Damsel in Distress by Joan Smith Page A

no hope of his own body growing six inches or of his brindle hair turning to black in four hours. What he might do was induce a bit of a curl into it. Bernard’s glossy black hair fell forward in a wave when he removed his curled beaver.
    Helen remained with Bernard for a good ten minutes, until her group returned. When Bernard left, she went back to her carriage with the others. A sly puss, meeting her fellow behind Lady Milchamp’s back. Just his luck that Helen already had someone else in her eye. Yet as he considered that meeting, it was not melting looks and soft smiles between them, but quick questions and answers. In fact, Helen had seemed a bit angry with him, but the smooth talker soon pacified her. Something to do with the girl Helen was trying to bring to London, perhaps.
    He went home, thinking about Caro’s hint that his face was full. A bigger head of hair might lessen the moonlike nature of his face. To this end, he had his valet do his hair up in papers to give it a curl. When the papers were removed, he looked like a Hottentot. Tight brindle corkscrews bounced all over his head, yet his pink cheeks looked as full as ever. His valet removed the curl as much as he could by an application of water, but they bounced back as soon as the hair dried.
    It was all Caroline could do not to laugh out loud when she saw how Newt had redecorated himself. His shirt points reached to his ears, to be met by the riot of curls. “I see you have changed your coiffure, Newt,” she said in a choked voice.
    “What do you think? Take it up and down and all around, what do you think of it? Is it even worse than before?”
    The hair could not be changed, and rather than add to his nervousness by disapproving of it, she said, “It looks fine.”
    “I want to look my best. I hope to offer for her tonight.”
    “Oh no, Newt! It is too soon. You hardly know her.”
    “You can’t leap a chasm in two jumps. It is now or never. She will soon have met other men; then what chance have I?”
    “You have a poor opinion of yourself! But only think, you would have to ask Dolmain’s permission first.”
    “Partis ain’t exactly thick on the ground. I own an abbey. Come from good stock. I’ll do it tonight, if I get the chance.”
    Caro intended to see he was not left alone with Dolmain. To rush his fence in this manner would ruin any slim chance he might have of winning Helen.
    “How do I look?” she asked, to distract his thoughts.
    She had changed her coiffure to a more sedate do to lend her an air of dignity. Her raven curls were held back by a silver ribbon and braided à la Didon, emphasizing her high cheekbones and classical nose. Her gown, a three-quarters dress of violet spider gauze over a cream satin petticoat, was stylish without being risqué. Diamonds sparkled at her throat.
    “You know you always look good,” he said. “Oh, before they come, I have something to tell you.” He emptied his budget about Helen’s doings with Bernard that afternoon. “Will you tell Dolmain?” he asked, when he had finished his tale.

 
     
    Her anger with the father was no reason to let Helen fall into danger. There was no question of Dolmain’s love of his daughter; he would certainly do what he should regarding her welfare. “He ought to know, yet I dislike to tattle on her. Yes, I expect I must tell him.”
    Dolmain and Lady Helen soon arrived. Caro could only assume he was a marvelous actor. The way he gazed at her, with a soft smile of admiration, was almost enough to make her question whether Newt was mistaken about her follower reporting to Curzon Street. She turned her attention to Helen, whom she had not had much opportunity to assess thus far. The girl was well turned out in a pale blue gown of sarsenet with a shawl of Albany gauze over her shoulders and a simple strand of pearls at her throat. She was pretty, but her smile was lukewarm.
    “Good evening, Lady Winbourne,” she said, dropping a small curtsey. Mr. Newton