The Hired Hero Excerpt

Excerpt:

“Is everything alright, Lady Caroline?”

The young lady in question had fairly torn open the letter right in the entrance hall of the imposing manor house in her haste to know its contents. Errant ringlets of honey-colored curls, still damp from the exertion of a hard morning gallop over the fields, obscured part of her face but couldn’t hide the furrow that slowly creased her brow as she skimmed the pages.

A look of grave concern came over the butler’s craggy face as the furrow deepened. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “I trust that His Grace and the young viscount are . . . well?” He forbore to say the word “alive” but the slight hesitation in the question made the meaning clear enough.

She raised her eyes from the travelworn paper. Their rich emerald color, usually vibrant with laughter and high spirits, were clouded, and it seemed to take her a moment to realize she had been spoken to.

“Yes—yes, Papa and Lucien are fine, thank the Lord. It’s just that . . . .” Her voice trailed off. She abruptly folded the letter and tucked it into the bodice of her navy merino riding habit. “Darwin, will you please find Mrs. Graves,” she continued. “Then meet me in the library as soon as possible.”

She hurried down the finely appointed hallway and pushed open a massive oak door. The room smelled of beeswax, morrocan leather and the faint, masculine scent of bay rum. Her throat caught at the familiar reminder of her father—this was his favorite spot. She made her way to his ornately carved desk and sat down in front of a banked fire. Despite the warmth emanating from the logs, she couldn’t shake the chill she felt creeping over her. Taking out the letter, she smoothed the creased sheets of paper and re-read them once again. Oh, the words were clear enough. More than clear. Her father was very emphatic about what he wanted her to do.

But why?

She shook her head in consternation. It made no sense.He wanted her to leave Roxbury Manor immediately upon reading his words. She was to travel in an unmarked carriage, without her lady’s maid and regular luggage, dressed as plainly as possible, with only the coachman and one of the scullery maids to act as a companion. They were to make all haste to London, stopping only to change horses and for the coachman to grab enough sleep to be able to drive with mishap, yet he wanted them to avoid the main roads. Once in Town, she was to go directly to her Uncle Henry and stay there without revealing her presence to anyone until he and her cousin returned from the Continent.

Caroline raised her eyes from the paper and thought for a moment. She was well aware of what her father was involved in. There were too many visits to Whitehall, too many shadowy visitors at odd hours for her not to be aware of his part in the government’s efforts to defeat the Little Corsican, now that the rogue had slipped away from Elba and was on the march again. Though he usually credited her intelligence enough to discuss things with her as freely as he did with her cousin Lucien, on this particular mission he had been unusually reticent. Even his sudden departure three weeks ago was prefaced by only a terse explanation that he was needed urgently in Belgium for a short time. It was only slightly mollifying that he told her cousin no more—but Lucien got to go with him. Her eyes narrowed at the thought.

Men. They got to use their wits and have all the adventure.

She sighed and looked back at the last paragraph of the letter. It was even stranger than the preceding ones. Her father wrote that a courier may appear at Roxbury Manor with some papers for him. While that in itself was not an uncommon occurance, it was the next lines that sent the chill within her even deeper. The Duke’s orders were that, no matter what, the man get himself away from the manor and leave at once for London. He was not to stop until he had delivered what he had to the minister himself—and only him—at Whitehall. Most importantly, he was to be warned to stay on his guard, especially on the road. The she read the last line.

I beg you do exactly as I ask. Be careful and trust no one..

“Hmmph.” Darwin looked over his wire-rimmed spectacles at Lady Caroline Alexandra Georgina Talcott. How well he recognized the set of her jaw and what it meant. He tried to recall when he had first noticed the gesture—it must have been when the lady in question was no more than four years old and had decided that she, too, was ready to ride a horse, just like her older cousin. He nearly smiled, despite the seriousness of the situation. When that look appeared, there was no earthly power he was acquainted with that could stand up to her. He only hoped she had come to the right decision.

“Hmmph,” he repeated as he passed the letter to Mrs. Graves, who had served the Duke of Cheviot’s family nearly as long as he had. “Your father’s orders are quite clear, Miss Caroline.” There was a slight pause as he fixed her with a stern look, doing a quite credible job of mimicking the Duke’s expression when he was not to be trifled with.

Caroline’s face took on an injured look. “I don’t willfully disobey my father. . . “

Mrs. Graves snorted. “Like hell ye don’t, missy.”

“Mrs. Graves! Language, if you please!”

The housekeeper fixed Darwin with a basilisk stare. “Oh, don’t be ringing a peal over my head. Tis nothing that hasn’t tumbled out of her mouth or that of Mr. Lucien more times than can be counted.”

Caroline had to suppress a grin. The two old retainers had been going at it for more than her twenty years, or so she had been assured, and the battle showed no signs of abating—she imagined they would be utterly lost without each other.

Mrs. Graves turned her considerable bulk towards Caroline. “And don’t ye be putting on that air of innocence. You can hardly think to gammon us! We all know you are wont to do exactly as you see fit, but on this, I agree with Mr. Darwin. You do exactly as His Grace says.” She shook the the letter at Caroline. “I can feel in my bones that something is dreadfully amiss.”

Caroline’s lips compressed in a tight line. She had sensed that too. There was a strange tone to her father’s words, something she had never felt before, as if he were . . . . She searched for the right word. Afraid? Certainly not for himself, but for what? Helpless? Because he and Lucien were so far away?

Damnation, she thought, mentally acknowledging that Mrs. Graves was right—her vocabulary did include a number of decidedly unladylike words. Why couldn’t her father have told her exactly what was going on? She couldn’t help but feel that if it had been Lucien, instead of herself, he would have explained matters more clearly. Her jaw jutted out a fraction farther. Regardless, she would give him no cause to worry. For once, she would do exactly as she was told.

Darwin and Mrs. Graves were watching her intently. Her mouth quirked into a thin smile. “You two needn’t look at me as if you were trying to decide just how much rope you’d need to truss me into a carriage.”

Darwin let out his breath. “I knew, of course, that your innate good sense would prevail.”

“‘Course it would,” muttered Mrs. Graves. “Females always show more common sense than men when trouble arises.”

Darwin shot a quelling look at her, then continued, his tone even more imperious. “Now, it is clear your father wants you to travel incon . . . incock . . . “

“Incognito.”

“Precisely, Miss Caroline. Now, there is a small carriage with no crest in storage in the east stable. It will be just the thing.” He rang for a footman and gave a number of terse orders. Turning back to Caroline and Mrs. Graves, he added, “John Coachman is a fine driver. He will get you to London and into your uncle’s care as quickly as can be done.” That he was also a bear of a man and handy with his fives or a pistol was an added benefit, Darwin thought to himself grimly. And like all the rest of the household, he doted on the Duke’s only daughter and would do anything to keep her safe.

“Your maid must take your plainest gowns—the grey and olive ones you wear when working in the gardens will do— and alter a seam or two to make them even more unfashionable.” Mrs. Graves was not to be denied her part in the planning. “They should be worn enough, though I dare say we could add some fraying at the hem and cuffs.”

“I don’t know why Papa does not want Mathilde to accompany me . . .”

Mrs. Graves rolled her eyes. “After all these years, Matilde still can’t manage a sentence that makes any sense.”

“Mathilde speaks very good English,” said Caroline, more out of loyalty than truth. “At least, I understand every word,” she added.

“You and only you,” observed Darwin. “Besides, you speak French nearly better than she does. The point is, she will attract attention . . .”

“And attention is exactly what His Grace doesn’t want,” finished Mrs. Graves, ignoring the butler’s miffed expression. “You’ll take Polly from the kitchens. She’s a sensible girl and one who will keep her tongue to herself.”

Caroline frowned but didn’t argue.

Darwin rose. “I suggest you have Mathilde start on what needs to be done. Have her pack only a small valise, as befitting a country squire’s daughter. In any case, you will be in London in a matter of a few days and may send for your things at Grosvenor Square. I want you to leave at first light.”

She nodded but couldn’t refrain from adding, “I wish Papa had seen fit to explain things to me. If I had a notion of what was going on, perhaps I could think of a way to help him . . . “

“Miss Caroline!” There was a note of warning in Darwin’s voice.

“You needn’t bellow at me. I said I would do as Papa asks. But this all doesn’t make any sense to me. Why should I be in any danger?” She looked at the others, the question in her expression as well as her words.

“More than likely His Grace is mistaken, but ‘tis better to be cautious. In all likelihood you have nothing to worry about, save for a rather uncomfortable journey back to Town,” replied Mrs. Graves, with a bravado that sounded rather hollow to all their ears. Darwin remained silent.

In all his years, he had known the Duke to make precious few mistakes.

Caroline let the book drop in her lap as she stared into the blazing fire. She had come back to the library after supper, knowing full well that sleep would be impossible just yet, even though she must depart at dawn. There were so many questions racing through her mind, not the least of which was why her father was so concerned about this particular messenger. It was not unusual for documents to travel between the Continent, the ministry and the Duke, many of them no doubt sensitive—Caroline had known for some time what sort of work her father was engaged in. No doubt a penchant for ferreting out information ran in the family! So why was this so different . . .

A loud noise jarred her from her thoughts. She shot up and hurried into the hallway. The sound was coming from the drawing room. Caroline threw open the door to find that Darwin, armed with a pistol and accompanied by two of the larger footman brandishing heavy cudgels, was already cautiously approaching the set of french doors that led out to the garden terrace. The banging came again, this time a much weaker sound. Darwin undid the locks and and flung the doors open as he stepped back, pistol at the ready.

A body crumpled, face forward, onto the floor. With a muted exclamation of surprise, Darwin knelt beside the motionless form and carefully turned the man over. Caroline, already at the butler’s side, was horrified to see an ugly splotch of dark crimson spread across the front of the tattered shirt. The man’s face was caked with mud and sweat, his lips chapped and bleeding. They began to move ever so slightly. “The Duke . . .” he whispered, barely loud enough for them to make out the words. “Papers . . .” His hand clutched weakly at a small oilskin packet hanging by a cord around his neck. A cough wracked the man’s frame, bringing a trickle of blood to the corners of his mouth.

“Steady now. You are safe here.” Darwin took the man’s hand in his own.

The man’s eyes fluttered open. “From France. Names . . . he’s trying to get . . .” His chest gave a convulsive heave and the faint words trailed off.

“We must send for Doctor Belding immediately,” cried Caroline. “The poor man

must . . . “

Darwin looked up at her. “I’m afraid it is too late for that.” Gently removed the packet from around the man’s neck, he straightened and took Caroline by the arm. “Ned and William will see to the poor fellow.”

He guided her to the library and then lay the travel-stained packet in the middle of the Duke’s desk. They stared at it wordlessly for a few moments.

Darwin cleared his throat. “It seems His Grace had every right to be concerned.” he said softly.

Caroline only nodded, then reached out slowly . . . .

“Miss Caroline!“

Her hand took up the packet, then she reached for her father’s letter opener.

“Miss Caroline!” repeated Darwin. “What in heaven’s name do you think you are doing?”

Caroline regarded him calmly, her eyes as steely as her father’s. “The man gave his life to get these papers to my father. I have to know what they contain so we may decide what to do “

“You . . . you don’t mean to read them?” Darwin’s voice cracked slightly.

The letter opener had already severed the thread holding the oilskins together. “That is exactly what I intend to do.” Several leaves of thin parchment, folded together and sealed with wax, fell out. Caroline picked them up and, with just a hint of hesitation, broke the seal.

Darwin let out a strangled sigh.

It took only a minute or two to read the contents. Her eyes came up slowly to meet those of the butler. “Good Lord,” she breathed. “This is a list of contacts and addresses of our intelligence gathering rings from Paris to Brussels.”

They both looked at each other.

“If it were to fall into the wrong hands, why . . . . This must reach my father without fail. Tell Crocket to have the carriage ready to leave as soon as possible”

Darwin seemed to read her mind. “You can’t mean to . . .”

“Yes. I mean to take them to London myself.”

“Miss Caroline, whoever is after these papers has killed once to get them. He will not hesitate to do so again.”

“Yes, and can you imagine how many shall die if he does get his hands on them?

Darwin’s lips tightened. “But your father made it clear he didn’t want you anywhere near those papers—and with good reason!”

“My father would agree that these papers must get to London, no matter what.”

“Miss Caroline.” The butler’s voice was full of emotion. “I cannot let you let you put yourself in such danger.”

“I don’t see that you have any choice. Do you think I would be so cowardly as to send one of the grooms or footmen —or anyone else?” She stared pointedly at him, taking in his reedy legs, slowed now by a touch of rheumatism. “Besides, that would be exactly what our enemy would expect—a lone courier on horseback. On the other hand, I imagine he will not be on the lookout for a nondescript carriage carrying a lone female and her maid, especially if we stay off the highways.”

“She’s right, ye know.” Mrs. Graves stepped into the room from the shadows of the hall. “Much as it grieves me to say it, I think it is the only decision.”

“The Duke would never make such a decision,” he argued, though the look on his face was one of resignation.

“The Duke is not here. So it is I who must decide,” answered Caroline calmly. “I shall sew the packet into the bodice of my gown—Mathilde is very clever with her needle and fabric. It will be impossible for someone to tell who doesn’t know where to look. And after all,” she added. “Our enemy cannot be entirely sure the papers have reached us.”

Darwin pressed his lips together, not ready to give up entirely. “I shall send Tom and William with you as well, armed to the teeth. . . “

She shook her head. “No. That would only attract exactly the sort of attention we wish to avoid.” She gave a tight smile to both of them. “Besides I have a feeling that it is not force we will need to come out on top, but wits.”

Caroline sought to find a more comfortable position in the lurching carriage. After nearly two days of continuous travel over rutted back roads, every bone in her body seemed to ache. Things had not gone well from the start. Not many hours after leaving Roxbury Manor, one of the wheels of the old vehicle had come off, nearly oversetting them into a ditch, and costing precious hours before a wheelwright could be found to make things right. Though John Coachman had set a rather breakneck pace after that, it seemed progress was painfully slow. The country roads appeared to meander at will, causing her to grit her teeth in frustration on occasion, even though they had all agreed the time lost was worth the gain in secrecy. And on top of it all, a cold rain had started the day before, adding a chilly dampness to the air that made her pull her heavy black cloak even tighter around her willowy form.

She peered out into the darkness and wondered how far it was to the next inn. How she longed for a hot cup of tea and just a few hours of uninterrupted sleep . . . . The coach hit a particularly nasty rut, knocking her back against the worn squabs and drawing a loud oath from John Coachman. A pang of guilt shot through her and she chastised herself for dwelling on her own discomforts, compared to what her servants were suffering. Last night, Polly had developed a bad fever, and though she tried to disguise it, by morning she was in a bad enough state that Caroline had insisted that she be left behind at a small inn.

Despite his mutterings, John Coachman couldn’t disagree when he saw the girl’s wan face and felt her burning brow. By the time a room had been procured, along with the innkeeper’s promise to send for a doctor once he had been paid in advance for a week’s lodging, more hours had slipped by. Caroline wouldn’t hear of continuing until she had seen the girl comfortably settled and provided with enough funds to take a coach back to Roxbury Manor. At least John had been able to grab some rest.

But now he seemed determined to make up for lost time. On they drove, though the night was so black Caroline wondered at how he keep the horses on the road. The thick, scudding clouds only let through a pale wash of moonlight on occasion, and the wind, which had whistled down upon them from the bleak moor during the past hour, promised more rain. She could only imagine what miseries poor John was enduring in such conditions. She sighed, wedging into a corner and bracing herself with her shoulder to counter the increasingly heavy jolts.

Her thoughts couldn’t help but turn to the enormity of what she had undertaken. The lives of many brave people depended on her ability succeed, and that made the mission daunting enough. But if she were truly honest with herself, that was not the only reason she had chosen to embark on such a hazardous course. Oh, it was true enough what she had told Darwin—that she would never have asked a servant to risk his life. But there had been other choices. No doubt she would have been commended for showing good sense had she appealed to her father’s close friend and neighbor, Lord Ellsworth, for advice.

Caroline’s lips quirked in an involuntary smile. Eminent good sense was not a trait normally associated with her name. Perhaps that was because she had spent too much time racketing around with her cousin Lucien— she, the younger, always pushing herself to match his exploits.

Or perhaps it was because of something else.

Lucien was part of it, to be sure. Both her mother and his parents had died during a particularly bad influenza epidemic, and so he had come to live under her father’s roof. Aside from the fact that the Duke doted on his young nephew, it was only natural that he do so—after all, Lucien was the heir. And so the two of them had become like brother and sister, both being close in age and having no true siblings of their own. He had tolerated her following him around like a doting puppy when they were small, and as they grew older, he had never sought to keep her from taking part in their escapades for the mere fact of being a female. From filching apples from Squire Laidlaw’s trees to racing curricles at midnight down the fashionable streets of Mayfair, Lucien had always treated her an an equal.

Yet Caroline always knew, from her earliest days, it was not so. No matter that she had a better seat on her hunter than most of the county or could discuss estate affairs with enough knowledge to set a lax steward’s ears to ringing. No matter that she could read Virgil or Homer in the original or discuss the political implications of Napoleon’s return to France with more acuity than half of White’s. She would never be her father’s heir. His beloved Roxbury would pass on to one not of his own flesh and blood, and that must be a terrible disappointment to him. Her hand came up to brush away from her cheek what must have been an errant drop of rain. This once, however, she would prove to everyone that despite what Society decreed, she was worthy of her family name. A sigh caught in her throat—if only she could prove it to the one who mattered most.

She must have dozed off, for she was jolted awake by the sound of a sharp crack. Still muzzy from fatigue, she thought perhaps she had imagined it. But suddenly there was another one, and she sat bolt upright, for there was no mistaking the sound of gunfire. At the same time, the coach picked up speed, rocking wildly from side to side. Caroline was thrown violently against the door.

“John!” she cried. “John! What is happening?”

There was no answer over the pounding of the hooves and the groaning of the wooden joints.

Frantically, she pried at the door’s handle, opening it enough to peer out towards the rear. Two dark shapes, blacker than the night, were charging down on them. A brief flash was followed by the bark of a pistol. After that, the coach seemed to gain even more speed. Caroline twisted her head towards the front but couldn’t see up to the box. The moon broke through the clouds for a moment. From her angle, she could see the horses were out of control. Panicked, they galloped madly ahead, the reins dragging helplessly through the mud and ruts. The front wheels gave a dizzying lurch as the coach left the road, careening over rougher terrain. Ahead was . . . nothing. Nothing but an ominous black void. Caroline had only seconds to make a decision.

She flung herself out the door.

A searing pain shot through her shoulder as she hit the ground hard. The breath was knocked out of her and the momentum of the fall sent her tumbling down a steep slope. Her head grazed an outcropping of rock, opening up a jagged gash across her brow. Though half dazed, the sound of splintering wood and the terrified whinnies of the horses filled her ears. And she couldn’t seem to stop rolling, sliding, tumbling over more rocks and brush as brambles torn at her clothes.

Finally, her descent was arrested by a large gorse bush. Wedged among its thorny lower branches, Caroline was barely conscious. She groaned aloud at the thought of poor John—the past few minutes had been a nightmare worse than anything Dante could have penned. She tried to sit up, but the slightest movement caused her to retch. Falling back, face down in the mud and leaves, she lay motionless.

Above her, the sound of pounding hooves stopped abruptly. Through the haze of shock, she could hear other sounds, the sounds of boots scrabbling over rocks, and then the sounds of voices.

“Ain’t bloody likely a living thing survived that,” came a rough growl.

“Cor, whatcha gone and done by popping off the coachman? We ‘us supposed te git some piece of paper from the wench afore we killed ’um.” The second voice had a grating whine to it.

There was a loud grunt. “Let’s be off and collect the rest of our blount from that flash cove —don’t like the looks of ‘im by half. He’s as like to scamper on us, if I knows that type.”

“But whadda we tell him?”

“Ye ninny. We tell him she’s dead, that’s wot. And that’s what he bloody hired us fer, ain’t it?”

“He seemed mighty particular about wanting that letter she had.”

The first voice swore. “You wanna go down there and git it fer him?”

There was a silence.

“Didn’t think so,” continued the voice. “The gennulmun be welcome to break his own arse if it’s so important te him.”

“Who was she, anyhow?”

“Who bloody cares. Whoever she be, she’s dead. Let’s be off.”

Caroline didn’t hear them leave. She had slipped into a blackness as deep as the starless sky.

“How long before the mill can be working?”

The steward pulled a face as he rubbed at his chin. “Assuming we have the mortar and timber, and enough men can be pulled from the other work . . . . He let the words trail off as he stared at the forlorn stone structure which was in an obvious state of disrepair.

Julian Fitzwilliam Atherton, the new Earl of Davenport, sighed. “Figure out a cost for that, too.”

The other man scratched something in a worn notebook and then they both spurred their horses forward and continued along the riverbank. They rode in silence for awhile, each man seemingly occupied with his own thoughts.

“Perhaps you should hand the bloody place over to the creditors and be done with it,” murmured the steward as they passed yet another field fallow for lack of seed.

The earl’s jaw tightened. “I am not intimidated by a difficult task, Sykes. Things will be different now.”

Sykes shot him an appraising glance. “Aye, milord, on that I have no doubt—you ain’t like him at all.” He heaved a sigh. ”Well, if you’re serious, the tenants will most likely come around. They are good folk and not afraid of hard work. Perhaps it won’t be impossible to set things right.”

Davenport nodded grimly. “Bring your list tomorrow morning at nine and we shall decide where to begin.” With that, he turned his mount away from the other man and set the big black stallion into a canter towards home.

He loosened the cravat at his neck as he strode from the stable to the main house. His shirt was damp with sweat and his worn riding coat showed the effects of a day spent in the saddle. He glanced ruefully at the mud encrusting his boots—hardly the picture of a titled gentleman, he thought to himself with an ironic smile. But he cared little for appearances. His mind was already occupied with the myriad things that needed to be done. First, he must pen a letter to his banker in London. His own carefully managed funds should be sufficient to satisfy the most pressing demands of his creditors and still leave enough to begin to put things right. With prudent management, hard work and luck . . . .

The front door was opened by a rotund man of less than average height. His wiry hair seemed to defy all efforts with a brush, sticking straight up from his head as if he had recently encountered a castle ghost. That, combined with his rather large eyes and pinched mouth, gave him a perpetually startled look. But at least, noted Davenport, there was no longer a stab of fear in the other man’s eyes every time he approached.

“Good evening, Fields,” said the earl.

The butler bowed, lower than was necessary. He was still having trouble finding his tongue. “G . . . g . good evening, my lord,” he finally stammered. “Y . . . you have a visitor.”

The earl sighed and ran a hand through his dark, tousled locks. He hadn’t bothered with a hat and his hair, worn longer than was fashionable, was as dusty as the rest of him.

“Who is is?” he inquired.

“L . . . lady Atherton, my lord. I put her in t . . . the library.”

“I trust you lit the fire.”

The man nodded.

“Very well.” He let out another sigh. At the moment, he didn’t feel nearly up to facing his brother’s widow— what he really wanted was a hot bath and a bottle of brandy. But it must be done.

He opened the library door.

“Hello, Julian.” She was still as lovely as when he had first met her, though her mouth seemed harder, more careworn, and her eyes were perhaps a shade duller. “I apologize for coming unannounced.”

“You are always welcome here, Helen.”

She smiled fleetingly. “You are . . . too good.”

Davenport crossed to the mahogany sideboard and poured himself a generous brandy. “May I get you anything?” he asked, gesturing to the sherry.

She shook her head, her gaze dropping to her hands which lay knotted in her lap.

He stared into the fire and took a long swallow from his glass.

“Actually, I’ve come to say goodbye.”

His head jerked around with a start.

“I have a small property in New Forest, near Lymington, and a modest income to go with it. It came to me through my mother and was one thing Charles could not touch.” She paused, trying to control the emotion in her voice.

“You may always think of this as your home,” he said quietly. “The dower house can be refurbished . . .”

“No!” she cried. “This was never my home, God knows. And I am a reminder of—you have borne more than any man should have to bear.” Her voice broke. “The lies, the ugly rumors that have been bandied about your name. Don’t think I am unaware of what I owe you!”

“It isn’t necessary . . .”

“Yes! Yes it is. Julian, please let me say it aloud. It is only your willingness to take the blame for many of Charles’s . . . excesses that allows me to appear in Society without being cut directly by all my acquaintances, that allows my daughter to grow up without hanging her head in total shame—”

“Helen.”

Tears were gathering in her eyes. “I’m glad I never bore him a son,” she whispered. “I’m glad Highwood went to you, who deserves it so much more than any seed of Charles’s—though God knows, there are probably more than enough of those in the area.”

“Helen,” he repeated quietly. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

She struggled to compose herself. “Lord, what an utter fool I was, Julian.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“How could I have been so blind? And how can you have ever forgiven me?”

“It was a long time ago,” he said gently. “And we all know how charming Charles could be when he wanted to be.”

She shook her head. “How can two people so alike on the outside be so different on the inside?”

Davenport ran a finger along the thin white line that marred his cheekbone. “Ah,” he said, his voice full of self-mockery. “Not alike—I’m the twin with the scar.”

Lady Helen regarded him with a look of great sorrow, and some other emotion.

He turned to look out the large, leaded glass windows.

She continued to stare at his tall, athletic form even though his back was to her. “What of you, Julian? Well I know that Charles has mortgaged the estate to the hilt and gambled away any money that your father didn’t lose before him.”

“I shall manage.”

A sigh escaped her lips. “It looks to be turning into a nasty night.” She had risen and moved to stand by his side. “I shall take my leave so that I may return to my uncle’s before the rain begins.” Placing a slender hand on his shoulder she stood on tiptoes to brush a kiss on his cheek.

“Would that the hands of time could be turned back,” she whispered.

He shook his head bleakly. “That, I fear, is beyond the power any mortal.”

She smiled sadly and looked as if to say more. Then her lips pressed together, and after a moment’s hesitation, she simply sighed.

“Good bye then, Julian. I wish you all the happiness you deserve.” Without waiting for a response, she hurried from the room.”

“Happiness. That, I fear, is beyond my power as well,” he whispered to himself.

Then he poured himself another brandy.

Would that the spirits could wash away the bitter taste that stuck in his throat, no matter how much of the amber liquid he poured into himself. It brought only oblivion, not sweet relief from the sea of demands that washed over him. He was heartily sick of it, sick of feeling that slowly, inexorably, he was losing a little piece of himself with every crashing wave.

With a grimace he realized he hardly remembered how it had all started. When had his mother first opportuned him to have a care for his twin, to try to temper the high spirits of the heir and guard both him and the family name from harm. Why, he and his brother could not have been above ten or twelve years of age, but even then, Charles had bee irresistibly charming, while he had been painfully dull.

And dim-witted as well, to allow himself to become his brother’s keeper. The pattern had been set then. Charles became increasingly wild while he was left to quietly make amends for his sibling’s excesses or take the blame himself. Sometimes it was just easier that way. It had made his father laugh and his mother cry. He supposed it was those anguished eyes that had kept him from shirking from the unfair responsibilities. She had cared about family honor and right and wrong. His own principles must have come from her side of the family, for as much as he wished to, he could not simply walk away.

And that was just the beginning. Much as his mind rebelled against it, he forced himself to think about Helen. Charles had not been content with merely stealing his good name—no, his brother had to take the woman he loved as well. Davenport paused to drain his glass.

Charming Charles.

His brother had been free and easy with his addresses while he, Davenport, was shy and awkward. How could he blame a lovely young lady for being seduced by well-turned phrases and elegant manners.

Unfortunately, when in his cups, his brother became as free and easy with his fists as

with his pretty words. Davenport’s face darkened as he recalled his first sight of the bruises. She had begged him not to make a scene. So, once again, he had dutifully done what was asked of him, no matter the cost to his own feelings. Had Helen truly any notion of what torture it had been to watch what was happening to her? His own suffering must surely have been nearly as painful as hers.

His fingers came up to trace the thin white scar on his cheekbone as his jaw tightened in anger. Rather than stand up for herself, Helen had turned to him for comfort. How unfair a burden! Why was it he fell prey to vulnerable females? He found himself wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like to care for someone capable of giving as well as taking.

Well, his brother was dead now, and he intended to bury his own past weaknesses along with him. He meant to finally get on with his own life.

But first he would uncork another bottle.

Caroline had no notion of how long she had been lying there. It was still pitch black and the rain had begun anew, light, intermittent drops, but chilling to the bone. She pushed herself into a sitting position, fighting down a new wave of nausea. The pain in her left arm was excruciating. She couldn’t move it, but with her right one she assured herself that the small packet sewn into the fold of her dress was still there. The feel of it triggered the memory of the conversation she had heard between her assailants. It seemed so unreal, but then her fingers moved up to her bruised face, sticky with blood.

She knew she had to move from where she was. With daylight, there was a good chance they may return. Summoning up all her strength, she crawled out from the gorse and made her way on hands and knees back up to the road. Using a tree for support, she pulled herself to her feet, clutching her muddy cloak tightly around her aching body. Thankfully, the rain let up once again. Clouds scudded across the sky to reveal a pale moon. Her eyes could follow the road around a sharp bend to where it disappeared into a forest of live oak and beeches. But she quickly decided against such a course. The steep ravine fell away to the right. There was really little choice. On the other side of the road was a field, then a copse of trees. With faltering steps, she headed for their shelter.

It was a larger woods that she had thought. Though thankful for the cover, she found it difficult to pick her way through the tangle of brush and brambles. One step at a time, she repeated to herself. Then another, and another. She forced herself to keep moving. Only once, on crossing a small stream, did she allow herself to stop for a moment. The water felt cool and comforting as she drank thirstily and washed the worst of the dirt and dried blood from her face. The urge to lie down was overwhelming, but she forced herself back to her feet.

She had to keep going.

Daylight began to tint the horizon. Caroline was out of the trees and had passed through a number of fields overgrown with weeds and wild blackberry bushes. Now she found herself on some sort of path. Birds began chirping as the light became stronger. A fox darted out in front of her, returning to its den from a nocturnal hunting foray. Startled, she stopped dead in her tracks, then chided herself for being so skittish. Just a little farther, she promised herself, but somehow her feet would not seem to obey her commands any longer. Swaying slightly, she crumpled to the ground.