The Hired Hero by Andrea Pickens

woozy and dreadfully sore from all her knocks and bruises. But she forced herself to dress. She had lain about entirely too long. Now that she had recovered her senses, at least, she must resolve on a course of action.
     As she fumbled with the buttons of the gown, she thought about her current situation. Her reticule was lying somewhere in the shattered remains of the carriage so she hadn’t a penny to her name. Name. Now that was a problem. Not only was she set on not revealing her own, but she had no idea whose house she was in. He had told her his name, that she remembered vaguely. But she couldn’t for the life of her recall what it was. Darrencott...Dovepot—it was no use. She must remember to ask Mrs. Collins at first opportunity to avoid making a cake of herself. However, she did know one thing. He was a gentleman, and as such, he would be expected to offer her assistance without asking awkward questions.
    There wasn’t a soul around when she made her way downstairs. No doubt Mrs. Collins and Owens were busy putting fires out in the kitchen. Curious, Caroline decided to look around on her own. Immediately to her right was the drawing room. It was done in shades of rose and emerald that had faded into lifeless shadows of their former hues. The carpets were threadbare and the mahogany sideboard, though recently waxed, showed its nicks and dents with little grace. Even the cushions on the sofas and wingchairs had a deflated look, as if depressed by all they had witnessed.
    Her eyes strayed to the carved fireplace. Above the mantel hung a large painting of an extremely elegant gentleman. The style of dress—the ornately tied cravat, the multicolored figured silk waistcoat, perfectly tailored swallow tailed coat and snug fitting pantaloons—was a total contrast, but the chiseled features were unmistakable, though there was a hardness to the mouth and eyes she hadn’t noticed....
    “A fine painting, is it not?”
    Caroline whirled around with a start.
    “Forgive me for startling you,” said Davenport as he took a step into the room. His gaze also moved to the portrait and his mouth quirked slightly. “The likeness is quite striking, don’t you think?”
    Caroline regarded his work-stained shirt, his shabby coat and buckskins, then turned back to stare at the gilt framed canvas for what seemed like ages.
     “No,” she finally answered. “I do not.”
     His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “Ah, the difference in dress...”
     “It isn’t that.” She knew that the prudent course of action would have been to remain silent but something goaded her to go on. “There is a certain cruelty about the mouth and the eyes—I wonder that you should tolerate it to be shown at all. It does you no credit.”
    Davenport’s face betrayed a flicker of surprise. He stared thoughtfully at the portrait before returning his attention to Caroline. “Do you think it wise to be up and moving about so soon,” he inquired, abruptly changing the subject.
    “I am unused to laying abed,” she replied, then had the grace to color as she realized how boorish her actions, as well as her words, must appear. “Forgive me for wandering around your house uninvited.”
    Davenport shrugged. “You may do as you please—we do not stand on manners here at Highwood.” Again, the hint of a sardonic smile.
    “Highwood?” she repeated softly. “I do not recognize....”  Her brow furrowed slightly as she pondered her dilemma. Finally she decided to settle it herself. “I find I must ask for your forgiveness again, my lord. I seem to recall that you introduced yourself earlier, but I—I cannot remember your name.
    The smile deepened into real humor. “I believe you had other things to occupy your mind. I trust your arm is feeling better?” He inclined a slight bow. “I am Davenport.”
    Caroline stepped back with an involuntarily gasp. “The Earl of Davenport?” she said, in barely more than a whisper.
    “Ah, how heartening to