The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

  Throwing an arm around Whitmore with enough force to nearly drop the man to his knees, Drake proceeded to give him a slight shake. To those observing the scene, Drake’s mannerisms could be construed as male jocundity.

  A mottled shade of red restored color to Whitmore’s cheeks. “M-my l-lord, I-I’m surprised to find you here. Why Lady Smythe and all, you know?”

  Emmaline flinched. Apparently the young dandy had far more temerity than she’d credited him with.

  The moments ticked by with an exaggerated slowness. Drake still hadn’t spoken, which added a marked intensity to the exchange.

  Stupid as he was, Whitmore had the sense to know he’d said something unpardonable, something which had only served to raise the Marquess of Drake’s ire. He took a step away from Drake.

  Her betrothed pinned a glacial stare on Whitmore, his mouth set in a firm, unrelenting line. “Why don’t I join you? But first, make your apologies.” Her betrothed’s words were as silken as the edge of a blade.

  “M-my apologies, ladies.” Whitmore bowed so low he nearly toppled over his feet.

  “Tsk, tsk…I’m beginning to notice a rather unseemly trend, Whitmore,” Emmaline said.

  Drake inclined his head. “I believe the young man needs to inform his mother of how callously he’s been treating young ladies.”

  Whitmore sputtered and he gripped Drake’s arm. “Please, I implore you. Do not let my mother know,” he said, his gaze skittered off to land on the rotund, graying woman conversing with the host and hostess.

  “What do you think, my lady? Miss Winters? Do you think I should inform Lady Whitmore?” Drake asked.

  Whitmore’s eyes bulged. “Have a heart.”

  Sophie tapped her chin. “I don’t know. What do you think, Em?”

  Drake arched a golden brow in Emmaline’s direction. “Yes, what do you think, my lady?”

  What did she think? She actually had very little thought reserved for Lord Whitmore. She was still trying to grapple with the warring personalities Drake presented to her. One moment he was the aloof, indifferent bounder, the next he was a champion charging over on his white steed, defending her from miscreants.

  “My lady?” Drake pressed.

  Emmaline returned her attention to the matter at hand. She studied the little toad quivering before them. She almost felt bad for him. Until she recalled the old peddler woman and Whitmore’s poor battered horse. “No, I think Lady Whitmore would definitely want to know about her son’s proclivity for rudeness.”

  Drake turned to the cowering dandy. “How about a round in the ring, tomorrow, as well, Whitmore?”

  Words eluded Whitmore who continued to rapidly shake his head back and forth in a way that nearly made Emmaline ill.

  Her gaze locked with Drake’s and it appeared there was something more he wished to say, but the presence of Sophie and Whitmore prevented it. “My apologies, my lady,” he said. “I have a meeting with this pup’s mother, isn’t that right, Whitmore?”

  Emmaline watched him go with his pup in tow, knowing there were many layers to that apology.

  “Indifferent, Em.” Sophie snorted. “I think not.”

  TWELVE

  My Dearest Lord Drake,

  I begged Sebastian to allow me to accompany him to London Hospital. The visit was nothing short of remarkable.

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  Sebastian pulled his watch fob from the front pocket of his jacket and proceeded to check the time. “I am going to visit London Hospital. Are you—?”

  Emmaline set aside the book she’d been reading and clambered up from the window-seat that overlooked the gardens below. “I’m coming! Give me a moment.”

  Sebastian had been a board member at London Hospital since their father had died. Three years ago, when Sebastian had been planning his first visit to the hospital, a teary-eyed Emmaline had begged to go along with him.

  Her brother had insisted London Hospital was no place for a seventeen-year old, genteel, young lady but, Sebastian had eventually been worn down. Ultimately, the older brother of a young grieving sister had been wont to deny her anything.

  When Sebastian attended London Hospital’s monthly board meetings, Emmaline accompanied him and visited with the soldiers who’d fought Boney’s forces. In addition, she spent one day each week reading to the soldiers.

  “I have a meeting with the Board. I told you to be ready by—”

  “Just a moment!” Emmaline grabbed her stack of books, and handed her burden over to him. “Here.” She looped her arm through his and they made their way to the foyer.

  A servant assisted Emmaline into her burnt orange taffeta cloak. She smiled. “Did Cook have that basket readied?”

  She’d not even finished her question when a maid rushed forward with the basket outstretched. “Here it is, my lady.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured as Sebastian relieved the maid of her burden. Emmaline followed Sebastian to the carriage.

  After he placed the basket on the opposite seat, he sprawled into the red velvet squabs of the carriage bench.

  Emmaline nudged him in the side. “Slide over. You are crowding me.”

  “I’m insulted, Em. This carriage is enormous and…”

  She rapped his fingers. “Just move over.”

  “You’d never know I was a duke,” he muttered and moved over to the other bench.

  Emmaline’s lips twitched.

  Sebastian reached over and snagged the stack of books she’d brought with her. He shuffled through the pile and then set them aside. “Byron? Coleridge? Blake?” He arched a brow. “Are you certain this is what the men prefer to hear?” He dropped the books down on the opposite seat with a condescending thump.

  Emmaline bristled. “Who wouldn’t want to read Byron, Coleridge, or Blake?”

  Sebastian gave his head a shake as if to say, I’m more than certain I’m right and you’re wrong. He at least had sense enough not to say as much, aloud.

  Instead, he flipped open the lid of the basket. “What do we have?”

  Emmaline leaned over and slammed the top down on his fingers. “We have nothing.”

  “Ouch.” He popped the smarting digits into his mouth.

  “Really, Sebastian,” she chided, and slapped his other hand for good measure. “You can avail yourself to Cook’s pastries any time you want. These are for the soldiers.”

  “I wasn’t going to eat anything.”

  “Liar.” Emmaline ignored his response and turned her attention out the windowpane as the London scenery passed by.

  “So, Em, what’s the story with Drake?”

  Her eyes snapped back toward Sebastian and she felt a warm flush climb her neck and heat her cheeks. For the better part of the month, Sebastian had made it clear he did not approve of her efforts to secure Drake’s affections.

  “What do you mean?”

  Hazel-brown eyes narrowed. “You asked me if I trusted you. I responded yes. I am, however, the Duke of Mallen and your guardian. I need to ensure your protection.”

  “What rubbish.” She puffed out her chest and threw her chin back in her best impression of a duke. “I’m the very powerful Duke of Mallen and want to know just what my little sister is up to.”

  Sebastian folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t sound like that.”

  “No, you sound like that.”

  His brow wrinkled as if in annoyance. “Oh, and just what that are you referring to?”

  “You sound like my older brother who is trying to find out what I’m up to.”

  Sebastian sat back in the squabs of his seat. He drummed a finger on his leg. “Is there something wrong with me wanting to protect you?”

  A swell of emotion climbed up Emmaline’s throat and made it difficult for her to reply. For all the responsibilities he’d inherited, and all the obligations that went with being the Duke of Mallen, occasionally there were moments when Sebastian was not the all-powerful peer and simply was her broth
er.

  Emmaline leaned over and took his hand in hers. She gave it a light squeeze. “Of course not. But that is all you needed to say, brother.”

  He cleared his throat, noticeably uncomfortable with her show of emotion. “So?” he urged.

  He was like a dog with a bone with this one.

  She sighed, letting his hand go. “I want a decision from Drake. I want a courtship and a true marriage. He is no longer allowed to run from me.”

  Sebastian’s jaw set. “No.”

  Emmaline’s lips twitched. “I wasn’t asking you.”

  He scowled. “I still feel as though I should tell you how I’m feeling.”

  “Fair enough,” she said with mock solemnity.

  He opened his mouth to add something when the carriage drew to a halt.

  “We’re here!” she called cheerily. Before the groom had even reached the side of the carriage, she leaned across Sebastian and thrust the door open, effectively squashing the remainder of the discussion.

  Emmaline accepted the hand from the groom. “Thank you, Charles.”

  She accepted Sebastian’s arm and allowed him to escort her up the column of stone steps into London Hospital. The hospital faced White-Chapel Road and was divided by a carriageway. The main entrance led into a receiving room where they were always greeted, before heading to the ward.

  Emmaline walked down the stark white halls, and greeted the fifty-five soldiers who now made London Hospital their home.

  “My lady, so good to see you,” one soldier called. “Your Grace,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  Emmaline waved to the soldier. She stopped at his bedside. “Lieutenant Woods, how have you been this fine week?”

  The burly red-haired soldier grinned a nearly toothless smile. “Better, now, my lady. Better now!”

  Emmaline waggled a brow. “I’m certain you are simply referring to my arrival with Cook’s latest creation. Though I must tell you,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “it was all I could do to defend the basket from His Grace. I had to slap his fingers in the carriage ride over.”

  Woods guffawed with laughter. It blended with the echoing chuckles from the men in nearby hospital beds.

  Looking around at her growing audience, she nodded for good measure. “No, truthfully, I gave them a little slap.” She teasingly demonstrated said slap on Sebastian’s fingers, and earned another round of laughter.

  Sebastian pointed his eyes towards the ceiling and shook his head. “I will return after my meeting,” he muttered. His response only fueled the soldiers’ amusement. He turned to the nurse who’d followed them into the ward and handed, Emmaline’s books over to her.

  Emmaline gave him a quick buss on the check and then he left. She returned her attention to the basket. “Ahh, let us see…what have we here?” She extracted a raspberry scone and handed the confection to Woods.

  He accepted it as though he’d been offered the King’s crown. “My lady,” he said in solemn thanks and then took a wide bite of the treat.

  Emmaline sat beside him for a short while, reading some of Byron’s work before she moved on down the rows of beds. She stopped to inquire after each of the soldiers, occasionally reading to those who asked her for a poem.

  Then she reached the last bed in the ward.

  No buoyant grin met her at this particular bedside. No warmth. Nor amusement. As long as Emmaline had been visiting London Hospital, this bed had been devoid of any trace of cheer.

  Emmaline turned to the nurse who’d accompanied her. “Nurse Whiting, I will just be reading here. You can see to the other soldiers.”

  “You are always so kind, my lady.” Nurse Whiting dropped a curtsy and turned her attention to a soldier at the far end of the room, calling out for assistance.

  With the woman gone, Emmaline shifted her focus to the soldier. “Lieutenant Jones,” she greeted with the same smile she had for each man.

  Jones, whose bed was situated at one of the back windows, had his eyes closed and his head directed toward the window. It was much the same every time she visited. Sometimes his closed eyes would be pointed to the end of the room and sometimes out the window.

  They very rarely fell on her. They were never open.

  Lieutenant Jones had lost an arm in the war. He had been gaunt three years ago. A skeleton of a human being. Since then, he’d gained weight, but seemed trapped within the hell of his experience fighting Boney’s forces.

  Emmaline had committed to never abandoning Jones.

  She waved one of her copies beneath his nose, so close it wafted his skin with the movement of air.

  “Coleridge,” she said.

  She waved another.

  “Byron?”

  And a final copy. “Or Blake?”

  She waited.

  As usual, there was no answer. “You are always so kind to let me decide. I choose…” She thumbed through the volumes, “…Coleridge today.” She scanned several pages. “Would you know, Lieutenant Jones, my brother had the audacity to tell me you are assuredly disappointed in my reading selection. He called poetry frivolous. Can you imagine that?” There was no outward reaction from Jones. “I told him, with utmost confidence, I was sure you approved of my selection. But,” she leaned close and whispered, “upon careful consideration I was forced to wonder if you ignore me because of the poetry.”

  For the first time in three years, Lieutenant Jones opened his eyes. They were a startling shade of grey; like a summer sky right before a turbulent lightning storm.

  Emmaline gasped, and dropped the volume at his bedside.

  Lieutenant Jones continued to stare.

  Emmaline smiled. Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back. The last thing this man needed to see was her weak display of emotion. “Should I take that as a yes or no, Lieutenant? You just let me know. I assure you I shan’t be offended.” Her hand shook as she turned the page and began to read.

  A long while later, she glanced up when the soldiers at the front of the ward called out greetings to the Duke of Mallen. She snapped the book of poems closed.

  “I must tell you one of my favorite things about you, Lieutenant, is that you are the only gentleman here I am certain isn’t fond of me simply for the treats I bring from Cook.”

  She gasped when his hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. For all his years of confinement and his lack of physical exertion, his hold felt like a weighted chain on her person. Emmaline stared down at the strong hand that gripped hers. She supposed she should feel some sense of alarm—and yet, she didn’t. Deep inside, Emmaline knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

  “Why do you persist?” His voice came out rusty from ill use. “Why do you not go away? Why can you not let me be?”

  Emmaline met his steely grey-eyed gaze square on. “I don’t think you want me to go away, Lieutenant. I think, whether you’ll admit it or not, you like me. And for whatever reason, I have grown to like you. Though, I must say you have proven far more amicable when you don’t say anything at all.”

  His eyes narrowed, passed over her face, as if he sought the answer to some question she wasn’t privy. He abruptly released her wrist. Then, for the first time in three years—smiled.

  THIRTEEEN

  My Dearest Drake,

  After scaling down one of the ancient trees outside my bedroom window, I found my mother and father waiting for me at the bottom. They forbade me from climbing that tree ever again. I solemnly assured them I would respect their orders. So I have taken to climbing the trees far away from view of the house!

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  For the better part of a fortnight, Lady Emmaline had been there. By there Drake meant, in attendance at every event he attended. With her ability to ferret out his plans, she’d have made a hell of a spy for Wellington.

  It begged the question why, at that precise moment, as Emmaline, her friend Miss Winters, and a maid snuck into a bookshop on the corner, did he not want to remai
n hidden in the confines of his black lacquer carriage? He didn’t pause to pay the silent question rolling around his mind much thought. Drake rapped on the roof of the carriage which came to an immediate halt.

  Drake jumped down, and crossed the bustling street to the Old Corner Bookshop. He entered through the single door that set a tinny bell a-jingle and did a quick survey of the establishment.

  The adage “Old” seemed rather generous. With an overwhelming scent of stale must, the inside of the establishment was ancient…and that too, might have been magnanimous. The rows and rows of books held a pungent odor of aged leather. Drake ruffled his nose and quelled the urge to sneeze. Clearly, the Old Corner Bookshop was not the most thriving of establishments.

  “My lady, Miss Winters, so good to see you both.” The boisterous greeting caught Drake’s ear and propelled him deeper into the shop.

  The ladies’ murmured response was lost in the rows of shelving.

  “Why yes, yes I do in fact have the very novel.” The shopkeeper’s voice had dropped to a clear attempt at conspiratorial whisper, a feat Drake was sure the other man hadn’t exhibited in at least two decades.

  Drake’s ears perked up. His betrothed enjoyed literature. What were Emmaline’s reading preferences? Poetry. She struck him as a romantic. The thought summoned a memory from long ago. He was kneeling down beside a five-year-old Emmaline. She’d fallen and he’d helped her to her feet. “Are you a prince?”

  He started. He’d all but forgotten that moment in time. It wasn’t particularly something a boy of thirteen would remark upon, let alone remember. But in his mind he could clearly see the five-year old girl’s brown eyes pooled with tears of pain. He remembered the way they’d widened in wonder at the sight of him.

  The muffled sound of Emmaline’s whisper brought Drake’s attention back to her circumspect efforts. With a sure-step, he moved deeper into the shop, closer to the voices in discussion, and peered around the edge of the shelf.

  Emmaline’s smile stretched wide, as she displayed a row of pearl-white teeth and one slightly angled, yet highly endearing front left tooth. She accepted the work proffered by the rotund little man as gingerly as if the Archbishop of Canterbury had offered her the Holy Grail. Turning it in her hands, she studied the cover, and said something to Miss Winters, who laughed, and accepted a second copy from the shopkeeper.