safe. She went to get it, and it was not in Helen’s room. She spoke to her dresser, who claimed she had not seen it. The dresser did not know Helen was wearing the diamonds. I gave them to her after she came downstairs last night, already dressed, so that is not surprising. Lady Milchamp was concerned enough that she looked in Helen’s reticule and in her pockets. The necklace was not there. She was about to awaken her and ask her about it when I returned. I told her I thought you had it. She was greatly relieved, but as she had not seen Helen give it to you, I decided to stop and just check that you did have it. It is very valuable.”
“Thirty thousand pounds,” Caro said, in a frightened whisper. “You must get on to Lady Castlereagh at once, Dolmain! The clasp must have broken, and the necklace fallen off unnoticed. Helen was sitting on that settee in the corner when I was in the ladies’ parlor. She was wearing the diamonds then. I remember thinking it was not a good time to mention them, when she was a trifle miffed with Newton for having broken her shoe buckle. Perhaps the necklace has got pushed under the sofa, or down the side of the cushioned seat.”
Dolmain rubbed his neck, frowning. “Yes, that must be what happened. I shall drop by there before I go to Whitehall.”
“Or perhaps you should go home and speak to Helen first. Might she have given the necklace to someone to hold for her if the clasp broke?”
“I should think she would have given it to Lady Milchamp, but perhaps if she was dancing with some gentleman she knew and trusted ... Yes, you are right. I must speak to Helen before making a fuss.”
“I do hope this is all a tempest in a teapot,” Caroline said, frowning. “So vexing for Lady Castlereagh if the necklace is missing and does not turn up. Why, it would mean someone had stolen it.”