by Lisa Kleypas
Ethan felt a grin cross his face, when he would have sworn nothing could have made him smile, standing in front of that blasted portrait.
“My father thrashed me within an inch of my life afterward,” West said, “but it was worth it.” He paused reflectively. “That was the last memory I have of him. He died not long after that, brawling over a woman. Dear old Papa was never one to let rational conversation get in the way of his fists.”
It hadn’t occurred to Ethan that West and Devon Ravenel had led anything other than a sheltered and pampered existence. The revelation gave him an unexpected feeling of empathy and kinship. He couldn’t help liking West, who was irreverent as hell, at ease with himself and the world, while still retaining the subtle flintiness of a man with few illusions. This was someone he could understand and talk to.
“Did you ever meet the earl?” West asked, wandering slowly along the row of portraits.
“Once.” Ethan had never told a living soul about it. But in the quiet out-of-time atmosphere of the portrait gallery, he found himself sharing the memory that had haunted him for years. “When my mother was younger, the earl kept her for a time. She was a shopgirl when they met, and a beauty. She lived in a set of rooms he paid for. The arrangement lasted until she found out she was with child. The earl didn’t want her after that, so he gave her some money and a reference for a job that fell through. Her family had cast her off, and she had nowhere to turn. She knew if she gave her baby to the orphanage, she could take a factory job, but she decided to keep me instead. Angus Ransom, who was a prison guard at Clerkenwell, offered to marry her and raise me as his own.
“But times grew hard,” Ethan continued. “There came a day we couldn’t pay the butcher’s bill and had no fuel for the hearth. Mam took it upon herself to go to the earl for help. She thought it wasn’t too much to ask of him, to spare a few coins for his own child. But it wasn’t the earl’s way to give something for nothing. Mam had kept her looks, and he still fancied her for a tumble. After that, she would slip off to meet him when we needed money for food or coal.”
“Shame on him,” West said softly.
“I was still a young boy,” Ethan said, “when Mam took me for an outing one day in a hansom cab. She said we were going to visit a gentleman friend of hers, who wanted to meet me. We went to a house like nothing I’d ever imagined, fine and quiet, with polished floors, and gold columns on the sides of the doorways. The earl came downstairs, wearing a velvet dressing robe, similar to that one.” Ethan gave a brief nod in the direction of the painting. “After asking me a few questions—did I go to school, which Bible story was my favorite—he patted me on the head, and said I seemed a bright boy for all that I had the accent of an Irish tinker. He pulled a little sack of sweets from the pocket of his robe and gave them to me. Barley-sugar sticks, they were. Mam bade me sit in the parlor while she went upstairs to talk with the earl. I don’t know how long I waited there, eating barley sweets. When Mam came down, she appeared the same as when we’d arrived, not a hair out of place. But there was something humbled in the look of her. I was old enough to understand they’d done something wrong, that he’d done something to her. I left the little bag of sweets beneath the chair, but it took weeks for the taste of barley sugar to fade from my mouth.
“On the way home, Mam told me the man was very important, a highborn gentleman, and he was my real father, not Angus Ransom. I could tell she took pride in it. In her mind I’d gained something, now that I knew I was the son of a great man. An aristocrat. She didn’t understand I’d just lost the only father I’d ever known. I could hardly look at Angus for months afterward, now that I knew I wasn’t his. ’Til the day he died, I always wondered how many times he glanced at me and saw another man’s bastard.”
Ravenel was silent for a while, looking angry and resigned. “I’m sorry,” he eventually said.
“’Twas none of your doing.”
“I’m still sorry. For centuries, the Ravenels have turned out one generation of cruel, irresponsible arses after another.” West shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced over the rows of stern, haughty faces from the past. “Yes, I’m referring to you,” he said to the crowd of portraits. “The sins of your fathers rained down on you like poison, and you passed it down to your children, and then they did the same. There wasn’t a decent man in the lot of you.” He turned to Ethan. “Soon after Devon’s son was born, he came to me and said, ‘Someone has to absorb all the poison that’s been passed down through generations, and keep it away from the ones who come after us. It has to stop with me. God help me, I’m going to protect my child from my own worst instincts. I’m going to block every violent, selfish impulse that was instilled in me. It won’t be easy. But I’ll be damned if I turn out a son who’s exactly like the father I hated.’”
Ethan stared at him, struck by the wisdom and resolve in those words. He realized these distant Ravenel cousins were far more than a pair of carefree toffs who’d had the luck to come into an unexpected inheritance. They were trying like hell to save an estate, and even more, to save a family. For that, they had his respect.
“Your brother may be the first earl who’s ever been worthy of the title,” Ethan said.
“He didn’t start out that way,” West replied, and laughed. When the brief flare of amusement faded, he said, “I understand why you want nothing to do with the Ravenels. Edmund was an unfeeling monster, and on top of that, no one likes to admit they’re the product of six centuries of inbreeding. But everyone needs someone to turn to, and we are your family. You should get to know us. If it helps, I’m the worst of the lot—the rest are all much better than me.”
Ethan approached him and extended a hand. “You’ll do well enough for me,” he said gruffly. West grinned at him.
When they shook hands, it felt like a promise had been made. A commitment.
“Now,” Ethan said, “where do you keep the guns?”
Ravenel’s brows shot upward. “Ransom, if you don’t mind, I prefer easing into a new topic with a transitional phrase or two.”
“Usually I do,” Ethan said. “But I tire easily, and this is my nap time.”
“May I ask why we’re arming ourselves instead of napping?”
“Because we were nearly murdered two weeks ago, and we’re fairly certain someone will come to finish the job.”
West turned serious, his gaze sharpening. “If I’d been through what you have, Ransom, the devil knows I’d be jumpy too. But no one’s going to come here looking for you. Everyone thinks you’re dead.”
“Not without a body,” Ethan said. “Unless they find one, they’ll never stop looking for me.”
“Why would they even suspect you’re here? They won’t connect you to the Ravenels. The river police who brought you to Ravenel House were too terrified to say a word to anyone.”
“At the time, they probably were. But either of them could have mentioned it to a friend or sweetheart, or bend the elbow a time too many at the local tavern and say something to the barkeep. Eventually they’ll be taken in for questioning because they were on patrol that night. They won’t hold out for long under interrogation. Furthermore, any of the servants at Ravenel House may let something slip. A housemaid could say something to the fruit seller at the market.”
West looked skeptical. “Do you really think a few careless words in a tavern, or a bit of gossip from a housemaid to a market seller, would make its way to Jenkyn’s ears?”
The question was reasonable, but it almost stunned Ethan. He realized he’d lived for too damned long in Jenkyn’s complex and secretive world—he’d forgotten that most people had no idea what was really taking place around them.
“Long before Jenkyn recruited me,” Ethan said, “he started constructing a network of informants and spies all over the United Kingdom. Ordinary people in ordinary towns. Coachmen, innkeepers, sellers, prostitutes, domestic servants, factory workers, university students . . . all part of an intelligence-gathering apparatus
. They’re paid stipends with secret grant money Jenkyn receives from the Home Office. The Prime Minister knows about it, but says he prefers to remain unaware of the details. Jenkyn has made a science of gathering and analyzing information. He has at least eight active officers who’ve been specially trained to carry out any task he assigns. They’re outside the law. They have no fear. They have no scruples. They have little to no regard for human life, including their own.”
“And you’re one of them,” West said quietly.
“I was. Now I’m a target. By now, someone in the village knows that a pair of strangers have been staying at Eversby Priory.”
“My servants wouldn’t say a word to anyone.”
“You have carpenters, painters, and workmen coming and going. They have eyes and ears.”
“Very well. Let’s assume you’re right, and Jenkyn will send someone after you. I can close this house as tight as tuppence.”
“There’s not one lock in this entire house they couldn’t pick in less than a minute, including the front door. And your servants don’t seem to bother with locks in the first place.”
“They will if I tell them to.”
“That would be a start.” Ethan paused. “I’ll have recovered enough to leave for London in a week. But until then, we have to take security measures in case Jenkyn’s men find me here.”
“I’ll show you to the gun closet.”
“There’s a gun room in the floor plans. On this level of the house.”
“We turned that into an office room with a connecting lavatory. Now we keep the firearms in a gun closet off the servants’ hall, under charge of the butler.”
Ethan gave him a narrow-eyed glance.
West looked irritable. “Does it look like we can afford to host long, expensive shooting parties? We sold off the hounds. Our gamekeeper is a fossil. We let him have a few birds only to give him something to do. The animals on this estate are used for food, work, and profit, not entertainment. And before I take you belowstairs to see the gun closet, you should be prepared for the fact that most of the guns are old and rusted. Hardly anyone here except me even knows how to use one.”
“Are you a good shot?”
“Middling. I’m an excellent shot if the targets hold still, but they so rarely do.”
As Ethan considered the situation, he fought against a wave of exhaustion. “Forget about the gun closet, then. We’ll do what we can to shore up our defenses. Tell the servants to start locking the damn doors at night, including their own doors when they’re asleep. And we’ll need bolts installed in every attic and basement opening, cellar and jib door, luggage hoist, coal lift . . . every means of internal communication. Also, pull down the scaffolding and platforms on the south side of the house.”
“What? No, I can’t do that.”
“The scaffolding provides outside access to any window or balcony on that entire façade.”
“Yes, Ransom, that’s the point. I have stonemasons restoring ornamental openwork.” Faced with Ethan’s unyielding expression, West groaned. “Do you know how many days the stonemasons took to build that scaffolding? Do you have any idea of what they’re going to do to me if I tell them to pull it all down and put it back up a week later? You won’t have to worry about assassins from London. My workmen will happily string us both up in short order.”
A terrible weariness had begun to invade Ethan’s muscles, and he felt a pressing need for sleep. Damn it. “I’d spare you all of this by leaving now, if I were able,” he muttered, passing a hand over his forehead.
“No,” West said instantly, his tone changing. “Pay no attention to my complaining. God knows no one else does. You belong here.” He ran an evaluating glance over Ethan. “You look ready to drop. I’ll accompany you upstairs.”
“I don’t need help.”
“If you think I’m going to risk having anything happen to you, and then face Dr. Gibson’s wrath, you’re mad. I’d rather take on a baker’s dozen of assassins.”
Ethan nodded and headed out of the gallery. “They won’t send more than three men,” he said. “They’ll come in the wee hours of the morning, while it’s still dark and the household is sleeping soundly.”
“Eversby Priory has over two hundred rooms. They won’t know the layout.”
“Yes, they will. The floor plans and specifications can be retrieved from the offices of any architect, contractor, or surveyor who’s had anything to do with the rebuilding of this place.”
West heaved a sigh, conceding the point. “Don’t forget my London banker,” he said glumly. “He asked for copies when we were arranging for loans.”
Apologetically, Ethan said, “They won’t want to cause unnecessary casualties. All they’ll want is to find me. I’ll surrender myself before I let anyone here get hurt.”
“Damned if you will,” West retorted. “The Ravenel family motto is ‘Loyalty binds us.’ I’ll blow the head off of any bastard who threatens one of my kinsmen.”
Chapter 22
“Is this how they did it at Miss Primrose’s?” Ethan asked, standing back as a pair of footmen—supervised by the elderly butler, Sims—ceremoniously laid tablecloths on the ground beneath a shade tree. They proceeded to set out china plates, silver flatware, and crystal goblets.
Garrett shook her head, watching with a bemused smile as ice buckets filled with bottles of lemonade, ginger beer, and claret were arranged beside the dishes. “Our picnics were bread, jam, and a slice of cheese, carried in a tin pail.”
It had been her idea to have lunch with Ethan on the estate grounds, within the shelter of a high garden wall. She had told Ethan about the picnics she and her classmates used to enjoy at school, and he said he’d never been on one. Garrett had asked the housekeeper if she could borrow a basket to carry out some items from the daily sideboard buffet. Instead, the cook had provided what she called “a proper picnic” in a pair of massive wicker and leather hampers.
After Sims and the footmen had departed, Ethan sat with his back against the tree trunk and watched as Garrett unearthed a feast from the hampers. There were boiled eggs, plump olives, stalks of crisp green celery, jars of pickled carrots and cucumbers, sandwiches wrapped in paraffin paper, cold fried oyster-patties and wafer crackers, jars of finely chopped salads, a weighty round of white cheese, muslin-lined baskets filled with finger cakes and pastry biscuits, a steamed cabinet pudding left in its fluted stoneware mold, and a wide-mouthed glass bottle filled with stewed fruit.
As they ate a leisurely meal beneath the dense green beech canopy, Garrett was pleased to see Ethan relaxing. For the past five days, he had been more active than she would have preferred, going through every nook and cranny of Eversby Priory with West. As with most ancient manor houses, many modifications and additions had been made over the centuries, resulting in quirks, oddly shaped spaces, and offset stairs and windows.
Despite Garrett’s concerns that he would set back his recovery, Ethan had painstakingly made his way to each level of the house to assess it with his own eyes. New bolts and locks had been installed, and the outside scaffolding had been removed. Doors were now routinely locked every night, and so were the ground and basement windows. The household staff had been instructed to raise an alarm if they heard suspicious noises at night, but under no circumstances should they confront a housebreaker on their own.
Although Ethan had continued to heal and improve at an impressive rate, it would take weeks or even months for him to reach the level of health he’d enjoyed before his injury. It exasperated him to be constrained by his physical limitations, having been accustomed to inexhaustible reserves of energy and strength.
It had been almost three weeks since Ethan had been shot. In ordinary circumstances, Garrett would have insisted that he wait twice that amount of time before leaving the estate. However, this situation was far from ordinary. Whether or not she approved, Ethan had told her, he had to leave for London the day after tomorrow. He couldn’t continue to remain at E
versby Priory and put the household at risk. Nor could he stand by and do nothing after Jenkyn had diverted eight tons of stolen explosives to a terrorist group that could conceivably blow up the House of Commons.
Reaching out to the luxuriant undergrowth of wintergreen shrubs beneath the stand of beeches, Ethan plucked a sharp minty leaf. He lay back on the cloth and nibbled on the bit of green, staring up at the canopy of sky and leaves overhead. The beeches were gnarled and graceful, their branches tangling as if they were holding hands. All that could be heard were rustling leaves and the trill of a wood warbler. The air was fresh with the loamy scent of rich earth. Rustling leaves and the occasional trill of a wood warbler were the only sounds they could hear.
“I’ve never been in a place so peaceful, outside of a church,” Ethan said.
“It’s a world away from London. All the clashing fire bells and the roar of railways and construction . . . and the air filthy with smoke and dust . . . and all those tall buildings blocking out the sun . . .”
“Aye,” Ethan said. “I miss it too.”
They both chuckled.
“I miss my patients, and the clinic,” Garrett confessed. “Now that you’re too healthy for me to fuss over, I must have something to do.”
“You could begin writing a memoir,” he suggested.
Unable to resist the temptation he presented, Garrett bent over until their noses nearly touched. “My life,” she told him, “hasn’t been nearly sensational enough for my memoir to be interesting.”
“You’re in hiding with a fugitive,” he pointed out.
Her lips quirked. “That means you’re the one with an interesting life, not me.”
Ethan traced the edge of her low-necked gown with his fingertips, and hooked his forefinger into the soft valley between her breasts. “We’ll return to London soon, and I’ll provide all the excitement you want.” His lips brushed hers with teasing dry warmth, and she let him draw her down, increasing the pressure until the kiss was strong and damp and savoring. Her senses were filled with him, the sweet taste of his mouth, the vital feel of his body as he pulled her full length against him.