DD-Michaels-END.rtf (34 page)

"Not even if I share that poor opinion, Miss Becket?" Ethan asked as Morgan sat down on the couch across from Eleanor's chair. He himself took the chair beside the woman he had already perceived to be
h
is hostess. "I'm interested in learning if I'm worse or better than the majority, you understand."

Eleanor looked at Morgan's love
r
—
o
nly a fool wouldn't see that the two were much more than debutante and hopeful suitor. Besides, Eleanor knew Morgan, knew her very well. The girl did nothing in half measures. "I would have to conclude, my lord, that you are both better and worse, or I wouldn't be seeing you here now, would I? Am I correct, my lord?"

Morgan coughed into her hand, aware the inquisition had begun, then stood up to say she needed to check on Cassandra, to make sure the child had done as she'd been asked, as she believed her maid would be better for some tea and cakes. In fact, Morgan had decided it was better for her to leave than to watch as her family put Ethan through hoops, thus showing them all that she had no worries about him acquitting himself very well on his own.

Ethan barely had time to stand up before Morgan had run from the drawing room, and when he sat down again, Eleanor was smiling at him.

"Allow me to explain, my lord, as I'm sure a gentleman such as yourself would never ask the obvious question. We have no servants here. We have..
.
helpers. Paid, and paid well, even by London standards, I believe, but no one gives orders, and no one takes them. We
ask.
And, thanks to my father's feelings on the subject, we all contribute."

"Very commendable, Miss Becket."

Eleanor shrugged her slim shoulders. "Very workable, my lord. My father believes in what is workable. And now," she said, reaching down beside her to
lift up a slim leather portfolio tied with black ribbon, "perhaps you'd like to see more of Becket Hall before the sun hopefully rises tomorrow and Morgan can show you herself."

"I would be delighted, Miss Becket," he said, and sat forward on his chair as she untied the bow and opened the portfolio.

Her watercolors were amazingly good, better than some
he'd seen on display in London. She'd painted her home from every side, and in several light
s
—
t
he hall in summer, the hall with a winter storm howling in from the Channel.

As she very carefully turned over each watercolor, Eleanor also very carefully told him the history of Becket Hall, all of the very care
f
ully constructed lies that made up the very carefully crafted history of the Beckets of Ro
m
ney Marsh.

Ethan listened to the story, which began with a wealthy gentleman shipowner who'd left his sunny, southern island home in order to bring his adopted children and his infant daughter to England, how the discovery of Becket Hall had been so fortuitous for them, and how the crews of their ships had also decided to make the vast estate their new home.

It had the sound of a fairy tale as Eleanor told the story, but Ethan was content to listen, to pretend he believed every word, for he was fairly certain that, as is common in fairy tales, there was at least some truth mixed in.

It was only when Eleanor turned over one of the paintings, then quickly replaced it, that he interrupted her. "Is there something you don't wish
me to see, Miss Becket? A work that disappointed you, perhaps?"

Eleanor knew she should ignore what she was certain was deliberate goading by the man, but she was also curious. A child's memory was suspect at best, and she longed to know if what she remembered was really a memory, or just bits and pieces of a faded dream. Could a scene such as she'd painted it look real, even possible?

"I enjoy painting landscapes, my lord," she explained as she turned over the last watercolor of Becket Hall, to expose a totally different one, her family's home no longer her subject. "I
even imagine them, then paint them. Like this one."

Ethan leaned closer, to see what was for the most part a landscape, with a large country house in the distance, placed in the midst of a rolling, well-maintained parkland setting. The house itself was white, the design Palladian. And vaguely familiar.

"Very nice. The, ah, the proportions are extraordinary. I
feel as if I could reach into the picture," Ethan said and, so encouraged, Eleanor showed him
the next watercolor, her curiosity getting the better of her common sense.

This painting, Ethan saw, was obviously the same house in its elevated setting, but from another angle, showing the gently descending rear prospect, again from quite a distance, as if the artist didn't wish to deal with the detail of the structure, but only its general outline.

The parkland, however, was a different matter, and had been imagined in some detail. Ethan could see a large ornamental pond, and even a three-arched stone bridge that spanned its narrower end. The rolling hills in the distance, golden with sunlight. The tall trees, including several plantings of evergreens.

Not Romney Marsh. Not at
all anything one would find on Romney Marsh. Or, for that matter, on a faraway, near-tropical island.

Ethan picked up the last drawing, one that seemed to concentrate for the most part on the pond, a few small boats and several white swans gliding effortlessly in the water.

"You know, this looks almost..." he hesitated, not really knowing why he should "..
.
almost real. Thank you so much for showing me, Miss Becket."

"You're welcome," Eleanor said, keeping her head down as she quickly closed the portfolio and retied it.
"
Thank you for the kind words. I know I'm not very good, but I do enjoy it. Painting, that is."

"Not very good? Why, Miss Becket, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you were begging for compliments."

Eleanor lifted her incredibly well sculpted chin, turned huge brown eyes on Ethan. "You don't know me at all, sir, do you? Ah, and here are more people you don't know, my lord."

Ethan got to his feet as four men of varying ages and appearance entered the room, their united front very obvious, perhaps purposely so.

Within minutes, he'd learned that the intense, almost brooding dark-haired one was Spencer, the taller dark-haired one with the fair skin, friendly smile an
d
startlingly compelling eyes was Rian, and that the scowling one with the thick mane of dark blond hair and a short but full beard was Courtland Becket.

Three very individual-looking gentlemen; four, if he added Chance Becket into the mix. Not related by bloo
d
—
E
than already knew tha
t
—
y
et
they all seemed to have the same alertness about them, and their confidence was nearly palpable. Rather like well-seasoned soldier
s
— confident, yes, but ever watchful, vigilant. Formidable.

But when Ethan bowed to the patriarch of the clan, he knew he had met a man who stood very much on his own. He was tall, whipcord lean, and with the greenest eyes he'd even seen. Ainsley Becket's coal black hair had begun to go gray at the temples and his tanned skin carried more than a few lines, but the man was far from old, and definitely far from careless.

"My lord," Ainsley said with a slight inclination of his head, and Ethan responded with a bow of his own, then held out his right hand.

"I've brought correspondence from your son, sir," Ethan said, feeling the need to establish his credentials. .
.
considering he was already outnumbered four-to-one, and the storied Jacko had yet to make an appearance.

"Interesting, thank you," Ainsley said, his head tipped very slightly to the right, those green eyes faintly narrowed as he looked intensely at Ethan, assessed him. "I will, however, delay the pleasure of reading the letter until after I've spoken with my daughter."

"Certainly, sir,
I
—" Ethan didn't bother finishing his sentence because Ainsley had already turned his back
on him and was in the process of leaving the room. So he turned to smile at the brothers instead. Was it correct to smile at a pride of lions, hoping they'll soon lose interest?

Spencer now had his head tipped slightly, perhaps in an unconscious imitation of his adopted father, and ran his fingers through the mass of unruly black curls that would have seemed effeminate on any man who wasn't so very clearly male. He stepped closer to Ethan.

"You know, my lord," he said, "there is a law in pirate lore that states that if at any time a man meets with a prudent woman, and that man offers to meddle with her, without her consent, he shall suffer present death. Interesting, yes?"

Ethan refused to so much as blink. "Fascinating, Mr. Becket," he said, then added, "that you know so much about pirate lore, that is."

Spencer took another step forward, only to have Courtland grab his arm. "You've made your point, Spence, and with your usual grace. Let it go."

"Fine," Spencer said shortly. "You stay here and be polite. I'll take my dinner in the kitchens."

Rian Becket came up beside Ethan and handed him a glass of wine he'd poured at the drinks table. "Don't mind Spence. He's always on the lookout for a fight."

Ethan accepted the glass. "Thank you. I'll be careful not to provoke him."

Courtland shook his head. "Difficult to do, my lord. Someone else
breathing
is often enough to provoke Spence. Ou
r
father is in the process of buying him a commission. If he's so angry, he might as well direct that anger toward Napoleon, yes? And now, my lord, although you will be making any appeals to her father, perhaps you'll tell us your intentions toward Morgan. Eleanor, if you'll excuse us?"

"Certainly," Eleanor said, getting to her feet. Ethan hadn't realized how petite she was, as she'd already been seated when he'd entered the room. Petite, yet regal, and with a fragile beauty that he'd already decided cloaked a strong mind and a will of iron. "I've already arrived at my own conclusions. My lord." She curtsied to Ethan and then headed for the hallway, and he didn't allow his gaze to linger on her slight limp.

"Now," he said, turning back to Morgan's brothers. "Fire away, gentlemen, but know this. I
will
marry your sister, if we have to outrun the lot of you
B
eckets all the way to Gretna Green."

"Ha! That's not what we're asking," Rian told him, grinning. "She can have you if she wants you. We want to know how you're going to
tame
her."

Ethan relaxed at last, because here, at least, he felt he stood on solid ground. "Why, by
not
taming her, Mr. Becket. I'm many things, but I'm not an idiot."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Morgan sat where she'd been directed to sit, and looked at Ainsley Becket. "I know what Chance wrote in his letter to you, Papa. I read the letter. I thought I should tell you that."

Ainsley looked at
his daughter, saw the apprehension and courage in her eyes. "Your stay in London was short, but eventful. I expected no less, Morgan. As for your suitor, I'll trust my own judgment, if you don't mind."

"But Chance said—"

"I know what he wrote, Morgan. He sees you as a child. Brothers, especially loving brothers, are prone to such shortsightedness where their sisters are concerned."

Morgan subsided more fully into the leather couch. "I suppose so. I still can't imagine Chance and Julia rolling around together, and yet they're expecting their first child this coming winter." She shrugged. "It's all rather mind-boggling."

Ainsley coughed into his fist and got to his feet. "Honesty, Morgan, is not always a virtue. Now, as dinner is to be served soon, I suggest you go find this beau of yours and direct him to my study, as he says he has something for me."

Morgan nodded, also getting to her feet. Could she ask the question she'd never asked, had never before thought to ask?

"Papa..
.
how did my mother die?"

Ainsley Becket was rarely shocked, and even more rarely showed shock when he experienced it, but now he sat down behind his desk once more as he asked, "Is there some reason you need this answer now?"

She walked over to the desk, half sat on the edge of it. "I'm not sure. I've really been afraid of her, I suppose, afraid that I was like her, and I didn't want to be like her. You know, Papa, like mother like daughter? But..
.
lately, I've realized that I don't know who she was, that I've been judging her without knowing her."

"I see. And possibly judging yourself as well?"

Morgan lowered her head. "Possibly."

"Ah, Morgan, I should have realized. I'm so sorry. I've been lost in my own misery for so long, too long. Tell me what you want to know."

"Her name, I suppose. Why she sold me. Why she sold me to you. And what happened to her. I should know what happened to her, shouldn't I?"

Ainsley picked up the letter opener in front of him, held the ends with his fingers. "I am ashamed to admit that I never knew her name. She chose me, I believe
,
because I was known on the docks and seemed to be at least slightly respectable. She wanted what was best for you, Morgan, and knew she couldn't give you anything but poverty and a future that matched hers."