An Unlikely Hero

By Cari Hislop

John Smirke’s black marble heart has an insatiable need to be loved and admired, but his only developed talent is causing creative misery. Outside his immediate family he's universally hated. The word love has no emotional definition in his brain while the word romance can only be conceived as a state of heightened sexual pleasure. As he meets death at the end of a rapier in a senseless duel of honour he belatedly longs to find a woman who can love him, whatever that means.

Smirke’s in luck. He’s failed so miserably to learn even the basic skills of humanity that he's being sent back to his body to succeed or suffer his own hellish company.

His desire to avoid hell is heightened by the fact that Heaven has located one woman under the age of seventy who’ll love him. He's determined to find and marry this mysterious Joan as quickly as possible so he can have sex without getting the pox and ending up back in hell, but she could be anywhere. Of course if he'd been paying attention he'd have realised that there was only one female who could be the saintly Joan.

Miss J. Lark, Smirke’s unmet ward, has been living in Lincolnshire dying of loneliness. Learning Smirke will be in Bath for the winter Joan impulsively sets off to meet her wicked guardian and see if he’s as beautiful as his portrait. Love opens its tool box and sets to work on Smirke's marble heart. Hit by a sledgehammer, Smirke learns the hard way that love is far more than physical pleasure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cari Hislop
• Release date: Dec 20, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458022844

Cari Hislop

I’m an American married to an adorable English Goblin who makes me laugh every day. I’m an artist with a degree in fashion design, but I’ve always been a story teller. Stories are everywhere; in every scent, every glimpse out of the corner of the eye. The most magical moments of my life have been born of ‘what if?’.I’ve been making up stories as long as I can remember, but I was ten before I 'wrote' my first story. It was a romance - the young girl’s parents are killed by a plane falling on their house so of course she moves to England. Don’t ask me where she got the money or the passport!I knew I wanted to grow up to be an author. All my artistic talents converge on my favorite subject: people. I find both individuals and general humanity endlessly fascinating.My genre: Regency romances (historical romances set in late Georgian England)Rated: PG13 (PG13 as in 1985)Style: Each of my stories tend to have their own humor depending on the character's personalities, but they always make me laugh. My plots are character driven and my stories evolve with the characters. Other than the hero and heroine somehow ending up together at the end, I never know what will really happen in the story until it happens.Note: After much deliberation I decided to use English spelling rather than American English spelling in my stories. This will sadly irritate some people, but the USA is the only country to use American spelling while the rest of the English speaking world uses English spelling.I don't think of my books as a series, but all my characters inhabit the same Regency Universe. Most of the main characters are either related or know of each other so my stories often intertwine.If you ever have any questions about my stories or would like to receive an e-mail to let you know I've finished a book please e-mail me at... [e-mail] Reading!Cari Hislop

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An Unlikely Hero

Copyright 2008 Cari Hislop

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Books by Cari Hislop can be read online at the author’s official website:

regencyromancenovels.com

or can be downloaded for reading on your choice of eBook reader from

smashwords.com

Other books in the Regency World of Cari Hislop include:

Lucky in Love

A Companion for Life

The Hired Wife

The Invisible Husband

Taming the Shrew

Redeeming a Rake

Introducing Smirke

Redeeming a Rake

An Unlikely Hero

Chapter 1

September 1st 1815

The dishonourable John Smirke habitually cracked each knuckle of his left hand as he tried to ease the growing tension in his right arm being clutched close to his body for support. He was standing in a secluded Hampshire field, shivering in his shirtsleeves with three other men waiting for the sun to slide up over the horizon. His black eyes reluctantly acknowledged the beauty of the mist hovering over the grass dotted with sleepy ivory sheep and the shifting tapestry of layered bluish greens. He licked his lips and carefully tested the weight of his sword with his right hand, but the healing gunshot wound in his right shoulder made him wince. He wasn’t fit to shave his own chin let alone wave about a rapier.

Smirke blamed his latest misfortune on everyone, but himself as his frustrated artistic eye shifted shapes and colours into a mental frame that was never going to be recreated on canvas. He’d be damned before he followed his mother’s footsteps and became a painter. The sneering laughter that followed her through high society caused him to oscillate between acute embarrassment and deadly fury. She was his mother and she deserved respect. She might have been born a French bourgeoisie, but she’d married an English Viscount. She was a beautiful woman who loved her three sons. Her only fault was charging people to paint their portraits. She was Smirke’s Achilles heel; he couldn’t bear to hear his mother insulted. It gave him endless reason to hate people and so once again it was the reason he was standing opposite the Earl of Mulgrave, only this time death leered like a starving cannibal.

Smirke inhaled the wet morning air as his lungs were chilled with thoughts of loss. He hadn’t yet sent his mother her birthday gift. He hadn’t seen her since the family’s annual Christmas gathering. He’d probably never see her again. The thought discomposed him as he swallowed a strange lump in his throat. The high probability of dying brought to mind the fact he hadn’t bothered to tell his family of his lately acquired ward. His eighteen year old nephew, George, would inherit the guardianship of a vexing female of the same age along with a house and land in Lincolnshire. Miss Lark, Smirke’s unmet encumbrance, could only be a hideous antidote. Whatever she looked like, she’d certainly enjoyed spending his money over the previous six months. The bills he’d received as she redecorated his country residence were almost as infuriating as her chatty letters filled with local gossip and incessant requests for his company or a reply detailing his feelings.

In spite of a nagging urge to return to Bolingbroke in Lincolnshire, Smirke had chosen to remain in London through the summer. So instead of punishing his irritating ward he’d been shot in the shoulder and now he was facing death at the end of a blade. John scowled as the man standing opposite calmly polishing his sword as if he were about to slice a loaf of bread, and hoped it wasn’t his day to die.

Mulgrave turned to the men beside him, I fear John is rather quiet this morning. Perhaps he’s pondering all the women he’ll never get to blackmail into his bed? The two seconds snickered in amusement. Never mind John, no doubt my fumbling will more deeply impress them. Mulgrave’s harsh bark of laughter unsettled the birds in nearby trees who twittered in irritation. Sheep raised their heads and looked at the four men with disinterest before returning to dreams of greener pastures.

Smirke’s black eyes burned with hatred, You’re so amusing Mulgrave the whole brothel laughs every time they see you coming, but I’ve heard they laugh loudest after you’ve left.

Mulgrave’s eyes narrowed at the insult and turned to his toady. I’ve always thought Smirke far too pretty to be a man. I’ll wager either of you a fiver our John is really Johanna in breeches. You don’t have to die today Smirke. Women don’t have honour; drop your breeches, bend over and I’ll impale you with my favourite sword and let you live.

I’d rather die, you coward.

Then prepare to give the Devil my regards.

Even the devil doesn’t want your company Mulgrave, you’re a rat-faced bore.

I am a handsome fashionable Lord; a superior state of being you can only dream about. You, on the other hand, are nothing but an angry bee about to have your stinger pulled out.

Not before I sting you!

I’ll survive, but you won’t. Smirke’s eyes narrowed as his shoulder throbbed in silent agreement. He held up his blade to see light warming polished steel. He could feel his older brothers clapping him on the shoulder the day he was freed from his nursery skirts and given his first pair of breeches. He could see his father looking down at him with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘Your mother kept telling me I had three sons, but you were so pretty I hardly believed her.’ His mother had picked him up and wiped away his tears, ‘Your Papa is teasing you John. You look just like him, but with my eyes.’ His father had died a year later from a fever. Sunlight gleamed off his entire sword as the memory of his mother’s anguished wailing filled his ears. This time she’d wail for her son. The sun is up John, I hope you’re ready to meet the devil. Smirke sliced the air with clenched teeth. The two combatants stepped apart and waited until one of the seconds dropped a white handkerchief. The angry sound of clashing steel brought the sheep to their feet as they watched in dumb incomprehension as the two men in white shirts cut and thrust at each other.

Smirke clenched his teeth as sweat dripped into his eyes. Deflecting Mulgrave’s calculated blows took all his energy. He made several good thrusts at his opponent within the first few minutes, but the healthy man simply jumped out of the way and parried easily returning more near fatal stabs. After ten minutes Smirke’s thin steel blade felt like an iron battle axe. Mulgrave smiled revealing teeth he’d had filed into canine points as Smirke was forced to use both hands.

It looks like you’re having some difficulty John. Cry craven and walk away alive. Society will laugh every time you show your pretty face in public, but you know it’s your fate. Heaven knows your mother seems to enjoy being a laughing stock. She’s rather attractive for an old woman. After you’re dead, I believe I may sit for a portrait and pay her with the pox.

Smirke’s answer was an angry thrust that drew blood. He twisted out of reach of Mulgrave’s enraged return lunge, but tripped over an unexpected hedgehog making its way home after a night of feasting. John was on his backside as Mulgrave moved in for the kill. Au revoir John, I hope your soul roasts on a slow turning spit in the deepest pit of hell. Smirke was up on one knee wondering why his second hadn’t called out for Mulgrave to step back. It took all his strength to deflect a blow away from his vital organs. He was nearly back on his feet when Mulgrave’s blade pierced his chest, opening a hole in his back. Staring down at the glinting steel impaled through white linen; Smirke watched a rich red stain ooze larger with every exhaled breath.

A piercing scream hung in the pastoral air as the blade was withdrawn, inducing icy agony. Dropping his sword he looked up at his second, but there was only relief on the man’s face. Mulgrave cheerfully picked up Smirke’s bright yellow silk jacket and used it to wipe the blood from his sword. Staring at the garish brown stain, Smirke fought the chill creeping into his limbs. He didn’t want to die. He wanted time to pick up a paintbrush and cover acres of canvas with images of the world. He wanted time to find a wife who’d think him the most beautiful man in the world. He wanted time… Someone threw a dustcover over the sun as darkness suffocated his mind.

The three standing men watched the pretty blonde rakehell gasp his last breath and collapse back in the grass, his blood covered hands flopping useless beside his black and yellow striped breeches. What do we do with him?

We leave him.

What, you mean we aren’t going to take him back to his mother?

Do you think he’d run you through, carry your body to the nearest church, sign the death registrar and then write a polite note to your mother informing her he’d killed you?

No, but we could tell his servants at the Inn where to find him.

Do as you please. I’m returning to London to celebrate. Mulgrave threw the stained yellow jacket over the body and danced away waving his sword in the air. The other two men looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and followed at a more sedate pace.

What if he isn’t really dead?

Then he’ll be dead soon enough; what difference does it make? If you love him so much, you may camp in a field with Smirke’s corpse or dance with the devil. I’d rather visit a brothel and spread my seed with the pleasurable thought that Smirke won’t ever feel pleasure again.

Chapter 2

Standing over the lump of yellow silk fabric Smirke clenched his fists and shouted at the three men walking away, I’m not dead yet you coward. Come back here and I’ll show you how to use a blade. Smirke’s rage at being ignored was quickly forgotten as he felt himself pulled into a dark tunnel. The lump of yellow fabric faded from view as he collapsed into blinding light. A man in the light called his name and willed him closer, but Smirke tried to crawl away. The gentle voice called his name again stalling Smirke’s attempt to leave. He curled into a ball and cowered, sobbing as his life pass before him, in him, all around him; a pantheon of pain and distress as he craved his mother’s comforting arms. It felt an eternity before he could crawl away and tumble with relief into darkness that echoed with weeping and wailing. The sound filled his mind, penetrated his skin until his insides burned as if on fire. Sobbing, he screamed for his mother. He could remember every person he’d injured; feel their suffering in exquisite detail. He clawed at his skin to escape the memories of the men he’d killed, the lives he’d ruined, the fear and pain he’d caused, and his mother’s poignant disappointment in her youngest son. Wishing he was dead, he was about to give in to the mind numbing horror of enduring his own company in solitary darkness forever when he was blinded by a bright light.

John Paul? No that’s the other one. John Henri? No. John Marie? No…your papers are here somewhere…

I don’t want to be me…I want my Mamma!

I’m afraid that’s impossible. You can’t have your mother and not be you. Though I suppose you could have a different mother and almost be you, but that’s all rather complicated and a pointless waste of time. Oh here you are, John Sebastian Smirke; rakehell, frustrated artist, aged thirty-three, died in a duel, run through the body in Hampshire. You nearly squished that poor hedgehog you know. The man in white stuffed the loose papers into one pocket and pulled a scroll out of another. I have some unbelievably good news for you. The Boss has decided to send you back to your body for another chance. He believes, though only He knows why, you’ll change if you can just grasp the concept of Charity. Personally, I think you’re hopeless. Your paper work doesn’t show even a shadow of empathy. Do you even know what that word means? I doubt it. Your heart’s practically granite, but the Boss feels you’re worth trying to save. Who am I to disagree? Your mother certainly loves you. The woman’s an angel to put up with you all these years. If you’d been my child I’d have shipped you off to war in one of the King’s floating coffins…

Mamma! It was a howl of despair.

Patience is a virtue John Sebastian. One of the many things you’ll be learning from… Oh dear, I wasn’t supposed to tell you about her. At least I didn’t say her name. I keep thinking I need spectacles, but I have the most perfect eye sight. I can see a spec of dust from…

Never mind the blasted dust, get me out of here.

Dust is vitally important, besides I’m trying to help you…where was I? John Sebastian Smirke; you are commanded to cease any activity that might accidentally or purposely kill anyone. No more blackmailing virgins or any other women into your bed unless you enjoy this place. No drinking alcohol as it makes you stupid, angry and pickles your liver. No swearing, hitting people, calling people names or seeking revenge. You know what that means don’t you? You can’t hit serving wenches if they don’t curtsey low enough for you or take offence at every imagined slight. Most people don’t intend to hurt your feelings. You always assume the worst and fall into a tantrum. A generous soul might call you overly sensitive, but it says here that you’re short-tempered, cantankerous and moody. Perchance you’re unaware, that description is not a compliment…are you getting all this?

Yes. I want my Mamma…

Good, you are commanded to bed only your wife unless you want to catch syphilis and die a horrible death and end up here again.

I don’t have a wife.

You haven’t met her yet, though she’s right under your nose. If you had any sense you’d have met her by now. I don’t know what she’ll have to do to get your attention. Maybe she’ll burn down your house. There must be something good about you to warrant Joan even if I can’t see any evidence of it in your file.

Joan? Joan Who?

Oh no not again…I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Forget I said anything.

Is she English?

I can’t tell you.

Don’t tell me she’s a widow; I’ll be loved less than her first husband. I’ll be miserable!

You’re already miserable. Stop asking silly questions or you’ll run out of time. You’re commanded to use your artistic talents... There was a footnote here somewhere, ‘Instruct John Sebastian that he is to avoid creating debauched works of art or I will be most displeased!’ I feel I should point out that The Boss used an exclamation point after that statement. You’ve been very blessed, though only The Boss knows why. Just look at this list of wasted talents…I’m sorry, you can’t see it. You’re supposed to discover them yourself. Where was I? Oh yes, you’re commanded to enjoy life and stop being miserable. I find smiling in the morning mirror works a treat, though that could be because I look so much better now that I have a full set of teeth, and a whole nose. I smile and think, ‘I’m going to have a great day today.’ It usually works.

I don’t care about your stupid face, get me out of here.

The man in white sighed heavily, I may be wasting my breath, but you’re commanded to go to your parish church every Sunday and contemplate your past wickedness. I’m sure there was another footnote; something about remaining in this place for a very long time if you don’t repent. That means replacing that lump of granite in your chest called a heart with something made of flesh and blood. You must learn to love other people. And you should consider widening your choice of colours. Wear anything but black and yellow. Your fetish for the combination is most unhealthy, besides if you walk into Joan’s life looking like a big bumble bee she may think you have no taste and she won’t want anything to do with you, then you will be miserable. We were only able to find one woman under the age of seventy on this side of the planet who’d fall in love with you so do take care and stop chasing Society’s good opinion. All the members of your worshiped social circle detest you and after they meet Joan, they’ll detest you ten fold if that’s possible.

Why? Is she mad? Don’t tell me she’s ugly? I can’t stand ugly people!

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder John Sebastian. My mother thinks I’m beautiful…

I don’t care about your stupid blind mother.

I really don’t see the point in sending you back.

Get me out of here…please.

I’m not finished yet. You’re commanded to be charitable, kind and patient with everyone, including ugly people, and do for others as you’re always complaining they never do for you. It’s called the law of reciprocity. You get what you give which is why you never get anything. You’re a selfish toad. That wasn’t in your file, that’s my personal opinion. Oh dear, you’re almost out of time. Come with me. Back down the dark tunnel, Smirke could see the Hampshire field rush into focus. Take a deep breath; think of it as jumping into an icy painful river.

What are you talking about? Smirke felt a heavy shove and he was falling, diving into his body. He screamed as he drew in a deep breath of cold wet air, his lungs burning, his heart thumping, and the hole in his middle oozing red. Feminine screams in counterpoint filled his ears. He opened his eyes to find an ugly old woman bending over his body in the act of removing his silk breeches.

I’m not dead you old crone. Fetch my footman and valet from that flea infested hovel called an inn. Tell them I, Mr Smirke, need them to bring a blanket to carry me on. The old woman stood up and slowly scratched her stomach as she raised an eyebrow.

What’s in it fer me? Even with blood stains I could get a good price fer yer clothes. I don’t have to wait till yer dead again neither. Smirke took a deep breath and prayed