The Hired Hero

by Andrea Pickens

  Perhaps he didn’t want to be beholden in any way to someone he held in...contempt. The possibility caused an unpleasant lurch in her stomach, though she chided herself that what the earl thought of her should matter not a whit. It did, however. Somehow, the idea that he found her wanting in character or conduct was a blow more painful than any of the physical punishment she had received. Not that she could blame him on either account—she was honest enough to admit that.

  Men simply didn’t like a hopeless hoyden. Actually, she had figured that out long ago. And she was honest enough to admit she wasn’t going to change, not for anyone. So that was that.

  The only thing that remained a mystery to her was why he was so tender when she was in need and so harsh all the rest of the time. Hot and cold, like being warmed by the sun’s rays one moment, only to be drenched by a chilling rain the next. Perhaps it had something to do with being an English gentleman.

  Paper crackled as her fingers tightened around a handful of the banknotes. It was no use stewing over things she could not change. Putting aside all thoughts of the Earl of Davenport, Caroline vowed to turn her attention to a matter she could act on.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  “They are truly marvelous,” said Caroline softly. “It will be a stunning success, of that I have no doubt.”

  The gentleman on whose arm her hand rested made a coughing sound. When he turned his head, his eyes were clouded with doubt. “Do you really think so?” He let out his breath with something like a sigh. “I hardly know what to expect. If you must know the truth, my knees are quaking so badly it is a wonder I can stand upright. What if everyone hates them?”

  She smiled and gave him a reassuring pat. “Most unlikely.” Then her expression became more serious, taking on a degree of pensiveness. “Are artists always so afraid of what the critics might say?”

  They came to a halt after viewing the last of the paintings and Jeremy Leighton mulled over the question at length. “It is difficult to explain,” he finally answered. “I mean, if you believe in yourself, that is all that really matters. But one can’t help feeling terribly—pardon the expression— naked, with one’s soul hanging up for all to see.”

  “That is a frightening thought,” she agreed. “I hadn’t ever thought of it quite like that. But still, I think you have very little to worry about. What you show of yourself is a strength, compassion and lyricism that would do anyone credit.”

  Jeremy colored nearly as brightly as one of the deftly rendered sunsets hung on the wall behind him. He dropped his head to mask his embarrassment at the compliment as well as his lingering apprehension as to the reception of his work.

  “I cannot thank you enough, Lady Caroline, for arranging all of this.” He gestured at the impressive exhibition space. “Without your influence and...”

  She cut off what promised to be a lengthy—and effusive— speech. ““My influence would have meant nothing had you not had the talent to impress the Academy. Not for all the peers of the realm would they hang a show they did not feel was worthy of such a display. You shall see for yourself at the opening later today, and at the ball we are giving in your honor tonight. No doubt you shall be the toast of the town.”

  His face became even more scarlet as he dug for something in his pocket.

  “I have a...token of my thanks,” he mumbled, pressing a small package, wrapped carefully in patterned paper, into her hands.

  “May I open it now?”

  He nodded.”

  Caroline torn away the gold and indigo covering to reveal an oval miniature framed in polished ebony.

  “It is a...very good likeness,” she faltered as she stared down at the familiar features. Her voice sounded strained, tentative, even to her own ears. There was a long silence as she searched for something appropriate to say. Then at last her eyes rose to meet his.

  “He looks very unhappy.”

  “He is.” Jeremy cleared his throat. “He invited me to stay with him for a while after he had returned from London so I am well aware of his current state of mind.”

  “Have things not been going well at Highwood?” she asked quickly. “I had thought that with the additional funds, his most pressing problems would at least be lessened.”

  “I do not think it is solely estate matters which are preying on his mind.”

  Caroline turned slightly, as if suddenly taking a great interest in the expansive landscape hanging to her left. There was another long silence. The conversation was heading into dangerous waters as far as she was concerned. But tempting as it was to steer clear of discussing anything to do with the earl, she decided such a course would be cowardly.

  “I am sorry if I have upset his lordship, with all the trouble he has endured on my account. Are his wounds...”

  “His injuries have nothing to do with it, either,” interrupted Jeremy.

  To her dismay, she, too, experience a rush of hot color wash over her cheeks. “I can’t, that is, I...” Why was she reduced to stammering like a miss scarcely out of the schoolroom, she wondered? Giving herself a mental shake, she composed her emotions enough to continue in a more coherent manner. “I can’t imagine that I should have any effect on the earl’s mood now—why, he was only too glad to rid himself of my presence, I assure you. In fact, he rushed off from town as soon as he was physically able. I can’t say that I blame him. After all, he was either cutting up something fierce at me or having to risk his neck to pull my irons out of the fire. I guess all I ever seemed to do was turn his world upside down.”

  There was a glimmer of a smile from Jeremy. “Indeed. That you certainly did.”

  At a loss for words, Caroline bit her lip and stole another look at the painting in her hands.

  The gesture was enough to encourage Jeremy to screw up his courage and speak more forthrightly than he normally would have dared.

  “You know, it seems to me that Julian is so used to taking care of other people’s welfare that he has little experience in seeing to his own. Mayhap what has him at sixes and sevens these days is the realization that he is not as immune to the need for someone to truly care for him as he has wished to think. And mayhap he doesn’t quite know how to deal with it.”

  Caroline made a strangled sound at the back of her throat.

  “Forgive me if I overstep myself.” His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “It’s just that I wish to see two people I care about...”

  She was saved from having to make a reply by the sudden appearance of her cousin.

  His boots rapped out a staccato measure of impatience as he crossed the polished marble floor. “Have you two lost all track of time?” he called. “I have been walking my grays outside for more than a quarter hour!” He made a show of consulting his pocket watch. “We shall barely have time to return home and dress for the opening.”

  “Perhaps I shall leave the two of you to attend—you can tell me all about it later,” said Jeremy faintly.

  “Hah!” Lucien took him firmly by the arm and began marching him towards the door. Caroline followed close behind, grateful for the chance to elude the sharp gaze of her cousin for a moment and to mask the utter confusion caused by Jeremy’s words.

  “Buck up your courage, man,” continued Lucien. “It can’t be as bad as you think.”

  Jeremy cast him a baleful look.

  “You will have your good friends to lend moral support.”

  “I wonder if Julian shall be able to attend...”

  “Count on it, he will be here,” assured the young viscount. “I sent my own carriage to fetch him, along with two of our largest footmen who had orders to see he arrived today, even if they had to truss him like a sow for market to accomplish the feat. He will be staying with us too, of course. Uncle wouldn’t hear of anything else.”

  Caroline’s stomach gave a little lurch. She hurriedly stuffed the miniature into her reticule as Lucien turned to hand her into the waiting town coach. Jeremy had every reason to feel weak in
the knees.

  What was her excuse?

  * * * *

  Davenport stared out at the increasing number of vehicles clogging the road. The carriage had finally been forced to slacken its breakneck pace on reaching the outskirts of London. Still, they would arrive at their destination in more than enough time. He shifted against the soft leather squabs, his scowl only deepening on taking in the sights and sounds that signaled the change from country to city. He was in a sour mood and the innumerable hours he had been forced to spend alone with his thoughts throughout the journey had merely served to exacerbate it.

  It had been damned unfair of Lucien to force him into this, he fumed as he crossed one booted leg over the other, though a slight prick of conscience made him admit that he wouldn’t, in any case, have missed Jeremy’s opening for the world. The sight of the worn and cracked leather caused his mouth to set in a tight line. As if he needed any reminder of his financial straits. At least he had a halfway decent set of evening clothes so that he wouldn’t be totally humiliated at the reception—or the duke’s ball.

  It was the contemplation of the coming evening, not the opening of Jeremy’s exhibition, that had the earl in such a black humor. Given his druthers, it was an event he would have avoided like the plague, but the viscount had given him little choice in the matter. Short of punching the deadlights out of the two burly footmen—a task he was by no means sure he could accomplish in his present condition—he was now in thrall to the duke’s hospitality. And that meant dutifully taking part in the gala festivities, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter.

  His fingers drummed on the frayed material of his breeches.

  Very well. He may be forced to make an appearance.

  But nobody could force him to like it.

  And nobody could force him to pay the least attention to a certain other person sure to be in attendance. A vision of a willowy form, gowned in the height of fashion, hair dressed becomingly in a soft, feminine style danced unbidden into his head. With an audible growl he tried to banish it from his thoughts. However, he had learned over the course of more than a few long, empty nights that mere words had little effect—it took at least a bottle or two of brandy to chase away the memory of the exact tilt of her head, the curve of her breasts, the radiance of her smile.

  An oath escaped his lips. Then suddenly they curved upward into an ironic smile. Why, the chit had him literally talking to himself. Next thing they would be hauling him off to Bedlam, which would no doubt be an appropriate fate if things continued on as they had been going. At Highwood he had been able to use physical exhaustion stirred with a liberal dose of spirits to keep his mind occupied. But as the carriage rolled closer to its final destination, he decided he could no longer avoid facing his real feelings.

  He had fought hard against admitting it, but it now seemed futile to deny his heart was lost. And the fact of the matter was he was afraid. So terribly afraid that his mouth went dry at the very thought of how much she meant to him, and his limbs felt as weak as jellied eel. He had been rejected once by someone he cared for—and in favor of a one such as his brother. No matter that Helen had come to bitterly regret her choice. She had made it of free will at the time. He wasn’t sure he could endure such pain again. So it seemed better to make sure the choice would never have to be made.

  Oh yes, he had made quite sure of that.

  There was no longer any reason to go on deluding himself, pretending throughout the long, lonely evenings with only the bottle for company that he preferred it that way. That she was not at all the type of lady he desired—too outspoken, too hoydenish, too opinionated, too headstrong. At least he could now be honest with himself about that. He missed her more than he could ever have imagined. Life seemed sadly flat without the dimension she brought to his existence. But there was little use in pining over what could never be. All he could hope for was that his behavior of late had ensured that Lady Caroline Alexandra Georgina Talcott, heiress and daughter of one of the most powerful men in the country, would not want to even acknowledge the presence of the ill-tempered, penniless earl whose shocking reputation only highlighted how unsuitable a connection between them was.

  Even now, he had to wince at the memory of his cold words, her wounded expression. Surely she would stay well away from him. And surely he could keep up the charade of not caring for one more evening.

  But it was going to be a very long evening.

  * * * *

  The grand room was awash in the flickering light of countless candles. The soft fragrance of tuber roses wafted through the trill of laughter, the buzz of conversation and the lilting notes of a violin as the musicians began the first notes of the opening dance. It was quite a crush, as one turbaned matron had remarked to another, once settled with their glasses of rataffia punch. Nobody wanted to miss the opportunity to meet the gifted young artist whose praises were being trumpeted throughout town. It did not do his reputation any harm that a vague hint of intrigue concerning certain affairs of state had attached themselves to his name. Half the young ladies of the ton had abandoned their allegiance to a certain poet and proclaimed their fascination with the even more romantic young painter.

  Caroline had to repress a smile at the sight of yet another gentleman seeking to introduce his giddy sister to Jeremy Leighton. After the requisite small talk, her friend managed to extricate himself from the crowd and take a brief respite in leading her out for a waltz.

  “As you see, you had little cause for worry,” she said close by his ear as the melody began in earnest.

  Jeremy’s expression appeared glazed, but at least his feet managed the steps without a major mishap. “I can’t fathom...” he began.

  Caroline laughed out loud. “Don’t try. Why not just enjoy the moment? We all know how quickly things can change.”

  He thought he detected a note of wistfulness in her voice but refrained from remarking on it. Instead he looked around at the whirl of elegant ladies and gentlemen and shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. I hardly feel comfortable here. I wish I were back in my studio...”

  “You soon will be, though I imagine you will be able to work in a good deal more comfort than before. No doubt you will be having to turn away commissions from now on.”

  His eyes still roamed the room. “You know, my parents are here. They have become reconciled to the notion that their son is a painter and not an officer of the Royal Navy. I have you to thank for making this dream of mine come true.” His one good hand tightened on hers. “I wish I could help make a dream come true for you.”

  Her lips trembled imperceptibly. “Why Jeremy, how kind of you, but I have no need for dreams.”

  His brows drew together slightly as he wondered how truthful her words were.

  “I believe you are engaged for the next set with Miss Austen,” said Caroline as the music came to an end and they drifted from the dance floor. A petite blond dressed in an expensive gown of figure white silk embroidered with cornflowers was staring with a rapt, mooncalf expression at the young artist.

  Jeremy blanched. “Oh God,” he muttered under his breath and darted a pleading look at his companion.

  Caroline checked the urge to laugh out loud as she left him to his fate. Ducking a bevy of her own admirers, she pleaded the need to absent herself in order to confer with her father’s major domo to make sure everything was running as it ought. Yet as she neared the door to the card room, she paused for a moment, half hidden by an arrangement of potted palms. Her eyes scanned the vast ballroom, searching carefully among the shimmering silks, glittering jewels and impeccably tailored evening coats. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until it came out in a sigh of disappointment.

  He wasn’t there.

  She had caught a glimpse of him earlier at the opening of Jeremy’s exhibition, but their paths hadn’t crossed, not close enough for conversation. It was almost as if he was avoiding having to exchange even the simplest of greetings.

&
nbsp; To her chagrin, she felt the sting of tears. Jeremy may possess an artist’s rare gift of being able to quickly discern the true emotions of a person, but in the case of a certain individual, his observations were way off the mark. The earl may be unhappy, but it had little to do with her—or at least, not in the way Jeremy imagined. Clearly Lord Davenport had no wish to further their....

  Their what?

  Did she dare call it friendship? Whatever it was, it was something so special to her that she missed it with an ache infinitely worse than all the physical punishment she had endured.

  But this was neither the time or place to think such thoughts. Mustering all of her considerable will, she pasted a smile back on her face and turned towards the corridor. A short stroll to check on the quantity of champagne was an excellent idea. Perhaps she would even help herself to a glass afterwards, in hopes of adding some effervescent to her flat spirits.

  It was only from the corner of her eye that she caught his intense gaze. He, too, was alone, his dark coat and pantaloons allowing him to blend into the shadows cast by the swaying trees. He had been observing her, that much was evident. For just an instant, she beheld the look in his eyes, before his face once again took on a familiar scowl and he turned his head, without so much as a nod.

  Her heart caught in her throat. Was it possible?

  A hand reached out for hers. She scarcely heard Lord Appleby remind her that the pleasure of the next country set was his. The steps seemed to go on interminably and it seemed like an age before the final note was struck. Thankfully a waltz was next. A waltz promised to Lucien. As her cousin approached, she took his arm and proceeded away from the dance floor rather than towards it.

  “You must release me from this dance,” she said in a low voice. “I must tend to a pressing matter with one of our guests.”

  Lucien raised an eyebrow but refrained from raking her over the coals concerning her rather odd request. He merely shrugged and announced his intention of using the time to filch a bottle of champagne from the cellars so that he and Lord Knightly might fill their glasses a tad more often —and fuller— than the waiters had been instructed to do.