Page 6 of Fortune Favors the Frivolous
Poor Venetia. As Caroline sat through dinner with her mama, mechanically responding to her remarks while her thoughts churned, she realized the girl really did need a champion. Someone like kind Mr. Rothbury—though he seemed far too mild to be of use in an actual crisis.
Though, if Venetia really were in danger, as she suggested, perhaps this would be a good test of the young man. He didappear rather dull and ineffectual, but perhaps learning that Venetia was at risk of being forced to marry against her will would prompt him into action.
Her thoughts kept circling back to Henry. He would know what to do. He always did. But Henry was dining at his club tonight, and even if she could reach him…
The pudding was just being cleared away when a tap on her shoulder by one of the serving maids was the precursor to a screwed up piece of paper being dropped in her lap. Caroline’s heart began to pound even before she unfolded it.
“Caroline! Are you listening to me?” her mother snapped. “You have contributed very little all evening. And your attention is certainly not where it should be. Is there something I should know?”
“Not at all, Mama,” Caroline reassured her, fighting to keep her voice steady as she glimpsed the desperate scrawl. “I beg your pardon. I had not meant to be rude, for you are generally more inclined to scold me when my tongue runs away from me rather than when I am quietly occupied by my thoughts.”
She rose, for fortunately dinner appeared to be at an end. Regardless of her strictures, her mama appeared to be more occupied with a worsening megrim than with her daughter’s behavior and wished to go immediately to her bed.
Back in her bedchamber, Caroline smoothed the crumpled note with shaking hands, her heart lurching as she read Venetia’s desperate words: “He is here. The carriage waits. Aunt insists I travel with him tonight to his country estate. She says it’s proper as we’re to be married within the week. Help me, Caroline! I beg you—there is no one else!”
Caroline’s mouth went dry, and her heart pounded even harder. Her earlier dismissal of Venetia’s fears now felt not just foolish but potentially catastrophic. She rose and began to pace.
If this were truly happening—and clearly it was—there was no time to waste. Mr. Rothbury would be of no use now, even if she could locate him. This required immediate, decisive action.
But what? What could she, a mere girl of twenty with no experience beyond the drawing room, do to help her dearest friend?
And then, like a bolt of lightning, she remembered Henry’s quick thinking during her own near-disaster. How he’d adopted the guise of a postilion in order to escape notice on the post chaise that Mr. Greene had ordered to whisk Caroline to the Scottish border. Henry had been prepared for anything, even willing to risk scandal and arrest to protect her.
The memory sent a stab of longing through her chest. If only Henry were here now! But he wasn’t, and time was slipping away like sand through her fingers.
What did it matter that Caroline was a girl? Her slender frame might even be an advantage in disguise. And if Henry could transform himself for her sake, surely she could do the same for Venetia’s.
Without dwelling on propriety—for there was no time for such niceties when a friend’s life hung in the balance—she flew to the trunk at the foot of her bed and withdrew a bundle, hidden beneath her winter shawls. The breeches and jacket, discarded by one of their footmen years ago, had been trophies from a childish prank with Henry. She had kept them, partly from sentiment and partly from that rebellious spirit that had so often led her into trouble.
Now, perhaps, that same spirit might save her dearest friend.
The fabric was rough and unfamiliar against her skin as she hastily exchanged her dinner gown for the disguise, the masculine attire feeling both foreign and strangely liberating. She bound her chest tightly with a long strip of linen, wincing at the constriction but knowing it was necessary. The restrictionmade breathing difficult, but it flattened her feminine curves effectively.
Her abundance of hair presented the greatest challenge, but she twisted and pinned it mercilessly close to her head before securing a cap firmly over it. Several pins bit into her scalp, but she ignored the discomfort.
Studying her reflection in the candlelight, she was struck by the transformation. Her features, which she had always considered too delicate for true beauty, now appeared almost boyish—her high cheekbones and wide eyes lending her the appearance of a youth on the cusp of manhood. With a smudge of ash from the fireplace applied beneath her cheekbones and across her chin to simulate the shadow of a beard, the disguise might just pass a cursory inspection in poor light.
But would it be enough? Caroline gnawed her lower lip as she considered the daunting logistics of her rescue attempt. Lord Windermere would have arranged a carriage, likely with hired men rather than his own liveried servants, to avoid gossip. She would need to appear as though she belonged, to slip into their midst without raising suspicion.
She could claim to be a groom or stable boy from the posting inn, sent to assist with the horses for the journey. No—that might raise questions if they had already made their own arrangements. Perhaps it would be better to watch and wait, to follow the carriage at first and look for an opportunity when they stopped to change horses.
At the first posting house, she could slip into the stables and pose as one of the ostlers, volunteer to ride postilion for the next stage, citing some story about extra payment already arranged. In the confusion of a busy coaching inn at night, such impositions might go unquestioned. Men came and went, seeking work wherever they could find it.
Her mind raced through possibilities and pitfalls, each more dangerous than the last. What if she were discovered? The scandal would be immense, ruinous. Her reputation would be destroyed, her family’s name dragged through the mud. Yet the alternative—abandoning Venetia to Lord Windermere’s clutches—was unthinkable.
She remembered the terror in her friend’s face, the desperation in the words she’d written. No, there was no choice to be made here. Some things were more important than reputation.
Her heart thundered in her chest, fear and determination warring within her like opposing armies. She had never done anything so daring, not even during the misguided near-elopement with Mr. Greene. Then, she had been swept along by romantic notions and youthful foolishness; now, she acted with clear-eyed purpose, despite her terror.
She slipped a small knife into her boot—a precaution learned from Henry during their childhood adventures when he’d insisted she learn to defend herself. The blade felt cold and reassuring against her ankle. She tucked a few coins into an inner pocket, along with her mother’s smelling salts, purloined from her dressing table. The night would be cold, so she added a woolen muffler that could be pulled up to obscure the lower half of her face.
Catching sight of her reflection as she prepared to leave, Caroline was startled by the fierce resolve she saw in her own eyes. Gone was the frivolous society miss. This was someone she barely recognized.
But maybe this was the real Caroline.
The true, brave friend.
For this was no childish prank or impulsive folly. This was for Venetia, who had no one else to turn to. And perhaps, she admitted to herself with painful honesty, it was also for the girlshe had once been, who had needed rescuing herself and found it in Henry’s steadfast friendship.
