“Gentlemen are not the only ones entitled to a taste of wickedness.”
—The Debutante’s Revenge
Caroline trailed Delilah up the staircase to her bedchamber, eager to read more issues of The Debutante’s Revenge. The one she’d read at the breakfast table earlier had resonated with her in a way few things had since she’d awaken in the duke’s house. Perhaps, like Delilah, she was a devotee of the column. Maybe one of the newspapers in Delilah’s collection would provide the spark she needed to regain her memory.
Delilah shut the door behind them and tossed her blond curls behind her shoulder. “Please sit,” she said, waving a hand at her bed, which was covered with a counterpane in a spring-like shade of pink. All the room’s furnishings, in fact, from the bright yellow curtains to the fresh green wallpaper to the charming landscape of a cottage hanging over the bureau reflected Delilah’s sunny personality.
While Caroline settled herself on the edge of the mattress, Delilah threw open the doors of her armoire and ducked her head inside. When she emerged a few seconds later, she held a small stack of newspapers, which she presented to Caroline with unexpected reverence.
“They’re in order,” she said, “with the most recent issue on top. I’m going to leave you here so that you may read them in peace. Take your time, for while each column is short, it’s meant to be savored. Let the words wash over you; let the drawings stir your imagination. Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” she said, oddly touched. “I shall.”
Delilah shot her a wide smile as she glided out of the room and shut the door behind her.
Brimming with anticipation, Caroline kicked off her slippers, stretched out on the bed, and plucked a random paper from the middle of the stack. Her eyes scanned the page, and the image of a man and woman waltzing immediately captured her gaze. His large hand was splayed across the small of her back; her fingers rested on an impossibly broad shoulder. Their chests were only a breath apart, and they looked at each other with such tenderness that it left Caroline breathless. The column beneath the sketch read:
The Debutante’s Revenge Dear Debutantes,
While dancing is not inherently scandalous, it does provide ample opportunities for titillating flirtation, passionate glances, and exhilarating contact.
Interestingly, a gentleman need not be excessively dexterous or graceful in order to be a good dance partner. Rather, he should move with a natural confidence. He should hold you with care and respect. He should look at you with something akin to wonder.
If you are fortunate enough to find such a dance partner, you may wish to consider him as a potential beau.
For expertise on the dance floor often extends to other key areas as well.
Goodness. Her fingertips tingling, Caroline sat up and studied the column again. She agreed with its advice, but, more importantly, she recognized something within it. Perhaps she’d had a dance partner like the one described. Or maybe she’d simply read this particular column before.
Vexingly, she had no recollection of either.
Her heart beat fast as she selected another newspaper from the pile. In this issue, the sketch showed a young woman from behind as she sat gazing at a lush garden, her sumptuous gown skimming the stone bench and kissing the ground beneath.
The Debutante’s Revenge Dear Debutantes,
There are a great many ways to capture a gentleman’s attention. You may resort to all manner of tricks, such as wearing a gown with a shockingly low neckline, pretending to sprain your ankle, or laughing excessively at his attempts at humor. All of these tactics, while tried and true, work only in the short term.
If you wish to gain his notice—and keep it—you must create a more lasting connection. Try asking him a personal question or offering a sincere smile, all while staying true to who you are.
If the gentleman responds in kind, you are on your way to establishing a deeper bond.
If he does not, you must ask yourself why you are wasting your time with him.
Perhaps, instead of desperately seeking to gain a gentleman’s favor, you should require the gentleman to seek yours.
Caroline swallowed, stunned. This advice resonated too. Not only in regard to what it said—but also how it was said. The Debutante’s Revenge meant something to her—the real her. She sensed it deep in her bones.
Encouraged by the admittedly small development, she proceeded to read all of the columns, in chronological order. She spent hours studying every drawing and rereading each letter, searching for clues, searching for herself.
When a knock sounded on the door, she sat up on Delilah’s bed, slightly dazed. She’d been so absorbed by the task that she’d lost all track of time. “Come in,” she called.
Delilah strode through the door, and Molly followed with a cart. “We thought you should take a break for tea,” Delilah said cheerfully. “You must be famished.”
“Thank you,” Caroline said. She carefully organized the columns and set them on Delilah’s desk. “Tea sounds lovely. You’ll join me, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Delilah replied. “I’m curious to hear your thoughts about the column.”
Molly wheeled the tea cart toward a small sitting area near the window and uncovered a tray filled with small sandwiches, scones, fruit, and clotted cream. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need,” she said kindly.
“It looks delicious,” Caroline said, her belly rumbling in agreement.
Molly clasped her hands in front of her starched white apron and bobbed a curtsy before leaving. Delilah kicked off her slippers, tucked her feet beneath her gown, and gratefully accepted the steaming cup of tea that Caroline had poured. “Did you enjoy the rest of the articles?”
“I did.” Caroline nibbled a scone, thoughtful. “But I felt more than enjoyment. I felt a connection to the column.”
“I do too,” Delilah said. “Sometimes I feel as though the authoress is speaking directly to me.” She paused to sip her tea and froze, her cup halfway to her mouth. “Wait. Do you think your connection to The Debutante’s Revenge extends beyond that of a reader?”
Caroline worried her lower lip. “Does that make me sound a little mad? Doesn’t every person who’s taken leave of their senses believe that they’re someone talented or famous?”
“You’re not mad,” Delilah assured her, her voice brimming with excitement. “It’s entirely possible that you’re associated with the column in some way. Could you have drawn the sketches?”
Caroline pushed the sleeves of her gown up to her elbows. “There’s only one way to find out. May I have a sheet of paper and a pencil?”
Delilah sprang out of her chair, rummaged through a desk drawer, and produced a sketchpad and pencil. “Here you are. What will you draw?”
“Not what. Who,” Caroline replied with a smile. “You shall be my subject.”
“Me?” Delilah hastily attempted to smooth her hair.
“Sit in your chair and relax while I sketch your portrait,” Caroline instructed, staring at the blank paper in front of her and wondering where in the world to begin. Maybe a few bold lines. Some subtle shading. She let the pencil glide over the paper, trusting that any talent she possessed would manifest itself on the page.
Alas, it did not.
Delilah must have noticed Caroline’s dismay. “How is it looking?” she probed.
“Not good,” Caroline said flatly. “I can confidently say that I am not the artist behind The Debutante’s Revenge.”
“Are you certain?” Delilah said. “Artists are notoriously critical of their own work. Perhaps you should let me judge.”
Caroline glanced at the blob she’d drawn, which might have been a passable likeness—if Delilah had been a cross between a mermaid and a sheep.
“No.” Caroline tried to snap the sketchbook shut, but Delilah grabbed it and swiftly moved it out of her reach.
Delilah deliberately turned the sketchbook around, then studied the drawing, trying valiantly to keep her face impassive. “Well,” she began. “It’s not so bad.” Pointing to the sheep’s tail, she said, “This is obviously my nose.”
Caroline rotated the paper one-hundred-eighty degrees. “That’s your foot.”
Grinning, Delilah handed the pad back to her. “You’re definitely not the artist,” she agreed. “But you could be the writer. You felt a connection to the column, and I think you must trust your instincts.”
“My mind hasn’t been terribly reliable of late,” Caroline replied dryly. “What I need is proof.”
“The column is cloaked in secrecy,” Delilah said sadly. “And that makes proof difficult to come by.”
Caroline blinked. “What day of the week is The Debutante’s Revenge published?”
“Fridays. Oh.” Delilah’s eyes grew wide. “If a new letter doesn’t appear in Friday’s Hearsay, we’ll know that your instincts are correct. Six days. Not that long to wait.”
“I hope to regain my memory sooner, but in case I don’t, it’s comforting to know we’ll have confirmation one way or the other.”
“How exciting,” Delilah breathed. “I eagerly anticipate every letter, but the next one may turn out to be enlightening on multiple levels. And if we learn that you are behind the column in some way, you have nothing to fear. I would never expose you.”
Caroline’s eyes stung. “In just a few short days, you’ve become like a sister to me. And in an odd way, your friendship makes me feel homesick for a place I can’t even name. I only know I need to find my family. To discover where I belong.”
“You belong,” Delilah said firmly. She reached out and gave Caroline’s hand a squeeze that she felt somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and prayed once more that she wouldn’t forever be Caroline, the girl with no real name or family.
“Would you like to hear about my walk in the park?” Delilah’s pretty face beamed, and her shoulders lifted as though she’d burst if she didn’t share.
“Absolutely,” Caroline said, chuckling.
“I happened to meet Lord Brondale as I was strolling along the promenade. He’s very charming and witty. Handsome too,” she said, sighing. “I think he is fond of me. And I know I am fond of him.”
“How wonderful,” Caroline said. “You deserve to have a dashing beau. Is he courting you?”
“Not ostensibly. That is, he hasn’t sought permission from Nash—probably because he knows my brother would disapprove.”
A shiver stole over Caroline’s skin. “Nash doesn’t like Lord Brondale? Why not?”
“He refuses to give specifics—only that he has reason not to trust him.” Delilah pushed herself out of her chair and paced her bedchamber. “But I suspect he would disapprove of any gentleman who called on me.”
“Your brother clearly adores you, and I’m sure he wants you to be happy. Perhaps I could talk to him about Lord Brondale. Try to persuade him that you are capable of judging his character for yourself.”
Delilah faced Caroline and clasped her hands under her chin. “You’d do that?”
“Of course,” Caroline replied. “I can’t promise that I’ll succeed, but I’ll try.”
“He’s eating dinner at his club tonight, so it will just be the two of us,” Delilah said.
Caroline tamped down a twinge of disappointment and placed a hand over her full belly. “After all this food, I couldn’t possibly eat more. Would you mind terribly if I skipped dinner and retired early tonight?” She needed time to sort through all she’d learned about the column. To try and fit some of the puzzle pieces together.
“Not at all,” Delilah assured her. “I shall do the same. Who knows? Perhaps tomorrow, we’ll both have a few answers.” She gestured toward the stack of newspapers on her desk. “Would you like to take the columns with you?”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind.” Perhaps she’d study them some more after a little rest.
“There’s no one I’d rather share them with,” Delilah said warmly.
“Thank you.” She pulled Delilah into an impulsive hug. “For everything.”
Caroline gathered up the newspapers and made her way to her bedchamber, contemplating the earliest acceptable time to change into her nightgown. But when she entered her room, she pulled up short.
Sitting on the chest at the foot of her bed was a neat pile of folded clothes and a pair of boy’s boots. She swallowed as she lifted the shirt on top and held the worn fabric against her chest.
Her clothes. The ones she’d been wearing on the night she lost her memory. Besides her bag, they were the only tangible connection to her real life.
Her pulse skittered as she closed the door and loosened the laces of her gown. Perhaps slipping into her old disguise would help her remember the woman she’d been—and who she still was, deep down.