The Hired Hero

by Andrea Pickens

  But now he seemed determined to make up for lost time. On they drove, though the night was so black Caroline wondered at how he keep the horses on the road. The thick, scudding clouds only let through a pale wash of moonlight on occasion, and the wind, which had whistled down upon them from the bleak moor during the past hour, promised more rain. She could only imagine what miseries poor John was enduring in such conditions. She sighed, wedging into a corner and bracing herself with her shoulder to counter the increasingly heavy jolts.

  Her thoughts couldn’t help but turn to the enormity of what she had undertaken. The lives of many brave people depended on her ability succeed, and that made the mission daunting enough. But if she were truly honest with herself, that was not the only reason she had chosen to embark on such a hazardous course. Oh, it was true enough what she had told Darwin—that she would never have asked a servant to risk his life. But there had been other choices. No doubt she would have been commended for showing good sense had she appealed to her father’s close friend and neighbor, Lord Ellsworth, for advice.

  Caroline’s lips quirked in an involuntary smile. Eminent good sense was not a trait normally associated with her name. Perhaps that was because she had spent too much time racketing around with her cousin Lucien— she, the younger, always pushing herself to match his exploits.

  Or perhaps it was because of something else.

  Lucien was part of it, to be sure. Both her mother and his parents had died during a particularly bad influenza epidemic, and so he had come to live under her father’s roof. Aside from the fact that the Duke doted on his young nephew, it was only natural that he do so—after all, Lucien was the heir. And so the two of them had become like brother and sister, both being close in age and having no true siblings of their own. He had tolerated her following him around like a doting puppy when they were small, and as they grew older, he had never sought to keep her from taking part in their escapades for the mere fact of being a female. From filching apples from Squire Laidlaw’s trees to racing curricles at midnight down the fashionable streets of Mayfair, Lucien had always treated her an equal.

  Yet Caroline always knew, from her earliest days, it was not so. No matter that she had a better seat on her hunter than most of the county or could discuss estate affairs with enough knowledge to set a lax steward’s ears to ringing. No matter that she could read Virgil or Homer in the original or discuss the political implications of Napoleon’s return to France with more acuity than half of White’s. She would never be her father’s heir. His beloved Roxbury would pass on to one not of his own flesh and blood, and that must be a terrible disappointment to him. Her hand came up to brush away from her cheek what must have been an errant drop of rain. This once, however, she would prove to everyone that despite what Society decreed, she was worthy of her family name. A sigh caught in her throat—if only she could prove it to the one who mattered most.

  She must have dozed off, for she was jolted awake by the sound of a sharp crack. Still muzzy from fatigue, she thought perhaps she had imagined it. But suddenly there was another one, and she sat bolt upright, for there was no mistaking the sound of gunfire. At the same time, the coach picked up speed, rocking wildly from side to side. Caroline was thrown violently against the door.

  “John!” she cried. “John! What is happening?”

  There was no answer over the pounding of the hooves and the groaning of the wooden joints.

  Frantically, she pried at the door’s handle, opening it enough to peer out towards the rear. Two dark shapes, blacker than the night, were charging down on them. A brief flash was followed by the bark of a pistol. After that, the coach seemed to gain even more speed. Caroline twisted her head towards the front but couldn’t see up to the box. The moon broke through the clouds for a moment. From her angle, she could see the horses were out of control. Panicked, they galloped madly ahead, the reins dragging helplessly through the mud and ruts. The front wheels gave a dizzying lurch as the coach left the road, careening over rougher terrain. Ahead was...nothing. Nothing but an ominous black void. Caroline had only seconds to make a decision.

  She flung herself out the door.

  A searing pain shot through her shoulder as she hit the ground hard. The breath was knocked out of her and the momentum of the fall sent her tumbling down a steep slope. Her head grazed an outcropping of rock, opening up a jagged gash across her brow. Though half dazed, the sound of splintering wood and the terrified whinnies of the horses filled her ears. And she couldn’t seem to stop rolling, sliding, tumbling over more rocks and brush as brambles torn at her clothes.

  Finally, her descent was arrested by a large gorse bush. Wedged among its thorny lower branches, Caroline was barely conscious. She groaned aloud at the thought of poor John—the past few minutes had been a nightmare worse than anything Dante could have penned. She tried to sit up, but the slightest movement caused her to retch. Falling back, face down in the mud and leaves, she lay motionless.

  Above her, the sound of pounding hooves stopped abruptly. Through the haze of shock, she could hear other sounds, the sounds of boots scrabbling over rocks, and then the sounds of voices.

  “Ain’t bloody likely a living thing survived that,” came a rough growl.

  “Cor, whatcha gone and done by popping off the coachman? We ‘us supposed te git some piece of paper from the wench afore we killed ‘um.” The second voice had a grating whine to it.

  There was a loud grunt. “Let’s be off and collect the rest of our blunt from that flash cove —don’t like the looks of ‘im by half. He’s as like to scamper on us, if I knows that type.”

  “But whadda we tell him?”

  “Ye ninny. We tell him she’s dead, that’s wot. And that’s what he bloody hired us fer, ain’t it?”

  “He seemed mighty particular about wanting that letter she had.”

  The first voice swore. “You wanna go down there and git it fer him?”

  There was a silence.

  “Didn’t think so,” continued the voice. “The gennulmun be welcome to break his own arse if it’s so important te him.”

  “Who was she, anyhow?”

  “Who bloody cares. Whoever she be, she’s dead. Let’s be off.”

  Caroline didn’t hear them leave. She had slipped into a blackness as deep as the starless sky.

  * * * *

  “How long before the mill can be working?”

  The steward pulled a face as he rubbed at his chin. “Assuming we have the mortar and timber, and enough men can be pulled from the other work.... He let the words trail off as he stared at the forlorn stone structure which was in an obvious state of disrepair.

  Julian Fitzwilliam Atherton, the new Earl of Davenport, sighed. “Figure out a cost for that, too.”

  The other man scratched something in a worn notebook and then they both spurred their horses forward and continued along the riverbank. They rode in silence for awhile, each man seemingly occupied with his own thoughts.

  “Perhaps you should hand the bloody place over to the creditors and be done with it,” murmured the steward as they passed yet another field fallow for lack of seed.

  The earl’s jaw tightened. “I am not intimidated by a difficult task, Sykes. Things will be different now.”

  Sykes shot him an appraising glance. “Aye, milord, on that I have no doubt—you ain’t like him at all.” He heaved a sigh. “Well, if you’re serious, the tenants will most likely come around. They are good folk and not afraid of hard work. Perhaps it won’t be impossible to set things right.”

  Davenport nodded grimly. “Bring your list tomorrow morning at nine and we shall decide where to begin.” With that, he turned his mount away from the other man and set the big black stallion into a canter towards home.

  He loosened the cravat at his neck as he strode from the stable to the main house. His shirt was damp with sweat and his worn riding coat showed the effects of a day spent in the saddle. He glanced ruefully at the mud encrusting his boots
—hardly the picture of a titled gentleman, he thought to himself with an ironic smile. But he cared little for appearances. His mind was already occupied with the myriad things that needed to be done. First, he must pen a letter to his banker in London. His own carefully managed funds should be sufficient to satisfy the most pressing demands of his creditors and still leave enough to begin to put things right. With prudent management, hard work and luck....

  The front door was opened by a rotund man of less than average height. His wiry hair seemed to defy all efforts with a brush, sticking straight up from his head as if he had recently encountered a castle ghost. That, combined with his rather large eyes and pinched mouth, gave him a perpetually startled look. But at least, noted Davenport, there was no longer a stab of fear in the other man’s eyes every time he approached.

  “Good evening, Fields,” said the earl.

  The butler bowed, lower than was necessary. He was still having trouble finding his tongue. “G...g...good evening, my lord,” he finally stammered. “Y...you have a visitor.”

  The earl sighed and ran a hand through his dark, tousled locks. He hadn’t bothered with a hat and his hair, worn longer than was fashionable, was as dusty as the rest of him.

  “Who is he?” he inquired.

  “L...lady Atherton, my lord. I put her in t...the library.”

  “I trust you lit the fire.”

  The man nodded.

  “Very well.” He let out another sigh. At the moment, he didn’t feel nearly up to facing his brother’s widow— what he really wanted was a hot bath and a bottle of brandy. But it must be done.

  He opened the library door.

  “Hello, Julian.” She was still as lovely as when he had first met her, though her mouth seemed harder, more careworn, and her eyes were perhaps a shade duller. “I apologize for coming unannounced.”

  “You are always welcome here, Helen.”

  She smiled fleetingly. “You are...too good.”

  Davenport crossed to the mahogany sideboard and poured himself a generous brandy. “May I get you anything?” he asked, gesturing to the sherry.

  She shook her head, her gaze dropping to her hands which lay knotted in her lap.

  He stared into the fire and took a long swallow from his glass.

  “Actually, I’ve come to say goodbye.”

  His head jerked around with a start.

  “I have a small property in New Forest, near Lymington, and a modest income to go with it. It came to me through my mother and was one thing Charles could not touch.” She paused, trying to control the emotion in her voice.

  “You may always think of this as your home,” he said quietly. “The dower house can be refurbished...”

  “No!” she cried. “This was never my home, God knows. And I am a reminder of—you have borne more than any man should have to bear.” Her voice broke. “The lies, the ugly rumors that have been bandied about your name. Don’t think I am unaware of what I owe you!”

  “It isn’t necessary...”

  “Yes! Yes it is. Julian, please let me say it aloud. It is only your willingness to take the blame for many of Charles’s...excesses that allows me to appear in Society without being cut directly by all my acquaintances, that allows my daughter to grow up without hanging her head in total shame—”

  “Helen.”

  Tears were gathering in her eyes. “I’m glad I never bore him a son,” she whispered. “I’m glad Highwood went to you, who deserves it so much more than any seed of Charles’s—though God knows, there are probably more than enough of those in the area.”

  “Helen,” he repeated quietly. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

  She struggled to compose herself. “Lord, what an utter fool I was, Julian.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “How could I have been so blind? And how can you have ever forgiven me?”

  “It was a long time ago,” he said gently. “And we all know how charming Charles could be when he wanted to be.”

  She shook her head. “How can two people so alike on the outside be so different on the inside?”

  Davenport ran a finger along the thin white line that marred his cheekbone. “Ah,” he said, his voice full of self-mockery. “Not alike—I’m the twin with the scar.”

  Lady Helen regarded him with a look of great sorrow, and some other emotion.

  He turned to look out the large, leaded glass windows.

  She continued to stare at his tall, athletic form even though his back was to her. “What of you, Julian? Well I know that Charles has mortgaged the estate to the hilt and gambled away any money that your father didn’t lose before him.”

  “I shall manage.”

  A sigh escaped her lips. “It looks to be turning into a nasty night.” She had risen and moved to stand by his side. “I shall take my leave so that I may return to my uncle’s before the rain begins.” Placing a slender hand on his shoulder she stood on tiptoes to brush a kiss on his cheek.

  “Would that the hands of time could be turned back,” she whispered.

  He shook his head bleakly. “That, I fear, is beyond the power of any mortal.”

  She smiled sadly and looked as if to say more. Then her lips pressed together, and after a moment’s hesitation, she simply sighed.

  “Good bye then, Julian. I wish you all the happiness you deserve.” Without waiting for a response, she hurried from the room.”

  “Happiness. That, I fear, is beyond my power as well,” he whispered to himself.

  Then he poured himself another brandy.

  Would that the spirits could wash away the bitter taste that stuck in his throat, no matter how much of the amber liquid he poured into himself. It brought only oblivion, not sweet relief from the sea of demands that washed over him. He was heartily sick of it, sick of feeling that slowly, inexorably, he was losing a little piece of himself with every crashing wave.

  With a grimace he realized he hardly remembered how it had all started. When had his mother first opportuned him to have a care for his twin, to try to temper the high spirits of the heir and guard both him and the family name from harm. Why, he and his brother could not have been above ten or twelve years of age, but even then, Charles had been irresistibly charming, while he had been painfully dull.

  And dim-witted as well, to allow himself to become his brother’s keeper. The pattern had been set then. Charles became increasingly wild while he was left to quietly make amends for his sibling’s excesses or take the blame himself. Sometimes it was just easier that way. It had made his father laugh and his mother cry. He supposed it was those anguished eyes that had kept him from shirking from the unfair responsibilities. She had cared about family honor and right and wrong. His own principles must have come from her side of the family, for as much as he wished to, he could not simply walk away.

  And that was just the beginning. Much as his mind rebelled against it, he forced himself to think about Helen. Charles had not been content with merely stealing his good name—no, his brother had to take the woman he loved as well. Davenport paused to drain his glass.

  Charming Charles.

  His brother had been free and easy with his addresses while he, Davenport, was shy and awkward. How could he blame a lovely young lady for being seduced by well-turned phrases and elegant manners.

  Unfortunately, when in his cups, his brother became as free and easy with his fists as with his pretty words. Davenport’s face darkened as he recalled his first sight of the bruises. She had begged him not to make a scene. So, once again, he had dutifully done what was asked of him, no matter the cost to his own feelings. Had Helen truly any notion of what torture it had been to watch what was happening to her? His own suffering must surely have been nearly as painful as hers.

  His fingers came up to trace the thin white scar on his cheekbone as his jaw tightened in anger. Rather than stand up for herself, Helen had turned to him for comfort. How unfair a burden! Why was it he fell prey to vulnerable females? He
found himself wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like to care for someone capable of giving as well as taking.

  Well, his brother was dead now, and he intended to bury his own past weaknesses along with him. He meant to finally get on with his own life.

  But first he would uncork another bottle.

  * * * *

  Caroline had no notion of how long she had been lying there. It was still pitch black and the rain had begun anew, light, intermittent drops, but chilling to the bone. She pushed herself into a sitting position, fighting down a new wave of nausea. The pain in her left arm was excruciating. She couldn’t move it, but with her right one she assured herself that the small packet sewn into the fold of her dress was still there. The feel of it triggered the memory of the conversation she had heard between her assailants. It seemed so unreal, but then her fingers moved up to her bruised face, sticky with blood.

  She knew she had to move from where she was. With daylight, there was a good chance they may return. Summoning up all her strength, she crawled out from the gorse and made her way on hands and knees back up to the road. Using a tree for support, she pulled herself to her feet, clutching her muddy cloak tightly around her aching body. Thankfully, the rain let up once again. Clouds scudded across the sky to reveal a pale moon. Her eyes could follow the road around a sharp bend to where it disappeared into a forest of live oak and beeches. But she quickly decided against such a course. The steep ravine fell away to the right. There was really little choice. On the other side of the road was a field, then a copse of trees. With faltering steps, she headed for their shelter.

  It was a larger woods that she had thought. Though thankful for the cover, she found it difficult to pick her way through the tangle of brush and brambles. One step at a time, she repeated to herself. Then another, and another. She forced herself to keep moving. Only once, on crossing a small stream, did she allow herself to stop for a moment. The water felt cool and comforting as she drank thirstily and washed the worst of the dirt and dried blood from her face. The urge to lie down was overwhelming, but she forced herself back to her feet.