A Most Dangerous Profession

by Karen Hawkins

  Mr. Norris let out a long, silent whistle. “Very well, guv’nor. We’ll be on the lookout.”

  “Thank you.” With that, Robert crossed the street.

  Moments later, he was at the rear of the house. The servants were just beginning to stir, the kitchen door opened as the undercooks prepared the morning fires.

  He slipped inside while two sleepy-looking men collected wood from the stack by the back door. Robert hurried through the kitchen to a back hallway, sliding into a pantry when footsteps approached.

  He’d just exited the pantry and found the back stairs when he heard Mr. Norris yelling like a drunken coalman, shouting that he’d been cheated and wanted his dibs for the coal already delivered, or he’d call the constable. Footsteps raced toward the front of the house as the servants attempted to silence the overwrought coal vendor whose loud voice might rouse their master.

  Robert slipped up two flights of stairs, taking refuge in a linen closet when heavy footsteps tromped down from the attic. When the footsteps passed by, he peered out and saw two big men disappear down the steps. So Aniston’s thugs think they are needed. Mr. Norris might meet with some trouble. But somehow, Robert thought the Runner would do just fine.

  Robert hurried up the stairs. At the very top was a landing with three doors. He listened at each, deciding the middle one held the most promise.

  He silently checked the knob and, finding it locked, backed up a few steps and then slammed his shoulder into the door. It broke, and he staggered into the room, where he found himself facing the third large brute.

  With a roar, the man bunched his huge fist and swung in Robert’s direction. Robert ducked and, using the man’s momentum, shoved him into the wall, where his head hit with a spectacular thud.

  In a perfect world, the maneuver would have ended with the giant senseless on the floor. Instead, after shaking his head like a wet dog, the man whirled to face Robert, ready for another bout.

  But Robert had his pistol out and ready before the man could swing again. “Don’t even consider it. I’m quite capable of shooting you through the eye.”

  The man growled. “What do ye want?”

  “My daughter.” Robert pulled a small bag out of his coat pocket and tossed it to the man.

  The guard caught the bag without thinking and eyed it suspiciously.

  “That’s twenty guineas. More than you make in a year from Mr. Aniston, I’m sure.”

  The man tugged open the bag and poured the coins into his hand.

  “You are here because you’ve been paid to be here. Now you’ve been paid not to be here. You can either stay and face a bullet, or you can leave with twenty guineas in your pocket and pretend you never saw this place. I don’t care which you choose, but be quick about it. I’ve things to do.”

  The man stared at the coins before he raised a bemused gaze to Robert. “And the lass is yer daughter?”

  “My only daughter.”

  The man poured the money back into the pouch and stuffed it into his pocket, then he lumbered to the door. “I never liked Aniston, no ways.”

  “Where is she?”

  The man jerked his head to another door by the small coal heater. “She’s in there with her nurse, a mean woman. She’s no’ so good to the lass.”

  Robert’s jaw tightened. “Thank you.”

  The man nodded and left.

  Robert opened the door the giant had indicated. A hard-faced woman stood before the small fireplace. She looked sour even before she spat out, “I heard ye speakin’ in t’other room and I know ye came fer the lass.”

  “Where is she?”

  A hard line formed on either side of the woman’s mouth. “I’ll have me own coins afore I tell ye tha’.”

  Robert had several more pouches of coins in his pockets, but said, “Get out.”

  Her lips thinned. “I’ll scream, I will, and raise the household.”

  “They’re already raised. I fully expect to see the entire group before I’m done, so scream away.”

  A desperate look entered her eyes. “If ye’re the father, ye should know the mither promised me coins fer keepin’ the lass in good health and fer not hittin’ her—though she sorely needs it sometimes.”

  Robert’s hand was so tight on his pistol that it shook, his fingers almost white. He lowered the pistol and snapped, “I’ve warned you. Get. Out.”

  “I want the coin she promised me or I’m not leavin,’ and not tellin’ ye where the child is, either!”

  Robert grasped her thin arm and dragged her from the room, out to the landing, and to the top of the steps.

  “I want me money!”

  “And I want you to suffer for every moment of fear you gave that child—but neither of us is going to get what we want.” He pointed to the steps.

  After a moment, she hunched her shoulders and marched down the stairs.

  Robert hurried back to the room. A small bed was in one corner, the sheets awry, as if someone had hurriedly left them. A series of trunks lined one wall.

  He softly called, “Rowena?”

  No answer was returned. The din outside had quieted, so his time was short. “Rowena, I’ve come from your mother. She’s waiting for you. We have to hur—”

  One of the trunks opened and a small, tousled head peeked over the edge. Robert found himself looking down into a small face framed by a wealth of curly dark hair. For an instant he couldn’t think, feel, or breathe—he could only stare. Good God, she looks exactly like me.

  The little girl returned his gaze solemnly. She was dressed in a ragged gown of dark blue that matched her eyes, and he knew without hesitation that she was his.

  She gulped and he caught panic in her gaze. “Where is my mother?”

  Robert found his voice. “She will be along soon, but we must hurry.”

  Rowena nodded. “You must be my father, then.”

  Robert caught his breath. “How . . . why do you say that?”

  “Mother said that if we ever needed you, you would come.” Large blue eyes looked directly into his, so honest they almost pained him. “What took you so long?”

  Robert’s heart tightened and he said in a choked voice, “Many problems, but I have come. And I will save you, no matter what.”

  In that instant Robert faced a powerful truth: she was his daughter, and he never wanted to be without her again.

  He lifted her from the trunk and set her on her feet. Rowena slipped her small hand into his. “Are we going home now?”

  We. She accepts me without question. Robert’s eyes stung with tears, and he had to clear his throat. “Yes. We will be going home today.”

  “With my mother?”

  “Yes.” After he’d stomped George Aniston into dust for what he’d done to his child.

  Robert stooped down so that he was on a level with his daughter. “We have to make a run for it and it could get difficult. There might be some fighting.”

  “I can fight, too. Will we be fighting the bad man who’s mean to Mama?”

  “We might.”

  She sent him such a ferocious look that he wanted to swoop her into a hug.

  “I feel the same way about him. We must go now, and I need you to stay behind me. Can you do that?”

  Rowena nodded. “I’ll need my shoes.” She pointed to her boots that lay discarded in a corner.

  He fetched them and then helped her put them on.

  And that was how Moira found them when she slipped into the room a few moments later.

  Robert was down on one knee in front of Rowena. Their heads were very close together, and her throat tightened at seeing how much alike they looked. To see Rowena so trustingly close to Robert, both of them engaged deeply in conversation, made Moira’s heart ache in a new way.

  Robert had claimed that by not informing him of Rowena’s existence, she had stolen something from him. Seeing them together, a dawning look of delight on Rowena’s small face, Moira realized he was right.

  Robert sol
emnly held out his hand. Her big eyes fixed upon him, Rowena spat into her hand and then slapped it into Robert’s.

  He chuckled, released her hand to spit into his own, and reclasped her hand. “It’s a bargain,” he said.

  Moira started forward, and they both turned toward her.

  “Mama!” The word broke Moira’s heart, and she sank to her knees to catch her daughter to her. With a sob, she buried her face in the girl’s silken hair. “Oh Rowena, I’m so happy to see you. Are you well?” Moira held her daughter from her to examine her dear face.

  Tears streamed down Rowena’s face, but she nodded, her lips quivering slightly. “I’m fine. Mr. Robert told me—”

  “My, my,” said a silky voice. “Such a tender scene. I hesitate to interrupt.”

  Moira was on her feet in an instant, clutching Rowena to her as she turned to face George Aniston.

  He stood in the doorway, a dueling pistol in his hand. She had no doubt that the trigger was made to discharge at the faintest squeeze of his finger.

  She started to push Rowena behind her, but Aniston’s chilly voice ordered, “Don’t move.”

  Moira froze, her heart thudding sickly.

  Behind her Robert cursed, drawing Aniston’s attention. “I almost forgot about you, Hurst. Put down your pistol if you wish to keep these two alive.”

  Robert dropped his pistol to the floor.

  Aniston curled his lip at Moira’s attire. “I fear that Hurst’s ruinous company has destroyed your sense of fashion. Even I wouldn’t wear a such a profusion of lace.” His gaze returned to Robert. “Now join your lovely lady so I can keep an eye on you both.”

  “No.”

  Aniston’s jaw tightened. “Don’t tempt me, Hurst.”

  “If you waste your bullet on me, you’ll have Moira to deal with. If you hit me, which I doubt will happen. Moira, did you know that Aniston was once in a duel? He lost, of course. He shot so wide of his opponent that he nicked a bystander who was ten paces to the side.”

  Aniston’s face was bloodred. “I did that on purpose. It was a matter of honor—”

  “Before the duel, you made a big show of paying an undertaker to prepare to carry off your opponent’s body—so don’t pretend you didn’t mean to kill him. You’re just fortunate that he was a horrid shot himself.”

  Robert chuckled, as if he didn’t see the mounting fury in Aniston’s thin face. “It was most amusing, Moira. The fat squire hit Aniston, but not where he intended. He shot off one of Aniston’s toes. The biggest one, I believe, wasn’t it?”

  Moira noticed that Aniston’s gun hand was shaking slightly; his body was stiff with outrage.

  Yet Robert continued on. “I daresay you have to order specially made shoes, don’t you? Most cripples do—”

  “Stop it!” Aniston started forward, the gun pinned on Robert.

  Moira realized then that as he’d been speaking, Robert had moved away from her and Rowena. He was now almost at the window.

  As Aniston went forward he was moving away from the door, and soon she and Rowena could make a dash for it. Moira grasped Rowena’s hand and caught a flicker of a glance from Robert. So this is his plan. But what would happen then?

  “Where is the onyx box?” Aniston asked.

  “It’s gone,” Robert said. “I sent it to London this morning.”

  Aniston’s jaw tightened. “I want that box.”

  Robert shrugged.

  Moira could hear Aniston’s teeth grinding. “Damn you!”

  “Yes, quite.” Robert yawned and sat on the edge of the bed. “Early morning rescues are so tiring.”

  “Don’t try anything,” Aniston snapped. “I don’t trust you, Hurst. Put your hands in your pockets and keep them there.”

  Robert rolled his eyes but did as he was told. “Happy now?”

  Aniston smiled. “I’ve finally gotten the better of you. The great Robert Hurst, brought low by me. I will relish telling the tale in White’s.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that—because I’ve already won.”

  Aniston laughed. “Oh, really? How—”

  A shot rang out, and Moira screamed and shoved Rowena behind her.

  Aniston’s gun fired even as he looked down at his chest where a thin trickle of blood marred his shirt. He turned an amazed look at Robert.

  One pocket of Robert’s coat was smoking slightly. He stood, leaning lightly against the window frame as he pulled his pistol out. “Never underestimate a Hurst.”

  His face set and white, Aniston took a step toward Robert, but Moira stepped forward, her own pistol at the ready. “Don’t.”

  Aniston sent her a startled glance, his hand still gripped over his wound as blood steadily soaked his side. As it dripped through his wide-spread fingers, he looked down and turned even paler, visibly sagging.

  Then, with a moan, Aniston crumpled to the ground.

  Robert patted the pocket of his greatcoat where a wisp of smoke still rose. But it was the smaller hole at his shoulder that caught Moira’s attention. “No!” She rushed forward as he swayed.

  The small circle began to turn red, blood seeping into the heavy wool. “We’d better leave,” he said in an odd voice.

  Moira hurried to support him, wedging her shoulder under his good one. “Rowena, hold the door for Mr. Hur—” She stopped and looked up at Robert. “For your father.”

  Robert’s expression softened. “Thank you.”

  They made their way downstairs with difficulty, for Robert was quickly weakening, blood now dripping upon the steps.

  Moira feared they would be stopped by the servants. Instead, as they were halfway down the stairs, they met a burly, square-looking man followed by several others.

  With one quick look, he summed up the situation. “Lor’ love ye, guvnor! Got yerself knocked to the nines, did ye?”

  “Somewhat,” Robert agreed. “Who are these men?”

  “I brought them wit’ me to be certain no one interfered wit’ our business. ’Tis a good thing, too, fer it took us all to round up Aniston’s mob. They’ve been taken to gaol fer the time bein’ and won’t be a bother.”

  Robert managed a smile. “Very clever of you, Mr. Norris. I shall be sure to write a letter of thanks to the Bow Street Runners for sending their best in rescuing my daughter.”

  Mr. Norris pinkened. “I’m glad t’ see ye got her back.” He jerked a thumb toward Moira. “I’m glad ye tol’ me that the mistress might be wearin’ a disguise, fer I almost mistook her for one o’ Mr. Aniston’s men. Is Aniston still upstairs?”

  “Yes, he is injured. Perhaps fatally.”

  Mr. Norris nodded his head toward the stairs. “Griswald, Smith, go and see to Mr. Aniston. If he’s still alive, he’s not t’ escape, no matter how ye have t’ see t’ it.”

  Two of the bigger men went past them on up the stairs, their heavy feet clomping upon the treads.

  Mr. Norris turned to Moira and he said politely, “And now, mistress, if ye’ll stand back, we’ll help Mr. Hurst to his carriage. I know a good doctor.”

  Moira carried Rowena downstairs, her heart filled with so many emotions that she couldn’t untangle them, but so worried about Robert that she couldn’t even cry.

  And when they were in the carriages, on their way to the doctor, Moira began to pray.

  EPILOGUE

  Michael Hurst in a letter to his brother Robert, that same day.

  I’ve just met William’s wife, and I hear that our sister Mary has also managed to wed. While I do not begrudge them their happiness, it seems that I might have been rescued faster had you not all been busy making love matches.

  I hope that I never catch that malady, which steals away common sense and replaces it with fluff.

  Moira stood looking out the window. A warm summer wind swirled across the stone drive and made the grass ripple around the pond. It was an idyllic setting and fit Robert’s majestic house. Yet despite the day’s warmth, Moira couldn’t shake the feeling that t
he cold hand of fate hovered over them all—especially Robert, whose injuries were even more dangerous than they’d first realized.

  Moira said another prayer of thanks for Mr. Norris and his quick actions. The rough man had indeed known an excellent physician, who was with Robert even now, a week later.

  Moira rubbed her arms and started to turn from the window, when the sight of a carriage racing up the drive made her stop. As the horses clattered to the front door, a small hand slipped into Moira’s.

  She smiled down at Rowena. “You’re up from your nap.”

  “I didn’t really sleep. I kept thinking about . . .” Rowena glanced at the ceiling, her brow knit.

  Moira nodded. “I know. Me, too.” She knelt beside her daughter. “But he’s very strong, and the doctor is with him.”

  “He will be fine,” Rowena said, her gaze unafraid. “He told me so, so he will be. I just don’t want him to hurt.”

  “Yes, but . . . He had a very bad fever, and the doctor says—”

  “He will be fine,” the child said quietly. She put her small hand on Moira’s cheek. “He never breaks his promises. He told me so.”

  Moira nodded helplessly, unable to fight a deep, icy cold fear. The doctor had been so grave, so serious. Moira was thankful for Buffon, who not only continually ran up and down the stairs seeing to Robert’s comfort, but also found the time to keep her informed of every development, good and bad.

  It said something about Robert that his servants were so obviously fond of their master. They tiptoed about, whispering in concerned tones, and made certain the house was in perfect order for when he finally emerged from the sickroom.

  Moira hugged Rowena and looked about the comfortable sitting room. She’d been amazed to discover that Robert owned a house near Edinburgh, so close to her cottage. And such a house, too. You are always a surprise, Robert. In so many ways.

  Rowena’s gaze was on the drive, where the carriage had stopped. “Who is that?”

  Moira looked to see a small, plump woman exit the carriage, assisted by a tall, distinguished man. “That’s your father’s sister, Mary, and her husband, Angus.”

  Rowena watched the woman hurry up the steps, her husband’s broad strides easily keeping pace. “Do you think my father will be glad to see her?”