Page 12 of The Hired Hero
Dr. Laskins shook his head. “I dare not risk it. The shock to the system might be too great.”
Davenport’s frown deepened. “Any idea who she is?”
The physician shook his head again. “I’ve made a few discreet inquiries, but there’s no talk of a missing woman from this area. I wonder…” He let his voice trail off. “It’s clear that she is gently bred, for her hands show no sign of manual work. But whoever she is, she’s had a rough time of it lately.”
“Has she been beaten?”
“It’s hard to say. There are bruises on her body, but it is impossible to tell for sure what caused them.” A pause. “If it’s a father or a husband, he’s a brute.”
The earl’s teeth set on edge as he remembered how Helen had looked once when he had arrived on an unexpected visit.
“I shall return in the morning,” continued the other man. “I don’t expect there to be any problems during the night, but if she wakes, Mrs. Collins should try to get her to take some nourishment.”
Davenport walked the doctor to the door and, with one last glance at the sleeping patient, shut it softly.
* * *
Caroline waiteda few minutes to make sure they were truly gone, then slowly opened her eyes. Her head and shoulder were aching like the devil, but the laudanum had dulled some of the pain, and the sleep had at least allowed her to marshal her thoughts.
She looked around. It was a pleasant room, plain but light and airy. From a window to her left, the last rays of the afternoon sun were slanting onto the oak floor, warming it to a soft, honeyed color. The simple bed was more than comfortable, and as she settled herself deeper into its thick softness, she decided that, for the moment, she seemed safe enough.
But for how long?
She had seen her host’s expression this morning. It would not be much longer before his questions began again. And despite his rough appearance and shabby dress, he didn’t appear to be a slowtop. No, there was a depth to those sapphire eyes that warned her that he wouldn’t be fooled by any shallow Banbury tale.
Caroline heaved a small sigh.So what, exactly, could she tell him?As she mentally recounted the actual events of the past few days, she realized that they sounded even more melodramatic than one of Ann Radcliffe’s novels—especially since she dared not offer an explanation.
The information she carried was vital to England’s war effort, so she would not—could not—trust anyone with her secret. She wouldn’t let her country, or her father, down.
If only her father had given her a clearer picture of the dangers. If she had been a man, if she…
Drat it!She was just as clever as Papa and Lucien, Caroline told herself. And certainly more so than dear Uncle Henry, who would be utterly at a loss as to how to deal with any conundrum whose origins were less than a century old.
Should she have put her faith in someone who barely managed to remember to leave the sanctuary of his library for meals?
No, she decided. Despite her father’s orders, Uncle Henry would be the last person she would look to for help.
She was going to have to rely on herself—and only herself.
Caroline thought for a moment on the snatches of conversation she had just overheard. From what she could gather, it seemed the two men thought she was fleeing a violent husband… Her lips pursed. Lucien had once told her that if one was going to tell a hum, it was best to base it as much as possible on the truth. So perhaps it would be best to leave that impression, at least for now.
Five
The elegant gentleman reined the gray stallion to a halt and looked around carefully, assuring himself that nobody was nearby to note his presence. He dismounted and led his horse off the road into a thick copse of beech trees. His mouth tightened in distaste as he surveyed the steepness of the ravine—along with the rocks, the brush, the mud—and then glanced down at his own immaculately polished Hessians.
Nevertheless, it had to be done.
The descent was difficult, but the gentleman, though of only average height, was powerfully built and negotiated the treacherous footing with a certain lithe grace.
The carriage was lying shattered, half-submerged in the river that cut through the tumbled boulders and granite outcroppings of the gorge. Amid the twisted wreckage were the bloodied carcasses of the horses, which were already beginning to bloat and attract flies. The coachman’s body was twisted face down near a broken wheel. With the toe of his boot, the gentleman turned the dead man over. The bullet wound at the base of the neck explained the other carnage.
With a muttered oath at the stupidity of his hired ruffians, the gentleman let the disfigured face fall back in the mud. They truly had made things more difficult than necessary. He picked his way to where the door of the carriage was hanging precariously by one hinge. Wresting it open, he peered inside.
There was nothing but a small valise.
He stood motionless for a few moments, as if in deep thought, then reached in and fished it out. It didn’t take long to search through its contents. He tossed it aside, his grim expression showing no surprise at not finding what he was looking for. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he walked a way along the river until a pile of boulders blocked any further progress.
There was no sign of a body. His eyes gauged the current, and he mentally conceded it was possible that it could have been carried downstream.
