Page 13 of Fortune Favors the Frivolous
Fortunately, in company with Henry. Caroline could always depend on her wonderful playmate to come to the rescue. The help he offered wasn’t always what was needed, but his heart was good. Why, he didn’t even know Flash was Caroline, and yet he’d treated the “stable lad” with far more respect than Barnaby treated his own horse.
And now he was playing the knight in shining armor because he knew Venetia and wanted to help her. In just a few minutes, surely Windermere would have no choice but to admit that the game was up and to let Venetia walk away with Henry.
Caroline had just glanced down at a scurrying noise near her foot when a piercing cry shattered her complacency that all was going to plan. Jerking up her head, she saw that Venetia had risen to her feet, a look of pure terror upon her face, and that Windermere was brandishing a pistol.
A pistol pointed right at Henry, who was unarmed.
Dear Lord, how had that happened? How had they underestimated Lord Windermere’s determination to have his way? Surely he was not a murderer? After enjoying Aunt Pike’s collusion, surely there was a point at which he would realize he had no other choice but to concede?
Like a gentleman?
The hackles rose on the back of Caroline’s neck. Yes, that’s what it felt like!
Holding a pistol at poor Henry, who’d walked in believing he could talk reasonably to the nobleman, was just not on.
Fury banished any hesitation as Caroline took in the scene. There was the servant standing impassively by the door, his face a blank mask as if it didn’t surprise him in the least that his master was behaving lower than the murderous ruffians who slunk in and out of London’s dankest, most dangerous slums. Not that Caroline had first-hand experience of that, but she’d heard whispers that life wasn’t as genteel as her experience of it.
And Lord Windermere was speaking—snarling, actually, because when Caroline put her ear to the glass, she could just make out what was being said—to Henry, warning him that he really would put a ball through his chest if he tried to wrest his avowed bride-to-be from his tender care.
Yes, this really was too much! Once her brother Frederick got wind of this, he’d be outraged.
Unfortunately, Frederick wasn’t here. He and Amelia were on a sojourn to one of his houses in the Cotswolds where he was looking at the tenant farms with a mind to making improvements. Her brother was a king among men. A gentleman and a war hero. His reputation might have suffered from his younger days when Caroline had heard whispers he’d been associated with several women who were married. But they must have tricked him into believing an untruth, for Caroline knew that her brother was the noblest of noblemen.
Not like that scoundrel Windermere.
Glancing about in her desperation to find some inspiration that might assist in the current dangerous impasse—for Henry really could do nothing while Lord Windermere had a pistol pointed at his chest—her eye alighted upon the stones bordering the nearby rose garden. Perfect!
Closer, and half-hidden in shadow, was a heavy iron boot scraper, though she wasn’t sure she could easily wield that.
And, a short distance away, was a neat stack of firewood.
Caroline’s heart thundered in her chest as she formed her plan. She’d have to time this perfectly.
Gathering her courage, and the other physical resources she needed, she first seized a nicely sized stone. The weight of it steadied her nerves. Inside, Windermere was still pontificating about his rights, his voice growing increasingly unhinged. As if he’d bought Venetia like a chattel and had already paid for her.
“Now!” Caroline whispered to herself, and with all her might, she hurled the stone through the window. The crash of breaking glass was spectacular, sending Windermere spinning toward the sound. In that split second of confusion, Caroline grabbed the boot scraper and sent it sailing through the new opening. Her aim was true—it struck Windermere’s hand, sending the pistol flying.
But Caroline wasn’t done. Seizing a log from the woodpile, she launched it through the window with a wild cry. The heavy piece of oak caught Windermere square in the chest, sending him stumbling backward into an ornate side table.
“Run, Venetia!” Caroline shouted in her natural voice, forgetting herself entirely in the chaos.
Henry didn’t waste a moment. As Windermere wheezed and cursed, trying to regain his feet, Henry seized Venetia’s hand and pulled her towards the door. The servant, showing his true colors, had already fled.
Caroline melted into the shadows as Henry and Venetia burst out of the house, her heart soaring to see them safe, even as something twisted painfully in her chest when Henry lifted Venetia onto his horse with such gentle care. This was what she’d wanted—Venetia’s rescue—so why did watching Henry’s protective tenderness towards her friend feel like a blade between her ribs?
“Flash!” Henry called out into the darkness. “Flash, where are you, lad? I owe you my life!”
Caroline stepped forward just enough for him to see her outline.
“I’m sorry, lad, but I must get Miss Playford to safety. Here—” He tossed something that glinted in the moonlight. Caroline caught it—a sovereign. “Get yourself home, Flash. I won’t forget what you’ve done tonight.”
Then they were gone, horse’s hooves clattering down the drive, leaving Caroline alone with her sovereign, too triumphant at the success of their mission to rescue Venetia to fully comprehend her own dire situation. For the moment, she simply stood in the drive, staring after Henry and Venetia on horseback, disappearing into the darkness.
Behind her, she could hear Windermere bellowing for his men.
Dear Lord, so he wasn’t going to give up without even more of a fight? Why did he want to wed Venetia so much? She wasn’t an heiress, and she had made her dislike of the idea of marriage abundantly clear.
Caroline didn’t have time to think any more about this, for the next moment, the heavy studded oak doors to the lodge had been thrown open wide, and Lord Windermere, now dressed in a heavy black cloak and hat pulled down over his ears, was striding out, his big black boots clattering over the stones.
