The Hired Hero

by Andrea Pickens

“What the devil...” sputtered a voice, disgust evident through the slur of drink.

  “Call out the watch,” exclaimed the other man. “The filthy scoundrels should be clapped in irons and thrown in the gaol.” His head wagged back and forth. “Unnatural it is. Unnatural.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Caroline saw them retreat a few paces, then turn and hurry off in the opposite direction. She let her head fell away from the earl’s. A little gulp of air cleared her thoughts enough for her to speak.

  “I...I think they are gone.”

  “Mmmmm.” His lips traced a path along the curve of her jaw. “Are they?”

  It was another moment before he slowly released her. Shaken, she drew back a step or two and began to fiddle with rearranging her cap, which had fallen sadly askew. Though her clothes were still uncomfortably damp and the chill in the night air had deepened, she felt hot all over. The darkness, she hoped, would cover the fact that her face must be several shades redder than normal. That the earl appeared totally unaffected by what had just transpired, did not help her composure in the least. But at last she gathered her wits enough to speak coherently.

  “Ah...very clever of you, my lord—but how did you guess such an...action would drive them away?”

  He shrugged. “It was not a guess. Any proper gentleman would have been put to flight by that little display of depravity.”

  “Depravity?” she repeated faintly.

  “I am referring to the spectacle of two men engaged in an intimate act.”

  “But—oh, I see.” She looked confused. “Surely two men wouldn’t ever...”

  Davenport took her firmly by the arm. “Perhaps your dear cousin will explain it to you at some later date—I most certainly will not.” He started marching her away from the harbor.

  “But...”

  “Kindly refrain from any further questions. Your garments may fool most eyes at night, but your voice will not fadge, especially among this sort of crowd,” he growled.

  It was only through a concerted effort that she forced herself to swallow a retort and did as she was bade, or so she told herself. In truth, she was having a hard enough time just concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other to think of something scathing.

  * * * *

  The Duke grasped the gunwales of the lurching ship to keep from being tossed across the rain-swept deck. Next to him, the young viscount turned up the collar of his borrowed oilskin and shouted to be heard over the groaning of the rigging and the snap of wet canvas.

  “The captain thinks the weather should break in another hour or two. Then he should be able to set us back on course.”

  His uncle merely drummed his palms against the varnished rail and stared out into the roiling blackness. The wind had increased to near gale force, and all around them, men were scurrying up the ratlines to reduce sail.

  “Come below, Uncle Thomas,” urged Lucien. “It does no good to stay up here. You must try to get some rest.”

  Another wave crashed into the hull, sending a shudder through the oak timbers and rattling the brass six-pounders in their casings. The Duke shook the water from his sodden coat and reluctantly followed his nephew down the narrow hatchway and into the officer’s wardroom. The two of them hunched forward to keep from knocking their heads in the cramped space as a young midshipman materialized to take their wet outer garments away. The first lieutenant stumbled in right on their heels.

  “Your pardon, Your Grace,” he said. “The captain sends word that he will remain on deck until midnight watch, but he begs you to make use of his cabin for the remainder of the voyage.”

  “And how long will that be?”

  The man began to scratch at his chin, then remembered in whose presence he was. The speedy sloop and its crew was more used to carrying dispatches than important passengers. He straightened as best he could before replying.

  “The barometer is dropping, Your Grace, so the wind should die down soon. Now, with the weather coming from the north, and the taffrail showing a speed of...”

  The Duke fixed him with an impatient glare.”

  “Ah, I should think we will land around daybreak.”

  “Thank you,” replied the Duke, in a tone that indicated nothing less than dismissal.

  The man slunk off.

  Turning to Lucien, his uncle pulled a face and started to make his way aft. “I suppose you are right. Since the Fates seem to be conspiring against us, let us see if we can at least manage to snatch some sleep in this cursed weather.” Another lurch caused him to grab onto the edge of the table to keep his balance. “Damned ship is worse than a skittish hunter. God grant us speed to touch down on English soil as soon as possible.”

  He reached the door of the cabin and yanked it open. Lucien followed him into the a space barely bigger than a stall at Roxbury Manor, thankful once again that he had felt no urge to make the navy his career. He hauled himself into a hammock that had been hastily strung up in a corner of the cabin while the duke wedged himself into the captain’s berth. Both of them wore a pained expression, which only worsened each time the rough sea sent the ship on its ear.

  After a while, the duke gave up even a semblance of trying to sleep. He struggled back up to a sitting position and stared glumly at the small oil lamp rolling wildly on its gimbals.

  “If only Caroline would learn to temper her penchant for taking risk,” he murmured out loud, though he was speaking more to himself than to his nephew. “Heaven knows she has more courage and wits than most, but she seems driven at times to foolhardiness.”

  He shook his head. “Would that I knew why.”

  Lucien heard every word, but he hesitated in replying. There were times, it seemed, when his uncle still considered him a child, with only a child’s grasp of reality. How would the duke react to hearing a truth that may strike him as rather hard? Another wave crashed into the side. Well, perhaps now was as good a time as any to test the waters, thought the viscount with a grim smile.

  “I believe I could tell you.”

  The duke sat up straighter. “You can?”

  Lucien took a deep breath, then plunged on. “I think Caro is under the impression that she is, well, a...disappointment to you.”

  The duke’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Why, of all the absurd things! Surely she cannot think...”

  “She isn’t a male,” said Lucien simply.

  “For God’s sake, what difference does that make?” he cried. “She is my child! I love her beyond anything.”

  “Have you told her that?”

  “I, well, that is...she must know.” A note of uncertainty had crept into his normally self assured tone.

  “Uncle Thomas,” said Lucien quietly. “I think she needs to hear it. You can be demanding, sir—sometimes it is hard to know whether one has lived up to your high standards. And for her, the task is even more daunting. As a female with intelligence, she sometimes find her role in society very...confusing “

  He looked shaken. “I...I hadn’t realized I was so unfair.”

  “No, not unfair. I didn’t mean that at all. You have made us better for it, but in Caro’s case, she is harder on herself than you will ever be. For you see, only she can learn to forgive herself for not being the heir.”

  The timbers of the ship creaked and groaned and the beam of lamp rocked wildly, one moment illuminating a part of the duke’s face, then next moment leaving it in complete darkness. Lucien could see only that his uncle’s fingers were steepled under his chin, but he couldn’t make out his expression. When finally the duke spoke again it was barely above a whisper.

  “You have been infinitely more perceptive than I, Lucien. How could I be so blind?

  I...thank you for your advice.”

  “You are welcome, sir.”

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  Caroline pulled her jacket tighter to her chest as she stood in the chill shadows and waited for the earl to return. It seemed like an age since he had enter
ed the small tavern set on a quiet side street. Probably having a nice joint of mutton, she thought with a scowl as her stomach growled a reminder that her last meal had been some hours ago. She wiggled her toes in the damp boots and vowed that if he didn’t appear by the count of fifty, she was going in after him. After all, she had a full purse. A shilling was a shilling. Surely no barman would care overly what the pitch of a customer’s voice was.

  The thought of food—hot food—was so appealing she was almost disappointed when Davenport emerged before she had reached thirty five and sauntered over to where she was hidden.

  “The coaching inn is nor far at all—just at the top of the hill and turn right. We are to look for the sign of The Flying Dolphin,” he reported, keeping his voice low, head drawn close to hers. “Though it appears there is nothing that leaves for London until early morning.”

  “You’ve been drinking!” she accused.

  “Well, one has to pay for information, one way or another,” he reasoned. “it would have looked odd had I not lingered for a tankard.”

  “No doubt you had a decent meal too,” she grumbled. “You were in there long enough.”

  “Feeling peckish?”

  She was about to let loose with an angry rejoinder when he slid something out of his pocket and into her hand. An eel pastry, still hot to the touch.

  “Mmmm.”

  The rich crust crumbled at her first bite, and a bit of the juice spilled down her chin. Davenport smiled as his finger came up to wipe it away.

  “I would have brought two had I known you had the appetite of a boy, as well as the clothing. I thought ladies merely picked at their food.”

  Caroline popped the last morsel into her mouth. “I suppose that’s true,” she said, her voice now a good deal more cheerful. “But I’m far from a proper lady, as you’ve reminded me on more than one occasion. It comes in useful at tim—” Her words broke off at the sight of four figures suddenly looming out of the darkness behind the earl.

  Davenport started to spin around just as two of them grabbed hold of his arms. A third forestalled any struggle by producing a long barreled pistol from the fold of his coat and aiming dead at the earl’s heart.

  “Well, well, Davenport,” sneered a voice from behind the figure with the weapon.” I see your tastes still include young boys.” The speaker was a thick, heavyset man of average height, who punctuated his words with the slow slap of a stout walking stick against his meaty palm. As he stalked up to the earl, his face, once passably handsome, was shown in the pale moonlight to have sagged into a state of pasty corpulence. But even the rolls of flesh could not hide the glint of pure malice in the beady eyes.

  “How fortuitous that Barkley recognized you in the tavern.” As he spoke, he surveyed the earl’s tattered garments with a curl of his lips. “Slumming tonight? Or have you come down in the world? This ain’t your usual haunt.”

  “Be off, boy,” said Davenport quietly. “This is no concern of yours.”

  “Yes, be off. You’ll have to find some other gentleman with perverse tastes to pay for using you in an unnatural way.” The butt of his stick came down hard on the earl’s chest. “You shouldn’t have reneged on your vowels, Charles. Especially with me. But now you shall pay. And with interest.” He motioned towards one of the other darkened side streets. “Let’s take his bleeding lordship somewhere where we won’t be disturbed.”

  Davenport allowed himself a slight smile. “I am afraid you are venting your spleen on the wrong audience. I may be Davenport, but not the one you want—Charles has been dead these four months.”

  The man’s smug expression dissolved into one of rage. “What do you take me for—a idiot, and blind in the bargain!” he cried. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you without a bottle and a doxie in your hands and your breeches down around your knees? Let me tell you, I would recognize that phiz in hell. Dead, you say! You are going to wish you were dead when I finish with you, you lying, cheating whoreson. I intend to break every bone in your body. Now take him way!”

  The two men holding the earl shoved him forward and the other two followed, with barely a cursory look around to see if anyone had observed them. It hardly mattered. Disagreements with fists, knives or worse were not uncommon in a rough port. Nobody with any sense was going to interfere.

  Caroline had fallen back even further into the shadows at the earl’s veiled warning. After that, no one took the slightest notice of her. She bit her lip in dismay as she watched them take the earl away. There was precious little she could do against four large—and armed—men. There was nothing for it but to obey Davenport’s command. Her purse was full and her means to London left in only a few hours away. Nothing stood in her way. It wasn’t her fault he had been unfortunate enough to stumble into such a coil. No doubt he would survive.

  It was no concern of hers. Hadn’t he said as much?

  Her hands clenched once or twice at her sides, then she hurried off across the cobblestones, swiftly yet silently. But instead of turning up the hill towards The Flying Dolphin, she slid into the inky darkness that had enveloped the earl.

  A muffled thud was followed by a sharp exhale of air. As Caroline’s eyes adjusted to the dim shadows, she saw the punch had dropped Davenport to his knees. His arms were still held by two of his captors while the ringleader rubbed his knuckles and circled around to deliver a vicious kick to the kidneys. The force of it sent the earl face down onto the stones.

  “Pick him up,” ordered the man who had dealt the blow. He gave a harsh laugh. “That is just the beginning.”

  The earl was wrenched to his feet, then the walking stick slashed hard into his ribs, doubling him over.

  The man with the pistol took a step closer to the others. “Come on, Johnny, share the sport. He’s taken enough blunt off of me that I shall enjoy darkening those pretty deadlights.”

  “Very well.” Stick tapping his boot, the leader stepped aside.

  The slur of their words made it evident that they were all well in their cups. The one with the gun carelessly laid it on the ground and flexed his fingers as if to ensure they were ready to inflict as much damage as possible.

  “Let’s start with the face now,” he drawled. “Perhaps the lightskirts won’t be quite so pleased to see him once we’ve rearranged his looks.” He sauntered over and grabbed Davenport’s chin, lifting it to make a pretty target.

  His fist came back.

  “That’s quite enough.”

  Four heads jerked around.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” muttered Davenport.

  Caroline stepped forward, pistol held at arm’s length. “Let him go.”

  “Why, it’s the damn boy!” exclaimed one of the ones holding the earl.

  The man with the stick took a step towards her. “Give me the gun, you sodding urchin, before I knock your teeth out as well.”

  A distinct click echoed off the surrounding brick walls as Caroline cocked the weapon.

  “I am accorded to be a very good shot.,” she said evenly.

  “There are four of us. And only one bullet, you fool,” he snarled, but he didn’t come any closer.

  “Quite. So which one of you wishes to be the martyr?” She shifted her aim to the one holding Davenport’s left arm. “You?”

  He dropped his hold and retreated backwards.

  “How about you?”

  The man gripping the earl’s right arm slunk away to join his friend.

  Davenport staggered slightly but managed to stay on his feet.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “What a damn fool question—I suppose I shall live, but one never knows when one is around you,” he snapped. “What the devil are you doing here anyway. I told you to be off.”

  “Oh, stubble it, my lord. You should be damn grateful I am here,” she retorted. “In fact, you might try to sound a little grateful, rather than growling at me as usual. You have to admit, it’s hardly fair to blame this little incident on me.”


  The four men had listened to the brief exchange with increasing disbelief.

  “Why, it’s... it’s a chit!” sputtered the man with the stick.

  “And no less able to send you to your Maker,” she replied, with a very credible attempt at a snarl.

  The man fell back, his ponderous jaw dropping onto his chest.

  “Now, are you going to stand there all night, Julian, or can we be on our way?”

  Davenport limped past her, muttering darkly under his breath.

  She found she was rather relishing her role. “Any of you bastards try to follow us, you’ll get a bellyful of lead for your troubles.”

  Davenport stopped in his tracks. “You are actually enjoying this, aren’t you?” he said through gritted teeth.

  Caroline grinned. “Actually it’s rather novel to be able to scrape you out of the mud for a change.”

  With a last flourish of the pistol, she backed down the street until the men were lost in the darkness. Then she turned and slipped an arm around Davenport’s waist.

  * * * *

  Caroline lit the small lantern and surveyed what fell within the faint circle of light with a slight frown.

  “At least the straw is plentiful and looks moderately fresh.” She turned back to where the earl stood slumped against the rough hewn door. “I think you had best lie down right away, sir, and let me see to your injuries. One of the stalls is empty and should provide a bit more shelter.”

  As she spoke, she gathered a few extra armfuls of hay and piled them into a semblance of a bed. Davenport made his way slowly across the narrow stable and sunk down upon it, stifling a grunt of pain. His breathing had begun to sound less labored but the tight line of his mouth indicated he was still in a great deal of discomfort. Caroline spied a bucket under a bench piled high with an assortment of farrier’s tools. She filled it with water from a wooden barrel standing by the door, then carried it back and knelt beside the earl.

  There was the sound of fabric ripping.

  “Ah, well, another shirt ruined,” she remarked with a quirk of her lips as she dipped a strip of linen in the cold water and started to gently dab at Davenport’s face.