The Hired Hero (2 page)

“You...you don’t mean to read them?” Darwin’s voice cracked slightly.

The letter opener had already severed the thread holding the oilskins together. “That is exactly what I intend to do.”  Several leaves of  thin parchment, folded together and sealed with wax, fell out. Caroline picked them up and, with just a hint of hesitation, broke the seal.

Darwin let out a strangled sigh.

It took only a minute or two to read the contents.  Her eyes came up slowly to meet those of the butler. “Good Lord,” she breathed. “This is a list of contacts and addresses of our intelligence gathering rings from Paris to Brussels.”

They both looked at each other.

“If it were to fall into the wrong hands, why.... This must reach my father without fail. Tell Crocket to have the carriage ready to leave  as soon as possible”

Darwin seemed to read her mind. “You can’t mean to...”

“Yes. I  mean to take them to London myself.”

 “Lady Caroline, whoever is after these papers has killed once to get them. He will not hesitate to do so again.”

“Yes, and can you imagine how many shall die if he does get his hands on them?

Darwin’s lips tightened. “But your father made it clear he didn’t want you anywhere near those papers—and with good reason!”

“My father would agree that these papers must get to London, no matter what.”

“Lady Caroline.” The butler’s voice was full of emotion. “I cannot let you let you put yourself in such danger.”

“I don’t see that you have any choice. Do you think I would be so cowardly as to send one of the grooms or footmen —or anyone else?” She stared pointedly at him, taking in his reedy legs, slowed now by a touch of rheumatism. “Besides, that would be exactly what our enemy would expect—a lone courier on horseback. On the other hand, I imagine he will not be on the lookout for a nondescript carriage carrying a lone female and her maid, especially if we stay off the highways.”

“She’s right, ye know.” Mrs. Graves stepped into the room from the shadows of the hall. “Much as it grieves me to say it, I think it is the only decision.”

“The Duke would never make such a decision,” he argued, though the look on his face was one of resignation.

“The Duke is not here. So it is I who must decide,” answered Caroline calmly. “I shall sew the packet into the bodice of my gown—Mathilde is very clever with her needle and fabric. It will be impossible for someone to tell who doesn’t know where to look. And after all,” she added. “Our enemy cannot be entirely sure the papers have reached us.”

 Darwin pressed his lips together, not ready to give up entirely. “I shall send Tom and William with you as well,  armed to the teeth... “

She shook her head. “No. That would only attract exactly the sort of attention we wish to avoid.” She gave a tight smile to both of them. “Besides I have a feeling that it is not force we will need to come out on top, but wits.”

* * * *

Caroline sought to find a more comfortable position in the lurching carriage. After nearly two days of continuous travel over rutted back roads, every bone in her body seemed to ache. Things had not gone well from the start. Not many hours after leaving Roxbury Manor, one of the wheels of the old vehicle had come off, nearly oversetting them into a ditch, and costing precious hours before a wheelwright could be found to make things right. Though John Coachman had set a rather breakneck pace after that, it seemed progress was painfully slow. The country roads appeared to meander at will, causing her to grit her teeth in frustration on occasion, even though they had all agreed the time lost was worth the gain in secrecy. And on top of it all, a cold rain had started the day before, adding a chilly dampness to the air that made her pull her heavy black cloak even tighter around her willowy form.

She peered out into the darkness and wondered how far it was to the next inn. How she longed for a hot cup of tea and just a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.... The coach hit a particularly nasty rut, knocking her back against the worn squabs and drawing a loud oath from John Coachman. A pang of guilt shot through her and she chastised herself for dwelling on her own discomforts, compared to what her servants were suffering. Last night, Polly had developed a bad fever, and though she tried to disguise it, by morning she was in a bad enough state that Caroline had insisted that she be left behind at a small inn.

Despite his mutterings, John Coachman couldn’t disagree when he saw the girl’s wan face and felt her burning brow. By the time a room had been procured, along with the innkeeper’s promise to send for a doctor once he had been paid in advance for a week’s lodging, more hours had slipped by. Caroline wouldn’t hear of continuing until she had seen the girl comfortably settled and provided with enough funds to take a coach back to Roxbury Manor. At least John had been able to grab some rest.

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.