The Hired Hero

by Andrea Pickens

  The butler stuck his head into the room. “Mrs. Collins, Cook is threatening to give notice unless credit is extended at the butcher’s. Says she won’t waste her talents baking bread and slicing cheese.”

  The housekeeper muttered something under her breath regarding the cook’s culinary talents. “Well, I better go see to her. It looks as if yer finished here anyway, miss.” She gathered up the dishes. “I shall visit the attic and see what I can find after I’ve dealt with the kitchen.”

  Mrs. Collins was as good as her word. She reappeared later with an armful of things, all in muted, if not somber, colors. The earl’s late wife was apparently not of a lively nature. It was all of good quality however, and Caroline was grateful though still hesitant about the propriety of accepting her ladyship’s clothing without the earl’s approval.

  “You are sure it won’t upset his lordship?” She asked while eyeing the dark merino day dress that the housekeeper had draped over the foot of the bed. “I mean...”

  But the other woman had already bustled from the room in response to a shriek coming from downstairs.

  Caroline slowly stood up. She still felt slightly woozy and dreadfully sore from all her knocks and bruises. But she forced herself to dress. She had lain about entirely too long. Now that she had recovered her senses, at least, she must resolve on a course of action.

  As she fumbled with the buttons of the gown, she thought about her current situation. Her reticule was lying somewhere in the shattered remains of the carriage so she hadn’t a penny to her name. Name. Now that was a problem. Not only was she set on not revealing her own, but she had no idea whose house she was in. He had told her his name, that she remembered vaguely. But she couldn’t for the life of her recall what it was. Darrencott...Dovepot—it was no use. She must remember to ask Mrs. Collins at first opportunity to avoid making a cake of herself. However, she did know one thing. He was a gentleman, and as such, he would be expected to offer her assistance without asking awkward questions.

  There wasn’t a soul around when she made her way downstairs. No doubt Mrs. Collins and Owens were busy putting fires out in the kitchen. Curious, Caroline decided to look around on her own. Immediately to her right was the drawing room. It was done in shades of rose and emerald that had faded into lifeless shadows of their former hues. The carpets were threadbare and the mahogany sideboard, though recently waxed, showed its nicks and dents with little grace. Even the cushions on the sofas and wingchairs had a deflated look, as if depressed by all they had witnessed.

  Her eyes strayed to the carved fireplace. Above the mantel hung a large painting of an extremely elegant gentleman. The style of dress—the ornately tied cravat, the multicolored figured silk waistcoat, perfectly tailored swallow tailed coat and snug fitting pantaloons—was a total contrast, but the chiseled features were unmistakable, though there was a hardness to the mouth and eyes she hadn’t noticed....

  “A fine painting, is it not?”

  Caroline whirled around with a start.

  “Forgive me for startling you,” said Davenport as he took a step into the room. His gaze also moved to the portrait and his mouth quirked slightly. “The likeness is quite striking, don’t you think?”

  Caroline regarded his work-stained shirt, his shabby coat and buckskins, then turned back to stare at the gilt framed canvas for what seemed like ages.

  “No,” she finally answered. “I do not.”

  His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “Ah, the difference in dress...”

  “It isn’t that.” She knew that the prudent course of action would have been to remain silent but something goaded her to go on. “There is a certain cruelty about the mouth and the eyes—I wonder that you should tolerate it to be shown at all. It does you no credit.”

  Davenport’s face betrayed a flicker of surprise. He stared thoughtfully at the portrait before returning his attention to Caroline. “Do you think it wise to be up and moving about so soon,” he inquired, abruptly changing the subject.

  “I am unused to laying abed,” she replied, then had the grace to color as she realized how boorish her actions, as well as her words, must appear. “Forgive me for wandering around your house uninvited.”

  Davenport shrugged. “You may do as you please—we do not stand on manners here at Highwood.” Again, the hint of a sardonic smile.

  “Highwood?” she repeated softly. “I do not recognize....” Her brow furrowed slightly as she pondered her dilemma. Finally she decided to settle it herself. “I find I must ask for your forgiveness again, my lord. I seem to recall that you introduced yourself earlier, but I—I cannot remember your name.

  The smile deepened into real humor. “I believe you had other things to occupy your mind. I trust your arm is feeling better?” He inclined a slight bow. “I am Davenport.”

  Caroline stepped back with an involuntarily gasp. “The Earl of Davenport?” she said, in barely more than a whisper.

  “Ah, how heartening to be recognized.” His tone was almost amused, but a flicker of some deeper emotion flashed in his smoky eyes.

  She could only stare at him in disbelief. What wretched luck! Of all the places she could have stumbled into, she had to end up on the doorstep of one of the most dissolute rakehells in England. Oh yes, she knew of Davenport. His scandalous behavior was whispered about among the ton, and Caroline was well aware of the gossip, even though unmarried young ladies were not supposed to have their ears sullied with such shocking stories. Having a cousin who did not treat her as if she was a delicate—and witless— little creature had its uses.

  He was regarding her as well, an inscrutable expression on his face. Finally, he shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other and broke the silence. “You needn’t collapse in a paroxysm of terror. I prefer to choose my own victims. You, it appears, are already spoken for.”

  As Caroline went pale with anger, he walked past her to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. “As I said, we do not stand on ceremony here. It has been a long day and I am devilishly thirsty. Would you care to join me?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, I didn’t think so.” The lips were curled once again in a faint smile. Furious as she was at his cutting words, Caroline could not help but notice there seemed to be a twinkle in his eye rather than the reptilian coldness portrayed on the canvas. “You are looking a trifle pale. Perhaps you should sit down before you fall into a faint.”

  “I have never had a fit of vapors in my life,” she snapped. “I cannot imagine a more absurd reaction to troubling news. That is just the sort of time you need your wits about you.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. It was a very pleasant one. “You have a good deal of spirit, Miss....” He looked at her expectantly.

  She clamped her teeth shut.

  “Hmmm.” He cocked his head to one side. “I shall have to call you something.” He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on the arm that had been injured. “Miss Socket.” His gaze traveled up to her face. “Miss Gash. Miss Hurt.”

  Her lips began to twitch.

  “Ah, I have it!” He rubbed at his nose. “Miss Boxer!”

  At that she couldn’t repress a smile of her own. “Are you always so absurd, sir?”

  “No. Usually it takes until the third or fourth brandy.”

  Caroline’s face instantly turned stony. How had she let herself be drawn into bantering with such a man? She had come downstairs with a purpose and she had let herself be distracted.

  “I must leave here immediately,” she announced.

  Davenport removed his dusty coat and sunk into a faded wing chair. He wore no cravat and his shirt was open at the neck, revealing a hint of dark curls under the rumpled linen.

  “I am relieved to hear it, Miss Boxer. I have more than enough of my own problems to manage without having to deal with some gothic female. Good luck to you—you appear to need it”

  Caroline stood with her mouth agape. That was not exactly the response s
he had expected. Surely even a gentleman as jaded as the earl would offer her the use of his carriage!

  She began again. “Sir, what I meant was, I should be obliged if you would have your carriage brought around to take me on to...to my destination as soon as possible.”

  His bark of laughter was short and humorless. “Forgive my rudeness, Miss Boxer, but have you had a closer look around? There is no carriage. And the only animal in the stables besides my stallion is a rather ordinary hack.”

  She swallowed. “Perhaps a carriage may be hired?”

  He crossed his legs nonchalantly. “Have you any money?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, neither have I, at least none to spare for a private conveyance for you. I’m barely scraping by as it is. Perhaps you have relatives you can send word to?”

  Caroline bit her lip. She was saved from having to reply by the entrance of Mrs. Collins, carrying a tray with a few slices of cold ham, a chunk of bread and some Stilton cheese. “I have your supper here, my lord, as you asked.” She hadn’t noticed Caroline standing to the side. She set it down on a sidetable and ran her hands over the front of her apron. “The candlemaker’s son just brought out a package for me and said someone—a gentleman of Quality by the sounds of it— is inquiring in the village whether any strange young ladies have passed through recently—” She was interrupted by a horrified gasp.

  Caroline had turned deathly pale. Her hand flew to her throat. For a moment, she was mortally afraid that she would have to eat her words concerning a certain habit.

  “Don’t you worry none, Miss,” said Mrs. Collins quickly. “ I know when to keep mum. I seen what he done to you.”

  How had he found her so quickly?

  Davenport regarded her intently. “You are safe here,” he said quietly. Then he rubbed at his temples and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like an oath. “Perhaps in the morning we can figure a way out of this coil.”

  Caroline fought to compose her voice. “If you will excuse me, I’m feeling rather fatigued. I think I shall return to my room.”

  * * * *

  Caroline closed the door to her chamber. Much too agitated to lie down, she began to pace the narrow confines. Was her nemesis possessed of preternatural powers? She had thought herself safe from any pursuit for at least a few more days. A shudder passed through her and she had to fight down a rising wave of panic. Then her eyes fell on the ragged dress draped over the back of the chair. She would not—could not—let those papers fall into the wrong hands. That thought helped steady her nerves. What was it Lucien always told her when she was younger and hesitated at following him up to the highest boughs of the tree or setting her horse at a difficult jump?

  That the only enemy was fear itself.

  She cajoled herself to think. What would Lucien do? Most certainly he would not cower like a frightened mouse waiting for the snake to strike. He would take action.

  And so would she.

  Her pacing became less frantic as she fell deep in thought. First of all, it appeared she could expect no help from the infamous Earl of Davenport. But she supposed she should still count herself fortunate in some respects. Not having a feather to fly with, if he could be believed, had appeared to have curbed some of his more flagrant excesses. There was no sign that any wild debauches were going to occur while she was under his roof, so her person seemed safe enough from him, at least for the time being.

  However, his claim to poverty did appear to have the ring of truth. Even the most cursory look around had revealed a household shackled by the strictest economy—the shabby furnishings, the lack of servants, the simple supper taken off a tray. Her brow furrowed. The notion of the earl’s pockets being to let certain jibed with her understanding of his character. No doubt he was rusticating in the country to hide from his most pressing creditors. But the thought of the dissolute earl actually stooping to manual labor was nearly as implausible as her own predicament. Caroline shook her head slightly and decided it was best to put the man out of her thoughts. After all, his predicaments was not her concern, just as hers were obviously of no interest to him. It was solely up to her to come up with a plan.

  The hem of her dress caught on the foot of the bed and she yanked at it impatiently. As her hands smoothed the folds of the borrowed garment she couldn’t help but mutter an unladylike oath. Men had such fewer constraints on them in dress, in behavior, in freedom to move about....

  She stopped dead in her tracks.

  The merino wool was still between her fingers and she played with the cloth as her mind raced. It was not a bad idea at all. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time she had ever tried it. There was the time that Lucien had taken her to see Cribbs step into the ring with the challenger from the north....She could pull it off, she was sure she could.

  Her mind made up, she made herself lie down. She would need her strength, and besides, she could not put her plan into action until well after midnight. There were no servants to worry about. She could only hope that the earl had not abandoned all of his profligate tendencies and would indulge freely in the bottle, as wastrels were wont to do. Then she remembered the distinctive aroma that had enveloped his person on both the mornings she had encountered him. Her lips curled in a slight smile. Yes, there was no doubt he would be in a drunken stupor by that hour.

  Some hours later, she quietly crept into the dark hallway. She dared not light her candle just yet, but a pale wash of moonlight from a window near her door gave just enough illumination for her to find her way without incident. She had an idea of where she was going, for though she had dozed off and on throughout the afternoon, she couldn’t help but hear the sturdy tramp of Mrs. Collins climbing up and down the stairs. Slowly she moved along the threadbare carpet. Her throat tightened at the thought that she might inadvertently stumble into the earl’s bedchamber, but she forced herself to relax. It was highly unlikely he would notice, even if she did. By this time he no doubt had his hand well entwined around the smooth form of a bottle—or something equally as warming. In either case, his attention would be fully occupied.

  She paused before a closed door. It seemed the likely one. Slowly she turned the handle and pushed it open a few inches. A sigh of relief escaped her lips. Wooden stairs. She slipped inside and pulled the door shut. It was even colder in the attic than in the rest of the house and she shivered slightly in the pitch dark as she fumbled to light her candle. A sudden draft reminded her to look for a warm jacket as well the other things she had in mind. The flame lit, she hurried up into the cavernous darkness, her stockinged feet making no more noise than a scurrying mouse on the dusty treads.

  A short time later, Caroline emerged from the door, her arms laden with an assortment of things. She crept back to her room and laid out the items she had selected on the bed. As she had suspected, very little had been thrown out over the generations. She had exactly what she needed.

  Stepping back from the mirror, she adjusted the oversized woolen cap so that it fell even lower over her eyes. The effect was perfect. She tucked in the tails of the rough cotton, marveling again at how much freer she felt already, unencumbered by yards of material falling around her legs. The leather boots were a little too large, but it was of no matter. At least the thick wool socks kept her toes feeling warm. Shrugging into the heavy jacket, she was not unhappy that it, too, was a trifle big. It helped camouflage certain parts of her anatomy that were best left unseen. She took it off again and carefully felt around in its lining. It would do. She fetched her old gown and the sewing things Mrs. Collins had left for her. The transfer of the oiled packet holding the papers took only a few minutes —she hadn’t been bamming the housekeeper, she was rather skilled with a needle. As she put the garment back on, she looked out the window. A hint of light was just beginning to edge its way to the horizon. Even if there was a groom, he would not be up for another hour or two.

  It was time to go.

  * * * *

  Davenpo
rt splashed cold water onto his face from the pitcher on his dresser. He had slept fitfully and felt the dragging lethargy of one not fully rested. Still, it was futile to stay in bed. His mind was too preoccupied with his mounting problems, not least of which was the damned young lady peacefully asleep down the hall.

  He didn’t doubt for a moment that lady she was, and not some farmer’s wife or daughter. Her hands were smooth and soft, showing no signs of labor. Her speech was too cultured, not to speak of her knowledge of Society—after all, she knew exactly who he was.

  The question was, who was she?

  Her clothes certainly didn’t indicate she came from a high born family. But then again, he thought with an ironic smile, dress didn’t always indicate pedigree. It could also be a disguise. If she were fleeing someone, she would no doubt seek to obscure her background. His lips compressed in a tight line. He didn’t have the time or energy for such gothic melodramas. He meant to have the truth out of her this morning and that was that. Then he could get her out of his life.

  But could he truly hand her over to someone who had darkened her face in such a brutish manner?

  He swore under his breath as he dried his stubbled chin. A grimace came over his features as the towel scraped over the thin line of scar tissue. His fingers came up to rub absently along the ridge of his cheekbone. Why did it always ache like the devil when he was tired and agitated? Lord, he needed some fresh air. A gallop on Nero would do him good, despite the early hour. Surely he would think of something by the time he returned.

  It was barely light as he made his way towards he stable. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost missed the flicker of movement in the interior shadows. He stopped short, his grip instinctively tightening around his crop. His dark brows came together—something was amiss. Then it struck him. The doors shouldn’t be ajar like that. Higgins wouldn’t be up and about his duties for a good while yet—nothing short of Gabriel sounding the final awakening would induce the old man out of his bed until it was absolutely necessary.