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    The Hanged Man's Hero
    The Hanged Man's Hero
    The Hanged Man's Hero
    Ebook111 pages2 hours

    The Hanged Man's Hero

    By Summer Devon

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    About this ebook

    Condemned for murder, Dez Moore awaits the hangman’s noose. Though he killed to defend a woman, the court shows no mercy, and, resigned, he attempts to make amends with his estranged sister. His letter bidding his sister good-bye falls into the wrong hands, and suddenly, he is facing another future—one that may exist, thanks to a man he doesn’t know.

    Once a poor mudlark, Carl Reis is a powerful businessman with an erratic impulse to save desperate people. When Dez’s letter comes to him, he takes an interest in the prisoner. But the charming and disruptive Dez Moore proves to be more attractive than any of his other rescues. He stirs urges Carl has long suppressed, and makes him yearn for a future even he could not foresee. One with the lively Mr. Moore by his side and in his bed.

    Long used to doing for others—some might say controlling them--while maintaining his solitary existence, Carl struggles to keep Dez from breaching his walls. But the tenacious Dez will do all it takes to capture his rescuer’s heart.

    This is an expanded version of The Scent of Hope, a Goodreads free read.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherK Rothwell
    Release dateJul 15, 2017
    ISBN9781370662128
    The Hanged Man's Hero
    Author

    Summer Devon

    About the Author Summer Devon is the alter ego of Kate Rothwell who also writes under her own name.  Summer writes m/m books of all sorts. Many of her titles are co-written with Bonnie Dee For more information about Summer/Kate, go to http://katerothwell.com or http://summerdevon.com.  Summer can also be found at https://www.facebook.com/S.DevonAuthor

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      Book preview

      The Hanged Man's Hero - Summer Devon

      The Hanged Man’s Hero

      Summer Devon

      Smashwords edition

      Hanged Man’s Hero

      Copyright © 2017 by Summer Devon

      Cover by Fantasia Frog

      All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

      This is an expanded version of the story The Scent of Hope

      Dedication

      Goodreads on a good day.

      Chapter One

      England, 1870

      And do you regret your actions that have brought you so low? The elderly gent wore a fixed smile as he examined Dez. I do not speak of the crimes of which you are accused. I mean all the sad conditions of your life.

      Dez sat at the edge of the metal platform that functioned as a bed and wiggled his perpetually cold toes. Hell, yes. I regret getting so drunk that I was caught almost at once. Yes, Father.

      The vicar leaned far back on the wooden chair he’d brought into the cell. The poor man probably wished he hadn’t settled so close to the prisoner. Dez got a bucket of water every couple of days, and he didn’t waste more than a few drops on cleaning his stinking self and he hadn’t had a change of clothing for…too long.

      But Dez had underestimated the old man who’d been shifting about on his chair for another purpose: to pull some crumpled blank pages and a pencil from inside his fusty black jacket. Do you have someone to whom you can write, and beg forgiveness? the vicar asked. Can you write?

      Writing? Dez considered the notion. I was a clerk, once, he told the vicar. In another life.

      Messing about with pencil and paper seemed more interesting than sitting and watching the rats chew on his dinner. His first week in prison, he’d tried to tame a rat— that seemed a standard way a convict might entertain himself. The creature bit him. After that, Dez decided to ignore his fellow inmates.

      Yes, Father. I’ll write a letter. It’s a fine plan.

      If the vicar gave him paper, he’d figure out what to do with it later on. But then his plans to make salacious drawings were destroyed with the vicar’s next words. I shall carry these pages from this place and send them. No official eyes will see what you’ve written.

      A generous offer, although perhaps the man of God was lying like the devil. Dez considered writing to Bill and ask that he bring some tobacco and the ten shillings he owed Dez, but he supposed his friend would ignore any pleas.

      No one he knew had tried to come to his rescue…and wasn’t that a lowering thought.

      The vicar said, Do you have a mother? Father? No? A sister? No one?

      A sister, Dez said. But she wouldn’t want to hear from me.

      Write to her. Do you have anything better to do with your time?

      Dez laughed for the first time in days. He liked this old crow of a man. I’ll cancel my luncheon appointment with Her Majesty immediately. He took the papers and pencil and got to work.

      He even wrote something as close to the heart as he could manage.

      *

      Horses clopped and carriages rumbled past, and two businessmen argued over the price of a shipment—too many sounds drifted through his office window. Carl gave up trying to read and summoned his secretary.

      She appeared at once, her bustle swaying. Crimson appeared far too elegant to work in an office. She tended to startle and then distract the gentlemen who came to do business with Carl, and that suited him fine.

      Fellow businessmen made snide remarks because he had a female assistant—but he ignored them. He needed Crimson far more than she needed him. She could keep secrets.

      He handed her the pages-long letter. Go on, take a look. It’s from a man named Dez Moore. I understood enough to be interested.

      His secretary gave a puff of air that, on anyone less ladylike, would be called a snort. From a stranger—then it’ll be another plea for funds, sir. That’s why I placed it in the pile of correspondence to ignore.

      No need to protect me. He was mildly touched at her concern, but it wouldn’t do to show it.

      I disagree. You were nearly hoodwinked by that scoundrel claiming to be an Austrian prince.

      No such thing. I wrote back to the pretender because I was fascinated by his scheme.

      You are always interested in evil idiots.

      Such as you?

      Exactly. She paused. Is this in pursuit of your hobby again? Another lost cause, another undeserving good-for-nothing?

      Enough, Crimson. You know well enough they are rarely undeserving.

      She glared. Ha. So the answer is yes, another one of those. Haring off like a distracted puppy.

      I said enough. He didn’t shout, yet she looked startled. He usually allowed her to carp at him.

      Perhaps she’d come too close to the truth with her words. Carl resembled a dog let off a lead.

      He’d set his course whilst a child beggar in London. His goals were simple: he wanted wealth and power. Yet every now and again, with no warning, his discipline slipped and he found himself expending effort on people or projects that didn’t increase his wealth.

      When he thought of himself haring off on one of those projects, he recalled a rat terrier he’d once seen scrambling up and out of a hole where it had been hard at work eliminating rats. It sped away into the sunshine without looking back. Its handler screamed after it, and the dog didn’t so much as slow. An animal bred for one purpose, a creature dedicated to its task, suddenly veered away from its path—and just as single-minded as always as it raced off.

      Crimson, of course, had no intention of allowing him the last word. Sir. We have more than enough on our plate at the moment.

      We’ll manage. I’ll hire more help if you feel overwhelmed.

      Never. Her face pinkened.

      Very well, then. He stared down his secretary. Sit and read. Without comment, if you please.

      Scowling down at the six pages, Crimson sank into the chair next to the desk. Like everyone who worked in Carl’s office, she knew better than to use the chair facing the desk because it was built low and uncomfortable. Carl saved that chair for competitors or employees who required a stern lecture.

      He watched her read the pages covered with a scrawling hand, hardly better than Carl’s own attempts, and Carl pondered the few lines he’d figured out—and had memorized.

      I know you and Mum tried to change me and tried with love. And some days (a fortnight ago, when I was dragged into this cozy little home) I almost wish you had succeeded. Most of the time, I can’t say that. Truth is, and truth is all I have left, I’d do what I did again, and more slow even. If you’d seen it, you would have done the same, Lucy, or wanted to. Don’t bother praying for that change in me. If you get this, I hope you come, if not to help, at least to say I told you so. I sorely miss your face.

      Carl was intrigued. Too intrigued. This letter seemed to call straight to that reckless part of himself. In the past, his interest had been triggered by an article in the paper of an injustice or the sight of a careworn face. As Crimson said, businessmen had their hobbies, and perhaps this was no stranger than golf, say, or a collection of some sort. Besides, last time he’d gained a valuable assistant.

      Would you care to hear the letter? Crimson asked in a low voice. She knew how much he hated people to discover his weakness. He hardly cared

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