Only a Hero Will Do

by Susan Lodge

  Hetty desperately searched the room again. Why was she alone?

  Her voice wobbled in panic. “The betrothal between us is to be cancelled, sir. You are here to discuss the matter with my father, are you not?”

  Stark smirked. “I will indeed be speaking with him later. I believe we have the wing to ourselves at the moment, except for a few servants who know better than to interrupt us. You have caused me no end of embarrassment and inconvenience. I think you owe me some recompense for making me look a fool.”

  Hetty backed away. Stark followed, step for step, until her hands pressed against the thick, embossed pattern of the wall covering. He stopped a few inches from her and raised his arm. She swallowed in alarm as the black riding crop poised for action above her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hetty braced for the blow, but the crop stopped in mid-descent, level with her face. He gently prodded the soft flesh beneath her chin, making her whole body quiver. Then he smiled – a promise of pain. He clearly was not going to hurry his revenge.

  While her eyes were riveted on the crop, his other hand whipped out and grasped her shoulder. Spinning her away from the wall, he pushed her toward her father’s large oak desk. He put the crop down on the desk and Hetty whimpered a small sigh of relief until his hands captured her chin and his lips roughly claimed hers.

  Rage fuelled her strength, and raising her arm, she battered the side of his head with her fist in a desperate blow. His head jerked aside, and he released her lips.

  “Damnation, Hetty – you really must learn to cooperate.”

  He slapped her face, making her eyes water, then grasped her arm and pushed her face down over the polished surface of the desk.

  “Now, you ungrateful little wretch, perhaps I can demonstrate how displeased your behaviour has made me.” Hetty watched in horror as he picked up the crop that lay inches from her nose.

  Panic raced through her. “Let me go, you animal! I have told you our wedding is off.”

  Red-hot fire slashed across her buttocks as the crop crashed down. Hetty gasped, first in shock then in agony, as he repeated the action once more. Even through her skirts the pain was excruciating. She heard the swish of air as the crop rose again just before his restraining grip was mercifully lifted from the small of her back.

  Pushing herself up with shaking hands, she saw Stark lying in the corner. He must have travelled several feet through the air to arrive at the spot. His eyes were wide, his nose bloody, and his neckcloth rumpled. She turned to the tall figure of her rescuer.

  Anthony Avebury stood between them, staring down at Stark with a look of utter contempt.

  Stark groaned. “Avebury, what the devil are you doing? My business is with your father, not you. How dare you treat me in this manner?”

  “I rather think the disturbing way you are treating Hetty is my business,” Anthony replied.

  Stark tested his jaw and nose gingerly with his hand. “Have you not heard? She is my betrothed. She has to get used to obeying my orders. I was just teaching her a little discipline after all the trouble she has caused.”

  “As I recall, no wedding has taken place, so she does not belong to you, Stark. More to the point, after witnessing your particular brand of courtship, I can now understand why Hetty was forced to flee.”

  Anthony took off his coat, and Stark visibly quaked, much to Hetty’s delight. Her stepbrother headed toward her, and she felt a rush of appreciation as he wrapped the smoky warmth of his jacket around her shoulders.

  “Are you all right, Hetty?”

  She nodded, watching him closely, revelling that someone in her family was actually on her side. His expression conveyed controlled rage as he gently turned her toward the door.

  “Leave us, please, Hetty. I have some business with Stark.”

  He looked down and flashed her a brief, reassuring smile, and a surge of tenderness welled for her newly-returned stepbrother.

  The welts from the crop stung like the devil, but her delight in Anthony’s rescue reduced the discomfort a little. However, she shook with rage at the assault. She stalked over to Stark and kicked him viciously in the side, thinking it a pity she had on satin slippers and not her half boots. She sniffed in approval at his yelp, then turned and left the room with as much dignity as she could muster.

  How far would Anthony’s defence of her go?

  She felt a coil of the old disquiet unwind inside her. She didn’t want him to kill Stark, despite the fact that the snake deserved it. Anthony had never before protected her or shown any sort of affection. But the fact was he had saved her, and he did appear to have grown into someone rather nice.

  ***

  Stark removed himself from the floor and sprawled, wounded and angry, in a wing chair. He glared at his attacker.

  “Damn it, Avebury, you didn’t have to hit me that hard. I have completed my side of the bargain, having made an ass of myself with that little bit of theatre. I think the girl is suitably convinced of your devotion toward her after your gallant rescue.”

  Avebury crossed the room and gave Stark a benevolent smile.

  “Of course, I will keep my side of the bargain. I will not expose your father’s treachery, but I need you to disappear for a while. You are prone to overindulgence, Stark, and I don’t want any drunken ramblings to jeopardise my plans – not until I have Hetty’s fortune safely pocketed. Perhaps you should take a trip to Scotland to visit your cousins.”

  “No!” Stark replied. “Out of the question! That wasn’t part of our agreement.”

  Instantly, Stark found his throat enclosed in strong punishing hands. His arms flayed as he fought for air. For a moment, he thought his life was over, but Avebury finally released his grasp and he crumpled to the floor.

  “Pack something warm, old boy. I hear it is rather cold up north, even in the summer.”

  Stark glanced up and shivered at the evil in Avebury’s grin.

  ***

  Robert tethered his horse in the shelter of a copse overlooking the front of Avebury Hall. Careful to keep in the shadows, he watched a chaise wind up the drive and come to a halt in front of the house. Three weeks had passed since he had delivered Miss Avebury to her family, but it seemed like months.

  He wanted to see for himself that she was well, as he had received no response to the letters he had sent requesting permission to call. He had even stopped by once, on the chance of seeing her, but had been told Miss Avebury was not at home.

  From the look on her face as she was handed down from the carriage by her stepbrother, she was happy. They shared a joke, and Hetty’s laughter floated across the wind. He smiled at the sound. How he had missed that laugh, the brightness of her bluebell eyes, her wit, her naiveté. But it was evident she didn’t need rescuing any longer. It was, of course, the perfect solution. She was reconciled with her family without the danger of a forced marriage. He had no excuse to insist on an audience. The couple made their way up the front steps, arm in arm, until they disappeared inside.

  Now he had Miss Avebury settled he should feel hugely relieved, but only a sadness niggled at his insides. He wanted an excuse to contact her again.

  He still hadn’t visited Rose, but he had sent a letter of condolence. The last time he had seen her was over four years ago when they had both attended Admiral Lord Nelson’s funeral. As a viscountess, she looked far more mature and dignified than the eighteen-year-old he had fallen in love with. But she still took his breath away, still stirred his fondest memories. She reminded him of everything that had been good about living at Longwood. They had not had the chance to speak privately then, and he had just watched her from a distance.

  Rose had been a part of his heart for years, yet in the last few weeks his heart had been invaded by feelings for someone new. Miss Avebury was the opposite of Rose – unguarded in opinion and actions, unschooled in restraint. Rose would have never defied her father and run away to avoid an arranged marriage. If she had, perhaps their lives would h
ave not been spent apart. He dwelled on the thought.

  He had fallen in love with Rose at a young age and had never doubted the qualities she held were what he wanted in a wife. So why did an intelligent little gambler with a habit of getting herself into trouble continually haunt his thoughts?

  ***

  Hetty had been oblivious to the figure in the copse, but Anthony had spotted the lone rider. As a soldier trained in reconnaissance, he was an expert at observing and listening. And he had learned early that information was power. He found out people’s weaknesses and secrets, and he used them to reap rewards from their indiscretions. It had been a skill he had practised since school days, and he had taken it to his regiment and then to his enemies. He sold information to anyone for as high a price as possible.

  His father had bought him a commission when he had been forced to leave the country after the daughter of the local parson had died. The ungrateful girl had resisted his advances, and he had found it necessary to get a little rough with her. In her haste to escape him, she had unfortunately stumbled over the edge of the quarry to her death. When a witness had named him as the girl’s attacker, things had been tricky. Fortunately, the local magistrate was in his father’s pocket, so the charges were not proven. Even so, it had been wise to lie low.

  As Captain Avebury, he had found a different partner in crime – the French Intelligence. After he had sold the location of the advance columns to the French, Avebury had watched from a ridge as his comrades were slaughtered. Then he had ridden down to the scene of carnage and made sure no one had survived to witness his change in allegiance.

  He was thoughtful as he escorted Hetty through the front door. So, Withington was still checking on her.

  After leaving Hetty by the staircase, he moved to the drawing room that overlooked the front of the house. He smiled in satisfaction. Good! The doctor had already ridden away, no doubt satisfied by what he had seen.

  By intercepting Hetty’s mail, he knew that the pair had feelings for each other, and he could not risk Withington’s interference. Soon the tiresome girl would be totally besotted with him.

  He was surprised at how Hetty had developed into a passably attractive woman, but he had no feelings for her. However, making her his wife – temporarily, of course – was going to be an immensely profitable business.

  ***

  Apart from dreaming of a tall, sombre doctor every night and a fair amount of the day, Hetty’s life was far more pleasant than before she had run away. One month had passed since her return, and Anthony had spent much of his time being the perfect older brother and escort. Even Diana was endurable. Hetty was still frequently at the receiving end of her venomous tongue, but most of the time they ignored each other. Stark had not returned to bother her, and she had been relieved to learn he had left for an extended trip to Scotland.

  But the fact that Doctor Withington had not written or visited tugged at her heart. She missed him. Since he had left her at Avebury Hall she had written twice, but he hadn’t replied. Clearly his interest in her had ceased.

  She made her way to her father’s study where he had summoned the whole family. Anthony, Diana, and Aunt Amelia were already present. Hetty wondered what she had done. She certainly was not aware of anything, but they all looked quite serious, as if someone had died. All except Diana, who looked bored and elegant, dressed in a silver-grey morning dress.

  Her father settled in his chair with a look that alarmed her. “We have something to tell you, Hetty.”

  Another suitor, she thought in horror. Dear God, not another Stark.

  Henry Avebury cleared his throat. “Your mother was going to tell you this when you came of an age, but her untimely death left the burden with me. I have not told you – I have been putting it off because of the hurt the information might cause you. Now, as things have turned out, Anthony has made it clear that you should know.”

  Diana examined her nails and smirked.

  Chilled by her father’s words, and even more by her stepmother’s response, Hetty glanced at Aunt Amelia, who was sitting stone-faced, and knew her troubles were far from over.

  Her father continued. “Your mother and I married when you were six weeks old.” He paused and pulled out his handkerchief to stifle a fit of coughing.

  It was shocking that her mother and father had not waited for their wedding night, but it was more surprising that the subject was being discussed now. It was hardly a reason for such drama more than twenty years later.

  “I see.” She smiled to show she understood.

  Her father, as usual, did not like her response because his frown deepened. There was more to come.

  “Hetty, you are not my daughter by birth. I married your mother and took you in as my own.”

  A wave of confusion washed over her. “I am not your daughter? But, of course, I’m your daughter.”

  “No, Hetty, you are not, although I have always treated you as such. Your real father is dead.”

  A thousand questions through her life were answered in a few cruel words. The reason Henry Avebury had never returned her affection was because she was not his.

  Anthony reached out and squeezed her hand. “It’s all right, Hetty. Nothing changes. You are still part of the family and will remain so for as long as you wish.”

  Anger began to build inside her. Why had they not told her before? Why now? She wanted to know everything – all the details. She looked accusingly to Henry Avebury.

  “If you are not my father, who is?”

  “Your father’s identity was never revealed to me. I needed a wife when Anthony’s mother died and was propositioned by your maternal grandmother. It was an arrangement that suited all.”

  “So I am a…”

  “Bastard, dear,” Diana provided with a grin.

  “That’s enough of that, Diana.” But Henry’s glower had no effect on his wife’s tongue.

  Her stepmother’s voice held a note of amusement as she continued. “A bastard who had the fortune of being provided with a respectable home.”

  She had always felt that Diana was the intruder, the cuckoo in the nest, but all along it had been Hetty herself. She looked from one face to another as though she were in a room full of strangers. More questions formed in her head.

  “My mother would have told me. We had no secrets from each other. She never lied to me.” Tears collected in her eyes.

  How could her mother have deceived her? But she knew it was true. It all fitted into place. The reason her father’s love had been so hard to detect was simple – it was never there. Her life was alien to her. She was not an Avebury.

  “Do I have any blood relatives on my father’s side? Someone must know of his identity.”

  “Well, your mother did, I presume,” Diana chirped.

  Hetty’s anger exploded, and she took a step toward the woman. She had taken so many barbs over the years, but even now she would not permit Diana to sully her mother’s name.

  Anthony’s hand shot out and restrained her. “Father, perhaps you should all leave now. I have a few things I would like to say to Hetty in private.”

  After they left, Anthony sat close and took his hand in hers.

  “This makes no difference to me, Hetty. I want you to know that you will always be welcome in this house.”

  The pressure of his hand was firm and supportive. It seemed so strange that they were no longer related in any way. She just didn’t belong! Had Henry Avebury secretly resented her all these years? Anthony didn’t seem to – not since they had grown up. She stared at him for a few moments, but could detect nothing but concern in his eyes.

  “How long have you known? Am I the only one who has been denied the truth?”

  He squeezed her hand. “Father only told me on my return last month. Even though we are no longer relatives by blood, Hetty, Avebury Hall will always be your home.”

  Hetty returned the squeeze, thankful for his kind words. They were like a lifeline thrown to her in
the stormiest of seas.

  Whose daughter was she? She had to find out. Her father might not be alive, but he had a past and she needed a name to identify herself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sir Phillip Denby signed the document then settled back in his chair. “Well, Withington, now you have at least half of your old estates returned. It takes me back to the days when you and your brother were boys. You have done well for yourself. Your father would have been proud of you.”

  Robert showed no emotion. He still found it painful to think of his father and the way he had taken his life, abandoning his family to face the consequences of his foolish actions. He could almost forgive him for the gambling, but not the desertion.

  He took the deeds for Rathmore Valley and scanned them with a glow of satisfaction. His home was being slowly put back together.

  Denby watched and let out a small sigh. “I remember when your father was alive. We used to spend many hours fishing down in the river at Rathmore. It is right you should have the land back.”

  Robert nodded. He had not found the meeting as painful as he had expected. Rose’s father and he had parted on poor terms all those years ago, but now the man looked half the size he had back then, and Robert wondered why he hadn’t just taken Rose from under his nose. The man’s nostalgic ramblings just made him angry. Didn’t he realise how he had smashed his and Rose’s future?

  “How is Rose?”

  He couldn’t delay the question further. Denby had not mentioned her, and Robert wondered if it was guilt that stopped him.

  “She was heartbroken, of course, by Grayston’s death. He was only forty. He suffered a long illness; the consumption had him confined to bed for months. His passing was a blessed relief in the end.”

  Heartbroken. Was it true? After all, she had not wanted to marry the man. Had she grown to love her viscount then? He should have been happy – that Rose had eventually found some comfort from her marriage.