The Dangerous Debutante

Morgan wasn’t used to being at a loss for words, but found she had nothing to say to her ladyship’s statements. So she merely smiled, fairly convinced that this strange woman was the sort who could hold conversations all by herself, if the other person just smiled or nodded in the right places.

And she was right, for Druscilla was off once more, barely taking a breath before saying, “You’re probably wondering if I’m a wee bit batty. Or prodigiously batty, and I suppose some would say I am. But I’m happy, and Ethan indulges me just as his dear father did before him. Neither of them cared a scrap about the scandal, which is just as well, because what is done is done, and can’t be undone. Oh, the marriage, yes, that could have been undone. God knows George’s family tried, insisting their poor boy had lost the reins on his brains. But not Ethan. Difficult to undo Ethan, don’t you think? And he makes a splendid earl, even if society still pretends to be all aghast about his dreadfully inappropriate mother.”

This time Morgan nodded, schooling her expression to one of mingled sympathy and disgust. Or at least she hoped so. Mostly, she wanted the woman to keep talking.

“It was a love match, you understand. George and me. We took one look at each other and that was that, and me only fifteen to his eight and thirty. We cared not a snap what the world would think. Well, George didn’t. I had no idea the fuss it would make, as George had somehow neglected to tell me he was, at the time, a viscount. And his title wasn’t really important, then or now, because we loved each other dreadfully. So we built our castle, and put up our walls, and never bothered about anyone. It’s been five years that he’s gone, and I still miss him so.”

The bright light in Drusilla’s eyes faded as she shrugged, sighed. “Well, enough of that. My only regret is that Ethan seems always to pay the price for his parents’ happiness. It can’t be comfortable being the son of a soft-headed fool and a common strumpet. But, still, the ton accepts him, if only on sufferance. Ethan says that’s because of the title and all the money, but I think it’s because he’s so pretty. What do you think?”

“I…uh…” Morgan hadn’t counted on being asked a question, so she quickly, and none too tactfully, responded by asking one of her own. “You weren’t really a strumpet, were you?”

Druscilla patted Morgan’s hand. “No, dear, but I certainly wasn’t acceptable, either.” She leaned closer. “You see, I was a performer.”

“An actress?” Morgan asked, rather excited to hear such a romantic story, certainly a happier story than that of her own parentage. Although, if London society looked at Ethan askance, what on earth would they do if anyone ever learned about her beginnings?

“Not then, no,” Druscilla said. “I had aspirations, yes, but I was still young, and was forced into company with a band of jugglers and magicians and miracle-sellers and their ilk. Would you like me to read your palm? I can, you know. Not correctly, but definitely convincingly. I would have done much better if I’d looked like you. I’m much too pale, too watery. You’ve the look, the fire, of a real gypsy. I had to wear a huge black wig, and it itched horribly, almost as badly as this horrid gown. Next year, and so I told my friends, we’ll perform a more modern play.”

“Maman? Have you quite talked Miss Becket’s ear off in my absence?”

Morgan watched as the earl reentered the room, looking every inch the London gentleman, and refused to acknowledge the small skip her heart gave at the sight of him. She could still see the raw power in him, but that power had been somehow leashed with the addition of finely cut clothing. It was the sure knowledge that the leash could be easily snapped that intrigued her. Almost challenged her, as if he had somehow flung a glove at her feet, daring her to try.

And all he’d done was walk into the room, smile at her.

Imagine what would happen if he ever touched her….

“Of course I did, Ethan, just as you knew I would. All our ancient scandal revealed. Why else would you have all but dragged me away from our rehearsal?”

“Yes, of course, Maman. Forgive me.” It was true he had counted on his gregarious mother to run her tongue on wheels, say everything that needed to be said. But did she also have to say, within Morgan’s hearing, that he had wanted her to do precisely that? No head for intrigue, his mother, much as he loved her.

The dowager countess turned her back on Ethan and took Morgan’s hands in her own, squeezed them. “He’d much rather, you see, have me tell the story, and not have you hear any nastiness about his mother from some muckraking dragon in London. At least, this way you know you’ve heard the right of it and can make up your own mind.”

She leaned close, whispered, “He’s a very sensitive soul, my dear, sweet Ethan is.”

“Oh, ma’am, I think you may worry yourself too much on that head. I may have only just met him, but I already believe your son more than capable of taking care of himself,” Morgan whispered back to her, smiling.

“Placed in uncaring hands, my dear, anyone’s heart can be broken.” Druscilla squeezed Morgan’s hands one more time, and got to her feet. “And now, if you don’t mind, Algernon is waiting, probably sharpening his ax down to a nub. Do come see me again, Morgan, as I’m sure you will, as Ethan has never before brought a young lady here. You must be very special.”

“Umm, thank you…Druscilla.” Morgan dropped into another curtsy, then watched as Ethan first bowed over his mother’s hand, then leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks, his mother holding him close as she whispered something in his ear.

He laughed, kissed her again and then watched her go before turning to Morgan. “My mother reminded me that I should ask if you wish to freshen up before we continue our journey.”

“Really,” Morgan said, tipping her head to one side as she considered this. “I doubt she was reticent to suggest such a thing to me directly, and had to beg you to ask the question. What did she actually say?”

Ethan stepped closer. Morgan was as beautiful as he’d remembered while he’d harried his valet into rushing through the quick change of clothes, then set the man to having his entire wardrobe moved to town by morning. Ethan had half hoped he’d had too much sun, and his reaction had been temporary…but this woman only improved on second sight, and his interest only deepened.

But that didn’t mean he’d tell her that his mother had suggested he should waste no time in having Morgan for his own as “you two would give me splendidly beautiful grandchildren. And she didn’t turn tail and run from this silly pile or your strange mama, Ethan. The girl’s got bottom!”

No, he wouldn’t tell her any of that. “Nothing important,” he said, offering his arm and leading her back into the cavernous foyer. “So. Did my mother produce a deck of cards from that fantastical costume and ask you to pick one, any card at all?”

“To tell my fortune, you mean? No, she didn’t.”

“No, not to foretell your future, although I’m sure she wished to. I was referring to her showing you one of her card tricks. She’s quite good with sleight-of-hand, but we’ve already seen all her best tricks a thousand times. It’s why she was so glad to see a new victim, as she calls anyone who has yet to watch her perform.”

Morgan withdrew her hand from his arm, pushing ahead of him through the doorway once the footman had opened the door for them. “Now you’re making fun of her. Your own mother. That’s despicable. I found her to be very nice…extremely interesting. People shouldn’t all be alike, or just what we expect. It’s our differences that make us so intriguing.”

Ethan relaxed, not realizing he’d been holding himself so tightly. She’d passed his impromptu test, more than passed it—she’d actually defended his mother to him. “Oddly enough, I believe you. Now, ask me your questions.”

“I have no—oh, all right.” Morgan stood in the courtyard and gave an all-encompassing sweep of her arm. “All…all this. Why?”

“Fair enough question, I suppose. Because my mother told my father that she’d always wanted to be swept up by a prince and taken to his castle. He wasn’t a prince, but he could build her a castle, so he did, although some might quarrel with the way it turned out—me, for one, because it’s wickedly drafty. I’ve set about correcting that, but the work is a slow process, I’m afraid. I’m drawing up plans for a second house on the estate, quite on the other side of the park. Brick, not stone, in case you might wonder. And there will be no moat. Tanner’s Roost will become the dowager’s residence.”

“Because your mother adores her castle.”

“Very much so, yes. Unfortunately, Tanner’s Roost also has become one of the many reasons anyone in London will be more than happy to tell you that the late Earl of Aylesford was a lunatic who eloped with a common piece who’d worked her dark magic on him. Right before they warn you away from the couple’s sure-to-be unstable progeny.”

Morgan thought about all of this for a moment, then said, “And you wanted me to know all of this. You brought me here especially to hear it, to see everything, to be introduced to your mother, and to have her tell me the story. You didn’t have to do that. You’re Chance’s friend. If he’s accepted you, nothing anyone else could say would mean anything to me. Besides, I make up my own mind.”

Ethan looked toward the pair of grooms leading Alejandro and Berengaria toward them, composing his thoughts. “Ah, yes, your brother. Chance. Would it bother you overmuch if I told you I’ve never met the gentleman, never had the pleasure?”

Morgan turned on him, her glorious gray eyes opened wide. “You lied?”

He grinned at her. God, she was gorgeous. Fiery. “Blatantly, yes.”

“But…but you said Upper Brook Street. I heard you. Only a few steps off Park Lane.”

“Your groom is quite gullible, and inordinately helpful. I’d slice out his tongue, were I you, if you have any secrets you don’t want told.”

Morgan shot a glance toward Jacob, a small smile beginning to play about her lips. She’d been fooled, tricked. Lied to. And she didn’t care. “I have considered that, from time to time.” Then she turned back to Ethan. “It isn’t just what people may think, what they might say. You really are reprehensible, aren’t you? You may even enjoy what must be your terrible reputation.”

“Oh, there’s no may about it, Morgan,” Ethan said, cupping his entwined hands so that she could use them as a mounting post as he all but threw her up onto the sidesaddle.

Morgan looked down at him from atop Berengaria, who had begun to dance in place, eager to be on her way once more. “Please be certain to behave yourself when you deliver me to my brother, Ethan, because I believe you and I could become very good friends over the coming weeks.”

He bowed to her in agreement, then swung gracefully onto Alejandro’s back. “There are many things in this world and out of it, Morgan, many questions to which I don’t know the answers. But there is one thing I do know, and that is this—you and I are destined to be very good friends. We’d both have it no other way, and I will greatly enjoy introducing your unique self to the ton. Shall we ride, take our first steps in shocking the good citizens of Mayfair?”

Morgan, being who she was, knowing who she was, didn’t bother to dissemble, and certainly did not even consider acting coy or missish. Odette hadn’t given her any suggestions on how to handle a dangerous man like Ethan Tanner, but Morgan had already made up her mind. She would be straightforward, would never back down, and she’d challenge him to be the same.

“You can’t wait to stand London on its ear, can you? But what makes you think I should be such a willing partner to what is most probably your ongoing assault on the ton?”

“You were about to ride into London, unescorted, straight into Mayfair. And, if I may be so bold—and I’m always bold—if I ever saw a young woman ripe for mischief, it’s you. I imagine there’s little you’d shy from, Miss Becket.”

“My father, as I understand it, has already sent my brother his condolences as he attempts to steer me through the Season, if that’s what you mean. But all I wanted to do was make clear, from the outset, that Chance might be my host for the Season, but he will not be my keeper. And it’s Morgan. I’m Morgan, remember? And you’re Ethan.”

“With each other, Morgan, yes, we are, but not in public. Then we would be wise to play by some of the rules, even as we bend or break many more of them. I will address you as Miss Becket, and you can simply call me Aylesford. Agreed?”

“So your mother isn’t the only one who enjoys playacting,” Morgan said. “Very well. I suppose I’ve played my own share of games.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you may have made a point to have your mother explain at least something of you to me, but I’m convinced she doesn’t know the half of it. Oh, and that, much as you may have hoped I might, I’m not returning the favor by confessing my own possible shortcomings, either in part or in whole. After all, Aylesford, I barely know you and, from what you have said, I have to think you at least slightly scandalous in your own right.”

“Only slightly?” Ethan’s full-throated laugh shooed several birds from the canopy of trees above them. Moments later, the two riders turned onto the main roadway once more, already a good fifty yards ahead of Jacob and the coach.

“Jacob will be having fits if we get much farther ahead of him,” Morgan said, looking back at the vehicle.

“Really? How very unfortunate for Jacob. It’s a straight run from here to Birling, and with little traffic to get in our way. Shall we?”

Morgan and Berengaria were a full three lengths ahead of Ethan and Alejandro before he’d finished speaking….

CHAPTER FIVE

“I, AS A GENTLEMAN, hesitate to point this out, but I believe you might be sulking, Morgan,” Ethan said as they rode side by side through the streets of London. The loud, crowded, definitely not perfumed streets of London.

He’d tried, not successfully, to convince her to return to the coach for this last short leg of their journey, to sit with the maid he’d stationed in the coach—amazing himself with his concern for her reputation—but when Morgan had refused, he’d decided that the best education often comes from lessons learned by one’s own experience.

He’d been amused by her obvious delight when they’d first approached London and she eagerly pointed out steeples and tall buildings she recognized from books in her father’s study. Her eyes had shone, and she’d been as excited as any child. But she’d grown more and more silent, withdrawn, as they’d moved into the metropolis.

“I’m fully aware that I’m sulking, thank you,” Morgan retorted, longing to lift a handkerchief to her nose, for the smell these last ten minutes or so had gone from annoying to faintly sickening, to perfectly vile.

She wasn’t eager to separate the odor into all its contributing smells, but she could tell that they were near the Thames, near the docks. And town docks were docks, here or in the islands.

All Morgan knew was their own small, isolated island, their safe paradise that, to her, was only a vague memory of sand, and heat, and clear, blue-green water. Of laughter, of freedom. And from the time they’d left the island, she’d never traveled more than five miles from Becket Hall.

This street, this place, was so alien to her. Had she been born into squalor like this? If her papa hadn’t bought her the very day she’d been born, and taken her to the island, would she still be living in a sorry, desperate place such as this? Would she even be alive now, to wonder?

For the first time, Morgan thought about her mother as anything more than the uncaring whore who had given her life. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to sell her child. Maybe she had seen the purchaser as the only way out for her daughter, the only chance she could give her.

What if her mother hadn’t sold her, had instead kept her? Would Morgan have fought, or would she eventually have made her own living on her back? How strong does a person have to be, to fight such poverty, such squalor, such hopelessness? How long does someone struggle before she gives up and simply lies down?

Morgan would like to think she would have been strong enough, even angry enough, to have found a way out. But she also knew she could never really know that, never know what choices that child would have made. If there even were choices for women in places like this.

Without knowing anything about her, Morgan knew she had judged her mother, and damned her. This new knowledge wasn’t easy to swallow.

“How can people live like this?” Morgan demanded of Ethan, as uncertainty was alien to her, and she much preferred the familiarity of anger, of attack. “And why would they want to? Crowded together, living in the midst of their own filth? And these houses? They’re all falling down. Surely they don’t choose to live this way.”

Ah, yes, he was an evil man. There were many ways to enter London, make their way to Mayfair, and when Morgan had declined riding inside the coach yet again, Ethan purposely had chosen one of the least palatable routes. She would be uncomfortable, but she would be safe. He was with her, after all, and his reputation rode with him, even in this god-awful section of the city.

Besides, although he knew himself to be reckless, he wasn’t so full of himself he thought he was above being attacked simply because his face and reputation were known here. There was also the trio of heavily armed outriders he’d brought along to make up their small procession. And Saul. And Bessie.

But Ethan had meant only to shock Morgan back into the coach with the smells, the dirt, the squalid surroundings. Instead, she seemed angry. Angry and profoundly sad. There were depths to this woman, something he hadn’t considered when he’d looked at, immediately desired, her.

In his own defense, he knew he had never looked very deeply at any of his women.

Ethan felt the sting of the mental slap that thought provoked: And you’re proud of that?

He’d try again, pretending he’d noticed Morgan’s distaste, but had failed to sense her distress. “Perhaps you’d like to reconsider riding in the coach? We’ve still some minutes to go before we reach Upper Brook Street, and I’m certain your brother would be happier to see you arrive…how should I say this? Oh, yes, I know. In the manner of a young lady.”

Morgan shot him a chilling glance, eager to be angry with someone other than herself. “I’ll say this for you, Ethan, you don’t give up easily. But neither do I. Could you have picked a worse route? Or do you really labor under the misconception that I don’t know what you’re trying to do?”

“I had thought of another street even worse than this one, then decided this was bad enough,” he said, grinning at her. “But, now that you’ve seen through my plan, let’s say we desert this area for a wider street. One where we won’t have to worry about the slops being flung out the upper storys of these fine establishments and down onto our heads.”

“Thank you,” Morgan said, maneuvering Berengaria past an overturned apple cart and the two angry men screaming at each other, blaming one another for the accident. She smiled as she saw that a growing number of young boys dressed in rags, their feet bare, were busily stuffing spilled apples into their ragged shirts, unnoticed by the arguing men.

Then she laughed as, moving very quickly, Ethan bent from his saddle and neatly scooped up one of the apples still balanced precariously on top of the pile in the cart. He rubbed it against his sleeve and then handed it to her. “Please accept this as a peace offering. I’m forgiven?”

Morgan felt a flush of delight lick through her as he bowed to her from Alejandro’s back. She didn’t believe in wasting this moment, or any moments of her life, by holding on to anger. A person said what she said, did what she did, and then the moment was over, and the next one was upon her. Fresh. New. Every moment was a new beginning. Morgan had made that promise to herself long ago.

“Yes, I suppose you’re forgiven. And I understand that you meant well, really. Just never do it again, all right? We’re supposed to have cried friends, as far as things go, at least. And, to tell you the truth, I’m glad I saw this. Everyone at Becket Hall seems to think the streets of London are littered with gold. Now I can tell them that at least a few of those streets are spread with substances not quite so grand.”

“You’d have to tell many who live in Mayfair the same thing, as they rarely venture outside their own insular area, where the gold may not litter the streets, but is definitely present in abundance. An acquaintance of mine once told me he’d gotten horribly lost in Piccadilly, after residing in Mayfair for fifteen years. Piccadilly, you understand, is only about five blocks from his residence. Are you sure you want a Season, Morgan? As I’ve already warned you, by and large, we’re a worthless lot.”

Morgan relaxed somewhat as the street they entered seemed more open, and definitely less odiferous. There were even a few trees gamely lining the flagway, although they were rather sad specimens. “You can’t all be useless. Look at Wellington, all our officers. And surely you’ve served?”

Ethan laughed. “Oh, surely not. As the only son, and with the knowledge that my completely unsuitable cousin would assume the title if I got myself killed, not to mention make my bereaved mother’s life a horror, I’ve kept myself safely on this side of the Channel.”

Morgan began to feel uneasy. “My brothers Spencer and Rian are all hot to go to the Peninsula, and will get there one of these days, I’m sure, when our father decides they’re not still too wet, and agrees to buy them commissions. Chance is involved at the War Office here in London. Courtland’s the oldest after Chance, and has all the responsibilities of the estate, but I know he’d otherwise be standing as close to Wellington as he could get, sword in hand. It’s only natural, only to be expected.”

Ethan shook his head. “So speaks the young and romantic. No, Morgan, not every man is anxious for the chance to sleep in cold mud, be bitten to near madness by fleas, and given the opportunity to either die in that mud or return home inconveniently missing one or more bodily parts. I have not served, I do not serve and I have no intention of serving. Feel free now to call me nasty names.”

What Ethan was saying was so very alien to anything Morgan had ever heard. They had come to England, and England was their country now. A person defended his country, even if it was only to keep his own family, his own home, safe. “You don’t care about England?”

Ethan shrugged, more than happy to pursue the conversation, and to witness her reaction. “I speak English, I speak French. My king is mad, his heir a spendthrift profligate—can Bonaparte be that much worse? I can always sail to America, as the title means little to me, anyway. The money, of course, is another matter. That would go with Maman and me. And perhaps my valet, as a gentleman shouldn’t stray too far from any fellow who knows his way around bootblack.”

Morgan looked at Ethan for long moments. Just looked at him. And then she grinned. “You liar! Is that the sort of thing you say to tip society over onto its ear? But do you really expect me to believe such nonsense? You’re English to your toes. What a bag of moonshine!”

Ethan was quite impressed. And only a little uneasy that she seemed to so quickly and easily see what so many others did not. “A liar, Morgan? Society believes me, why shouldn’t you?”

Because I grew up amid a family that has had to live by its wits, and its lies. “Like recognizes like, I suppose,” was all she said, all she’d admit this early in the game. Not that anyone outside the family would ever know more than the Beckets chose to tell. “So many turns, so many huge buildings—and so much cleaner. Are we getting closer?”

Knowing he’d been figuratively slapped down, and feeling more intrigued than ever, Ethan brought himself back to his surroundings. “Look straight ahead, Morgan. We’re nearly at the park. We’ll arrive in Upper Brook Street momentarily. To which end, I suggest you attempt to brush some of that travel dust from your skirts.”