Page 65 of The Hired Hero
Understanding dawned on Lucien’s face. He rushed to kneel by his cousin’s side and took her up in his arms. She stirred slightly.
“I think she is coming around,” he exclaimed
An audible sigh of relief came from the duke.
The viscount looked up, aware for the first time of the others in the room. He nodded a brief acknowledgement at Farrington, then started on seeing the earl.
“Why, halloo, Julian. What the devil are you doing here?”
Davenport rubbed wearily at the scar on his cheek. “Bloody hell, I should have guessed,” he muttered. “All those tales of a female cousin who could match any man at any exploit—we all thought you made up most of it to keep us entertained.” A harried laugh. “Well, you didn’t tell the half of it.”
Lucien managed a weak grin. “Ah, I take it that you met Caro when she was in possession of all her faculties?”
“You’re a friend of the Earl of Davenport?” interjected the duke. “Lucien, I gave you more credit than to have any sort of association with a man of his character.”
“But he’s not Davenport?—”
“I’m afraid that I am,” said the earl.
“Oh.” Lucien made a face. “Did Charles stick his spoon in the wall?”
Davenport nodded. “Four months ago.”
There was a slight pause. “I can’t say that I’m sorry.”
“Nor can I.”
The duke had followed the exchange with increasing puzzlement. “What utter nonsense are you talking about, Lucien? I recognize the fellow?—”
“Twins,” explained his nephew. “Julian isn’t the one who is—or was—a rake. And he most certainly isn’t the traitor we’re searching for. I’d stake my life on that.”
The discussion had diverted attention away from Farrington. Well aware that his chances for escape were dwindling with every passing moment, he seized one last opportunity to turn disaster into triumph. With catlike agility, he lunged at the duke, catching him off guard. A hard shove sent him sprawling, the pistols flying from his grip and clattering across the floor.
Without missing a step, Farrington continued on, scooped up the packet of papers from the side table and raced for where the door stood half opened to the beckoning darkness of the night.
But all of a sudden, the tall mahogany clock came crashing down, catching Farrington on the shoulder and knocking him off stride. It slowed him down just enough for Davenport to catch hold of his coat.
A murderous curse echoed off the walls as Farrington found himself spun around just short of his only hope of escape.
As he spun, he swung his arm in a vicious slash. Davenport had forgotten about the knife and echoed the other man’s obscenity as the blade cut a gash across his forearm. Still, he hung on and dragged Farrington to a standstill, though the force of the blow had knocked him to his knees. The knife came up again, light flashing off the razor-sharp edge.
Lucien, helpless with the weight of his cousin in his arms, cried out a warning.
“Oh, bloody hell,” muttered Davenport as he let go of Farrington’s coat and threw himself to one side.
Farrington’s desperate stab caught nothing but air. He tried to recover his balance, but the earl was already on his feet and coming at him. A powerful punch connected square on the traitor’s jaw, dropping him to the floor like a sack of grain.
Davenport forgot his gentlemanly scruples long enough to add a kick to Farrington’s ribs for good measure.
“That’s for hitting the lady,” he muttered as he bent to retrieve the packet from Farrington’s limp hand.
On straightening up, he found the two beady eyes of the pistols trained on him—as well as the duke’s piercing gaze.
“Oh, put those damn things away,” he growled. “I’ve had more than enough of guns and fists and cudgels and knives to last me for quite some time.”
The duke hesitated for only a fraction. A rueful smile crossed his lips as he let the weapons fall to his side.
Davenport limped over to him and put the documents into his hands. To his surprise, he noted that, somehow, half the packet’s oilskin covering had turned a dark crimson.
