Page 52 of The Hired Hero
Caroline popped the last morsel into her mouth. “I suppose that’s true,” she said, now feeling a good deal more cheerful. “But I’m far from a proper lady, as you’ve reminded me on more than one occasion. It comes in useful at times—” She swallowed the rest of her words on seeing four figures suddenly materialize from the gloom behind the earl.
Davenport started to spin around just as two of them grabbed hold of his arms. The third man forestalled any struggle by producing a long-barreled pistol from the folds of his coat and aiming dead at the earl’s heart.
“Well, well, Davenport,” sneered a voice from behind the figure with the weapon.” I see your tastes still include young boys.” The speaker was a thick, heavyset man of average height, who punctuated his words with the slow slap of a stout walking stick against his meaty palm. As he stalked up to the earl, his face, once passably handsome, was shown in the pale moonlight to have sagged into a state of pasty corpulence. But even the rolls of flesh could not hide the glint of pure malice in the beady eyes.
“How fortuitous that Barkley recognized you in the tavern.” As he spoke, he surveyed the earl’s tattered garments with a curl of his lips. “Slumming tonight? Or have you come down in the world? This ain’t your usual haunt.”
“Be off, boy,” said Davenport quietly. “This is no concern of yours.”
“Yes, be off. You’ll have to find some other gentleman with perverse tastes to pay for using you in an unnatural way.” The butt of his stick came down hard on the earl’s chest. “You shouldn’t have reneged on your vowels, Charles. Especially with me. But now you shall pay. And with interest.” He indicated one of the other darkened side streets. “Let’s take His bleeding Lordship somewhere where we won’t be disturbed.”
Davenport allowed himself a slight smile. “I’m afraid you are venting your spleen on the wrong audience. I may be Davenport, but I’mnotthe one you want—Charles has been dead for four months.”
The man’s smug expression dissolved into one of rage. “What do you take me for—an idiot, and blind in the bargain!” he cried. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you without a bottle and a doxy in your hands and your breeches down around your knees?”
He fisted his hands. “I would recognize that phiz in hell. Dead, you say! You’re going to wish you were dead when I finish with you, you lying, cheating whoreson. I intend to break every bone in your body.” A curt wave at his companions. “Now take him away!”
The two men who were holding Davenport shoved him forward, and the other two followed, with barely a cursory look around to see whether anyone had observed them. It hardly mattered. Disagreements with fists, knives or worse were not uncommon in a rough port. Nobody with any sense was going to interfere.
Caroline had fallen back even further into the shadows at the earl’s warning. After that, no one took the slightest notice of her. She bit her lip in dismay as she watched them take him away. There was precious little she could do against four large—and armed—men. There was nothing for it but to obey Davenport’s command. Her purse was full, and the coach to London left in only a few hours…
She shifted her stance. It wasn’t her fault that he had been unfortunate enough to stumble into such a coil. No doubt he would survive.
As he had said, it was no concern of hers.
Her hands clenched at her sides, then she hurried off across the cobblestones, swiftly yet silently. But instead of turning up the hill toward The Flying Dolphin, she slid into the same inky darkness that had enveloped the earl.
A muffled thud was followed by a sharp exhale of air. As Caroline’s eyes adjusted to the dim shadows, she saw the punch had dropped Davenport to his knees. His arms were still being held by two of his captors while the ringleader rubbed his knuckles and circled around to deliver a vicious kick to the kidneys. The force of it sent the earl face down onto the stones.
“Pick him up,” ordered the man who had dealt the blow. He gave a harsh laugh. “That is just the beginning.”
The earl was wrenched to his feet, then the walking stick slashed hard into his ribs, doubling him over.
The man with the pistol took a step closer to the others. “Come on, Johnny, share the sport. He’s taken enough blunt off of me that I shall enjoy darkening those pretty deadlights.”
“Very well.” Stick tapping his boot, the leader stepped aside.
The slur of their words made it evident that they were all well in their cups. The one with the gun carelessly laid it on the ground and flexed his fingers, as if to ensure they were ready to inflict as much damage as possible.
“Let’s start with his face now,” he drawled. “Perhaps the lightskirts won’t be quite so pleased to see him once we’ve rearranged his looks.” He sauntered over and grabbed Davenport’s chin, lifting it to make a pretty target.
His fist came back?—
“That’s quite enough.”
Four heads jerked around.
“Oh, bloody hell,” muttered Davenport.
Caroline stepped forward, pistol held at arm’s length. “Let him go.”
“Why, it’s the damn boy!” exclaimed one of the ones who was holding the earl.
The man with the stick took a step toward her. “Give me the gun, you sodding urchin, before I knock your teeth out as well.”
A distinct click echoed off the surrounding brick walls as Caroline cocked the weapon.
“I am accorded to be a very good shot,” she said evenly.
