This led to a spontaneous chant among the men of “We want Effie! We want Effie!”
If it weren’t so astonishing, it would be amusing, Caro thought. She’d known, of course, that Effie was popular with theatregoers, but she had never actually witnessed their adoration in action.
She was trying to determine how best to calm them so she could ask her questions when a tall man with red side-whiskers and a receding hairline stumbled forward. “You’re working with Francis Thorn, aren’t you? What did he do with her?” he demanded, stepping closer to Caro than she would have liked. She fought back a wave of panic as she tried to move back. “What. Did. He. Do. With. Her.” He punctuated the question with a wag of his finger, coming dangerously close to her face.
“He’s done nothing with Miss Warrington, sir, and neither have I.” She made sure to enunciate her words carefully and loudly, since the others hadn’t stopped their chanting and this newcomer was clearly drunk as a lord. She didn’t have a great deal of experience with intoxicated men, but if he felt this strongly about Effie, then surely he’d be able to give her some useful information about his rivals for her affection. Aside from Frank, that was. She’d underestimated how strongly Effie’s admirers would resent him.
But the inebriated man only swayed closer. “Where is she? She was supposed to be here tonight. What have you done with her?”
Perhaps recognizing that one of their number had crossed a line of sorts, the other men stopped their chant. Only, rather than coming to Caro’s rescue, they shuffled back from them both.
“Where is Miss Warrington?!” he cried, his spirit-soaked breath exploding into Caro’s face in a fetid burst of humidity. She nearly gagged as she pushed against his chest in panic. She had to get away from him. “I demand to see her at once! She made no mention of being absent tonight!”
“Sir, you must calm yourself!” Caro leaned away from him as best she could.
As he spoke, he continued to gesticulate, the motion throwing him off balance. So much so that he launched his arm forward so hard that his entire body soon followed.
Caro, recognizing the danger too late, screamed in dismay as the man’s body carried her down to the floor with him.
She was attempting to push him off when a familiar voice rang out.
“Get the hell off of her, you brute!” Valentine shouted.
Chapter Seven
Are you hurt?” Val demanded once he’d lifted the drunken oaf off of Caro and helped her to her feet.
Having experienced inexplicable rage on her behalf once already that day with Langham, he wasn’t quite as surprised by it this time—especially given she’d been in physical danger in this instance. Even so, he was unaccustomed to the role of hothead. He’d always been the one to keep his wits about him while others lost theirs. Clearly the renewal of his acquaintance with Caro was affecting him, and not for the better. Still, if the impulse kept her from further harassment, then he supposed he could be grateful for now.
“I’m fine,” she said, though he noted a tremor in the hand waving him off. The gown he’d been admiring earlier was sadly crushed and one of the puffed sleeves had been torn. “I was merely surprised—that’s all.”
As if feeling his gaze on her, she raised a hand to her disheveled hair. “I’m not too much of a fright, am I?”
A groan drew their attention back to the cause of Caro’s disordered state.
Her coiffure forgotten, Caro scowled down at the man with the unfortunate hairline. “He was shouting about Effie,” she told Val. “Demanding to know what I’d done with her. They all were.”
She turned to look behind them and gasped. There was no one else there.
“Where did they go?” she demanded of Val, as if he’d personally helped the others make their escape. “First they let this fellow accost me, and then they turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble? Men!”
Val forbore from pointing out that he himself was a man and had come to her aid. That would only anger her further. And he was fond of his nose in its current location, thank you very much.
“Who were they?” he asked instead.
“There was a whole passel of Effie’s admirers,” Caro said with disgust. “I suppose they were waiting for the play to end so that they could demand to know Effie’s whereabouts from Julia and the rest of the cast.”
“Anyone you recognized?” he asked.
“No. Not even the one who knocked me down.”
They both turned to look at Caro’s accoster, who hadn’t attempted to rise from where Val had tossed him aside moments before.
“Lift him up,” Caro said to Val. “I wish to ask him some questions.”
“I’m not some footman for you to order around,” Val groused even as he moved to do as she asked. He hauled the man onto an overstuffed velvet sofa.
“Effie.” The man sighed as his head dropped back against the seat. “Where is Effie?”
“What’s your name, sir?” Caro asked him in an overloud voice.
“He’s not deaf.” Val barely disguised his amusement. “Only drunk.”
The look she gave him could have curdled tea, but Val shrugged. If she was going to conduct investigations in his presence, she’d have to endure his input. And he had far more experience with sots than she did.
“Not deaf,” the man repeated forlornly. “Only drunk.”
Dropping to his haunches, Val looked the man in his bleary eyes. “What’s your name, old fellow?”
“Thom’s Har’son,” the man enunciated very carefully.
Val shot Caro a sidelong glance of triumph. She rolled her eyes, which only amused him more.
He was clearly losing what little grip he had left on his sanity if he now actively wished for her derision. But damn it, if this reminded her that he wasn’t the humorless society toff she now thought him to be, then he’d take it.
“Mr. Harrison.” Caro leaned down to his level. “Who are the other men who came to ask after Miss Warrington?”
Unfortunately, her stance gave Harrison an excellent view of her impressive bosom and his eyes fixed there. Val physically lifted the man’s chin. “Her face is up here, Harrison,” he growled.
Caro’s face turned pink and she stood up straight again. She mouthed her thanks to Val, who nodded.
“Ask him again,” he told her.
“Who are the other men who came to ask after Miss Warrington, Mr. Harrison?” she repeated.
At the mention of the actress, Harrison, now focused on Caro’s face, brightened. “Effie? Is Effie here?”
“I doubt we’ll get sense from him in his current state,” Val said, exasperated. “He’s clearly beyond focusing on much besides Miss Warrington and your bos—” He caught himself. “Apologies . . . besides Miss Warrington.”
But Caro waved away his correction. “I’m not ready to concede defeat yet.”
To Harrison she said, “No, she’s not here just now, Mr. Harrison. But we’d like to ask you some questions about her. Do you know—”
“Uncle Thomas, there you are!” A young man rushed toward them, his expression one of relief.