The Hired Hero (13 page)

Caroline laid a hand on his arm. “If you would rather not discuss it—I seem to be oversetting everyone today.”

 He gave a ghost of a smile. “On the contrary. You are remarkably easy to talk to. I find  that I...don’t mind. Like Julian, I am a second son as well, though of a mere baronet. Through family connections, my father wished for me to enter the  navy as a career—a less likely match I cannot imagine! But my father is not one given to reason. He could never understand why I didn’t love to hunt and shoot and carouse,” As Caroline watched his sensitive face harden at the memory, she could not but wonder at how blind a man could be to the true inclinations of his progeny. “It was only grudgingly that I was allowed to enter university. When I began to paint, it was outside of enough. Only Julian encouraged me to continue.” He let out a harsh sigh. When he continued, his voice became even softer. “Then after the accident...well, my family simply disowned me. I imagine a man milliner of a painter—and a crippled one at that—was simply too much for them to bear.”

Caroline’s eyes brimmed with sympathy. “How terrible for you,” she whispered.

“ It is not for your pity that I am telling you this. It is so you understand what sort of a man Julian is.”

 “I didn’t mean to sound...”

  “It is only through his generosity that I am able to survive on my own and continue my work, though I know he can ill afford it. I suppose he feels in some way responsible for what happened. He has always tried to make amends for Charles.”

“His brother was the cause of your accident?” 

 Jeremy’s mouth quirked. “Charles never gave a thought to whether his pranks caused harm to anyone. In fact, he never gave a thought to anyone save himself. The world is well rid of him. Perhaps Julian will now be able to find some peace...”

 The sound of the door opening caused him to stop abruptly.

 Davenport came back into the room. He had washed the worst of the dust from his person and had brushed his garments so that they looked passably neat. His face was rigidly composed and when he spoke, his voice was under taut control once again.

 “I suggest you change,” he said curtly to Caroline, gesturing to the bedchamber.

 She rose, took up the bundle of clothes that Jeremy had let fall to the floor and went into the other room without a word.

 “And you, I would appreciate it if you would leave me out of your fanciful conversations,” he  continued to his friend.

  “I’m sorry, Julian, but I didn’t wish her to have the wrong impression—you have been acting quite the bear, you know. It isn’t like you.”

  “I don’t give a damn what she thinks of me,” he growled. “I am doing this for the blunt.”

 Jeremy didn’t answer but regarded Davenport with a penetrating stare.

 The earl turned from the scrutiny and made a show of cutting a hunk of cheese from the package he had brought in with him. “A mail coach passes through in an hour.  With luck, I shall return in a few days and you shall not have to worry for pigments or canvas for some time.”

  “I cannot bear being such a burden...”

  Davenport clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s merely a loan—you shall repay me after you have exhibited at the Academy and have to turn away commissions.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “The Academy—would that my work would ever hang there! But I have no connections, no influence. There is not a chance.”

 “We’ll see.”

Caroline reemerged, dressed in a looser set of breeches that hid her shape better than the old ones, as well as a clean shirt. Her hair had been regathered and tucked up under a thick wool cap.

“Was there not another jacket?” demanded the earl.

 Caroline clutched the old garment round her person. “I prefer this one.”

He eyed it with distaste but merely shrugged. “I suggest you eat something. We  must leave shortly.”  Without bothering to note whether she heeded his advice, he turned and picked up the jug of cider, then let it thump back to the table with a grunt of disgust.

 “I don’t suppose you have any brandy?” he growled.

 When Jeremy shook his head, Davenport ran his hand through his freshly combed locks, undoing his careful efforts, and went to stand by the window, his back towards the room, his gaze riveted somewhere in the distance.

 He stayed there, unmoving, until he announced it was time to go.

 Jeremy took up his coat too. “I’ll come with you,” he said as he followed them down the stairs. “I think it would be wise if I showed you a way to the inn that avoids the streets, where someone might observe you passing.”

 Davenport looked as if to argue, but then seemed to sense how much his friend wished to be of help. “Very well.”

 They threaded their way through a series of darkened alleyways. The sun had nearly set and the air had taken on a distinct chill. It promised to be an uncomfortable passage to Salisbury, thought Caroline as she quickened her steps to keep pace with the two men ahead of her. But at least she would have plenty of time to think on all that Jeremy Leighton had revealed during....

 She was nearly jerked off her feet as an arm snaked around her neck and pulled her into an adjoining passageway. “Look ‘e what I have here,” rasped a low voice that she nonetheless recognized as that of the coachman from the mysterious carriage. “What a stroke of luck to have you stumble across my path.” The cold barrel of a pistol pressed against her temple. “Quiet!” he snarled, cutting off her cry of surprise. “Ye nearly cost me my position this morning. Well, ye won’t get away this time.”

The sound of hurried steps caused the man’s head to turn. “Stay where ye are,” he warned as Davenport and Jeremy drew to a halt in front of him. “None of yer bloody tricks this time. Get off with ye or the girl will pay.”

 Caroline started to speak but the man struck her across the mouth, drawing blood from a split lip. “Shut up!”

 Davenport’s jaw tightened but his hand caught Jeremy square in the chest, restraining his friend’s charge towards the other man. He shoved the young man back towards the way they had come. “You heard him, Leighton. There’s nothing more we can do.”

 The coachman waited until they had disappeared in the gloom and the echo of their footsteps grew faint against the grimy bricks. With a satisfied smirk he tightened his grip on Caroline’s coat and forced her to start moving.

“Julian!” protested Jeremy as soon as they had rounded the corner.

 “Quiet,” hissed Davenport. He pushed his friend forward. “Show me where that passageway comes out. Quickly, man!”

Without hesitation, Jeremy broke into a lope and guided them between a row of decaying wooden houses, avoiding the piles of garbage strewn around their feet and the snapping jaws of a roving mongrel. In a short time, after more than a few twists and turns, Jeremy pointed to a dark gap between low warehouses. Davenport nodded and pressed his finger to his lips. Signaling Jeremy to move away into the shadows, he took up position to one side of the opening and drew his own pistol.

Within moments, the scrabbling of boots over loose stones gave indication that someone was moving towards them from the inky depths of the passageway. Caroline stumbled out first, the man’s hand still firmly clasped at her neck. The pistol had come away from her head but still pressed menacingly at the small of her back. That caused Davenport to pause for an instant. Then as the coachman emerged from the darkness, the earl’s hand shot out, wrenching the man’s gun up and away from Caroline.

A shot rang out.

With a muffled oath, Davenport pried the weapon from the other man’s grasp and let it drop to the ground. The other man, no stranger to fisticuffs, recovered with astonishing speed. Pushing Caroline to the ground, his booted foot lashed out in a vicious kick, catching the earl on the knee and sending him staggering. A chopping blow sent Davenport’s pistol skittering under a jumble of hogsheads.

Both men began circling each other.

 “Want a beating to that pretty face o’ yers?” sneered the coachman , feinting to the right. “I’ll be happy to oblige. When I finish with ye, yer own doxy won’t recognize ye.” With a bob of his head, he sought an opening, but the earl hadn’t been fooled. “I see the snivelin’ cripple has run off,” he baited. “Not that ‘e be any use te ye.”

Davenport parried a wicked left, then countered with a hard shot that caught the man square on the nose. As blood spurted out, the man gave a roar of pain and lunged straight ahead, knocking the earl back into the wall. His beefy fist came up, poised to deliver a punishing blow, when suddenly a length of  stout hickory came down on his head. Reeling from the unexpected impact, he staggered a step or two until a lashing punch to the jaw from Davenport laid him out cold.

 “Likes to hit people until they hit back,” muttered the earl from between clenched teeth. He looked up at the slight figure brandishing a section of broken axle in one hand. “Well done, Jeremy. My thanks.”

 “My lord, you are hurt!” Caroline had picked herself up from the mud and was staring at the dark stain spreading at Davenport’s shoulder.

 “It’s naught but a scratch,” he replied. “Come, that shot will have a crowd here at any moment. We must be away.”

  Jeremy threw down his makeshift cudgel. “Follow me.”

Caroline lit the lantern and held it close to the unconscious form of the earl. “Is he...”

 “He’s fainted.” Jeremy looked up uncertainly. “The wound doesn’t look too bad. But there is quite a lot of blood.”

Caroline untucked her shirt and began tearing the long tails into strips. “I know a bit about tending to injuries.” She knelt down beside him and carefully peeled Davenport’s coat and shirt back from his injured shoulder.  With a sharp intake of breath, she pulled the earl’s shirttails out as well and ripped a goodly amount of fabric from them. “I fear the shirt was ruined anyway,” she said wryly as she folded the material into a thick compress and pressed it hard against the ragged gash.

 But in truth, the heavy bleeding had her worried. After a few minutes, she used the strips she had torn to bind the pad to the wound, then  looked over to Jeremy. “He needs to be properly attended to, but I’m afraid that your rooms are no longer safe.  Is there somewhere we may take him, somewhere away from this town? Though how we shall manage to move him...”

Jeremy gestured towards the small gig standing beside them. “Can you harness a horse?”

 She nodded.

 “A lady of many talents.” He flashed a smile as he brushed the straw from his breeches and stood up. “Old Patch is as docile as they come. I am acquainted with the owner and when he learns of the circumstances, I doubt he shall be overly angry if we...borrow  his conveyance for a short while.” 

 He went to fetch the animal from a stall at the back of the small stable while Caroline began to wrestle with a tangle of harness hung from a wooden peg. Jeremy pulled a face as he watched her drag it down and nimbly sorted out the straps and reins.

“What a helpless idiot I am,” he muttered.

She slanted him a look as she began to fit the  horse’s bridle. “You are only an idiot if you truly believe that. Rather than mourn for what you don’t have, you should feel very fortunate to possess such a rare talent as you do. You are luckier by far than most people.” Her fingers quickly did up the last few buckles and tightened a strap or two. “Besides,” she added. “I saw what you did. Hardly helpless—Gentleman Joe himself couldn’t have landed a better blow.”

Her words caused his brow to furrow slightly. He stood silently, as if deep in thought, as she backed the animal into the traces and finished making things ready. It was only when she hesitated and asked his aid in moving the earl’s prostrate form into the back of the gig that he snapped out of his reverie and rushed over to help. Together they somehow managed to lift him up into the pile of straw covering the rough boards. Caroline added an old horse blanket she spied hanging from the door of a stall. Though hardly in a pristine state, it would help in warding off the chill.

Jeremy had taken up an old stovepipe hat sitting atop a pile of discarded burlap bags and planted it firmly over his curling locks. It came down to nearly his eyes and she would have been wont to giggle if he hadn’t looked so resolute.

“I can drive a gig,” he announced, his tone almost daring her to challenge his assertion. “I do it quite often. You should lie down in back with Julian with the blanket drawn up over you both until we pass out of town. It is less likely anyone will take note of a poor farmer in a simple gig.” He turned the collar of his coat up to heighten the effect.

Caroline had to agree it was a good plan. She took her place under the musty wool, stifling the urge to sneeze at the cloud of dust and horsehair that mizzled over her head and shoulders. At least the smell wasn’t unbearably rank. Jeremy slid the door of the stable open and checked that all was clear. 

 With a flick of the reins, they were off.

* * * *

The gentleman watched from the shadows as a small group of men gathered around the man lying in the mud. As he was helped to his feet, blood streaming from his broken nose, voices demanded to know what had happened.

“Thieves,” croaked the coachman. “I was merely stretching my legs after a day of driving when suddenly I was set upon by three of ‘em. Armed they was, too. But I managed to fight them off.”

A murmur of consternation ran through the group.

“Thieves? We don’t countenance such goings on here. Did you happen to get a good look at them?”

“Aye. One was a tall, well built fellow with a scar on his cheek, another was kinda skinny, hardly more than a boy. And the third was a cripple—missing his left hand, he was.”

“Why, that sounds like Mr. Leighton,” cried one of the tradesman who had rushed out from a nearby tavern at the sound of the shot. “But I cannot believe that such a gentleman would be involved in this.”

 “He’s a bit queer in the head,” muttered another man. “Roaming around the countryside with his paints and such.”

  As the group helped the coachman back towards the inn, the gentleman slipped from his spot and hurried away. Damn his man, he had bungled things yet again. The trap had been sprung before things were in place, and now the quarry was at large again. His fingers curled around the butt of his own silver chaised pistol, itching to put it to use. He would pay a call on Mr. Leighton, but he doubted that he would find anyone there. He would have to set to casting his net in a wider direction and hope that it pulled in something—and soon. His polished boots hurried along the uneven cobblestones.