The Hired Hero (3 page)

“Who is he?” he inquired.

 “L...lady Atherton, my lord. I put her in t...the library.”

 “I trust you lit the fire.”

 The man nodded.

“Very well.” He let out another sigh. At the moment, he didn’t feel nearly up to facing his brother’s widow— what he really wanted was a hot bath and a bottle of brandy. But it must be done.

He opened the library door.

“Hello, Julian.” She was still as lovely as when he had first met her, though her mouth seemed harder, more careworn, and her eyes were perhaps a shade duller. “I apologize for coming unannounced.”

“You are always welcome here, Helen.”

She smiled fleetingly. “You are...too good.”

Davenport crossed to the mahogany sideboard and poured himself a generous brandy. “May I get you anything?” he asked, gesturing to the sherry.

She shook her head, her gaze dropping to her hands which lay knotted in her lap.

He stared into the fire and took a long swallow from his glass.

“Actually, I’ve come to say goodbye.”

His head jerked around with a start.

“I have a small property in New Forest, near Lymington, and a modest income to go with it. It came to me through my mother and was one thing Charles could not touch.” She paused, trying to control the emotion in her voice.

“You may always think of this as your home,” he said quietly. “The dower house can be refurbished...”

“No!” she cried. “This was never my home, God knows. And I am a reminder of—you have borne more than any man should have to bear.” Her voice broke. “The lies, the ugly rumors that have been bandied about your name. Don’t think I am unaware of what I owe you!”

“It isn’t necessary...”

“Yes! Yes it is. Julian, please let me say it aloud. It is only your willingness to take the blame for many of Charles’s...excesses that allows me to appear in Society without being cut directly by all my acquaintances, that allows my daughter to grow up without hanging her head in total shame—”

“Helen.”

 Tears were gathering in her eyes. “I’m glad I never bore him a son,” she whispered. “I’m glad Highwood went to you, who deserves it so much more than any seed of Charles’s—though God knows, there are probably more than enough of those in the area.”

“Helen,” he repeated quietly. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

 She struggled to compose herself. “Lord, what an utter fool I was, Julian.”

 “Aren’t we all?”

“How could I have been so blind? And how can you have ever forgiven me?”

“It was a long time ago,” he said gently. “And we all know how charming Charles could be when he wanted to be.”

She shook her head. “How can two people so alike on the outside be so different on the inside?”

Davenport ran a finger along the thin white line that marred his cheekbone. “Ah,” he said, his voice full of self-mockery. “Not alike—I’m the twin with the scar.”

Lady Helen regarded him with a look of great sorrow, and some other emotion.

He turned to look out the large, leaded glass windows.

She continued to stare at his tall, athletic form even though his back was to her. “What of you, Julian? Well I know that Charles has mortgaged the estate to the hilt and gambled away any money that your father didn’t lose before him.”

“I shall manage.”

A sigh escaped her lips. “It looks to be turning into a nasty night.” She had risen and moved to stand by his side. “I shall take my leave so that I may return to my uncle’s before the rain begins.” Placing a slender hand on his shoulder she stood on tiptoes to brush a kiss on his cheek.

“Would that the hands of time could be turned back,” she whispered.

He shook his head bleakly. “That, I fear, is beyond the power of any mortal.”

She smiled sadly and looked as if to say more. Then her lips pressed together, and after a moment’s hesitation, she simply sighed.

“Good bye then, Julian. I wish you all the happiness you deserve.” Without waiting for a response, she hurried from the room.”

“Happiness. That, I fear, is beyond my power as well,” he whispered to himself.

 Then he poured himself another brandy.

 Would that the spirits could wash away the bitter taste that stuck in his throat, no matter how much of the amber liquid he poured into himself. It brought only oblivion, not sweet relief  from the sea of demands that washed over him. He was heartily sick of it, sick of feeling that slowly, inexorably, he was losing a little piece of himself with every crashing wave.

 With a grimace he realized he hardly remembered how it had all started.  When had his mother first opportuned him to have a care for his twin, to try to temper the high spirits of the heir and guard both him and the family name from harm. Why, he and his brother could not have been above ten or twelve years of age, but even then, Charles had been irresistibly charming, while he had been painfully dull.

And dim-witted as well, to allow himself to become his brother’s keeper. The pattern had been set then. Charles became increasingly wild while he was left to quietly make amends for his sibling’s excesses or take the blame himself. Sometimes it was just easier that way. It had made his father laugh and his mother cry. He supposed it was those anguished eyes that had kept him from shirking from the unfair responsibilities. She had cared about family honor and right and wrong. His own principles must have come from her side of the family, for as much as he wished to, he could not simply walk away.

 And that was just the beginning. Much as his mind rebelled against it, he forced himself to think about Helen. Charles had not been content with merely stealing his good name—no, his brother had to take the woman he loved as well. Davenport paused to drain his glass.

 Charming Charles.

 His brother had been free and easy with his addresses while he, Davenport, was shy and awkward. How could he blame a lovely young lady for being seduced by well-turned phrases and elegant manners.

  Unfortunately, when in his cups, his brother became as free and easy with his fists as with his pretty words. Davenport’s face darkened as he recalled his first sight of the bruises. She had begged him not to make a scene. So, once again, he had dutifully done what was asked of him, no matter the cost to his own feelings. Had Helen truly any notion of what torture it had been to watch what was happening to her? His own suffering must surely have been nearly as painful as hers.

His fingers came up to trace the thin white scar on his cheekbone as his jaw tightened in anger. Rather than stand up for herself, Helen had turned to him for comfort. How unfair a burden! Why was it he fell prey to vulnerable females? He found himself wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like to care for someone capable of giving as well as taking.

Well, his brother was dead now, and he intended to bury his own past weaknesses along with him. He meant to finally get on with his own life.

 But first he would uncork another bottle.

* * * *

Caroline had no notion of how long she had been lying there. It was still pitch black and the rain had begun anew, light, intermittent drops, but chilling to the bone. She pushed herself into a sitting position, fighting down a new wave of nausea. The pain in her left arm was excruciating. She couldn’t move it, but with her right one she assured herself that the small packet sewn into the fold of her dress was still there. The feel of it triggered the memory of the conversation she had heard between her assailants. It seemed so unreal, but then her fingers moved up to her bruised face, sticky with blood.

She knew she had to move from where she was. With daylight, there was a good chance they may return. Summoning up all her strength, she crawled out from the gorse and made her way on hands and knees back up to the road. Using a tree for support, she pulled herself to her feet, clutching her muddy cloak tightly around her aching body. Thankfully, the rain let up once again. Clouds scudded across the sky to reveal a pale moon. Her eyes could follow the road around a sharp bend to where it disappeared into a forest of live oak and beeches. But she quickly decided against such a course. The steep ravine fell away to the right. There was really little choice. On the other side of the road was a field, then a copse of trees. With faltering steps, she headed for their shelter.

It was a larger woods that she had thought. Though thankful for the cover, she found it difficult to pick her way through the tangle of brush and brambles. One step at a time, she repeated to herself. Then another, and another. She forced herself to keep moving. Only once, on crossing a small stream, did she allow herself to stop for a moment.  The water felt cool and comforting as she drank thirstily and washed the worst of the dirt and dried blood from her face. The urge to lie down was overwhelming, but she forced herself back to her feet.

 She had to keep going.

 Daylight began to tint the horizon. Caroline was out of the trees and had passed through a number of fields overgrown with weeds and wild blackberry bushes. Now she found herself on some sort of path. Birds began chirping as the light became stronger. A fox darted out in front of her, returning to its den from a nocturnal hunting foray. Startled, she stopped dead in her tracks, then chided herself for being so skittish. Just a little farther, she promised herself, but somehow her feet would not seem to obey her commands any longer. Swaying slightly, she crumpled to the ground.

Davenport winced as the light struck his face. He turned his face to escape the piercing rays, and groaned at the dull throbbing at his temples. Then it occurred to him that the sun never came into his bedchamber in such a manner. One eye reluctantly pried open. It took in the carved fireplace, now cold with grey ashes, the oak bookcases....

That explained it. He had never made it to his bed last night. He grimaced as he struggling into a sitting position. The couch had been deucedly uncomfortable on his back, but that part of his anatomy didn’t ache nearly as much as his head. He spied two empty bottles on the rug and a third one, nearly gone, on the table next to the stump of a candle. He swung his feet to the carpet. Good lord, he hadn’t even removed his muddy boots.

Raking his hands through his tangled hair, he glance at the tall case clock on the mantle. It was barely five thirty in the morning. Sykes was to arrive at nine. He brushed the palm of his hand over the rough stubble on his chin—he must look as terrible as he felt! A breath of fresh air would no doubt help to clear his head. There would be plenty of time for a bath and a shave.

He rose, a trifle unsteady, and pulled on his coat. At least he had thought to remove that garment and it looked marginally better than the rest of him. No matter. There would be not a soul abroad to take in his shocking state of dishevelment at this hour, not along the path he intended to ride.

The wind did indeed feel good against his face, though his horse’s spirited gallop caused his queasy stomach a lurch or two. He eased the big stallion into an easy walk, though the animal tossed his head in disgust at being denied his usual distance.

“Easy, Nero,” he said, patting the glistening neck. “I promise to give you your head later today.”

The horse snorted in reply, then suddenly shied to one side.

Davenport let out an oath as his stomach gave an unpleasant heave. “Behave yourself,” he grumbled, tightening the reins.

The horse pranced back, and suddenly Davenport could see what was making him behave so skittishly.

“Good God,” he exclaimed as he quickly dismounted and knelt by the body lying in the middle of the muddy path. He  gently turned the person over and placed a finger on the side of the neck. There was a pulse, so she—it was a female, he noted—was alive, but she looked in far worse shape than he did.

Caroline gave a low moan and her eyes fluttered open. Not six inches from her face was another face, a man’s face. The eyes were bloodshot, a black stubble bristled on his jaw, and raven hair fell wildly towards the shoulders of a worn coat. The odor of brandy was quite apparent.

She gave a yelp and let fly with her good hand.

“Ouch!”

 Davenport fell back on his rump, nursing a tender nose. A trickle of blood started from one nostril. He fished out a  rumpled handkerchief from his coat pocket and pressed it to the injured appendage.

 “Who the hell taught you to throw a punch like that,” he demanded in a muffled voice as he righted himself but stayed out of arm’s reach.

There was no answer.

“If you are bamming me and mean to plant me another facer, I’ll not be pleased,” he warned as he inched closer. “I’m merely trying to be a gentleman and offer some assistance.”

Her eyes were closed and she didn’t move.

Davenport took in the darkening bruises, the scratches and the nasty cut on her forehead and his lips tightened. “I wonder what brute it is you are trying to flee,” he muttered as he gathered her in his arms and remounted his horse.

The day, which had started badly enough, seemed to be getting much worse.

* * * *

“There it be, down there. See?”

The elegantly dressed gentleman craned his neck to peer down into the ravine.

“Ain’t nubbody gonna walk away from that,” piped up the third man as he shifted his weight nervously from side to side.

The gentleman said nothing. He stepped off the ledge and picked his way a short distance down the overgrown slope, stopping to steadily himself  against a scraggly birch tree.

“Ain’t nubbody gonna notice them down there neither, leastways not for months.” The man who had spoken first wet his lips. “Yer gonna give the rest of the blunt now, ain’t ye? They’re dead, and that’s what ye said ye wanted.”

The gentleman scrambled back up to the road. He reached into his voluminous cape and withdrew a heavy leather pouch, which he tossed at the feet of the two other men. They fell to their knees in their eagerness to retrieve it, nearly knocking heads. But their hands froze as two quick shots rang out. Slowly, each pitched forward into the mud.

“You are right—no one will see the bodies for months,” he repeated softly as he tucked two long barreled pistols back into his pockets.