Damsel in Distress (8 page)

“Ain’t a lady. It’s a gentleman,” he said.

“Ah, and whom are you emulating this time? Lord Byron, is it? I hear he takes lessons of Gentleman Jackson.”

“I don’t think it’s Byron. He don’t drag his foot, the fellow I am talking about. Sets a lively pace.”

“Don’t you know his name?”

“No, nor his face. I just know he is always there, a few paces behind me, dogging my footsteps like a dashed shadow. If he turns rusty, I must be ready to defend myself.”

Eliciting hard facts from Newt was never easy. “Tell me all about him,” she urged.

“I first spotted him last night. Did you happen to notice the carriage following us?”

“No, I didn’t. When did it start?”

“I figure he must have followed us from the Pantheon. I first caught a sight of him lurking at the corner when I came out of your place after bringing you home. Hadn’t noticed him before that, but he must have followed me there. He ran to his rig and followed me to the Albany. Then when I went out this morning, there he was, tailing me again. Drives a plain black carriage. I noticed him as I rounded the bend to your street. Daresay he was behind me all the while, only the traffic was so thick, I could not spot him. Followed me here.”

“Who can he be?” Caroline dashed to the window.

“Wasting your time,” Newt informed her. “He waits around the corner. Take a peek when I leave. You’ll see he’s not a block behind me. Pair of bays, one with white stockings on her forelegs.
”

“That is very odd. What do you think he
wants with you?”

“No idea. I ain’t in dun territory. Haven’t insulted anyone that I know of. I figure it must be to do with Lady Helen. Mean to say, it all started at the Pantheon.”

“Let us go out,
tout de suite,
and see if he follows us.”

“That is just what I have been saying to you. The
touter
the better. Get your wrapper and let us go.”

Of course, he had not said anything of the sort, but no doubt he had been trying to say it. Caroline got her bonnet and pelisse and they went out to Newton’s waiting carriage. Before they turned the first corner, the plain black carriage, pulled by a pair of bays, rounded the bend and followed them. For an hour they led it a merry chase, first north to Oxford Street, where the traffic was not too heavy, then to High Holborn, south along Drury Lane to the Strand and on to the Mall. At St. James’s Park they alit and walked, to allow them a look at the man in the carriage.

He was as anonymous as his vehicle: a man of middle size and middle years, neither old nor young, wearing a blue jacket and tan trousers. He was a gentleman, or at least dressed like one. Caroline was all for accosting him and demanding why he was following them.

Newton said, “He’ll not tell us anything. Best to play dumb, let on we don’t know he is there. Sooner or later I
’
ll find the opportunity to get away from him. I plan to follow him and see where he goes. Might be a clue.”

“I suppose you are right. How can we lose him?”

“I shall go back to Manton’s, ask Joe to let me slip out the back door, and have a hired hansom waiting. I
’
ll let you know what I find out this evening. Are we still on for Covent Garden?”

“Yes, it is all arranged. Georgie wants to use my carriage to pick up her friends, so I shall go in yours, if that’s all right?”

“Right. I
’
ll take you home now.”

She watched from her saloon window when Newton left but did not see the carriage follow him.

Caro related her morning exploits to her sister-in-law over lunch.

“But the man did not follow Newt when he left?” she asked.

“No, I watched for quite ten minutes. He must have circled around some other way.”

“Your wits are gone begging, Caro,” Georgie said, with a sharp look. “It is not Newton he is following. It is you. Newton said he first noticed the carriage when he brought you home last night. And this morning when he called on you, it was at your corner again. He did not follow Newt here; he was here watching your house. I wager he is still lurking around the corner even as we speak.”

“Good God! Why would anyone be watching me?”

“Newton was right about one thing. It has to do with that visit to the Pantheon last night. And perhaps with the vanished necklace as well.”

Caroline sat, momentarily stunned into silence. Her frown slowly faded, to be replaced by a diabolical smile. “I shall be going out to New Bond Street this afternoon, Georgie. Will you come with me? You are always complaining of a lack of excitement. My shadow might provide us some amusement.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” Georgiana exclaimed, but there was an unaccustomed note of excitement in her voice.

“Why not? He cannot harm us in the middle of London. I shall try Newton’s ruse of escaping the man, and following him to see where he goes.”

“You still carry that pistol in the side pocket of your rig?”

“Always, and I know how to use it, too.”

Two spots of red burned high on Georgiana’s sallow cheeks. “I
’
ll do it!” she said, and laughed a tinny laugh.

Immediately after lunch the ladies dressed and had the carriage brought around. Watching from the rear window, they saw the dark carriage turn the corner and follow them when they left.

“This all began at the Pantheon last night,” Caroline said, smiling wickedly. “We shall lose him at the Pantheon Bazaar. Miss Millar will let us slip out her back door. I buy a deal of ribbon and lace from her. We shall have a hansom cab waiting for us
there. The footman can arrange it while John Groom minds the carriage. My shadow will stick with the carriage, I think.”

They followed this plan. Miss Millar, who operated a drapery shop at the Pantheon Bazaar, was entirely agreeable to helping out a good customer. She would have assumed Lady Winbourne was arranging a romantic tryst, were it not for the old malkin with her. Caroline and Georgiana spent ten minutes rooting through trays of lace. At the end of that time, Miss Millar beckoned them to the rear of the store.

“The hired hack is here, your ladyship.”

“Thank you, Miss Millar,” Caro said, dropping a coin into her hand. “If a nondescript gentleman comes in here asking for me, don’t tell him I have left. You are quite busy, so you can pretend you did not notice me.”

“Oh lawks, your ladyship. Just like a play on the stage. I’ll not whiddle the scrap.”

“Thank you.”

They slipped out the back door to the hired carriage and asked the groom to drive around and wait a half block away. They pointed out the carriage he was to follow, at a discreet distance. It was a long wait. Their pursuer could not believe Lady Caroline had tipped him the double. He went from shop to shop, peering in at the windows. After half an hour, he knew she had given him the slip and returned to his own rig.

“There, he is leaving now!” Caroline said, and pulled the drawstring to alert the driver.

To her considerable consternation, the carriage they were following drove to Berkeley Square, where it circled the block, obviously awaiting her return. She managed to foil him to the extent of scampering into her own house unseen while he was around the corner, but she had still not learned where he came from.

“Who can he be? Why is he following me?” she asked.

“I cannot imagine,” Georgiana said.

“It must have to do with Lady Helen and the necklace. The man will surely not watch the house all night. He must sleep sometime, like everyone else. I shall have a footman follow him when he leaves. We must get to the bottom of this. It is driving me mad.”

Lady Georgiana said, “I must own, I rather enjoyed it, Caro. What a lot of fun I have been missing all these years by my caution.”

“I would hardly call it fun. The fun will come when I learn who the scoundrel is and why he is following me. I do look forward to that. And now let us prepare for the evening.”

Lady Georgiana’s guests for the theater were all either widows, or spinsters, like herself. A night at the theater was a rare festive occasion for them. Georgiana left in Caroline’s carriage shortly after dinner to pick them up.

Newt came in a few moments later, shaking his head. “Something deuced odd going on,” he said. “I thought the fellow had let up following me. Not a sign of him all afternoon, but just now I spotted him again, loitering about at the corner of Berkeley Square like a dashed hedge bird.”

“It is not you he is following; it is me,” she said, and told him of her afternoon’s work.

Newton did not wipe his brow, but his “That is a relief!” gave that impression. “Thought I had figured it out. Taylor.”

“You said you are not an dun territory.”

“Not a coat-maker. Jack Taylor. Had a bit of a run-in with him over a game of cards. Took him for a monkey, fair and square. He wanted a chance to recoup. It was four o’clock in the morning. I could hardly prop my peepers open. I offered to meet him another time. Said he had to rusticate, pockets to let. What have you been up to, that someone is following you?”

“I hope to shed some light on that tonight.” She outlined her plan of having the fellow followed by a footman after she returned from the theater.

“Footman!” he exclaimed in high dudgeon. “Dash it, I shall follow him myself. Easy as chopping off a log. I’ll catch the oiler. I can run like a stag if I have to. We’ll get to the bottom of this yet.”

She put on her mantle and they left for the theater.

The subtitle of Mr. Sheridan’s comedy
The Critic,
which Caroline and Georgiana were attending that evening, was
A Tragedy Rehearsed.
Caroline felt the second title was more appropriate to her situation. Until the curtain opened, it seemed the major drama was occurring in her box on the upper tier. Why else did so many ladies train their opera glasses on her, and so many gentlemen raise their quizzing glasses? Those quizzing glasses could not have aided vision much, but did lend a fine condemnatory air.

When Newt saw her distress, he said, “Won’t the gawpers stare on the other side of their faces when Dolmain joins us.”

This finally brought a trembling smile to Caroline’s lips.

She paid little heed to the carrying on of Dangle and Sneer, the spiteful critics. Her mind was occupied with private problems. She would ask Dolmain to accompany her out to the corridor for wine. They would laugh and joke and show the world they were the best of friends. That should silence
her
critics.

When Georgiana attended the theater, it was her custom to have wine brought to the box for the first intermission, rather than leave her seat. When the curtain fell, Caroline sat, waiting for Dolmain’s arrival. Her box was not totally ignored. A few of Georgie’s cronies dropped in, and some of Caroline’s friends came to invite her to walk with them. She explained that she was waiting for a friend.

But as the minutes dragged on and the audience began straggling back to their seats, she realized that Dolmain was not coming. He had taken her at her word that she did not need his protection
—
or he had changed his mind. Either way, she felt betrayed. If he had any concern for her, he would have come. He knew how she had suffered last night at Brockley’s ball.

The second act was agony. Had it not been for Georgie, she would have left early. Newton tried manfully to amuse her by poking her elbow at each witticism and exclaiming, “That was a good one, eh?” She could hardly muster an acknowledgment.

What would happen to her if society ostracized her? She could never see Dolmain; they would no longer frequent the same do’s. He would not have her even as a friend if she became an outcast. He had his daughter’s reputation to consider. As he had said, a lost reputation was difficult to recover. Some shadow of guilt would always hover over her head. She would be “not quite the thing,” not invited to the best homes. Almack’s would be closed to her as a matter of course. The toplofty Mrs. Drummond Burrell would see to that. This grande dame had once chided her and Julian for laughing too loudly at the club, and Julian had snubbed her.

“Is this not a party? Or has someone died, ma’am?” he had asked, in his mischievous way. “I thought Lord Buten looked particularly moribund. You ought to have had the knocker done up in crepe.”

Oh yes, Mrs. Burrell would be very happy to turn her off.

When the second intermission came, Georgie said, “We shall take a short stroll to stretch our legs. Do come with us, Caro. It will do you good.”

“I could not bear it, Georgie,” Caroline replied in a low voice. “Perhaps my friends will come again. Newt has offered to remain with me.”

“We shan’t be long,” Georgie said, and went out with her group.

Newton looked at Caroline from under his eyebrows and said, “You are looking lonely as a crowd, Caro. I could go out and round up a group if you like.”

Even Newt’s mangling of the mother tongue no longer amused her. “I shan’t go running after society,” she said. “If they don’t want me, then I don’t want them.”

“Want to change tails and run home, then?”

“No, I shall stay until the end.”

He pointed across the hall. “There, Miss Simcoe is waving at you.”

Caroline waved back, grateful for any support.

“Let me get some wine at least,” was his next suggestion. “This smiling and letting on you are having a good time is tiresome work.”

She dreaded being left alone, yet it seemed hard to deny Newt a glass of wine after his help. “Yes, go ahead,” she said.

“Buck up, my girl. You’ve got to take the bitter with the sour.”

He was just leaving when the door to her box opened and Lord Dolmain stepped in. He was there, distinguished, above reproach, smiling, and making a gallant bow in full view of all her scorners. Such a wave of gratitude welled up inside her that she feared she would cry. He did care for her a little. Oh, and she did love him, try as she might to fight the knowledge.

“Good evening, Dolmain,” she said, blinking back a tear.

“A thousand pardons,” he said. “Work ran late at the House. I could not make it for the first intermission.”