It Takes a Hero by Elizabeth Boyle Read Free Book Online Page B

from a mob of anarchists before he'd have a hope in hell of ever seeing even a meager "Sir" before his name.
    But as he gazed at the manicured lawns and the smooth yellow stone building, he felt an odd ache tug at his chest.
    This was a home. A place one settled and stayed. The kind of place where one actually unpacked one's trunk.
    He didn't hold out any hope that the property Lady Tottley had dangled before him could be as well-kept as the meticulous lawns and blooming gardens of Finch Manor, but the green hills and trimmed hedges of Kent spoke of an ordered life that so far in his thirty some years had eluded him.
    And until the countess had offered it, he'd never held any interest in gaining property, for to be rooted in a house, one had to belong to a place.
    And Rafe Danvers had never fit in. In Spain, his English blood had kept him at arm's length from his aristocratic relations. In England, his Iberian heritage was just as frowned upon. The army had been too full of rules and regulations and ridiculous notions that a man could lead troops into battle just because his father had the price of a commission.
    His return to London hadn't been much more welcoming, especially once he'd decided to do the unthinkable—offer his services for hire. But then again, he really didn't care what society thought.
    At the door, Rafe produced his card to the butler and explained his connection to the family, especially his sister-in-law, the Marchioness of Bradstone.
    The man grinned at the mention of "Mrs. Keates," and welcomed Rafe and Cochrane into the foyer before setting off to tell her ladyship of her visitors.
    Cochrane stood in the middle of the round marble entryway and gaped up at the columns and paintings and lush blue drapes.
    "A far cry from Seven Dials, eh, Cochrane?" Rafe asked.
    "I never," he muttered back.
    The butler returned and led them through the house to the dining room. It had wide windows that let in the late afternoon light and beyond was a garden and gazebo awash in spring flowers.
    The table was elegantly set for dinner. A young lady in widow's weeds faced them, while a gentleman of some years sat at the far end of the table, his nose buried in a journal.
    "So I finally meet the infamous Raphael Danvers," a voice booming with enthusiasm called out.
    Rafe turned and fixed his gaze on a regal figure in a mauve gown and purple turban. Lady Finch.
    Cochrane looked ready to bolt.
    "Lady Finch, I presume," Rafe said bowing low. "It is an honor to meet you."
    "People always say that to me, but few mean it," she laughed.
    "My family owes you a great debt, and therefore I do consider it an honor. You've helped my brothers and now here I am also seeking your counsel."
    At this, her eyes lit with interest.
    Rafe had never doubted for a moment that Lady Finch wouldn't rise to the occasion, especially when the opportunity to meddle came begging at her doorstep.
    She drew closer to him, studying him with a scrutiny that would have been considered rude by most. Rafe, having grown up with a twin brother, was used to the minute examination.
    "You have your brother Robert's fierce mien, but from what I hear, you also possess Colin's sharp mind."
    "Thank you, ma'am, though I doubt either of them would appreciate your assessment."
    She laughed. "I suppose not. Not given what else I've heard about your more interesting exploits," she said, whacking his arm with her fan and then glancing over his shoulder. "And who do we have here?"
    "Beg your pardon," he said. "May I present my assistant, Cochrane."
    Cochrane managed a halfway decent bow, though he kept a wary eye on the baroness. Apparently Pymm had used stories of Lady Finch on the lad like parents used the boogeyman to frighten children into proper behavior.
    "Cochrane what?" the lady asked, coming around Rafe to get a good look.
    "Just Cochrane, ma'am," he managed to stutter.
    She drew closer, her sharp gaze fixed on him. "You have a familiar look to you. Who was your