Hero, Come Back

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Good morning, Miss Ashford. Mr. Carmarthen.” Imogen shook hands, then gestured them to seats. Immediately they’d all sat, she leaned forward. “I assume this concerns Benjamin Caverlock?”

  Unless she was the greatest actress since Sarah Siddons, her concern was genuine—transparently so.

  Anne slanted Reggie a quick look, then nodded. “I’m afraid he’s been kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped!” Hugh stared at them.

  Imogen blanched and sat back, her hand rising to her throat. “Oh, dear!” Her eyes fluttered closed, then she drew a deep breath, opened them again, and fixed Reggie with a commanding look. “But that’s not the end of it—I take it there’s been a ransom note?”

  Reggie met her gaze, then looked at Hugh. “No. That wasn’t how it was.” He explained, concisely. “The other boys are quite sure the gentleman called for Benjamin. He was looking specifically for him.” He gave Hugh, shocked and bewildered, a moment to gather his wits. “We’ve just come from Thomas—he knows nothing about this. Do you?”

  Hugh looked at him, then paled. “Good God, no! If I’d any idea…” The horror in his face was impossible to mistake. “I can’t think…”

  He looked at Anne. “I’m so sorry. The delay…” He broke off and ran a hand through his dark hair, disarranging the heavy locks. “After checking with Thomas, it became clear I’d have to broach the subject with my father. I’ve been struggling to write to him—it’s not that simple a thing to put into words. You would likely not understand, but the pater isn’t the most…well, temperate being, and—”

  “My dear, hush.” Imogen put a hand on his arm. His words dying, he looked at her. She smiled, a little ruefully. “I knew you’d find it difficult, but truly, old Portsmouth might be an ogre and as grizzly as they come, but he’s an honorable man.” She looked at Reggie and Anne. “I wrote to him and told him of the boy as soon as Hugh confirmed he wasn’t Thomas’s son.” Her lips pinched slightly. “Regardless of how I view Thomas’s chosen lifestyle, I would trust him—or indeed any Caverlock—on such a matter. Portsmouth had to know”—again her smile softened her face—“and I knew both Hugh and Thomas would shrink from telling him. So I did—just the bare facts.” She straightened her shoulders. “As the mother of his grandson, I do have certain privileges.”

  “When did you send the letter?” Reggie asked.

  “The day before yesterday.” Imogen stared back at him; they all started doing estimates in their heads.

  “Where is the duke’s residence?” Anne asked.

  “Surrey.” Imogen blinked. “Near Caterham…”

  “He could have driven up and—” Reggie broke off, frowning. “The boys said a black coach—I’m sure they meant a town coach. If it had been a traveling carriage with four horses, they would have mentioned it.”

  Hugh shook his head. “Portsmouth House. In Park Lane. He would have stopped there and changed carriages.” Abruptly he stood. “I’ll send a footman to ask. It’s just around the corner.”

  They all waited in a mounting fever of impatience. Imogen offered refreshments, and they accepted, but none of them paid any of it the slightest heed.

  The footman returned in ten minutes, out of breath from running but quick to say, “His Grace stopped by this morning. Esher was right surprised. No warning at all. His Grace had out the town coach, the one with no crest, but had his own coachman drive. They came back an hour or so later, and drove straight into the stable yard. The grooms said as His Grace had a young lad with him.” The footman suddenly looked highly self-conscious.

  “Indeed,” Imogen declared. “A distant cousin.”

  The footman looked relieved. “Just so, ma’am. Did seem he was one of the family. His Grace and the boy got into the coach and off they went. Didn’t say nothing to Esher—just sent the groom in to say he’d gone home to Surrey again.”

  Hugh dismissed the footman.

  Reggie rose, as did Anne. “Surrey, near Caterham.”

  Hugh exchanged a concerned look with Imogen. “I can’t imagine why…”

  “Nor I.” Imogen rose. “But I’ll get things in order here, then we better start down. Will you order the carriage?”

  Hugh nodded. “I’ve got Phillips, my agent, waiting in my study. We’ll leave as soon as I’m finished with him.”

  “We’ll go straight down.” Reggie moved to open the door. “Benjy will be worried being with strangers.”

  Hugh nodded again, then drew in a deep breath. “My father. He can sometimes be somewhat irascible, but…”

  “If he roars,” Imogen said, sweeping out into the hall, “just ignore him and wait until he stops.” She nodded to Reggie, and exchanged a deeper, more meaningful nod with Anne. “We’ll follow you down as soon as we may.”

  On the pavement, Reggie stopped and turned to Anne. “Will you let me take you home?”

  She stared at him. “No! I’m going with you.”

  He swallowed a sigh. “We don’t know what we’ll find when we reach Caverlock Hall.”

  “Whatever we find, we need to bring Benjy back, and he’ll most likely be frightened. Regardless of his training, he hasn’t had any exposure to ducal houses, let alone crusty old dukes. But he knows me, and besides, he’s legally in the care of the Foundling House. You’ll need a representative to take him back if His Grace turns difficult.” Her jaw set; she met his gaze defiantly. “I’m coming with you.”

  He read the message in her eyes; there was nothing for it but to nod and acquiesce. “All right. But when we get there, you will bite your tongue and let me do the talking.”

  She humphed—that seemed to be her way of signifying grudging assent; before he could help her, she clambered up into the curricle.

  The day was fine, cool with no rain although clouds were gathering in the east. Anne was glad she’d thought to don her new pelisse; its warmth kept her from shivering as the wind of their passing swept through her. Reggie kept the horses well up to their bits and they rushed and rattled south past Battersea and Croydon, then on down the Brighton Road before veering east for Caterham.

  Caverlock Hall wasn’t hard to find; the innkeeper at the Caterham Arms directed them to where the drive joined the road through the village just past the last houses. Reggie turned his horses in between the tall gateposts, then set them trotting down a long avenue lined with old oaks.

  It was late afternoon and the shadows were lengthening, the sun slanting beneath the clouds that had swept across the sky. With the prospect of seeing Benjy again, of perhaps having to do battle with an irate and grumpy old autocrat accustomed to absolute command in order to win the boy free, nearing with every clop of hooves, it was time to think of strategy.

  Anne glanced at Reggie. “His Grace won’t be expecting us. We don’t know what he intends by Benjy—we shouldn’t give him time to hide him away.”

  His gaze on his horses, Reggie nodded, frowning, then he shot her a glance. “Ducal butlers being what they are, I seriously doubt we’ll be able to bully the man into letting us see His Grace unannounced.”

  She said nothing, simply waited.

  The drive ended and the house—a long, low, early Georgian mansion set neatly into a landscape of lawns and parkland—appeared before them.

  Reggie grimaced; he steered the horses toward the front steps. “Let me do all the talking, behave accordingly—all smiles and charm—and—” He broke off and glanced at her feet; she hadn’t expected to go wandering and still had on the shoes she normally wore in the house in the morning. “Good—when I move, stick with me, by my side, but walk as silently as you can.”

  There wasn’t time to say more; a stable boy came running around the side of the house, alerted by the crunching gravel. He deftly caught the horses’ heads, then the reins as Reggie tossed them to him.

  Helping Anne down, Reggie murmured, “Remember,” then the huge front door swung wide and a very correct butler loomed large.

  “Yes?”

  It happened in the b
link of an eye; Reggie’s amiable, affable, completely unthreatening mask slid into place, admirably concealing any hint of purpose, any sense that he was there with any goal whatever in mind.

  “Ah! Good afternoon. Is His Grace about?” Reggie set Anne’s hand on his arm and conducted her up the steps, airily chattering. “We’ve just been wandering the countryside—it’s been such a pleasant day. Met His Grace at m’parents—a dinner, you know—some time ago. The pater heard I was headed this way and asked me to call in and remember him to His Grace.”

  They reached the porch, and the butler stood back to allow them to enter. Anne beamed at him and swept in. Reggie followed, still declaiming, “Quite wonderful, these old places. Gather m’father thought there might be something of news His Grace might wish me to bear home again.”

  The butler bowed low. “Indeed, sir. And the name?”

  Reggie smiled idiotically. “Oh, didn’t I say? It’s Carmarthen. Well, that’s my name, but the pater’s Northcote, don’t you know.”

  Anne smiled sweetly. To give the butler his due, he merely bowed again.

  “I shall inquire if His Grace is available, sir. If you and Miss…?”

  “Ashford,” Reggie supplied.

  “If you will wait in the withdrawing room I will inquire of His Grace.”

  The butler showed them into the drawing room, then shut the door. Reggie immediately halted. “No footmen in the hall, thank heavens!”

  Gripping Anne’s arm, he swung back to the door. “Stay close.” With that whispered injunction, he eased the door open again.

  The butler was just disappearing into the mouth of a corridor leading from the main hall.

  Reggie whipped out of the drawing room, anchored Anne’s hand on his sleeve, then stepped out, strolling quickly and all but silently in the butler’s wake. Any footman who chanced to see them would assume they’d been summoned to His Grace’s presence.

  They hung back far enough for the butler to remain unaware of them; accustomed to guests of quality and their rigid adherence to accepted rules, it would never occur to him that they might flout them and follow.

  The butler went to a door, opened it, and entered.

  Reggie halted just before the doorway; they listened.

  “Your Grace, there are two persons—”

  Reggie’s mask slid away; jaw firming, he stepped into the doorway, then strode into the large room beyond.

  The butler, facing the area before a huge fire place in which a healthy blaze crackled and roared, did not immediately see them.

  His Grace of Portsmouth, a massive figure with a wild mane of startlingly white hair and a heavy face that despite the lines of age still bore the unmistakable Caverlock features, seated in a large wing chair to one side of the hearth, did.

  As did the two boys, slumped like tired puppies on the rug before the fire; they’d been poring over a large book, turning the heavy pages, but had looked up at the butler’s words.

  Their faces were so alike—nearly identical; their coloring was stunningly similar.

  One face remained merely curious, wide, dark eyes fixed on them.

  The other face—Benjy’s face—lit with a smile.

  “Miss Ashford!”

  He scrambled to his feet as the butler swung around with an audible gasp. The butler took a step toward them, raising his arms as if to shoo them back, but Benjy held out a hand. “No, Cooper. They’re my friends.”

  Benjy stepped forward, his delight dissolving into uncertainty, his gaze fixing on Anne’s face. “I know it wasn’t right to go off like that.” He glanced sideways at Portsmouth. “I did say as you’d be worried, but you see he’s my granddad, and he said as I should come and live here with Neville, and learn to be a Caverlock. That’s my surname, he says. He did say we’d send a message…”

  He stopped, clearly fighting the urge to look to his newfound grandsire for assistance; he swallowed and fixed Anne with a beseeching look. “Is that all right then? Can I come here and live with my grandfather?”

  Anne had kept her face blank, unwilling to react until she knew and understood. Now she relaxed, and beamed, smiling so hard it hurt. “Of course, you can, Benjy—of course.”

  Three

  “Not every day a man discovers a grandson he didn’t know he had.” Portsmouth lowered himself into one of the armchairs in the drawing room to which, at his direction, they’d all retired once the furor attendant upon first Imogen and Hugh, then Thomas, all arriving in a lather, had died down.

  Sizing up matters in a glance, His Grace had decreed that Benjy and Neville, Hugh and Imogen’s son, should retire to the schoolroom and tidy themselves before joining their elders for dinner—a special dispensation they were keen not to jeopardize, ensuring their eager obedience.

  “No need for them to hear it all—we can tell Benjy what he should know when the time comes.”

  With that, His Grace had led them all here; he waited until they’d all sat—Imogen and Anne on the sofa, Reggie beside Anne, Hugh and Thomas on chairs they drew up—before letting his gaze come to rest on Anne.

  “I must thank you, my dear, for having the backbone to bring this matter to the family’s attention. Many would have quailed at the thought and found reasons enough to let such a most likely unwelcome piece of news fade from their minds. We are indebted to you.” Gravely, he inclined his head.

  Anne blushed. “We strive to do the best we can for the children in our care.”

  Portsmouth inclined his head again in acknowledgment; his gaze shifted to Imogen. A lilting smile touched his lips. “And you, my dear. I’m obliged that you credited me with enough sense to be able to deal with the news without any roundaboutation.” His gaze flicked to his sons, but his expression remained benign. “God knows how long it would have taken Hugh to find the right words.”

  Hugh blushed, but shook his head. “All very well, but I’m still confused.”

  “And me,” Thomas echoed.

  When the duke’s gaze swung to Reggie, he assumed his blandest expression. “I take it Benjy really is your grandson?”

  Portsmouth smiled, a trifle sadly. “Indeed, he is.”

  “But”—Hugh’s brow was creased in perplexity—“who is his father?”

  Portsmouth grimaced. “As to that, I can’t say. Never did know, which was half the problem.” He waited for his sons’ expressions to clear; when they didn’t, he snorted. “For heaven’s sake—he’s your sister’s boy.”

  “Angela’s?” Hugh looked stunned.

  “But…” Thomas blinked. “Good God. That was why she ran away?”

  “Angela? But—” Now it was Imogen who was confused. She looked at Hugh. “I thought she married an American and sailed to America?”

  Portsmouth grunted, his expression serious and sorrowful. “I’m sorry, my dear. That was a fiction we concocted at the time, for the family’s sake.” He looked at Reggie, then Anne. “Miss Ashford, I feel you deserve to hear the truth, and indeed, you may need to know. I’m not sure how these things operate, but I assume Benjy is presently legally in your care?”

  Anne nodded. “In the care of the Foundling House, which I represent.”

  Portsmouth nodded. “Exactly so.” He hesitated, then said, “I trust you will treat what I tell you with the utmost confidence. There is no one the truth can help, and Benjy’s future will be much less problematical if it remains buried as it has for the past ten years.”

  Both Reggie and Anne murmured assurances.

  Nodding in acceptance, Portsmouth drew a deep breath. “My daughter, Angela—she was older than Hugh here…”

  Step by steady step, he told the story of a strong and determined young woman who had refused to marry any of the eager young gentlemen who had vied for her hand.

  “She always said they were only after her for the money and the connection—the name.”

  She’d clung to her refusal, and then quite unexpectedly fallen in love with some man in station far beneath her.


  “Never told us who he was, not a hint.” Portsmouth sighed, looking back on the past. “She was afraid of what I’d do.”

  After a moment, he went on, relating how his daughter had simply vanished one night, leaving a note saying she had gone off to live her life as she wished, warning them not to try following her.

  They’d tried, but she’d disappeared into the teeming streets of London, and no word of her did they find.

  “We put out the story of the trip to America and the shipboard romance—it wasn’t unusual. Families like ours often sent our less-obedient young ladies off for a sojourn in Boston. We kept looking, of course, but eventually we were forced to accept she’d disappeared as she’d said she would.”

  He looked at Anne. “I’d always hoped that someday, especially if she had children, she’d make contact again.”

  Anne smiled gently, leaned forward, and laid a comforting hand on his sleeve. “I’ve read the reports—the notes we make when we take in a new child. She died very suddenly of a virulent fever—she had no time to make any arrangements.”

  Portsmouth nodded. After a moment, Anne added, “If it’s any help, I’ve seen the street she—they—lived in. It’s a poorer area but respectable, not the slums. She made her living by sewing and fine emboridery. I gather her husband died before Benjy was born.”

  Portsmouth raised a brow, but when Anne held his gaze steadily, he refrained from asking how she knew that.

  She drew back, sitting straighter. “It seems abundantly clear that Benjy’s your grandson. If you will give me a letter stating as much, and your intention of taking him in and seeing to his welfare henceforth, I believe I can have our solicitor deal with the legalities in short order.”

  Drawing breath, she fixed her gaze on Portsmouth’s face. “I realize you might not have thought far ahead, but it would help to know what your plans for Benjy are.”

  “Plans?” Portsmouth blinked at her, his incomprehension quite plain. “No need to think! He’ll go to Eton, then Oxford, just like all the Caverlocks. Neville’s tutor can polish him up—” He broke off, frowned, then looked at Anne. “Incidentally, who taught him Latin? Never would have thought to hear such fluency coming from…well, no point making any bones of it, a child from the streets.”