It Takes a Hero (2 page)

Who had Lady Tottley invited that had Crumpton in such a state?

They didn't wait long to find out, for a few moments later the door opened a second time, swinging inward in defiance to the soft, hallowed confines of this oh, so very feminine sanctuary.

As their savior entered, filling first the doorway, and then, in many ways, the room with his long-legged stride and wide shoulders, there was a soft echo of gasps and even a few sighs at the sight of this all-too-infamous man.

His dark gaze sped around the room, examining and discarding a hasty inventory of property and persons as if he suspected that danger lurked close at hand.

Not that the man wasn't receiving the same detailed inspection from every woman in the room. It wasn't his fashionable dress that caught their attention, for he wasn't wearing anything of note other than plain buff breeches, scuffed and stained boots, and a black worsted jacket.

No, it was the man beneath the plain and unnoticeable wrappings that couldn't be so easily hidden.

And what a man he was.

A hairsbreadth past thirty, Raphael Danvers stood well over six feet tall and his presence left no one in doubt that he was a man in his prime. Oh, he may have gained his proper English name and citizenship from his illustrious father, Baron Danvers, but his dark mien and rakishly foreign good looks spoke of thousands of years of Spanish nobility—hawkish, penetrating eyes, a jaw line hammered and tempered from a Castilian forge, and a masculine fire that emanated from him like the unforgiving Iberian sun.

Since his return from the Peninsular wars, there hadn't been a happily married, matronly, or thankfully widowed woman in London who hadn't wondered what it would be like to bask beneath his raw, untamed heat, strip the unfashionable clothes from his muscled body and see just how unacceptable Rafe Danvers could be.

And to Mr. Danvers' credit, he was inclined to indulge them.

"My lady," he said, nodding his head slightly to the countess.

She should have been miffed that he hadn't managed a decent bow, but she knew, like most everyone else, that Rafe's long years at war and unconventional upbringing had not garnered a healthy respect for his betters. Besides, at present, she was doing her best to set aside her own decadent notions of a deserted hunting lodge, ten foot snow drifts, and Rafe wearing only a…

"Ma'am?" he asked, an impatient edge to his query.

Malvina took a deep breath and cleared away her wayward thoughts. "Yes, Mr. Danvers, quite on time," she managed, waving her hand at the only available chair. "Please, sit. I have need of your assistance with a most distressing matter."

"Malvina, you don't mean to…" This outburst came from her old friend, Harriet Bittleman, the Marchioness of Funtley. From the look of shock and dismay on Harriet's face, it was obvious she'd deduced the countess's plans. Furthermore, she'd also gauged the scandal that would embroil them all if anyone, especially their husbands, discovered what they were about to do. "Do you realize what will become of us, of our daughters, if anyone learns that we've… we've…"

"Yes, I do," Malvina said, snapping her fan shut and tossing it down on the elegant side table at her elbow. "But I will not stand idly by while our long years of toil are ruined. I will see my Lucinda married, and I care not by what means." She shot a meaningful glance at the others, one that cowed them all into considering a far more shameful future—one that had them being trailed for the remainder of their years by a bevy of spinster daughters.

"Uh-hum," Mr. Danvers said, venturing a polite cough into the tense room, before he rose to his feet. "Did you say 'marriage'? Now look here, I'm not going to be bartered away like some—"

"Sit down, sir," Malvina told him.

It was rumored that Rafe Danvers had fought side by side with the Spanish guerillas during the war, that he'd partaken in skirmishes so dangerous, so gruesome, that nothing could frighten the man.

Obviously he'd never entered into an altercation against Lady Tottley.

"I'm not in the business of—" he began to argue.

"I said
sit
, sir!" Malvina ordered.

Not even a unit of French sharpshooters could match the countess's ruthless intent when she'd set her mind to something. So when she issued her sharp retort, Rafe dropped to his seat as if ducking enemy fire.

"Now," the lady said, "I would ask you to hear what I have to say before you dismiss our proposal."

Mr. Danvers crossed his arms over his chest and heaved a sigh, one that suggested his patience was barely contained and that not even the countess's legendary ire was going to hold him for long.

"Have you heard of the troubles?" she asked.

He shook his head.

She took a deep breath and added, "With this season's debutantes?"

He shrugged off this bit of information. "As you may be aware, my lady, I don't spend much time in society."

"Oh, sir," Lady Funtley enthused. "You haven't heard what happened last week at Almack's?"

Again his dark head gave a slight, insolent toss.

"No?" she asked. "I don't know how you couldn't have heard about it."

The other women joined in, offering their own
on dits
.

"The ballroom was empty, mind you, empty…"

"Refuses to wear anything but mourning…"

"And then there was the duel—" one of them offered.

Mr. Danvers latched onto that piece of gossip as if it were a lifeline out of the cacophony. "Oh, yes. The duel between those two foolish chits. I did hear something about that nonsense."

"Nonsense?" Malvina said. "Hardly nonsense. They could have been killed. All over whether or not this wretched Miss Darby will be wearing full mourning or half mourning by next Season."

"Why didn't they just ask Miss Darby?" he ventured, shifting in his seat, one scuffed and stained boot after the other stuck out in front of him.

"Ask Miss Darby?" Lady Funtley repeated as if she hadn't heard him correctly. "Ask her, you say? Why that is droll, sir!"

His dark brows drew together. "No, I'm serious. Why didn't they just ask this Darby gel and be done with it?"

This left Lady Funtley so flustered, she fell into an unprecedented silence.

"They didn't ask the lady in question," Malvina explained, "because she doesn't exist. She is a mere fiction, a character in a spate of heinous novels. And it's because she does not exist that she must be stopped. Don't you see, sir, you must see her influence put to an end. Immediately."

This explanation only left his brows furrowed deeper, as he tried to fathom how some fictional character could be behind the ruin of everything these ladies held dear. Or that he had a hope in hell there was a shred of sanity between the entire lot of them.

He rose again. "My lady, I can see that this situation weighs heavily on you and your friends, but I have far more important obligations to attend to than chasing after figments and fancies."

Malvina rose as well. "This figment, as you so blithely put it, is bent on ruining the very fiber of English society."

"Lady Tottley," he said, slowly and calmly, "I don't see that society is in any danger. Least of all here in Mayfair. Besides, I can't take on any more cases right now. My current obligations are far too pressing."

"Yes, yes. Codlin's misfortunate accident," she said, waving her hand dismissively as if they were discussing what color gloves to wear, not the most grisly murder London had seen in fifty years.

The other ladies, at the mention of the incident, weren't so unmoved. Most looked away and several drew delicate lace handkerchiefs to their now pale lips.

"I don't consider a man being gutted like a mackerel as
accidental
." He paused for a moment, ignoring the gasps around the room, his eyes narrowing to two dark slits. "The investigation into Sir Rodney's
murder
is far too important for me to be wasting my time here." He went to excuse himself, but Malvina blocked his path.

"I don't see how some nabob's indecent passing matters all that much," Malvina told him. "
Sir
Rodney, indeed! Codlin's elevation last year was an abhorrence. Really, Mr. Danvers, the man is dead. There isn't much you can do for him now."

"I doubt he would share your opinion, my lady." A wry smile twisted at his lips. "My talents lie in solving problems, my lady. Real problems. Living, breathing ones. Or at least ones that drew a breath at some time. Now if you don't mind, I bid you good day."

He started for the door, weaving through the crowded room like a man dodging out of the way of a wayward mail coach.

Malvina nodded at Lady Funtley, who immediately rose and stepped into Mr. Danvers' oncoming path.

He skidded to a stop but not before he nearly toppled into the brave marchioness.

Lady Funtley reached for his arm to steady herself, and when her fingers wound around his sleeve, her eyes widened at what must have been the heat and strength to be discovered beneath. "Oh, my," she managed to say.

Every lady in the room knew what she meant. And every woman envied her the experience.

"You will be compensated, Mr. Danvers," Malvina told him as he attempted to shake a determined Lady Funtley from his arm. "
Well
compensated."

"I doubt even
your
pin money, my lady," he said, "could begin to cover my fees. The East India Company is offering a thousand pounds for the discovery of Sir Rodney's murderer and I intend to collect that reward."

"I wasn't talking about money, sir," she said. "I was speaking of something more valuable."

At this intriguing bit, Mr. Danvers found the wherewithal to extract himself from Lady Funtley.

Malvina stared directly into his dark gaze and was pleased to spy a flicker of interest in the man's eyes. In the past fortnight, she'd gleaned every bit of information she could about Raphael Danvers and she suspected she possessed the one thing that could induce him to help her, help all of them.

"A house," she said simply. "With land and income. The deed is yours if you uncover the author of this havoc. And more importantly, see that this M. Briggs never puts pen to paper again."

Brantley Hollow, Kent

A fortnight later

"I won't do it," Cochrane said. "No, sir, I won't do it."

Raphael Danvers glanced over at his assistant, then nodded his head in the direction of the quaint little village in the valley beyond. "Come now, Cochrane, I thought you were braver than that. It's just a village. Hardly even that. You've gone into the worst rat infested corners of Seven Dials for Pymm but this—" Rafe waved his hand at the view. "This frightens you?"

The young man nodded vehemently.

Rafe took another tack. "I hear tell the inn serves the finest beef pie in all of Kent." Honestly, he had no idea if Bramley Hollow even had an inn, but if there was one thing his newly inherited assistant didn't fear it was his next meal.

Cochrane bit his lip and eyed the village anew. Yet, after a few moments he shook his head. Apparently, not even his unrelenting appetite was enough to prod him into entering the infamous matchmaking village of Bramley Hollow.

"I promise I won't let you be wed against your will," Rafe told him.

The lad didn't look the least bit convinced. "I hear tell it happens afore you know it. One minute you are asleep in your bed and the next—you wake up married with a houseful of mouths to feed."

"As long as they haven't your stomach to fill, you should be fine." Rafe nudged his horse forward and a few moments later smiled to himself when he heard the young man let out a long sigh and follow.

Cochrane had previously been employed by Mr. Pymm, the Foreign Office's legendary spymaster. But with peace now at hand and Napoleon securely locked away on St. Helena, Pymm had finally gained his ever-sought-after retirement. With nary a glance back at Whitehall, Pymm had packed his bags and left London, though not before he'd sent Cochrane over to Rafe's lodgings—instructing Danvers to take the sixteen-year-old lad under his wing and see that the boy gained some gentlemanly manners.

Not that Rafe knew much about being a gentleman, or how he was going to keep the still-growing adolescent in potpies and shoes.

He suspected the infamously parsimonious Pymm had sent Cochrane into his care so as not to be beggared by the boy's rapacious appetite.

"We could be in London," Cochrane grumbled. "Finding Codlin's killer and eatin' a decent meal."

Rafe had to agree with Cochrane, he'd rather be back in town. He'd been dead set against Lady Tottley's offer. The house was probably a tumble down wreck and what did he care if the Marriage Mart had been declared officially closed for the Season?

Say he did find this
Darby
author and put everything to rights? He'd be run out of town by every unmarried man in London for ruining what was turning out to be the Season of the century.

Yet here he was, traipsing down this nearly forgotten country road in search of Lady Tottley's villainous author.

In his defense, he would have stuck to his first reply to her offer, an unhesitant "No!" if Lady Tottley hadn't then gone to Georgiana, Lady Danvers, his illustrious sister-in-law, and complained vehemently about his refusal to help.

Now Rafe loved Colin's wife, Georgie, but damnation she had a way about her that was more interfering than an excise man. As it turned out, Georgie was in a fine state over the entire problem for it seemed their daughter Chloe was being just as stubborn about this
Darby
mess as Lady Lucinda Witherspoon.

To Rafe's credit, he'd held strong against Georgie's pleas and admonitions, until she'd demanded a family convocation.

Rafe hated family convocations. They usually involved a long table with his brothers and their wives at one end, him at the other and a lot of arguing.

Hardly his idea of an evening well-spent.

He much preferred the lively pursuit of an eventually willing lady, a hackney waiting to take him home before she got any further ideas about him staying the night, and once home, a good bottle of port ready for his indulgent hand to pull the cork and measure out a healthy dose.