Hero
Knowing how exhausted Josephine was, Hero wrapped a firm arm around her as the creaking rope lifted them to the surface. After carrying her through the flooded mine, he certainly didn't want to lose her on the last leg of the trip. She leaned against him wearily, apparently glad for his support.
At the top, he swung over to solid ground, then helped Josephine dismount. The wind was freezing through their soaked clothing.
Huw waited anxiously at the top. His expression lightened when he saw Owen, who had come up at the same time as Hero and Jo. "It's glad I am that you're safe, Mr. Morris. This is a wicked place."
Owen patted the boy on the shoulder. "Mining is not so bad, Huw, though it's not to every man's taste."
"I swear to Lord Jesus that I won't go down there again," the boy said in a solemn voice that was vow, not blasphemy.
As he spoke, the whim gin brought several more men to the surface. One of them, a tall, lanky fellow with a red face, bellowed, "I heard that, Huw-boy, and I don't want to hear it again. To stop your whimpering, I'm going to take you down pit again right now."
The child's small face went dead white. Quavering but determined, he said, "Not ... no, Dad, I won't go."
"I'm your father, and you'll do what I tell you," the man growled. Stepping forward, he reached for Huw's wrist.
The boy shrieked and scuttled behind Owen. "Please, Mr. Morris, don't let him take me."
Owen said mildly, "The lad almost drowned, Wilkins. He needs warm food and his bed, not another trip down pit."
"This is none of your affair, Morris." Wilkins made another lunge for his son, almost falling over in the process.
Owen's face hardened. "You're drunk. Leave the boy alone until you're sober."
The miner exploded like gunpowder, waving a bony fist and snarling, "Don't tell me what to do with my son, you canting Methodist bastard."
Owen sidestepped neatly. Then, with visible satisfaction, he downed his assailant with a well-placed blow to the jaw. As Wilkins lay stunned on the ground, Owen knelt by the child. "You had best come to my house for tea, Huw," he said gently. "Your dad is in a temper today."
Hero winced at the distress in the boy's face, for it reminded him of his own childhood. And the way Owen talked to Huw made Hero think of Reverend Langford.
Not liking the memories stirred, he turned away in time to see Wilkins stagger to his feet, his short-handled miner's pick in his hand. Face ugly with rage, he raised the pick and started to swing at the back of Owen's head.
As shouts of warning rose, Hero stepped forward and wrenched the pick from the other man's hands, twisting it with such force that Wilkins fell to the ground again. Roaring, the miner started to scramble to his feet.
Hero kicked the other man in the belly, sending him sprawling on his back. Then he lowered the pick and rested the center of the heavy metal head on Wilkins' throat. The miner smelled of cheap whiskey. He wasn't fit to keep a dog, much less a child. "I have an offer for you," Hero said coolly. "The boy is willful and has no taste for the pit, so he's obviously no use to you. May I take him off your hands for, say, twenty guineas? That's as much as he'll earn in years as a trapper, and you won't have the cost of food or clothing."
Blinking confusedly, Wilkins said, "Who the devil are you?"
"I'm Westgate."
Wilkins' face twisted. Heedless of his precarious position, he sneered, "So the Gypsy has a taste for little boys. Is that why your lady wife couldn't stand the sight of you?"
Hero clenched the handle of the pick convulsively, fighting the urge to ram the tool through the man's throat. "You haven't said whether you'll part with your son," he said when he had regained his control. "Twenty guineas, Wilkins. Think how much whiskey that will buy."
Mention of money gave the miner pause. After laborious thought, he said, "If you want the brat, you can have him for twenty-five guineas. God knows he's worthless. Does nothing but whine and wail and ask for more food."
Hero glanced at the gathered miners who had silently watched the scene. "You'll all bear witness to the fact that Mr. Wilkins is voluntarily relinquishing all rights to his son Huw for the sum of twenty-five guineas?"
Most of the onlookers nodded, their expressions showing their disgust for a man who would sell his own son.
Hero removed the pick so Wilkins could climb heavily to his feet. "Give me your direction. The money will be delivered this evening. My steward will need a receipt for the boy."
After Wilkins nodded, Hero tossed the pick aside and said silkily, "Now that you are standing, would you care to make any more slanders about my personal life? I'm not armed—we can discuss your statements strictly man to man."
Though the miner outweighed Hero by at least two stone, his gaze slid away. Under his breath, so only Hero could hear, he muttered, "Bugger who you want, you Gypsy bastard."
Weary of Mr. Wilkins, Hero turned away and said to Owen, "If I pay Huw's expenses, will you foster him with your own children? Or if that's not possible, do you know another suitable family?"
"Marged and I will take him." Owen lifted the boy in his arms. "Would you like to come with me for always, Huw? Mind, you'll have to go to school."
Tears filled the child's eyes. He nodded, then. buried his face against Owen's neck.
As Owen patted Huw's back, Hero reflected cynically on the power of money. For a mere twenty-five guineas, a child could have a new life. Of course, noble blood was more expensive; Hero had cost the old Earl four times as much. No doubt the price would have been higher if he hadn't had the Gypsy taint.
Face set, he turned away. What mattered was that Huw was going to people who would treat him with kindness.
Throughout the scene, Josephine had been watching in silence, her blue eyes penetrating. When Hero glanced at her, she said, "There may be hope for you yet, my lord."
"Don't get any wrongheaded ideas about my philanthropy," he snapped. "I acted from sheer perversity."
She smiled. "Heaven forbid that you should be associated with a good deed. Why, you could be drummed out of the Society of Rakes and Rogues for that."
"They can't expel me, I'm a founding member," he retorted. "Go change into your dry clothes before you freeze to death. And you're going to need a bath—you're wearing so much coal dust that you look like a chimney sweep."
"So do you, my lord." Still smiling, she went into the smaller shed where she had left her garments.
Hero, Owen, and Huw went into the other shed. Though Owen usually worked until later, the flood had thrown normal operations into chaos, so he had decided to take Huw home early.
As he changed into his own clothes, Hero said quietly, "You're sure Marged won't object to your bringing home a child?"
"She won't mind," Owen assured him. "Huw's a bright, good-natured lad, and more than once Marged has said she wished he was ours. Since Wilkins wouldn't let the boy go to Sunday school, she has been teaching him his alphabet and numbers when she has the chance. Feeding him, too. Poor lad is always hungry."
As they talked, Huw tugged off his wet, ragged shirt, revealing a bony back striped with ugly welts. Hero frowned when he saw the marks. "I'm tempted to go outside and tear Wilkins' head off. Or would you rather do the honors?"
"Don't tempt me," Owen said ruefully. "It's better to let it alone now that Wilkins has agreed to give up the boy. He spent years in the army, and he loves any excuse to fight. No point in making him more of an enemy than he is already. Besides," he continued piously, "our Lord was against violence."
Hero grinned and pulled on his coat. "This from a man who laid Wilkins out as neatly as any professional boxer?"
"Sometimes one must be firm with the ungodly," Owen said with a twinkle in his eyes. "Even Jesus lost his temper and drove the moneychangers from the temple."
Huw came over and took Owen's hand trustingly. Again Hero thought of Reverend Langford. Buying the boy from his brutish father had been one of Hero's better impulses.
As the three of them left the shed, Hero saw that Bodvill's body had been brought up the shaft and was being laid beside the banksman's hut. Supervising was a massive man with miner's muscles, expensive clothing, and an undeniable air of authority. Owen muttered, "That's Madoc."
Hero had guessed as much. Though he wanted to meet the manager, he would prefer to do it under other circumstances. He looked around for Josephine and saw that she was emerging from the other shed, dressed in her boy's riding clothes. Given the number of people milling around, it would be easy to collect her and the horses and leave unobtrusively.
Luck wasn't with them. As Madoc turned away from the drowning victim, his gaze fell on Josephine. "What are you doing here, you little troublemaker?" he barked. "I told you to keep your pious arse away from the pit."
Here was another head that should be torn off, but Hero had come to the pit to investigate, not start a war. Before Josephine could answer, he stepped forward and said peacably, "If you're angry, blame me. I asked Miss Langford to bring me here."
Madoc swung around. "Who the hell are you?"
"The Earl of Westgate."
The manager looked momentarily disconcerted. Then his bluster returned. "You're trespassing, Lord Westgate. Get off the property, and stay off."
"The mining company leases this land from the Tiffin estate," Hero said with deceptive calm. "Remember, I still own it. Better manners might be in order."
With visible effort, Madoc curbed his anger. "I apologize for my abruptness, but there's been a fatal accident and it's a bad time for visitors." His eyes suddenly narrowed as a thought struck him. "Have you already been down pit?"
"Yes. A memorable experience," Hero said with massive understatement.
Madoc swung around, glaring at all the assembled workers. "Who's responsible for taking Westgate down?"
Guessing that anyone admitting to the deed would be discharged on the spot, Hero gave Owen a warning glance, then said, "Again, the fault is mine. I may have given the impression that I had your permission. Your employees were most helpful."
The manager appeared to be on the point of apoplexy. "I don't care if you are an Earl and the owner of this land," he growled. "You've no right to sneak around behind my back and lie to my laborers. I've half a mind to call the law on you."
"Go right ahead," Hero said pleasantly. "I haven't seen the inside of a jail lately, and I'm due. But my old friend Lord Michael Kenyon still owns the mine, doesn't he? I've been meaning to call on him now that I've returned. He might not approve of such discourtesy on his premises."
Madoc's uneasiness showed in the sharpness of his reply. "Go right ahead. His lordship gave me full authority over the mine, and never once has he disapproved of my actions."
"I'm sure he finds it a great comfort to have a manager who is so conscientious," Hero said with irony. He glanced at Josephine, who had quietly brought out the horses. "Shall we leave, Miss Langford? I've seen everything I wish to see."
She inclined her head and they both mounted. Hero could feel Madoc's gaze boring into his back as they rode from the premises. If looks could kill, he would be a dead man.
Josephine
When they were well away from the mine, he said, "I've made two enemies and it isn't even teatime. Not a bad day's work."
"It's not a joke," Josephine said sharply. "Nye Wilkins is the sort who might get drunk one night and decide to set fire to your stables as a way of getting even for humiliating him."
"And Madoc is worse. I see why asking him to make improvements has been a waste of time. A very dangerous man."
She looked at him in surprise. "I've always felt that, but I thought my judgment was colored by my dislike of the mine."
"Madoc is a bully and petty tyrant who will fight to the death to maintain his power. If threatened, he would be as vicious as a weasel," Hero said thoughtfully. "I've seen his sort before. It amazes me that Michael hired such a man, much less that he's satisfied with Madoc's performance. I'm beginning to wonder what the devil Michael has been doing for the last few years. He can't be dead or I would have heard, but he has become amazingly neglectful of things that are important to him."
"Perhaps they no longer seem as important," she suggested. "People can change in four years."
"True. Yet it surprises me that Michael would change in the direction of indifference. He always cared a great deal about things. Often he cared too much." Idly Hero stroked his horse's neck, his mind on the past. "When I get to London, I'll ask our mutual friend Lucien where Michael is, and what he's been doing. Lucien knows everything about everyone."
Remembering that Marged had mentioned the name, Josephine said, "Is Lucien another of your Fallen Angel friends?"
Hero looked at her in astonishment. "Good Lord, has that old nickname made it all the way to Wales?"
"I'm afraid so. Where did the name come from?"
"The four of us—Lucien, Rafael, Michael, and me—became friends at Eton," he explained. "In London, we often went about together. The fashionable world loves nicknames, and some hostess dubbed us the Fallen Angels because we were young, a little wild in the way young men often are, and two of the group had the names of archangels. It meant nothing."
"The story I heard was that you were all as handsome as angels, and as wicked as devils," she said demurely.
He grinned. "Gossip is a wonderful thing —much more interesting than the truth. We weren't saints, but neither did we break any major laws, bankrupt our families, or ruin any young ladies' lives." He considered. "At least, none of us had at the time we acquired the nickname. I can't vouch for what anyone has done in the last four years."
Hearing the regret in his voice, she said, "You must be looking forward to seeing your friends again."
"I am. Michael may have fallen off the face of the earth, but Lucien has a post at Whitehall and Rafe is active in the House of Lords, so they are almost certainly in London now." He glanced at her. "We'll leave day after tomorrow."
Josephine's jaw dropped. "You're really taking me to London?"
"Of course. I said so the day you came to Westgate with blackmail on your mind."
"But ... but you had been drinking. I thought you'd forget, or think better of it."
"What could be better than getting you a suitable wardrobe? Although the way that old shirt clings is quite fetching. Are you wearing anything underneath it?"
Her hands tightened on the reins, slowing her pony. Since she seemed fated to be constantly embarrassed by Hero, she must learn not to let her emotions affect her riding, she thought with disgust. "I couldn't bring myself to put dry clothing over wet undergarments."
"A good decision for both practical and aesthetic reasons, except that you appear to be on the verge of freezing." He peeled off his coat and tossed it to her. "Though it's against my principles to encourage females to wear more clothing, you'd better put this on."
She tried to give the coat back. "Then you'll freeze."
"I've spent too many nights sleeping under the stars to be bothered by the cold."
Surrendering to the inevitable, she wrapped the coat around her. The folds were warm with Hero's body heat and held a faint, masculine scent that she could have identified anywhere. Wearing the coat was like having his arms around her, only safer.
It would be interesting to see London, but the visit would surely end the odd closeness that was growing between them. In the metropolis he would have his friends, and probably his old mistresses, to fill his time. He would scarcely remember Josephine's existence. Her life would be much easier.
She really should be more grateful for the prospect.
The rest of that day fell into what was becoming a pattern. Josephine took a long bath and washed the smell and filth of the pit from her body and hair. Then, even though she was still shaky from her brush with drowning, she conferred with Williams about the house redecoration. Today the servants had concentrated on cleaning and reorganizing the dining room, with splendid results. She and Williams planned what rooms would be worked on in her absence. Then they made lists of wallpapers and fabrics for her to buy in London.
After another of Mrs. Howell's excellent dinners, Josephine and Hero retired to the library. There he busied himself with correspondence and calculations, working with a degree of concentration that belied his wastrel reputation.
Josephine welcomed the opportunity to browse through the library, which contained riches beyond her wildest dreams. If she and Hero were on friendly terms when the three months were up, perhaps he would let her borrow books occasionally.
She glanced up and studied his profile as he frowned over a document. As always, he amazed her: stunningly handsome, both aristocrat and Gypsy, as unpredictable as he was intelligent. He and she were as different as night and day, and it was impossible to imagine a future when they could be friends. More likely, the three months of this ridiculous challenge would end in disaster, and it wouldn't be the Devil Earl who would suffer.
Telling herself sharply that no one had forced her to come to Westgate, she returned to her survey of the bookshelves. The collection was well-organized, with sections of literature in half a dozen languages. A few were even in Welsh.
Other sections were devoted to subjects such as history, geography, and natural philosophy. Josephine's father had sometimes borrowed theological texts; though the old earl had considered it his duty to stay within the Church of England, he had had Dissenter tendencies. Probably that was why he had chosen a Methodist preacher to educate his grandson.
Set in the middle of the section was a large Bible richly bound in tooled leather and gilt. Guessing that it was the Tiffin family Bible, Josephine pulled the volume from the shelf and laid it on a table. Absently she paged through, reading some of her favorite verses.
There was a family tree in the front, and she found it moving to see the different hands and inks that had carefully recorded births, deaths, and marriages. Faint smudges that might have been tears blurred one death date. A faded, century-old entry recorded the birth of one Gwilym Llewellyn Tiffin, the exuberantly added "At last, a son!" at the side. The infant had grown up to become Hero's great grandfather.
But as she examined the chart, she understood why the old Earl had been so concerned about an heir. The family had not been prolific and Hero had no near relations, at least not in the male line. If he held to his determination not to remarry, the earldom of Westgate would probably die with him.
She turned the page to look at the most recent records. The old Earl's two marriages and three sons were written in his own forceful hand. Though all three of the sons had married, there were no entries for children under the names of the two oldest.
Her mouth tightened when she looked at the notation by George's name. In contrast to the ink used everywhere else, George's marriage to "Martha Fiennes," and the birth of "Hero Fiennes Tiffin" were recorded in pencil. It was more proof of how reluctantly the old Earl had accepted his heir. If only he had shown Hero one-tenth the warmth that Owen had extended to Huw, who was not even of his own blood!
Thinking sadly of the waste, she turned to the next page. Several folded papers slipped out. She glanced at them, then looked more closely and murmured, "How odd."
She had not meant to disturb Hero, but he leaned back in his chair and stretched lazily. "What's odd, Josette?"
"Nothing very important." She went to his desk and laid the documents down under the light of the oil lamp. "Those two papers are notarized copies of the parish registers that recorded your parents' marriage and your birth. Both are worn and stained, as if they were carried too long in a pocket."
She pointed at the other two. "These documents are also duplicates, though they were copied rather badly. The oddity is that they have no legal value because they haven't been attested by a notary, yet they're folded and stained very much like the originals. I suppose your grandfather had the copies made, but I can't see what use they would be, or how they became so worn."
Hero lifted one of the unnotarized copies. Abruptly the tendons sprang taut on the back of his hand, and the air seemed to crackle, electric and feverish, as if lightning had struck.
Josephine glanced up and saw that he was staring at the document with the same annihilating rage that he had shown when he had slashed the portrait of his wife. She caught her breath, wondering what could have triggered such fury.
He picked up the other copy and crumpled the two papers viciously in his hand. Then he rose from his chair, stalked across the room, and hurled the documents into the fire. Flames blazed up, then slowly faded back to the dull red of coals.
Shaken, Josephine asked, "What's wrong, Hero?"
He stared into the fire, where the papers were slowly crumbling to ash. "Nothing that need concern you."
"The reason for your anger may not be my concern, but the anger itself is," she said quietly. "Shouldn't a good mistress encourage you to speak of whatever is troubling you?"
"Perhaps a mistress should ask, but that doesn't mean I have to answer," he snapped. Perhaps regretting his curtness, he added more moderately, "Your good intentions are duly noted."
She decided that she preferred Hero's maddening whimsy to his imitation of a brick wall. Suppressing a sigh, she replaced the other papers and reshelved the Bible. He ignored her, his face like granite as he prodded the fire with a poker.
"Tomorrow is Sunday and I'm going to chapel, so I'll retire now. Good night." She said the words for politeness's sake, not expecting acknowledgment, but Hero glanced up.
"A pity that the kissing is over for the day," he said with brittle humor. "Shortsighted of me to use my allotment when we were in the mine."
His fury had passed, leaving an expression perilously close to desolation. God only knew why the papers had affected him so, but Josephine couldn't bear seeing such grief in his face. With a boldness that would have been unthinkable four days before, she crossed the room and placed her hands on his shoulders, saying shyly, "Your kiss is over, but I can kiss you, can't I?"
His gaze locked with hers, his green eyes haunted. "You can kiss me whenever you want, Josette," he said huskily.
She felt his muscles tense, but he held still, waiting for her to take the initiative. Raising herself on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his.
His arms came around her with unmistakable hunger. "Ah, God, you feel so right."
Their mouths mated, deep and ardent. The initiative passed from her to him, and what she had intended as a quiet good-night embrace became far more.
When they had kissed in the mine it had been dark, sparing her the shocking intimacy of looking into his eyes. Embarrassed by his penetrating gaze, she let her lids drift shut, only to find that without the distraction of sight her other senses intensified. A spatter of rain against the window, the wet velvet roughness of his tongue against hers. A tangy scent that was smoke and piney soap and Hero; his breath, rough and wanting, or perhaps it was her breath, too. The crunch of coals collapsing into the grate; the soft rub of palms against fabric as he stroked her back.
The sound of an opening door.
Shocked back to awareness, she ended the kiss and looked past his shoulder. Standing in the doorway was one of the new maids, Tegwen Elias, a young chapel member with high moral standards and an unbridled tongue.
The two women stared mutely at each other, Tegwen's face showing horrified disbelief.
The sight jarred Josephine into a sickening awareness of her own sinful behavior. What she was doing was wrong, and nothing could mitigate that stark fact.
The maid's momentary paralysis ended and she whirled away, closing the door behind her.
All his attention on Josephine, Hero was unaware of the byplay. "If you've caught your breath," he said, running a seductive hand over her hip, "can I persuade you to another kiss?"
She stared up at him, torn by the bitter contrast between what she experienced in his arms, and what she had seen in Tegwen's eyes. Unevenly she said, "No. No, I must go."
He lifted a hand, as if to stop her, but she brushed by and left from the room, scarcely seeing her surroundings.
If only she had left ten minutes sooner.
Hero
The room felt very empty without Josephine in it. Hero stared into the fire, wondering what it would take to stop her mind from warring with her body. It was the same each time they came together. First, she was shy and a little doubtful. Then, she would begin to respond, opening like a flower at dawn. Finally, with shattering abruptness, she would remember that she was not supposed to enjoy what was so utterly natural.
He ground his fist into the mantelpiece with frustration. Once she overcame her religious priggishness, she would make a superlative mistress; sensual, intelligent, understanding. Her passion for good works might occasionally be tiresome, but that would be a small price to pay for having her in his bed.
He didn't doubt that once she became his mistress, she would be content to stay with him when the three months were up. Not only would she want to, but it would be effectively impossible for her to return to her life in Penreith. The trick was to get her into his bed in the first place.
He was getting damned tired of her vanishing like a rabbit down a burrow every time her conscience caught up with her.