The Hired Hero

by Andrea Pickens

  The earl shrugged and set his stallion into an easy trot. For a brief moment, he passed between Caroline and the driver. The rest happened with blinding speed. In one motion, he drew his own pistol, whipped around and squeezed off a shot. At the same time, he leaned down, grabbed Caroline by the waist and urged the stallion into a full gallop. Another shot rent the air, but the horse didn’t miss a step. Clinging low to the animal’s neck, Davenport kept tight hold of Caroline, shielding her person with his broad shoulders. With a flick of the reins, he guided his horse off the road and towards a fallow field, guarded by a tall stone wall, overgrown with brambles. The stallion cleared it with ease and they disappeared from sight.

  * * * *

  “Are you all right?”

  The earl pulled the big horse to a halt and set Caroline down on the ground. He slipped from the saddle as well, and with a pat to the lathered flanks, let the animal drink his fill from a small stream.

  “Yes—a few more bruises hardly matter.” She managed a game expression and brushed a lock of hair from her face, only adding to the streaks of dirt on her cheek. “I...that is,...thank you, sir. You had no reason to take such a risk for me.” There was a pause, then all at once she sunk to the ground and drew her knees up to her chest. “I had no right to involve you in this,” she went on, her voice barely above a whisper. “That man was right. Leave while you can. You have done more than enough.”

  Davenport smiled faintly. “Ah, but then I should lose my thousand pounds.”

  Her head shot up in time to catch a glint of humor in his eye. “Don’t be a fool—”

  “I’m afraid it’s far too late to correct that.” He sat down beside her. “What have you done? Steal the family jewels?”

  Her chin came to rest on her knees. “I can’t tell you that either.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully.

  Caroline sighed. “I don’t know...who to trust,” she said, half to herself.

  One of the earl’s eyebrows came up slightly. “I see.” His tone hardened. “Certainly not a fellow like me.”

  The color rose to her face. “It’s not—you don’t understand. It involves more than...” She gave up trying to explain and merely shook her head in mute confusion.

  There was a long silence. Davenport picked up a small stone and skimmed it across the water, sending ripples out across the smooth surface from the point of impact. He appeared to have forgotten her presence, so intent was he on watching the quixotic patterns. Then abruptly, he spoke again.

  “You now owe me for a horse as well as the other sum.”

  It was mention of the dead animal that finally brought tears to Caroline’s eyes. “Poor beast,” she said, trying to keep her voice from breaking. “I never meant for him to...”

  “It won’t do to dwell on it.” Mentally chastising himself for being so inept, Davenport laid a hand on her arm. His voice sought to lighten the mood.”Come now, buck up your spirits. Surely you’re not going to become missus on me over a small thing like someone trying to put a period to your existence?”

  Caroline had to laugh in spite of herself. “Oh dear, if you put it that way...” She wiped at her cheek with the frayed cuff of her jacket. “Do you always see the absurd in a situation?”

  He smiled slightly. “It is hard not to. The world can be a cruel enough place without a sense of humor to take the edge off it.”

  She regarded him intently. “You sound as if you have...suffered more than your share.”

  “Does that seem so—” He caught himself and fell silent for a moment. Recovering his equilibrium, he went on. “You are able to laugh as well, despite what you have been through. You have spirit, Miss Caroline, whoever you are. I wouldn’t have imagined until now that a young lady could show such fortitude—and wits.”

  Her expression remained thoughtful and it seemed to take a few moments for his words to register. “It seems we keep surprising each other. I wouldn’t have imagined a reputed wastrel could show backbone or brains.” She flashed a grin. “We are an odd pair, are we not, sir.”

  Despite the mud and bruises, Davenport was struck by how bewitching she looked at that moment. It put him off balance and he merely grunted in order to hide his loss of composure.

  “Why do you ladies put up with it?” he asked abruptly. “Why it is you are drawn to cruelty, then remain in thrall to it? I admit, I am at a loss to comprehend it.”

  Caroline stared at him, first with disbelief, then with a simmering anger. She had spent enough time tending to her father’s tenants that she had seen something of the real world. More than one farmwife had sported bruises with a frightening regularity. Though there were always explanations of careless falls and the like, she hadn’t missed the muttered talk among the other women about husbands who vented their frustrations with life on those unable to defend themselves in any way.

  “You speak as if we have much of a choice,” she said slowly. “Or perhaps you have conveniently forgotten that in our society those of my sex have no more rights than, say, a dog. We have no property, no recourse under the law— you men are free to treat us as you will with no fear of reprisals.” Her voice rose. “You . . own us as surely as you own your horse. And even if we run away, how do we exist without money—even you can comprehend that! Then, what if there are children. Do you think any caring mother could abandon her offspring? For I’ll remind you again, a woman has no right to her children! She cannot take them away from a violent man. How dare you speak of choice, my lord. It is hardly as simple as you suggest.”

  A look of shock, followed by a touch of embarrassment crossed Davenport’s face. “I...I hadn’t thought of it quite like that,” he admitted.

  “I’m sure you hadn’t” she replied, but her tone had become a trifle less sharp. “Perhaps in the future you will not be so quick to judge.”

  He looked away, his mouth pursed in a thoughtful expression. It was true. He had been angry with Helen for accepting what Charles did to her, but he had never really considered what her choices were. Run away? Caroline was right. Charles has the right to drag her back. Even if she were able to hide from him, how would she survive without resorting to a life as bad as the one she was leaving? His brows knitted together. Things were not as black and white as he wished to think.

  “Do you have children?” he asked abruptly.

  She shook her head.

  After an awkward silence, Caroline cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose they could follow us yet, but we had better decide what to do—assuming you really do mean to continue on with me?”

  “I told you, I need the blunt,” he replied, but his tone softened the words. He seemed a bit relieved to have the subject changed. “Besides, my life had been sadly flat until you tumbled into it. Why, I only had to cope with angry creditors, sullen tenants and badgering tradesmen. Now I have the privilege of having someone try to shoot me.”

  She rose, wiping her hands on her tight fitting breeches, and grinned again. “Have you any idea where we are and how we can reach London? I admit I am at a loss, for the moment, for any ideas.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  Caroline’s eyes strayed to the big black stallion. “Surely Nero cannot carry both of us for long.” She paused for a second. “Such a magnificent animal—he must be worth a handsome sum.”

  Davenport scrambled to his feet. “You’ve tried to steal him, you’ve nearly gotten him killed. Don’t even think of trying to sell my horse.” He took up the stallion’s reins and gave him a fond pat on the neck. “Besides, it happens that I do have an idea.”

  * * * *

  Lucien Sheffield cast a harried glance at his uncle, whose countenance had gone nearly red with fury. “I dare say General Wilmott would dispatch a party of men to take us to the coast if it were at all possible, sir.”

  The Duke smacked his fist into his palm and muttered something under his breath.

  Outside the tent another cannon boomed. The young viscount began to pace up and do
wn in the confined space. “May I ask why is it so important to get home?” he asked in a hesitant voice.

  The Duke looked up, and for the first time his nephew could remember, there was a look of uncertainty, even helplessness, in the older man’s eyes. “I fear that if we do not reach England right away, a number of people are going to be in grave danger—and the first one may be Caroline.”

  “Caro has used her wits to get out of more scrapes than you can imagine,” answered Sheffield, with more bravado than he felt. “She is well able to take care of herself, Uncle Henry—I can vouch for that.”

  “Would that I could believe that,” he murmured. “You are not aware of all she is up against. It appears there is a traitor somewhere...”

  There was a sharp intake of breath.

  “Yes, quite.” The Duke pulled a face. “It wasn’t until we landed in Brussels that I learned of the danger. By that time, a vital document was already on its way to me in England. Our adversary knows of it and its importance. I can only hope my own letter reached Roxbury Manor in time to keep Caroline well away from trouble. Whoever the traitor is, he is both cunning and ruthless.”

  “You... you think he would harm Caro?”

  “I have no doubt of it, just as I have no doubt that Caro will not shirk from the danger.”

  Sheffield’s balled into fists at his side. “Damnation. What can we do?”

  “For the moment we can only pray, Lucien, we can only pray.”

  * * * *

  The gentleman ripped off the silken mask and tossed it onto the seat beside him. What the devil did the bloody earl think he was about? Was the man completely foxed, even at this hour, for surely he wouldn’t have risked his own neck out of any sense of honor or duty? That thought gave cause for his frown to deepen. His underlings were paid handsomely enough not to miss. This was the second time. It would not go unnoticed.

  His silver tipped walking stick rapped at the trap with more rather more force than necessary and he snarled a curt series of orders before falling back against the squabs. The carriage sprung forward. Time was of the essence, and he had now wasted far too much of it on playing cat and mouse with the chit.

  He must have that document.

  With an effort, he brought his temper under control. The two of them couldn’t get far on one horse, and the big stallion was a fine enough piece of horseflesh to draw notice wherever they put up. With a grunt of satisfaction, he realized he had no real cause for concern. There was no way that they could slip through his net of informants.

  She wouldn’t elude his grasp next time—he would see to it himself.

  * * * *

  Davenport tied the stallion inside the tiny mews and took Caroline by the arm. They made their way through a narrow alley and emerged on a small side street, in front of a narrow building, its timbers and stone darkened with age. A stout woman in a mob cap and voluminous apron that was once white answered the earl’s knock. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the appearance of the two rather disreputable looking persons standing on the front steps. “Whatcha want?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Is Mr. Leighton in his rooms?” inquired Davenport.

  She hesitated. The voice was that of a gentleman despite the dirty and disheveled clothes. Though her expression indicated she had her doubts, she stepped aside and motioned up a set of narrow stairs. “Top floor.”

  They walked up four flights and knocked again at a warped door that strained against its flimsy latch. A muffled oath greeted the sound. There was a slight shuffling, the rattle of glasses and another low curse before it flung open, missing the earl’s nose by less than an inch.

  “Well?” A mop of unruly brown hair hung over a high forehead, framing a slender, almost delicate face whose high cheekbones and pale complexion only added to the rather ethereal air about the figure. The dark hazel eyes, by far the most striking feature of the young man’s visage, were narrowed in annoyance until they recognized the figure in front of them.

  “Julian!” he exclaimed, laying aside a sable brush and absently wiping his hand on the front of a paint spattered linen shirt. “Good lord, what—”

  Davenport took Caroline by the elbow and brushed past his friend, drawing the door shut behind them. “Sorry to intrude on you, Jeremy. I know how much you dislike being interrupted in your work.”

  Caroline found herself facing a large artist’s canvas, resting precariously on a rickety easel. It depicted a landscape, with the sea in the background, rendered in a style of great originality and imagination. The light and colors were ethereal but dazzling, wrought with a passion and technical skill that took her breath away. “Oh,” she said impulsively. “What a marvelous work!”

  The earl gave an involuntary smile. “I see you have gained a new admirer. Trust me, she is not easily moved to compliments.”

  His friend regarded Davenport’s disheveled state, then the figure behind him, his eyes betraying confusion at earl’s reference to gender, as well as Caroline’s decidedly unmasculine voice and legs. “You aren’t by any chance...foxed, are you, Julian?

  The earl snorted in disgust. “You know me better than that—why do you ask such a stupid question?”

  The young man’s brows arched as he looked again at the figure behind Davenport. “She?” he repeated slowly.

  “Oh, that. Perhaps we should sit down, Jeremy,” advised Davenport. “I suppose explanations are in order.”

  The young man motioned towards a couple of simple pine chairs arranged around a small table towards the back of the cramped room. It was then that Caroline realized he had only one hand. His other arm ended in a stump shortly below the elbow and the shirt sleeve was rolled up and pinned closed to keep from flapping in the slight breeze that blew through the window. With a look that conveyed his acute embarrassment, he make a bit of room among several stacks of leather-bound books and took a seat on the edge of a narrow wooden bench.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, staring at the floor with an expression Caroline found endearing. “I rarely...entertain.”

  That elicited a laugh from the earl. “To say the least.” He glanced around at the cluttered space, crammed with rolls of linen, bottles of linseed oil, pigments and jars bristling with a variety of brushes in all shapes and sizes. In one corner, a group of finished paintings were carefully slotted into a wooden rack. “You have been busy, I see.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Thanks to your help, Julian, I...”

  The earl cut him off. “I’m afraid I have a favor to ask of you.”

  The young man’s eyes lit up. “Anything.”

  Davenport repressed a smile. “Perhaps you should wait until you hear what it is.”

  For the first time, the other man smiled. It made his boyish face look even younger, though Caroline hadn’t missed the fine lines etched around his eyes and mouth that denoted laughter was not dominant form of expression for Mr. Leighton.

  “It doesn’t matter, Julian. Surely you know that.”

  “First of all, can you take care of Nero for a short time?”

  The other man nodded, slightly mystified.

  “We shall also need to find some clothes for Miss—the young lady here. And I shall have to ask to borrow a small sum”—he glanced pointedly at Caroline—”which shall be repaid shortly.”

  As Jeremy looked only more puzzled, the earl sighed and proceeded to give his friend a brief summary of what had occurred over the last few days.

  At the end of the explanation, the young man gave a low whistle and slanted an appraising look at Caroline, mixed with more than a touch of curiosity. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then hesitated, and turned back to Davenport instead. “I fear I’m not terribly plump in the pocket at the moment, but you are welcome to what I have. As for clothing, what sort of, er, garments do you need?” Again, his eyes strayed to Caroline and her all too visible legs.

  Davenport gave a short laugh. “A good question.” He cocked his brow inquiringly at her.

  “Even though
it will no longer fool whoever is...pursuing me, it may be easier for us if I remain dressed as a man,” she replied. “We will be able to move about with greater freedom.”

  “I have a...friend who has a younger brother. I believe he is about the, er, right size.” Jeremy blushed slightly at the intimation that he had taken note of Caroline’s measurements.

  “Perhaps you might visit Miss Fathing now and see if we might avail ourselves of some spare things.”

  The young man’s color deepened.

  Davenport’s eyes twinkled in gentle amusement at his friend’s discomfiture. “Come, put on your jacket. I’ll go out with you.” He turned to Caroline. “Will you be all right alone for a short while? I’ll pick up a few things for supper and see about any coaches passing tonight in the direction of Salisbury.”

  She nodded.

  He rose and made for the door. After a few steps he paused, drew out the pistol from the folds of his coat and placed it on the edge of a small table crowded with bladders of paint. “Do you know how to use it?”

  Caroline’s chin rose slightly. “I shoot nearly as well as I ride.”

  His mouth twitched at the corners. “Then pity the poor fellow who comes unbidden through the door. I see we must have a care, Jeremy, on returning home.”

  “If you are tired, miss, there is a...that is, in the other room...I’m afraid it is not fit for a female but—”

  “How very kind of you, Mr. Leighton,” she interrupted. “I assure you, it will be very welcome indeed.” The warmth of her smile caused the young man’s shoulders to relax. He even managed a semblance of a smile in return. With that, the two of them left, closing the door firmly behind them.

  She lay down on the narrow bed for a short time, but even though she ached for rest, she was too agitated to sleep. After tossing and turning she gave up and, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders, wandered back out into the young man’s workplace. The clutter was deceiving. On closer inspection it was clear that every color, every brush had its place, and that most things were organized on the right side of a table or easel, in easy reach of that hand. Her gaze went again to the large painting that dominated the small space, and once more she was startled by the sheer power of its emotion. The young man may be shy of speech but he had another form of expression perhaps more eloquent than any words could be. She studied it with a knowledgeable eye, being well acquainted with the works of many of the leading artists of the day. There was no doubt this young man was a prodigious talent.