Page 5 of Fortune Favors the Frivolous (Matchmaking Mischief Makers #2)
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 restriction made 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 girl she had once been, who had needed rescuing herself and found it in Henry’s steadfast friendship.
If only she had time to send word to Henry!
His steady presence and quick wit would be invaluable, not to mention his superior strength and knowledge of the world.
But Venetia’s note had been clear—there was no time to lose.
By the time she could reach Henry and explain the situation, Venetia might be halfway to Gretna Green or locked away in Lord Windermere’s estate, beyond all hope of rescue.
No, this task fell to her alone, at least initially. Later, perhaps, she could send word to Henry once she had ascertained Venetia’s whereabouts and the route they were taking. Henry could follow with a proper rescue party while Caroline kept watch over her friend.
The thought of seeing Henry again—of having to explain this mad scheme—sent a flutter through her chest that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he’d looked at her at the ball.
Would he be furious with her recklessness?
Impressed by her courage? Or simply relieved when she was safe?
She pushed such thoughts aside. There would be time to worry about Henry’s reaction once Venetia was safe.
Barely daring to breathe, Caroline tiptoed through the house and let herself out of the scullery, wondering, briefly, if she had finally gone too far.
The shadowy garden seemed to whisper warnings, and every rustle of leaves sounded like her mother’s voice cautioning restraint, propriety, common sense.
But the thought of Venetia, trapped and desperate and terrified, strengthened her resolve beyond all doubt.
Caroline squared her shoulders beneath the rough jacket, feeling simultaneously vulnerable and powerful in her disguise.
The weight of the knife against her ankle, the snug binding across her chest, the unfamiliar freedom of breeches—all of it served to remind her that she was no longer Miss Caroline Weston, sheltered daughter of Sir Frederick.
Tonight, she was someone else entirely. Someone brave enough to risk everything for friendship.