It Takes a Hero (3 page)

No, instead, he'd squandered a perfectly good Thursday night listening to the Danvers' wives threatening him with all sorts of invitations, escorting Chloe all around town, not only at night, but during the day when he was more inclined to be sleeping.

At this rate he'd never get any work done—pleasurable or rent paying.

So in a moment of utter desperation, he'd agreed to solve Lady Tottley's case, if only to regain his blessed independence from female interference.

If there was a blessing to this case, Rafe decided, he'd gotten a good day's ride out of the bargain. In Spain, he'd spent weeks at a time in the saddle, scouting and hunting French troops. He missed the freedom of the open country, something London and his work afforded him little time to enjoy.

"I've no mind to find myself married," Cochrane was repeating.

"Then I promise I'll keep you well out of the matchmaker's way." As Rafe intended to do for himself as well. "But into Bramley Hollow we must go, and Bramley Hollow we shall brave."

To locate the elusive author, Rafe had gone to the publisher, Ahey and Sons, to ask for directions to M. Briggs, but the esteemed Mr. Ahey had laughed outright at such a request. Undeterred, Rafe and Cochrane spent the next week frequenting the inn favored by the man's overworked and underpaid apprentices, and one night had treated the lot of them to a feast of beef steaks and bottomless tankards of ale. Before midnight, they'd had the directions that Mr. Ahey had declared "absolutely unavailable."

And as luck would have it, the property that Lady Tottley had offered him wasn't that far afield from the little village of Bramley Hollow, so Rafe would be able to assess his payment and make good his promise to Lady Tottley to see the author properly persuaded to give up his profession.

"I heard tell last night," Cochrane said, "that the East India Company upped their reward for finding Codlin's killer to two thousand pounds." The boy whistled. "You could pay the rent with that kind of blunt. You know, so we wouldn't have to duck out the back all the time."

Rafe ignored the jab about his less than reliable finances and got to the point. "Where did you hear about the East India offer?"

"I just 'eard it," the boy said, shrugging his shoulders and suddenly gaining a new appreciation for the scenery as if he'd never seen a tree in his life.

Rafe made a note to keep better track of the boy's whereabouts. He could get into trouble wandering about London alone at night. Not that that had probably ever given Pymm a moment's pause.

"Is this house you get worth more than two thousand pounds?"

"Most likely."

This seemed to cheer up Cochrane, though not enough to dampen his suspicious nature. "Don't you think it's rather a generous offer, giving you a house and all, when all we've got to do is to find some bloke and break his arms so he can't write?"

"Cochrane!" Rafe sputtered. "We aren't in the business of breaking people's arms. We solve problems. Discreetly, professionally."

"Like you did that Lord Harold last month?"

Rafe sighed. He would have to bring up that case.

Lord Harold, a worthless sot if ever there was one, had been attending house parties and using his hosts' homes as a playground for pilfering—stealing silver and other small items of value to pay off his gambling debts. His family, notably his brother, the Marquess of Carston, had wanted to avoid scandal at any cost, as had Lord Harold's equally well-heeled victims.

Rafe and Cochrane had caught up with the unrepentant thief in Surrey about to leave a party with his pockets and trunks stuffed with his latest plunder. Instead, they'd seen the goods returned and "escorted" the young wastrel to the coast where passage had been booked by his brother for a one-way trip to the lonely reaches of Halifax.

Needless to say, Lord Harold hadn't taken to this turn of events all that willingly, and Rafe had finally planted a facer to end the young man's caterwauling and whining.

"Lord Harold was the exception," Rafe said.

"What about that fellow who was beating up the girls at Madame Rochelle's? Or that bloke who thought he could run away with the viscount's daughter? You gave them a bit of the business, didn't you?"

"They both needed a little more attention, that's all," Rafe admitted, wondering if these were the sort of moral lessons that Pymm had intended Cochrane to gain under his tutelage.

Then he shot a second, more narrowed glance over at his assistant. "What do you know about Madame Rochelle's?"

The boy shrugged. "You sent me there last week." Again his interest in English flora rose to new heights as he intently studied the passing hedge.

Wait just a damn moment
, Rafe thought. Sent his assistant to Madame Rochelle's? "I did no such thing," he countered.

"Yes, you did. You said quite specifically to go around and collect our late accounts and so I did."

"Madame Rochelle's account wasn't late," Rafe pointed out as they rounded a corner and came within sight of the village.

"It's paid in full now." Cochrane grinned, then he nudged his horse and raced the last length into town leaving a groaning Rafe behind.

While he was less than bemused with the idea of Cochrane at Madame Rochelle's, at least he wouldn't have to give the lad the talk he'd been meaning to. One Pymm had alluded to in his instructions as "explain to the boy the necessary evils of women and keep him free of pox."

Rafe made a note to himself that from now on he'd take care of unpaid accounts and leave Cochrane behind to do the paperwork.

Beneath him, his horse pranced and sidestepped, as if it too were reluctant to enter the notorious little hamlet. Reaching down, he patted the high-strung animal and spoke softly in Spanish to it as his grandfather had taught him, then nudged the soothed beast forward.

Bramley Hollow seemed at first glance like any other English village—well tended, if not sleepy by London standards, but Rafe, like Cochrane, knew this village was unique in that it boasted a matchmaker, and had kept one at the ready for hopeless spinsters and wayward and unwitting men for over a thousand years. It was enough of a reputation that most avowed bachelors gave Bramley Hollow a wide berth.

Cochrane looked around the respectable little cottages and shops as if he'd just been dropped in the middle of a savage village and was ready to take flight at the least provocation from the matrimonial minded natives.

"How are we going to find this Briggs fellow?" he asked. Cochrane shared Lady Tottley's opinion that the
Darby
author was a man.

Rafe wasn't so convinced. After the family convocation, Georgie had pressed the four volumes of
Miss Darby's
novels into his hands and told him to read them. He'd scoffed at the idea, but out of curiosity, and because he was currently between mistresses, he had picked up the first book and begun reading.

There on the pages of a book, Rafe discovered something, someone who left him intrigued.

Miss Darby.

From her headstrong ways to her fearless devotion, Rafe was captivated by this figment of a fervent imagination. Not that such a woman could ever exist in real life, but time and time again, he found himself wondering what it would be like to encounter such a lady.

And there were also clues to be found within the binding of the slim volume. The independent and outspoken heroine might have been created by a man, but Rafe knew women. He'd loved enough of them to have an inkling of their unspoken desires and this Miss Darby clamored of long-held hopes and undeclared dreams.

No, in his estimation the author was most likely some bluestocking with stars in her eyes, living out her dreary life through Miss Darby's adventures. The type of chaste lady who'd never caught a man's eyes, let alone a stolen kiss, and would consider that insufferable bore, Lt. Throckmorten, a fine catch. Oh, yes, they'd find the lady with her twelve cats at hand, dreaming of a life that had passed her by.

And with a bit of his notorious charm and a warning hint as to how ruinous the lofty Lady Tottley's ire could be, the spinster's pen would be tucked away for years to come.

"This fellow isn't going to want to be found," Cochrane said. "We could be stuck here for days." That prospect had him looking longingly over his shoulder toward London.

"We'll ask at the inn to start."

This caught Cochrane's attention. "The one with the pies?"

Rafe laughed. "Business first, pies later."

"Don't see how we are supposed to break arms on an empty stomach," he grumbled.

"We aren't going to break any limbs."

They continued riding into town when a sign caught Rafe's eye.

ROYAL POST OFFICE

THADDEUS STONE, POSTAL MASTER

Rafe grinned. Now here was a bit of luck. This Mr. Stone would be just the person to help them, without having to bribe an innkeeper for directions. This would save what few coins he did have, especially now that Cochrane had apparently used the Rochelle payment for purposes other than rent.

He reined to a stop and told the lad to wait for him as he entered the post office.

To his chagrin there was a customer inside, a woman chatting to the young lady behind the counter. He looked around for the postmaster, but saw no one other than the pair of females before him.

This could either work to his advantage or…

"Oh, Miss Tate, you must do something about the colonel. You simply must," the postmistress was saying. "Everyone is talking about the other night."

Miss Tate's bonnet shook furiously. "What do you want me to do, send him—"

The female chatter ended abruptly as the postmistress looked up from her gossip, her mouth falling open. Then she gave her friend a warning shake of her head.

Rafe shifted from one foot to the other, then doffed his hat. "Good day," he offered, adding a smile meant to leave both of them weak in the knees.

The woman behind the counter shot him a quick narrowed glance and then moved closer to her friend.

Then Miss Tate turned around.

From behind, she had looked like the typical country mouse, in her plain brown bonnet and nondescript gown, market basket in hand. But as she first shot a glance over her shoulder and then slowly spun on one heel, he found himself wondering, but for a second, if he'd just discovered his very own Miss Darby.

«
^
»

Remember me when I am gone with a nosegay of forget-me-nots and fond regrets… Oh, and, father, don't let that odious Cecilia Overton talk you into giving her my best blue bonnet.

Her chin is far too pointed to wear it to advantage.

Miss Darby (while in the throes of fever)

to her father, Colonel Darby

in
Miss Darby's Darkest Hour

A
s quickly as Rafe found himself transfixed by the lady before him, he realized how wrong he'd been. For up close, Miss Tate did not possess the qualities of the imaginary Miss Darby, but she did exhibit nearly every trait on his list of potential suspects:

1.  The lady was obviously a spinster. There was no first blush on her cheek, no dewy light to her eyes like some Bath miss fresh from school.

2. In her market basket was a book, which a quick glance revealed as Sir John Sutton's
Translations of Early Latin
. The lady was a bluestocking of the first order. Early Latin? What lady read such stuff?

3.  Her pinched lips and the set of her jaw was enough to
scare off any man who might consider the temptation of stealing a kiss—even that insipid Throckmorten.

The only thing missing was the horde of cats at her skirts, mewing for the cream and bits of chicken she indulged them with on a daily basis.

She made a polite cough, and it was then that Rafe realized he'd been caught staring at her, gawking if he was honest about it.

And he would have stopped if he hadn't looked into her eyes and found himself captured anew. They were so very blue, a color that reminded him of the warm and sultry Mediterranean. And even more, they sparkled with mischief and intelligence, a dangerous combination in any woman.

Her brows rose slightly as he looked at her, as if to say she was compiling his attributes as well. But what her estimation of him was, he couldn't tell, for not a hint of interest filled her blue eyes.

No interest? Rafe felt his rakish reputation tarnish ever so slightly, and he didn't like it in the least.

In fact, it was as if she'd dismissed him without a second thought. The last time he'd been so summarily dismissed by a woman he'd been twelve.

"May I help you?" the postmistress asked.

"I'm looking for someone," he said, moving forward, slanting another glance at this imperious Miss Tate to see if perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him.

If she had been disinterested in him before, her attention was now focused on her fingernails and she'd completely missed his attempt to undermine her indifference.

"Oh," the postmistress said, sounding relieved. She shared a bemused glance with her friend. "Yes, I should have known." She pointed down the street. "First lane after the pair of dovecots. Esme's cottage isn't hard to miss. Her door is painted bright blue."

"Esme Briggs?" he asked, wondering how the lady knew who he was looking for without even asking.

She shook her head. "No, sir. Esme Maguire. The matchmaker."

The matchmaker?

Cochrane's worst fears were about to be realized.

Rafe shook his head. Probably a little too adamantly. "No! No! I'm not looking for the matchmaker," he told her, his hands waving in front of him.

"You aren't?" she asked, a little surprised.

"No!" he said. "Certainly not."

"Then whom, sir, are you looking for?" This question came from Miss Tate. Her query startled him out of his reverie, and then he realized something else about her. Her words weren't formed with the strict tones of an English lady, but held a lilt to them that whispered with an odd note like exotic spices on the nose.