“Morgan can’t be dead,” Juliet said simply. Her gaze settled on Sebastian, suspicious, apprehensive…worried. “He…I just can’t believe it.”
By thunder, she had to believe it! He and Morgan were enmeshed in a dangerous net, and only Sebastian could cut them out. He had to shake off Juliet and her relations to gain breathing room until this insanity was resolved.
“That doesn’t make it any less true.” Sebastian wondered at the calmness of his own voice, when inside he was anything but calm.
Devil take it, why were they here? In the beginning, he’d expected Knighton to hunt him down, but when no one had come after two years, he’d thought himself safe.
Safe! He must have been mad. But he’d never expected that she would come with them. Pretty Juliet, with her soft, accusing eyes and lush, tempting mouth…
He stifled a curse. Why had they brought her? It wasn’t as if they needed her to identify him—Daniel Brennan or Lady Helena could have done it, since both of them had been present at the final confrontation with Jolly Roger Crouch, King of the Smugglers. Her family should have kept Juliet at home where she belonged. She was too delicate for the maneuverings of men like himself and Knighton.
“By any chance,” Knighton asked, “was the ship that Morgan Pryce went down on named the Oceana?”
Ah, so Juliet had apparently told them everything. How “Morgan” had refused to hand her over to Crouch unless the smuggler first revealed the name of a ship and a particular date—the Oceana and July 17. Fortunately, the reason “Morgan” had wanted the information hadn’t come out. That would make it easier to hide the truth—that Sebastian himself had been acting as Morgan at the time. “How did you know the name of the ship?”
“Your brother asked about it. And when did Morgan board the Oceana?”
Those dates, those sticky dates. “November 1815, from what I was given to understand later.”
“How peculiar. I thought it would have been some months later, in July of 1816.” When Sebastian looked deliberately obtuse, Knighton added, “July 17 seemed to be important to your brother, as well.”
“Did it indeed?” Uncle Lew put in dryly. “I wonder why.”
Sebastian scowled at his uncle. Blast him, he knew very well why. Uncle Lew would plague him endlessly over this; he’d always claimed that no good would come of Sebastian’s masquerade as Morgan among the smugglers.
He flashed Uncle Lew a steely smile meant to head off any blundering. “I don’t know why July 17 was significant. All I know is that Morgan left here sometime in the spring of 1815. Our investigator said he boarded that ship in November.”
“That does fit with what I’ve learned of his activities,” Knighton interjected.
Knighton had taken the bait. Good. Sebastian was stretching the truth only a little, after all. Morgan had left in spring to join the smugglers, but they’d forced him aboard the Oceana in July. That was why Sebastian had ended up dealing with them in October.
Now it was time to play the grieving brother. “See here, if you know how Morgan ended up on the Oceana, do tell me. I’ve tried to find out for two years without any luck.”
“That’s all I know,” Knighton admitted. “Why do you think we came here?”
“Actually, you haven’t yet said why you came here,” Uncle Lew commented in seeming innocence, the smug devil. “I confess to being curious about your connection to my nephew. Sebastian seems convinced that Morgan is dead, but I haven’t relinquished hope that he’ll one day return home, having survived that ghastly shipwreck.”
Of course Uncle Lew hadn’t relinquished hope. He knew very well Morgan was alive. Now if only he’d keep his wits about him and realize that it was better if the Knightons believed otherwise.
Knighton glanced at Juliet. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I do think we have to tell them our story.” He set his shoulders, then began, “You see—”
“No,” she interrupted, “it is my affair, and I will tell it.”
Sebastian could scarcely hold his surprise. The shy Juliet he’d known wouldn’t have volunteered.
Knighton seemed surprised, too. “Very well, if you wish.”
Taking a deep breath, Juliet drew herself up. “When I met Morgan Pryce in Stratford-upon-Avon, he styled himself Captain Will Morgan and claimed to be on leave from an army regiment.”
As briefly as possible, she explained what had happened: how “Will Morgan” had courted her and convinced her to elope with him, how they’d traveled night and day to Sussex, where he’d claimed to be meeting friends who’d carry them by ship to Gretna Green.
Sebastian wasn’t sure what to make of her bloodless tone. Had his encounter with her faded into the past so fully that it no longer touched her? That would make matters easier for him, but if she no longer felt strongly about what had happened, why was she here after so long?
She spoke of her horror at discovering that Captain Will Morgan’s real name was Morgan Pryce, and that he was working for a smuggling gang who’d charged him with kidnapping her and bringing her to Sussex. Then her impassive façade cracked. Her self-reproach at not having realized the truth sooner affected Sebastian more than he liked, and he had to look away to regain control of his emotions.
Behind her, his uncle’s eyes held a faint, mocking amusement. “A kidnapping? Morgan would never have kidnapped a lady and certainly not on behalf of smugglers. Although I’m sure some men would do such things, it wasn’t in Morgan’s character.”
Sebastian gritted his teeth.
“Nonetheless, he did it,” Knighton snapped.
Knighton took up the tale where Juliet had left off. Sebastian could feel her probing eyes on him as Knighton laid out his past actions with ruthless efficiency. How “Morgan” had brought her before the smugglers, whose purpose in having her kidnapped was to extort a ransom from Knighton. How “Morgan” had demanded information from Crouch before he would hand her over.
Sebastian ached to look at her, to discern how she felt about all of it. But he couldn’t risk her reading his feelings. Just as he hadn’t dared try to see her during the past two years, not with so much at stake. Hadn’t dared approach the lovely, mature woman she’d become.
And damn her for growing into that. Even at eighteen, she’d borne the promise of future beauty, a golden angel with graceful curves and rich, honeyed hair. But now…
Had it been only two years since she’d offered him those shy, naive smiles that had posed such a threat to his peace of mind?
Devil take his peace of mind. She now posed a threat to something weightier—his estate and tenants, his brother’s future, his very own life. If her brother-in-law was as bent on revenge as he seemed, he could shatter everything, so Sebastian must play this out very carefully.
Knighton was still explaining how “Morgan” had behaved in the final moments, when there came a knock at the door.
“That must be the tea,” Uncle Lew remarked as he bade the servant to enter. “How timely. After a tale like that, I’ve got the shivers.”
Sebastian glared at his gloating uncle, but everyone else merely watched in silence while the maid brought in the tray.
“That’ll be all, Mary,” Sebastian said curtly.
The maid bobbed her head and hurried off, as timid around him as his maidservants always were.
Even after she left, no one touched the tea tray. Sebastian fixed Griff with a stony look. He wanted one particular point repeated for his deuced uncle’s sake. “You say that ‘Morgan’ did the right thing in the end. That after he gained this information he wanted, he refused to hand her over, but instead helped her escape the smugglers, thus thwarting their plans to get a ransom from you.”
Knighton whisked a hand in the air dismissively. “Yes, but the damage was done. He’d carried Juliet alone with him over half of England day and night, if you take my meaning.”
Sebastian certainly did, and if he was implying such an abominable thing, then Juliet had lied to the man, blast her!
“He stole her maidenhead?” Uncle Lew’s smug humor vanished as he frowned at Sebastian.
“No!” A wild blush stained Juliet’s cheeks. “No, he did not.”
Sebastian’s anger ebbed. Ah, so she hadn’t lied. Thank God. He’d have a hard time explaining that to Uncle Lew.
“But she was compromised all the same,” Knighton went on with fierce determination. “Worse yet, her other sister, Helena, and my man of affairs had gone after her and were taken by the smugglers as well. It was only through their efforts that the smugglers were completely routed. Morgan, however, vanished in the final battle.”
“After seeing Juliet safe,” Sebastian put in.
Knighton glared at him. “Yes—or as safe as a compromised woman can be.”
Sebastian stifled a curse. What was this? He’d kept track of what happened after the “elopement,” and he knew she’d not been hurt by it. “So her elopement was found out, and her reputation ruined?”
“Not at first. Since my sister-in-law Helena had wisely kept the elopement secret, my wife and I were able to preserve Juliet’s reputation upon her return.” He scowled. “Until recently, that is.”
What the devil—
Juliet fixed him with a blistering look. “Rumors about the elopement have surfaced in town, and the only person who knows enough to spread them is Morgan. That’s why we’re here. We want it stopped.”
“I’m sure you do.” Sebastian leaned back, catching up the stained hunk of India rubber upon which he sometimes released his frustrations. Kneading it between leather-gloved fingers, he shook his head. “But I told you—Morgan went down with the Oceana. Someone else must have started the rumors.”
“Isn’t it possible Morgan returned to England without your knowing?” Knighton persisted. “That he wasn’t on that ship when it went down?”
“Even if my nephew had returned,” Uncle Lew put in, “he would never behave so abominably.” Uncle Lew might disapprove of Sebastian’s actions, but he was nonetheless loyal.
“Morgan kidnapped her,” Knighton said dryly. “I don’t see why he’d balk at a little gossip.”
Weren’t any of them listening, blast it? “I tell you—he’s dead,” Sebastian maintained. “So he can’t be spreading your rumors.” If there truly were any rumors.
“Well, somebody is,” Lady Rosalind protested. “And what if you’re wrong? What if he’s very much alive and hiding out in Sussex or London?”
“Now see here, my brother isn’t—”
“That’s another thing,” Juliet put in, her palpable anger slapping at his conscience. “You still haven’t told us why the world believes your brother to be your ward. I find that decidedly suspicious.”
Deuce take it, she wasn’t accepting any of this. Gritting his teeth, Sebastian exchanged glances with his uncle. He’d known there was no way to avoid it, but damn if he didn’t hate laying out his sordid family history for them. For her.
“I understand how you might see it that way,” he said stiffly. “Very well. You’ve been straightforward with me, so the least I can do is explain.” He gestured to the tea tray. “But you may want some fortification first. This is a long, involved tale.”
To his surprise, Juliet did the honors, pouring tea for everyone. He couldn’t help watching her, despite the very real possibility that Knighton would read the avid interest in his eyes. But she was so dainty, so winning, so much like the girl he remembered…
Yet entirely different. When had she become the brave creature who now met Uncle Lew’s gaze squarely when bringing him his tea? Who took charge of pouring the tea in the first place, instead of leaving it to her older sister? It was a conundrum that kept him watching her even when he shouldn’t.
Juliet could feel Lord Templemore’s gaze on her, and she didn’t like it one bit. Because every time she tried to catch it, he glanced away. It was most annoying. How could she decide if he was really Morgan when he wouldn’t even look at her?
With deliberate clumsiness, she dripped tea on his desk, yet not even that garnered her a glance. Did that mean he was indeed Morgan? Or just the reclusive sort they’d heard he was?
Taking her own tea, she resumed her seat, eager to see what preposterous tale he offered now. She hoped it would be quite unbelievable; otherwise she’d have to accept that Morgan was dead, and that was impossible. She might want to throttle Morgan, but she didn’t wish him dead. Begging for her mercy perhaps, but not dead. So unless Lord Templemore convinced her beyond any doubt, she’d continue to believe that he himself was her kidnapper. Despite his rich surroundings and lofty station.
Lord Templemore settled back into his chair wearily, as if the world weighed down his shoulders. Still holding that odd chunk of rubber, he worked it compulsively, squeezing and torturing it as he began to speak.
“In the summer of 1788, my mother bore my father twin sons, but told him she’d only borne me. She paid the midwife to care for Morgan in secret. Then as soon as she could leave her childbed, she fled to the Continent, taking Morgan along.”
“Goodness gracious, why would she do that?” Juliet asked suspiciously.
“She said later that she took Morgan because she couldn’t bear to leave both children behind, and she figured that if Father had his heir, he’d not pursue her.”
“But why flee in the first place?” Griff put in.
Lord Templemore looked so highly affronted by the question, she marveled that he didn’t throw them all out at once. “That’s a private matter, sir, immaterial to your situation.” He paused, his hard gaze daring anybody to probe further. Apparently satisfied that his aristocratic hauteur had quelled their impertinence, he went on. “To avoid scandal, Father told the world—including me when I was old enough—that my mother died in childbirth.”
That’s what they’d heard, too. Which explained why she felt so uneasy in this bastion of his power. It lacked a single touch of femininity. There were no vases filled with conservatory flowers by a fond mother, no delicate hangings stitched by a loving sister, no watercolor miniatures of family painted by an adoring wife and displayed in glass cases. She’d noticed no such items in the hall they’d passed through, either. It was stark and purely male, a bachelor’s temple.
“Only Sebastian’s father and I knew that my sister Ophelia had really abandoned her son and husband,” Mr. Pryce interjected. He set his cup back on the saucer, rattling it. “She vanished, and all attempts to find her were fruitless. So none of us knew of Morgan until sixteen years ago when Ophelia summoned me to Geneva, where she’d been living.”
Lord Templemore gulped some tea as if he wished it were something stronger, then set down his cup with an expression of distaste. “By then, Morgan and I were thirteen. Penniless and dying of consumption, my mother worried about what would happen to him. She begged my uncle to see that Morgan received the advantages of his birth. Needless to say, Uncle Lew didn’t question her tale—one look at Morgan and he knew she spoke the truth.”
“And I thought my background was odd,” Griff muttered under his breath.
“How do we know that you speak the truth?” Juliet burst out. “There’s no corroboration in Debrett’s—and you know that. You can claim whatever you like. How do we know you and your uncle haven’t concocted this tale of an identical twin?”
“I beg your pardon, I would never—” Mr. Pryce began to protest.
“Juliet,” Griff interrupted, “the runner already gave us accounts of both men in separate places at the same time—Morgan serving in the navy and Lord Templemore running this estate. I assure you, no man can run an estate for years from a ship.”
He had a point, and yet…“Why doesn’t anybody know of the twins? If this ‘twin’ was brought back to England after his mother died—”
“He wasn’t,” Mr. Pryce explained. “Sebastian’s father and I had Morgan schooled abroad. When he came of age, we purchased him a commission in the navy and he went to war. And stayed out of England.”
“He’d already taken Mother’s maiden name, so they claimed he was Father’s ward. That’s all they told me, too.” Anger now tinged Lord Templemore’s voice. “Since I rarely left the estate and Morgan served on a succession of ships, they figured they could easily keep us apart and the connection between us hidden. Morgan knew he had a brother because our mother told him, but I didn’t know anything.”
“That sounds very unfair,” Juliet said softly.
His startled gaze swung to her. “I thought so.”
His bald admission tugged at her foolishly tender heart. Especially when she glimpsed the vulnerability in his eyes.
Then she frowned. Oh, no, not this time. Never again would she let him play on her feelings, so he could slide under her guard and twist in the knife.
“We did what we considered best, Sebastian,” Mr. Pryce protested. “We didn’t want any trouble when it came time for you to inherit. The midwife was gone, and no one could swear you were the firstborn. Best not to have Morgan around at all to cause trouble when you ascended to the title.”
Lord Templemore dragged his gaze from her. “Then it’s a pity your attempts to avoid trouble didn’t stretch to keeping Father alive.” Despite his flip words, grief lingered in the bitter tone, the hand that convulsively squeezed the India rubber, as if movement distracted him from pain.
Mr. Pryce sighed. “Your father always did whatever he liked.”
“True.” Lord Templemore rose, went to a side table where sat a decanter and some glasses, and poured himself some dark and intense fluid, probably brandy. He swallowed a mouthful, then stood staring into the glass.
Juliet had to fight a silly urge to leap from her chair and comfort him. She’d heard about his ne’er-do-well father—who’d died in a duel over Lady Throwley, the last in a series of married women, opera dancers, and demireps the old baron had taken up with. Leaving his son to suffer the scandal.
Her sympathy swelled despite her attempts to suppress it. What good were wealth and privilege when they came at such a personal cost? To never know one’s mother or brother, watch one’s father ruin his own life—no wonder his lordship buried himself at his estate, away from prying eyes. Who wouldn’t?
After the Abduction Page 3