Page 39 of The Hired Hero
“It’s nought but a scratch,” he replied. “Come, that shot will have a crowd here at any moment. We must get away from here.”
Jeremy threw down his makeshift cudgel. “Follow me.”
* * *
Caroline litthe lantern and held it close to the unconscious earl. “Is he…”
“He’s fainted.” Jeremy looked up uncertainly. “The wound doesn’t look too bad. But there’s quite a lot of blood.”
Caroline untucked her shirt and began tearing the long tails into strips. “I know a bit about tending to injuries.” She knelt down beside him and carefully peeled Davenport’s coat and shirt back from his injured shoulder. With a sharp intake of breath, she pulled the earl’s shirttails out as well and ripped a goodly amount of fabric from them. “I fear the shirt was ruined anyway,” she said wryly as she folded the material into a thick compress and pressed it hard against the ragged gash.
But, in truth, the heavy bleeding had her worried. After a few minutes, she used the strips she had torn to bind the pad to the wound, then looked over to Jeremy. “He needs to be properly attended to, but I’m afraid that your rooms are no longer safe. Is there somewhere we may take him, somewhere away from this town? Though how we shall manage to move him…”
Jeremy gestured toward the small gig that was standing beside them. “Can you harness a horse?”
She nodded.
“A lady of many talents.” He flashed a smile as he brushed the straw from his breeches and stood up. “Old Patch is as docile as they come. I am acquainted with the owner, and when he learns of the circumstances, I doubt he’ll be overly angry if we, er, borrow his conveyance for a short while.”
He went to fetch the animal from a stall at the back of the small stable while Caroline began to wrestle with the tangle of harness that was hanging from a wooden peg. Jeremy pulled a face as he watched her drag it down and nimbly sort out the straps and reins.
“What a helpless idiot I am,” he muttered.
Caroline slanted a look at him as she began to put the bridle on the horse. “You are only an idiot if you truly believe that. Rather than mourning for what you don’t have, you should feel very fortunate to possess such a rare talent as you do. You are luckier by far than most people.”
She quickly put on the harness, did up the buckles and tightened a strap or two. “Besides,” she added, “I saw what you did. That was hardly helpless—Gentleman Joe himself couldn’t have landed a better blow.”
Her words caused Jeremy’s brow to furrow. He stood in silence, as if deep in thought, as she backed the animal into the traces and finished making the gig ready. It was only when she hesitated and asked his aid in moving the earl’s prostrate form into the back of the gig that he snapped out of his reverie and rushed over to help.
Together, they somehow managed to lift him up onto the pile of straw that covered the rough boards. Caroline added an old horse blanket she had spied hanging from the door of a stall. Though hardly in a pristine state, it would help in warding off the chill.
Jeremy had taken up an old stovepipe hat, which had been sitting atop a pile of discarded burlap bags, and planted it firmly over his curling locks. It came down nearly to his eyes, and she would have been wont to giggle if he hadn’t looked so resolute.
“I can drive a gig,” he announced, his tone daring her to challenge his assertion. “I do it quite often. You should lie down in the back with Julian with the blanket drawn up over you both until we pass out of town. It is less likely anyone will take note of a poor farmer in a simple gig.” He turned the collar of his coat up to heighten the effect.
Caroline had to agree it was a good plan. She took her place under the musty wool, stifling the urge to sneeze at the cloud of dust and horsehair that mizzled over her head and shoulders. At least the smell wasn’t unbearably rank. Jeremy slid the door of the stable open and checked that all was clear.
With a flick of the reins, they were off.
* * *
The gentleman watchedfrom the shadows as a small group of men gathered around the man who was lying in the mud. As he was helped to his feet, blood streaming from his broken nose, voices demanded to know what had happened.
“Thieves,” croaked the coachman. “I was merely stretching my legs after a day of driving when, suddenly, I was set upon by three of ’em. Armed they was, too. But I managed to fight them off.”
A murmur of consternation ran through the group.
“Thieves? We don’t countenance such goings on here. Did you happen to get a good look at them?”
“Aye. One was a tall, well-built fellow with a scar on his cheek; another was kinda skinny, hardly more than a boy. And the third was a cripple—missing his left hand, he was.”
“Why, that sounds like Mr. Leighton,” cried one of the tradesmen who had rushed out from a nearby tavern at the sound of the shot. “But I cannot believe that such a gentleman would be involved in this.”
“He’s a bit queer in the head,” muttered another man. “Roaming around the countryside with his paints and such.”
As the group helped the coachman back toward the inn, the gentleman slipped from his spot and hurried away.
Damn the coachman!The cursed fellow had bungled things yet again. The trap had been sprung before things were in place, and now the quarry was at large again. His fingers curled around the butt of his own silver-chaised pistol, itching to put it to use. He would pay a call on Mr. Leighton’s quarters, but he doubted that he would find anyone there. He would have to set to casting his net in a wider direction and hope that it pulled in something—and quickly.
