Chapter 4
Four
Davenport winced as the sunlight struck his face.
He turned his face to escape the piercing rays and groaned as the movement provoked a dull throbbing at his temples.
Then it slowly occurred to him that the sun never came into his bedchamber at such an angle.
He reluctantly pried one eye open and took in the carved fireplace, now cold with gray ashes, the oak bookcases…
Ah, that explained it. He had never made it to his bed last night.
Grimacing, Davenport struggled into a sitting position. The couch had been deucedly uncomfortable on his back, but that part of his anatomy wasn’t aching nearly as much as his head. He spied two empty bottles on the rug and a third one, nearly gone, on the table next to the stump of a candle.
Muttering a low oath, he swung his feet to the carpet. Ye gods, he hadn’t even removed his muddy boots.
Raking a hand through his tangled hair, the earl glanced at the tall case clock. It was barely five thirty in the morning. Jarrett was to arrive for their meeting at nine.
“Bloody hell.” He brushed his palm over the rough stubble on his chin. He must have looked as awful as he felt. A breath of fresh air would no doubt help to clear his head. There would, he decided, be plenty of time after a ride for a bath and a shave.
Davenport rose, and despite being a trifle unsteady on his feet, he managed to pull on his coat. At least the unwrinkled garment looked marginally better than the rest of him.
Not that it mattered.
There wouldn’t be a soul abroad to take in his shocking state of dishevelment at this hour, not along the path he intended to ride.
* * *
The wind did indeed slap some life back into him, though his horse’s spirited gallop caused his queasy stomach to give a lurch or two. After a short interval, the earl eased the big stallion to a sedate walk, then smiled as the animal tossed his head in disgust at being denied his usual distance.
“Easy, Nero,” he said, with a calming pat. “I promise to give you your head later today.”
The horse snorted in reply, then suddenly shied.
Davenport let out an oath as his stomach gave another unpleasant heave. “Behave yourself,” he grumbled, tightening the reins.
The horse pranced back, and suddenly Davenport could see what was making his mount behave so skittishly.
“Hell’s teeth,” he exclaimed as he quickly dismounted and knelt by the woman who was lying on the muddy path. He gently turned her over and placed a finger on the side of her neck. There was a pulse, so she was alive. But she looked in far worse shape than he did.
The woman slowly stirred and gave a low moan as her eyes fluttered open. Her gaze widened as she stared at his face…
No doubt he didn’t present a very reassuring sight, thought Davenport, with his bloodshot eyes, unshaven face and a wild tangle of raven hair that was nearly brushing the shoulders of his worn coat—
Letting out a weak yelp, she coiled a fist and hit him square on the nose.
“Ouch!” Davenport fell back on his rump. Fishing out a rumpled handkerchief from his coat pocket, he pressed it to his bleeding nostrils. “Who the hell taught you to throw a punch like that?” he demanded in a muffled voice as he righted himself but took the precaution of staying out of arm’s reach.
There was no answer.
“If you’re bamming me and mean to plant me another facer, I won’t be pleased,” he warned as he inched closer. “I’m merely trying to be a gentleman and offer some assistance.”
Her eyes were closed, and she didn’t move.
Davenport took in the darkening bruises, scratches and nasty cut on her forehead. His lips tightened. “It’s no wonder that you’re trying to flee from the brute who did this to you,” he muttered as he gathered her in his arms and remounted his horse.
The day, which had started badly enough, appeared to be getting much worse.
* * *
“Look, there it be—down at the bottom, wedged between the rocks. Do ye see it?”
The elegantly dressed gentleman craned his neck to peer down into the ravine.
“Ain’t nubbody gonna walk away from that,” piped up the third man in the group as he shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot.
The gentleman said nothing. He stepped off the ledge and picked his way a short distance down the overgrown slope, stopping to steady himself against a scraggly beech tree.
“Ain’t nubbody gonna notice them down there neither, leastways not for months.” The man who had spoken first wet his lips. “Yer gonna give the rest of the blunt now, ain’t ye? They’re dead, and that’s what ye said ye wanted.”
The gentleman scrambled back up to the road.
He reached into his voluminous cape and withdrew a heavy leather pouch, which he tossed at the feet of his two companions.
They fell to their knees in their eagerness to retrieve it, nearly knocking heads.
But their hands froze as two quick shots rang out.
Slowly, each pitched forward into the mud.
“You’re right—no one will see the bodies down there for months,” he repeated softly as he tucked his two smoking pistols back into his pockets.
Removing his cape, he dragged the bodies over to the edge of the ravine and sent them tumbling down into the underbrush. Satisfied that nothing suspicious was visible from the road, he brushed some smudges of mud from his clothes with a grimace of distaste and retrieved his outer garment.
He knew a nearby ostler who would be happy to handle the sale of two horses, no questions asked. Then he could return and take a closer look down in the ravine. The woman might have been dead, as the two highwaymen had claimed, but they had badly bungled the job.
The packet of government papers.
He had risked too much to have it now elude his grasp. He would have it—no matter what.
* * *
This time, when Caroline opened her eyes, the face she saw was not nearly so disreputable looking.
The eyes weren’t hazed with brandy but flashed with a clear hazel color as they narrowed in concern.
A full beard, flecked liberally with gray, obscured the man’s other features, save for a long, hooked nose.
“She is awake.” The man turned to speak to someone else in the room.
Caroline vaguely recalled being taught by her governess how many bones were in the human body.
It was quite a large number—and every single one of hers seemed to hurt abominably.
At least, she noted, she was no longer lying on hard ground but in a blessedly soft bed, with an eiderdown coverlet pulled up over her.
Then, suddenly, as she became more fully conscious, the memories of the past few days came flooding back.
“My clothes!” She tried to raise her head but fell back with a gasp.
“Easy now, miss.” The man turned back to her. “Don’t try to move. You’ve taken a nasty blow to the head.”
Ignoring the advice, Caroline tried to sit up again, but he gently held her shoulders down.
“There’s no need to be alarmed, miss. Your dress and, er, other garments are right here. Mrs. Collins has placed them over a chair to dry.”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I am Dr. Laskins…”
Another voice interrupted the physician. “The more appropriate question is, who are you?”
Caroline couldn’t see the speaker. She ignored the question. “How did I get here? The last thing I remember is being accosted by some ruffian. I fought him off…”
A low chuckle sounded. “Indeed, Laskins is treating two patients this morning. His verdict is that I shall survive. Your condition, however, is causing him a bit more concern.”
As the speaker stepped forward and leaned over her, she saw that his eyes were no longer bloodshot, which only emphasized the startling depth of their sapphire color.
His cheeks were freshly shaven, revealing a lean, strong jaw and chin whose squareness was broken only by a slight cleft in the middle.
As for the chiseled lips, they were curved in a hint of a smile…
Though not nearly as close as during their first encounter, it was indeed the same face—Caroline recognized the small hairline scar that ran along the cheekbone, the only subtle flaw in an otherwise dashingly handsome visage.
“I’m Davenport,” he added. “Let me inquire once again—who are you?”
Caroline closed her eyes, resolved to say nothing until she had had time to think more clearly.
“Milord, the young lady has suffered a severe blow to the head. Let us not tax her until she feels strong enough to speak,” counseled the physician. “The important thing is for her to rest. The laudanum will soon be taking effect, and that should dull the pain she must be in.”
Caroline did feel a pleasant wooziness creeping over her. Stay mum, she urged herself. But she couldn’t help it. One eye flicked open, taking in the gentleman’s rough flaxen shirt and worn jacket. “A lord,” she mumbled. “You must be joking. Looks more like a…a farmhand.”
Davenport gave a short laugh. “You have the right of it there, my mysterious stranger. I’m nought but a farmer. Which reminds me, I have a meeting with my steward. So, as you advise, Laskins, we will postpone any further questions until later.”
Dr. Laskins closed his portmanteau. “I shall return this afternoon. She should be more alert by then.”
Caroline certainly hoped so. She needed all her wits about her to decide what to do next.
* * *
The Duke of Cheviot paced up and down beside the command tent, heedless of the thick mud that was working its way up his tall Hessians.
In the distance, the dull thuds of cannon fire reverberated in the hills.
A military aide rushed out of the tent, quickly mounted a big chestnut stallion and urged the animal into a full gallop.
He was followed by an older gentleman whose bearing, as well as his uniform, marked him as the officer in command.
“General…” began the duke.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, your group must move out with us. The lines to the north have been cut off.”
“But I must return to London! It is a matter of the utmost urgency, I assure you.”