THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  “Stop.” Con took Clarissa from Hawk, keeping an arm around her. She wasn’t crying, but she seemed ready to collapse. “There’ll be no duel,” Con said, in an officer’s unquestionable voice, “and no violence.” Then he looked at Arden with a frown. “I gather criminal acts are not to be shared among the Rogues these days.”

  The marquess looked to be at the end of his tether. “Not lightly, no. And you came back from Waterloo in a bad way. We weren’t about to add to your burdens.”

  Con pulled a face and sat Clarissa in a chair. He went to his haunches in front of her. “What do you want to do?”

  She looked at him, pallid, then up at Hawk. “I want to arrange to give the money to the new Lord Deveril.”

  Arden took a step toward her. “Don’t be foolish.”

  Without looking, Con put a hand out to stop him. “It will be as Clarissa wishes.”

  “On Hawkinville’s side, I see,” said Arden coldly.

  Con was steady as a rock. “It is Clarissa’s choice. That has been decided.”

  It seemed to stop Arden’s fight, but he said, “Perhaps she’ll see sense when the shock’s worn off.”

  “Do I have any say?” Hawk interrupted.

  They all looked at him, but he spoke to Clarissa. “Hawkinville only needs some of the money—”

  “Damn your eyes!” Arden exploded. “How much filthy money do you need?”

  Hawk faced him. “Legally, the money belongs to my father. But twenty thousand pounds will suffice.”

  The arrogant disdain was designed to annihilate. “I will provide it for you on agreement that you leave Clarissa in peace.”

  There was nothing left but icy invulnerability. “Within the week?” Hawk inquired.

  “Within the week.”

  Clarissa started to say something, but Arden overrode her. “We can discuss your situation later. Come along now. Beth will want to take care of you.”

  “But the baby…”

  “Is not enough to tax my Amazon.” He turned to Con, acting as if Hawk was not there. “Coming?”

  “No. I’ll deal with Hawk.”

  “He can’t be allowed to harm Blanche.”

  “He won’t.”

  “Of course I won’t,” Hawk snapped. Arden had drawn Clarissa to her feet, but she looked stricken still. “Clarissa, you don’t have to go.”

  It was a faint hope, and her blankness denied it. She made no protest as the marquess took her out of the room, but then she suddenly stopped.

  Hawk watched in faint beating hope as she turned back. She pulled off the two rings and put them on a table against the wall. And then she was gone.

  Hawk was left with Con and could collapse into a chair and put his head in his hands. “I’ve known battles that have been easier.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “She was innocent,” Hawk said, to himself as much as to Con. “All along, she was completely innocent.”

  And thus his treatment of her had been atrocious from first moment to now. He’d hunted down a sheltered young woman who’d been forced into an engagement with a depraved man. She’d been abused, terrified, threatened, and then witness to his bloody murder.

  Arden was right. He deserved to be shot.

  “You’re not totally the villain, you know,” Con said in a steadying voice.

  Hawk looked up. “Oh, please, explain why not.”

  “You can’t let Slade rape Hawk in the Vale.”

  “So I rape Clarissa instead.”

  “I am sure you did not.”

  Hawk sighed. “No, but I’ve used her shamefully.”

  “Last night was unwise, but understandable. And you planned to marry her.” Con smiled a little. “If you wish, you can lay most of it at the Rogues’ door. We came up with the forgery.”

  “You weren’t even there.”

  “All the same.”

  “Ah,” said Hawk, suddenly wracked by a weariness he hadn’t felt since Waterloo, since after Waterloo with the chaos and the wounded and the mounds and sweeps of bodies and body parts so that victory, for the moment, was valueless. So one only wanted to turn back time for a few brief days to restore life and joy to the thousands of dead, and to their families still to hear the news, and then change history so that such battles never happened again.

  Events, however, are written in ink the moment they occur, and cannot be erased.

  “In that case,” Hawk said, standing and beginning to pull together what was left of his life, “can I ask you to deal with Arden about this? A duel, though I can understand his feelings, would serve no one. You can assure him that I will do nothing to endanger Mrs. Hardcastle or anyone else involved in Deveril’s death. For the sake of Hawk in the Vale, however, I must take his money. In strict honor, I should not let the matter of the forgery go.”

  Con rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Nicholas arrived at Somerford Court yesterday. You know who I mean? Nicholas Delaney? Apparently his Aunt Arabella summoned him to Brighton.”

  “Arabella Hurstman? Good God, a Rogue dragon as well. I was doomed.”

  “I’m afraid so, but since she was largely kept in the dark, I think the doom will fall on us. But when Van explained about the Deveril title, we agreed immediately that the money had been improperly redirected.”

  A crack of laughter escaped Hawk. “Now that’s a way to describe forgery. And a damn good forgery, too.”

  “But of course,” said Con with a smile. “You have to understand that everyone, including Deveril himself, thought he was heirless. The money was going to buy the Regent another gold plate or two, and without money, Clarissa’s situation was desperate. You may not know, but Nicholas has an interest in that money. It was originally gathered by a woman called Therese Bellaire—” Con must have caught a reaction. “That name means something?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Hawk with another laugh. The debacle was beginning to take on an absurd humor. “I recruited Delaney for that job. He must be enjoying this turn of the wheel.”

  “Not particularly. But at least I don’t need to dance around the details. The Bellaire woman gathered the money from Bonapartist supporters. She was supposed to take it to France to be ready for Napoleon’s return. Instead she planned a new life in America. Nicholas distracted her sufficiently that Deveril was able to steal it.”

  “Gad. And she didn’t kill him then and there?”

  “She was, as I said, distracted. And by then, England was not safe for her. But Nicholas could hardly be happy leaving that money with a man like Deveril. When Clarissa’s affair erupted, it was simply too good a chance to pass up.”

  Still swimming in lunatic humor, Hawk asked, “I wonder what happened to Therese Bellaire? She managed to work her way back into Napoleon’s inner circle, you know, but Waterloo must have ended her hopes.”

  “I pray that’s true. I’m sure she’s never forgotten or forgiven any of this. I remember her. Honeyed poison. But the forgery was done under the assumption that no one had a better claim. Right is on your father’s side and the money should be his. We agree on that, but Clarissa’s situation makes matters difficult.”

  Hawk sighed. “I don’t want all the money, Con.”

  “Fifty fifty,” Con suggested.

  Hawk laughed. “I see. You were sent here with power to negotiate, were you? How does Delaney plan to get around her guardian and trustees?”

  “The Rogues can raise that much money until Clarissa comes of age. If she insists on having it all, so be it.”

  Hawk pressed his hands to his face. “On what’s left of my honor, I’d not take a penny if it weren’t for the people of Hawk in the Vale.”

  “I know that.”

  He pulled himself together. “I need the twenty, and I have to take a bit more for Gaspard Hall. Not for the place itself, and certainly not for my father, but for the people there. Something needs to be done to correct the decades of neglect. The Deveril tenants are probably the most innocent victims of all. But I want Clari
ssa to have the rest. Try to persuade her of that.”

  Con nodded. “She may not be willing to take anything now.”

  “I wish to heaven I’d never let that slip, but I didn’t know— I should have known. She should have the money, but if she’s difficult, point out that if the Devil’s Heiress turns suddenly poor it would raise awkward questions.”

  They were talking so calmly of the future. The future with Hawkinville, perhaps even with his father at Gaspard Hall.

  But a future without Clarissa.

  Unendurable, except that like a soldier with a shattered leg, he had no choice but to endure the amputation and then—if that was God’s choice—limp on.

  “Are you all right?” Con asked.

  With Con he could let the exasperation show. “No, of course not! I’m stuck in hell. Some of it is my own fault, but most of it isn’t. It’s my father’s, and Slade’s, and Deveril’s, and your damned Rogues‘. It’s like being under the control of an insane and inept commanding officer who sends his men marching straight into a battery of enemy guns. And there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, one can do but march.”

  Con, who had doubtless been in that situation, pulled a face. “What will you do now?”

  “March back to Hawk in the Vale and arrange to pay off Slade. What else?”

  Con nodded. “Nicholas would probably like to talk to you about this.”

  Hawk wanted nothing to do with the man, but he would go where the insanity sent him. “We didn’t part on good terms back in ‘14, and I’m not sure I’m in the mood to be conciliating.”

  “He’ll cope.”

  Hawk looked around and picked up the rings. “I knew my mother’s ring was a bad omen.” He put them in his pocket, then turned to go. But he stopped. “Dammit. I need to write to her.”

  He had to hunt down the innkeeper to get paper, pen, and ink—a slightly bosky innkeeper, who gave him a very suspicious look. Then he went back to the bedroom, out of Con’s sight, though he didn’t suppose his friend would be able to tell anything from simply looking at him as he wrote.

  A wounded animal seeking a hole in which to lick its wounds.

  There was no lasting privacy in any of this, however.

  It was going to have to be acted out on an open stage. Could he mitigate things for her?

  Writing was part of his expertise. Writing clearly, precisely, and succinctly so the recipient would understand the information or instruction without delay. Now, the blank sheet of paper was as daunting as a well-armed garrison, impossible to conquer.

  He shrugged and dipped the rather unpromising pen. No words were going to create a miracle here, but he could not ride away without at least expressing himself clearly.

  Honestly.

  Yes, at this point at least he had honesty, with all its sharp tangs.

  My dear Clarissa…

  Then he wished he’d said “Falcon.” No, it was better as it was. Or perhaps he should have written “Miss Greystone.”

  Perhaps he had better be more careful, or less particular. He’d been able to acquire only one sheet of paper, and he could hardly keep Con waiting for hours as he tried to form a miracle. He must also phrase this so it would not cause disaster if it fell into the wrong hands.

  My dear Clarissa,

  Please read this letter to the end. I understand how you must feel, but you will not, I believe, find anything maudlin or embarrassing here.

  I wish to outline first what I have proposed to deal with our situation. Please believe that I sincerely wish only the best for you, but that I also have others to consider. You said that you had fallen in love with Hawk in the Vale, and I hope therefore that you will not mind providing money to dispose of the odious Slade.

  In addition, there will be a small sum to begin the restoration of the Deveril estate, which has suffered greatly, through no fault of the people there.

  The rest is yours. At your majority, you will be able to dispose of it as you will, but I hope you will feel able to enjoy it.

  As for our personal affairs, I cannot apologize for everything, since I was striving to protect the innocents who would be harmed by Slade, but I do truly regret ever thinking less than the best of you. I should have known, as soon as I knew you, that you were always beyond reproach.

  He paused, knowing he should sign it there, but unable to forgo a little gesture toward hope. And also, maybe to salve her hurts. He knew, like a deep wound, that he fragile confidence would be cracked. Pray God, no shattered.

  Perhaps I will sound maudlin here, so by all means cease to read if you wish. The necessary part is over. I give you my word, my dear Falcon, that as I once promised, I have never flattered you. My delight in you—

  Hawk halted to contemplate a tense. Whoever would have thought that tenses could be so crucial?

  My delight in you has been real, my admiration of you deep and true. I am, alas, cursed with a future as Lord Deveril, but perhaps that fate will not arrive for many years, and perhaps it will seem less appalling by that time. Perhaps, too, you will one day be able to forgive my many deceptions and trust me enough to venture into the wilderness again with me.

  He paused again, wanting to write “I will wait,” but he knew that might place a burden on her, and above all, he wanted to preserve her precious, hard-won freedom. And so, in the end, he merely signed it, “Hawk.”

  He resisted the urge to reread it, which would lead him to want to rewrite it, he was sure. He folded it with his usual precise edges, then realized he had no means to seal it. It didn’t matter. Con wouldn’t read it—and what matter if he did?

  He looked once at the room, at the disordered bed with the slight, telltale splash of blood, and a lifetime’s worth of memories. Constantly, constantly, like a manic millstone, his mind ground round and round, seeking things he could have changed, paths he could have logically taken.

  He shrugged and went back downstairs to where his friend patiently waited.

  Perhaps still his friend, though he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

  “You always were the steadiest of us,” he said as he passed over the letter.

  “Someone had to try to steer us away from disaster. But I’m not doing very well by my friends, am I? Dare, Van, you—”

  “Dare was not your fault. War is a temperamental bitch who gives no care to good or bad, justice or injustice. Look at De Lancey, killed by a ricocheting cannonball by my side, almost at the end of the battle. There was no point to it. And it could have hit me, or even Wellington, as easily.”

  “I know. But I’ve been too wrapped up in myself.”

  Hawk gripped his arm. “Perhaps none of us came out of Waterloo with anything in reserve for the other. We just chose different ways of hiding it.”

  Con’s gray eyes searched him. “Will you be all right?”

  “Of course. I certainly have plenty of work to do.”

  “Including saving Clarissa’s reputation. You were seen racing out of the village.”

  Hawk grimaced. “Damn. I’ll come up with something.”

  After a moment, Con clasped hands. “I’ll take care of Clarissa for you. I have a horse in the stables here. Take it. I’ll see you in Hawk in the Vale.”

  Con left, and Hawk took a moment to steady himself. The mill was still grinding, and probably would do so for the rest of his life, but even if it came up with the most brilliant solution, it was too damn late.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Lord Arden had apparently ridden to the village— simply to accept the congratulations of the people gathered at the inn. To return, he commandeered Hawk and Clarissa’s gig. She was slightly amused by seeing his lordly magnificence in such a lowly vehicle pulled by the placid cob. Only slightly, however, for she did not have the heart for humor of any kind.

  She was trying very hard not to think about all that had happened, all she had learned, but it surrounded her like a chill wind, or an overcast day.

  Hartwell. Thank God there was somewhere t
o go now, some haven. It had been a haven before. Beth had taken her there a few days after Deveril’s death, and it was there she had made decisions about the future. If they could be called decisions. All she had wanted then was a place to hide.

  She did not let the bitter laugh escape. She’d thought that she’d grown so strong, so brave, so able to deal with life, but here she was, rushing back to a safe place, and she could no more stay here this time than last.

  Last year Beth had invited her to live with her, at Hartwell and elsewhere. Clarissa would have been safe inside the de Vaux family, but she had not wanted to be anywhere near the marquess, who had blacked Beth’s eye.

  As they rolled along the country lane, she glanced at him, realizing that she felt differently now. Though she’d been stupid, gullible, and weak about Hawk, she had changed over the past year. She understood more about emotions, about control, and about how easily strong emotions could explode control.

  She had hit Arden. A feeble hit, but only because she was feeble. If she’d been able she might have knocked him to the ground.

  In an uncontrolled moment Hawk had shattered a gate, and he had not believed that his beloved had been with another man.

  “I’m sorry for what I said back there, Lord Arden. As you guessed, I was deflecting the conversation.”

  “Next time choose another weapon.”

  She pulled a face. They had never been on good terms. She had indirectly caused his violent moment, and guilty people blame others if they can. Even so, he’d worked hard and taken risks for her, and she knew he would continue to do so. It was nothing to do with her, but all to do with Beth, whom he loved.

  That was the point.

  She understood now what Beth had been trying to tell her last year, that the love was true and deep, and that therefore he would make sure that such lack of control never, ever happened again.

  “Beth won’t be happy if we’re at odds, my lord,” she said. “And even if she’s weller than she should be, I’m sure tranquility is good for a new mother.”

  He did glance at her then. “Her tranquility would be undisturbed if you’d behaved properly.”

  She swallowed an instinctive retort. “Yes, you’re right. I was foolish. But… I didn’t want to lose heaven, you see.”