It Takes a Hero (12 page)

The idea of him seducing a cadre of ladies brought on a new storm of ire, and she didn't want to consider why that was. She didn't care in the least whom he seduced.

But one thing was for certain, he wasn't going to be doing it at Bettlesfield Park. Not as long as there was a breath left in her body.

She opened up her desk, and was about to stuff the remaining page inside when her gaze fell to the lines thereon.

Miss Darby's heart wrenched as she read the news. It couldn't be true. She didn't believe it. How could he have lied to her? Deceived her so utterly, so terribly, so…

"So overwrought," she muttered, making a note to correct the paragraph later.

Looking around and over her shoulder, she reached inside her desk and poked her finger into the empty inkwell. Only it wasn't an ordinary inkwell, for it had no bottom, only a button which she pushed and out sprang a hidden compartment in the bottom of the desk.

She grinned at the ingenious French dispatch box her father had acquired to hide his more important research—notes and descriptions of lost treasures he'd never found.

But her father's failures aside, the box also did well to keep the pages of her next book,
Miss Darby's Terrible Temptation
away from prying eyes.

After tucking the loose pages into the drawer, she closed it and it clicked shut, leaving only some innocuous correspondence visible in the top section for the curious.

Such as Raphael Danvers.

Then a wicked thought occurred to her. Oh, it was a terrible temptation, she thought as she glanced over at the barely discernable well.

Perhaps she should let him stay down there. At least overnight. Maybe that would make him more inclined to return to London where he belonged.

After a moment or two of considering that rather pleasant fantasy, Rebecca heaved a sigh. Oh, bother, if she had to get him out, she might as well be done with the task and away from the rogue before someone discovered them out here alone and came to some scandalous and entirely untrue conclusions.

She started down the haphazard path toward the little stone house that had once been the gardener's domain, so lost in her own thoughts of Rafe pleading and promising anything if she were just to release him, her boot caught on a tree root and she went topsy-turvy into what had once been an ornate maze.

Now it was just a thorny hedge.

"Eee-ow!" she cried out.

"Miss Tate? Is that you? What happened?" came an anxious cry from the well.

Oh, yes, now he was troubled about her welfare
. She imagined he was only worried because she was his sole remaining hope for getting him out of his latest predicament. That in itself probably had his blood running cold. She grinned at that comforting thought, and then called out, "I'm fine, Mr. Danvers," as she regained her footing. This time she made her way a little more attentively.

The garden shed was probably one of the few places at Bettlesfield Park that hadn't been looted and pockmarked by the locals and passing tramps. Hidden in a grove of rhododendrons, the shed had long been forgotten.

Even Rebecca hadn't remembered it until she'd spied the edge of the roof poking out from between a couple of branches the previous fall. It had taken some work to find the door, but inside she'd discovered all the gardener's tools still safely tucked away, including a coil of rope. The shed had come in handy from time to time, when she'd found herself caught out here in a sudden downpour, or just to escape Mrs. Wortling's complaints on a rainy day. The old potting table made an admirable desk in a pinch.

She caught up the rope and made her way back to the edge of the well.

"I think this will reach you," she called down.

"Tie it onto something sturdy before you throw it down," he yelled up at her.

Did her think her so daft? Perhaps two nights down the well would be more appropriate.

"Do you know how to tie a knot?" he called up. "A good one?"

"Yes." Then she couldn't resisted adding, "I read how in one of my uncle's books."

An agonized groan rose from the depths. "Miss Tate, if you don't know how to tie a knot, then you'd best go fetch someone who does."

"No need. I am quite an astute student. Really, Mr. Danvers, if you would slowly and diligently study the facts instead of jumping to conclusions, you might learn a thing or two. You might even make a living from this profession of yours." She grinned at the muttered curses echoing up. Having secured the rope to a toppled statue of some long forgotten saint, she gave the line a good tug. Satisfied that it would hold, she picked up the rest of the line and was about to toss it in, when she stopped and eyed the frayed end.

Smiling to herself, she tied one more knot before calling out to Mr. Danvers, "This ought to be just what you need."

The rope came flying down and stopped right in front of Rafe. He started to catch hold of it, but came to an abrupt halt, staring at the dangling mischief before him. Even he had to laugh at her latest attempt to put him in his place.

There before his face hung a noose.

A very well tied one, he noted.

The woman certainly knew how to add insult to injury. And in that wry moment, he recalled Jemmy's words yet again.

She's the type of girl who could sneak up on a fellow, and before he knew it, find he's fallen for her.

He wondered if Jemmy had meant that literally.

Not far from Bramley Hollow, the esteemed Major Harrington's game warden had arrived at his office a half an hour earlier, babbling mindlessly and sounding half mad. It had taken two good belts from a bottle of whisky to get the man to put two coherent words together.

Lacking in much patience as it was, the major had finally bellowed out, "Show me!" to which the poor frightened warden had tossed up his breakfast at the very notion of returning to the grisly scene that had sent him riding for the main house as if the countryside were on fire.

"Demmit, then. Where is it?" Harrington had demanded next.

"The hillside," the fellow managed. "Above the meadow. Along the path. The big oak before the fork."

The major ordered his horse saddled, then retrieved the pistols he kept in the case on the mantel. They'd saved his life more than once, and it never hurt to err on the side of caution.

"Father?" his daughter Charlotte called out as he strode toward the front door. "Father, are you going riding?"

He bustled past her. "Yes. Be back before tea."

"Well, if you can spare a moment, I'll have John bring my mare around as well. We can ride together."

The major stopped in his tracks, spinning around almost immediately. "You'll do no such thing."

"But Papa—" she started to protest.

"None of that," he said, taking some of the tension from his voice. It wouldn't do to frighten her needlessly. "Go see to your mother. Spend some time with her today and I promise we will ride first thing tomorrow."

Charlotte shot him an odd glance, and then spied the pistols stuck in his belt. "Is there trouble?"

"Nothing but some rabbits in the meadows. Pesky devils are wreaking havoc on the field I want to use for training the new horses." He smiled at her. "Go on now. See to your mother. She was complaining just the other day that you weren't keeping up your studies of
Debrett's
."

Charlotte shot another speculative glance at the pistols, then retreated upstairs.

The major waited in the foyer until she was gone and then called for their Indian servant. "Mahesh!"

The English servants were fine enough. But for this—if it was what he suspected—he wanted someone with the same devilish breeding to be on guard.

Mahesh arrived silently and bowed.

"See to the ladies," the major ordered. "Don't let them out of the house and don't let anyone in."

Mahesh inclined his head. "Is there anything else, sahib?"

Major Harrington tugged at his moustache as he considered his next words. Then he leaned forward and whispered, "I fear the Kailash has returned. Be on guard."

Mahesh had served the major for nearly twenty years, and in that time, Harrington had never seen the man show a single emotion, but the fear that ran through Mahesh's eyes made the major's gut clench.

"Are you sure, sahib?"

"I don't know. Not yet. Not until I see what it is that fool warden is babbling about." He shoved the pistols into his belt. "Stay sharp, man. I won't have anything happen to Charlotte or Mrs. Harrington."

Mahesh nodded.

The major strode down the steps and leapt up on his horse. He might be approaching his sixtieth year, but he hadn't led some of the best cavalry units under Cornwallis and Wellesley for nothing.

Two grooms were already mounted and waiting for him, both of them armed. Obviously, the warden hadn't been all that discreet when he'd come blundering into the stable yard.

He looked them over. One looked no more than thirteen, evidenced by the lack of beard.

"You there," the major said.

"Yes, sir?" the youth asked, doffing his cap.

"Go back to the stables. I don't need both of you."

The boy looked sorely disappointed but did as he was told. If it was as the major suspected, the boy didn't need to see it.

Nodding to the older man, they rode off, and it wasn't long before they were climbing the hill alongside the meadow and approaching the tall, ancient oak that stood like a lone sentinel above his estate.

"Stay here," he ordered the remaining groom.

The major rode around the massive trunk, at first unable to see what the game warden had been babbling about like a wild man.

"Demmed fool," the major muttered. "Don't see what he was talking about. Probably been drinking again." As he had just about come to the decision that he would fire the man without paying his back wages, something caught his eye.

His horse shifted and pawed nervously about, dancing sideways from the tree.

Pulling at the reins, Harrington said, "Steady there, steady there, old girl."

He rode closer, then started around the tree, only to be greeted by the display that had put his game warden into such a fever.

At first, he felt only anger and disgust at the sight.

Demmit
. That was one his daughter's best gowns nailed to the tree and sliced to ribbons as if having been used for saber practice.

Worse yet, the once pristine white muslin was decorated with fresh blood, and the sickly sweet scent of it sent his horse dancing despite his sure grip on the reins.

Harrington's gut filled with sick dread.

The bastard had gotten into the house, or at least the laundry. He'd gotten close enough to… The major didn't even want to consider what this fiend could have managed. Could still…

He glanced yet again at the grisly sight before him. He couldn't help thinking that this was how Codlin must have looked when his poor housekeeper had stumbled upon his mutilated body. He shuddered, and nudged his horse closer, intent on ripping the gown down before anyone else saw it and burning every last shred, when a bit of wind stirred around him and sent a piece of paper fluttering on the nail that held it.

A note. A warning. And what it said, sent the major reeling back, then fumbling out of his saddle and retching into the bushes like a green recruit.

His eyes, wide with terror, read the words again. Though written in Bengali, he'd learned enough of the language to know what it meant. To know he hadn't much time.

You're next.

«
^
»

Of all the things I regret now that I have lost my beloved Lieutenant Throckmorten, the worst is that I never bestowed upon him a single kiss.

Miss Darby (in the strictest confidence)

to Miss Cecilia Overton

in
Miss Darby's Darkest Hour

"R
eady for your trip back to London, Mr. Danvers?" Miss Tate asked when he finally managed to climb out.

"Not quite yet," Rafe told her, ignoring her lightsome tone, one that suggested he'd just taken a misstep at a country dance rather than an impromptu tumble down a dry country well.

It certainly didn't appear he was going to get any anxious feminine displays from Miss Tate.

Oh, Mr. Danvers, how brave you were and how strong you must be to have survived unscathed.

Or…
Are you sure you don't need a surgeon, Mr. Danvers?

Oh, no, not from Miss Tate. She appeared more bemused by her own wit, barely paying him a bit of heed as she poked odd stones and bits of rubble back into the well with the toe of her boot. After peering over the edge for a few more seconds, she slanted a glance in his direction. "Not exactly someplace you want to spend too much time hanging around," she teased.

That she made him smile, despite his bruised pride, was to her credit. "Your rescue was quite innovative."

"I did try to warn you."

"So you did," he said, brushing off the dirt and twigs clinging to his jacket. The only recompense of being too poor to hire the services of a valet, he decided, was that when he arrived home in utter disarray and ruin, he didn't have to endure the requisite dismay and scolding from some fustian fellow. Though if he stayed much longer in Bramley Hollow, he wouldn't have much of a wardrobe to speak of, let alone tend.

"If you would just heed my advice—" she was saying.

"Such as?"

"Go back to London."

Rafe took a step closer to her. "Not until you admit you are the woman I want."

Now he had to confess, that statement could have come out better, but once he made his demand, he wondered just exactly
how
he had meant it.

For as the words fell from his lips, she glanced up at him, like a startled doe, shooting him one of those glances, the fey sort that caught him unaware—her lips parting slightly as if she wanted both to deny his request and respond most willingly. Suddenly he saw her, her red hair unbound and her lips offering another answer.