Ethan’s brows lifted. “Are you thinking about taking a wife?”
West shrugged. “The nights can be long and quiet in the country,” he admitted. “If I found a woman who was an interesting companion and attractive enough to bed . . . yes, I’d consider marrying her.” He paused. “Better yet if she were educated. A sense of humor would be icing on the cake. Red hair isn’t a requirement, but I do have a fatal weakness for it.” West’s mouth twisted with a self-mocking grin. “Of course, she’d have to be willing to overlook the fact that I was an undisciplined and obnoxious swill-tub until about three years ago.” A nearly imperceptible look of bitterness flashed across his face before he masked it.
“Who is she?” Ethan asked softly.
“No one. An imaginary woman.” Averting his gaze, West used the toe of his boot to flick a loose pebble to the side of the drive. “Who happens to despise me,” he muttered.
Ethan regarded him with sympathetic amusement. “You might be able to change her opinion.”
“Only if I could travel back in time and beat my former self to a pulp.” West shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, and gave Ethan an assessing glance. “You don’t look well enough to travel,” he said bluntly. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“I don’t have the luxury of time,” Ethan said. Lifting a hand to rub and pinch the sore muscles at the back of his neck, he admitted, “Besides, I’d rather confront Jenkyn as soon as possible. The longer I wait, the more difficult it will be.”
“Are you afraid of him?” West asked quietly. “Anyone would be.”
Ethan smiled without humor. “Not physically. But . . . I learned more from him than I ever did from my father. There are things about him I admire, even now. He understands my strengths and weaknesses, and his brain is as sharp as a winter’s night. I’m not exactly sure what I’m afraid of . . . he could say a few words that might kill something inside me . . . ruin everything, somehow.” Glancing back at the house, Ethan rubbed absently at the healed-over place on his chest. “I went to have another look at Edmund’s portrait at daybreak,” he continued absently. “The way the light came through the windows, all gray and silver, made it seem as if the figure in the painting were floating in front of me. It reminded me of that scene in Hamlet . . .”
West understood instantly. “When the ghost of his father appears to him, dressed in full body armor?”
“Aye, that one. The ghost commands Hamlet to murder his uncle, out of revenge. Without even offering proof of guilt. What kind of a father would tell his son to do that?”
“Mine would have loved to order me to kill someone,” West said. “But since I was only five years old, I’m sure my assassination skills were disappointing.”
“Why would Hamlet obey a father who commands him to do something evil? Why doesn’t he ignore the ghost and leave the vengeance to God, and choose his own destiny?”
“Probably because if he did, the play would be shortened by about two and a half hours,” West said. “Which, to my mind, would be a vast improvement.” He regarded Ethan speculatively. “I think Sir Jasper was right—the play is a mirror to the soul. But I suspect you’ve drawn different conclusions than he intended. No man is entitled to your blind obedience, no matter what he’s done for you. Furthermore, you don’t have to be your father’s son, especially if your father happens to be an amoral arse who’s hatching plots to kill people.”
Garrett stuck her head out of the carriage window. “We must leave soon,” she called out, “or we’ll miss our train.”
West gave her a chastising glance. “We’re having an important psychological discussion, Doctor.”
She drummed her fingertips on the window frame. “Psychological discussions usually lead to dithering, and we don’t have time for that.”
Ethan felt a slow grin spreading across his face as Garrett retreated back into the carriage. “She’s right,” he said. “I’ll have to act now and think later.”
“Spoken like a true Ravenel.”
Ethan pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and gave it to West. “As soon as the telegraph office opens, will you have this wired?”
West looked over the message.
POST OFFICE TELEGRAM
SIR JASPER JENKYN
43 PORTLAND PLACE LONDON
OPEN ORDER PURCHASE HAS BEEN COMPLETED. RETURNING WITH SURPLUS MERCHANDISE REQUIRING IMMEDIATE DELIVERY. PARCEL WILL BE CONVEYED TO YOUR RESIDENCE LATE THIS EVENING.
—W.GAMBLE
“I’ll take it to the telegraph office myself,” West said, and reached out to shake his hand. “Good luck, Ransom. Take good care of our little parcel. Wire me if you need anything else.”
“That goes for you as well,” Ethan replied. “After all, I still owe you for the pint of blood.”
“Bugger that, you owe me for all the scaffolding I had to pull down.”
They exchanged grins. The grip of their hands felt warm and solid. Safe. This must be a brotherly feeling, Ethan thought, this sense of camaraderie and connection, this unspoken understanding that they would always take the other’s side.
“One last bit of advice,” West said, finishing the handshake with a hearty squeeze. “The next time someone shoots at you . . . try ducking.”
Chapter 24
After midnight, Ethan and Garrett arrived at Portland Place in a carriage provided by Rhys Winterborne. They were accompanied by a pair of well-trained and competent private guards who were responsible for the security of his warehouses.
The sophisticated terrace houses of Portland Place glowed in the illumination of streetlamps. Jenkyn’s terrace was one of the largest in the enclave, with a double-fronted entrance and attached corner houses flanking it on either side. Bypassing the stately portico in front, the carriage went to the narrow street and mews behind, and stopped at the back entrance intended for servants and deliverymen.
“If we don’t come out in fifteen minutes,” Ethan murmured to the warehouse guards, “proceed as planned.”
They both nodded in agreement and checked their pocket watches.
Ethan helped Garrett from the carriage and regarded her with a mixture of concern and pride. She was exhausted, just as he was, but she had endured the long, tense, tedious day without a single word of complaint.
They had retrieved the pages of evidence from Garrett’s home, and proceeded to Printing House Square, the London court inhabited by the leading journals of the city. The ground had fairly trembled from the basement engines running a multitude of presses. Soon after they had entered the Times building, they were led to the chief editor’s office, known as the “lion’s den.” It was there they had spent eight hours in the company of the managing and night editors and an editorial writer, while Ethan provided facts, names, dates, and detailed accounts of criminal conspiracies originating from Jenkyn and his cabal of officials in the Home Office.
Throughout the process, Garrett had been patient and stoic. Ethan had never known any woman who could match her for stamina. Even after foregoing sleep and proper meals, she was clearheaded and ready to face whatever would come.
“Are you sure you won’t wait out here for me?” Ethan asked hopefully. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Every time you’ve asked that,” Garrett said with exquisite patience, “I’ve said no. Why do you keep doing it?”
“I thought it might wear down your resistance.”
“No, it’s making me more stubborn.”
“I’ll have to remember that in the future,” Ethan said dryly, adjusting the brim of his hat lower over his eyes. He had visited the terrace only three times in his entire acquaintance with Jenkyn. With any luck, the servants wouldn’t look closely enough to recognize him.
“Here,” Garrett said, reached up with a white handkerchief. She tucked it into the front of his collar, creating a bulge similar to Gamble’s goiter. Her green eyes met his, and she caressed his cheek with gentle fingers. “It will be all right,” she whispe
red.
With a mixture of astonishment and annoyance, Ethan realized he was visibly nervous. His body felt like a collection of separate mechanisms, none of them quite synchronized with the others. He took a measured breath, released it slowly, and turned Garrett to face away from him. Carefully he grasped her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back to make it appear as if he were forcing her to accompany him.
“Should I curse and struggle as we go through the house, until you subdue me?” Garrett suggested, warming to the role.
Ethan had to grin at her enthusiasm. “No, acushla, there’s no need to take it that far.” Pressing a gentle kiss behind her ear, he murmured, “But I’ll subdue you later, if you like.” Feeling the little shiver that ran through her, he smiled and rubbed his thumb into the soft hollow of her palm.
In the next moment, he made his expression inscrutable and knocked on the door.
They were shown inside by a tall and wiry butler, with thick Prussian brows and hair that was brindled in shades of steel and white. Ethan kept his face low. “Tell Jenkyn I have the delivery he wanted,” he said hoarsely.
“Yes, Mr. Gamble. He’s been expecting you.” The butler didn’t spare one glance for Garrett as he led them through the house. The interior had been designed with an abundance of curved forms: oval niches, circular ceiling recesses and apses, and sinuous hallways. Ethan found the serpentine layout disconcerting, preferring the neatness of right angles and corners and edges.
They crossed a circular anteroom to a private suite. The butler showed them into a gentleman’s room lined with rich dark paper, gold trim and millwork, with thick crimson carpeting underfoot. Heads of exotic animals had been mounted on the wall: a lioness, a cheetah, a white wolf, and other carnivora. A fire had been lit in the heart, flames springing and writhing as they consumed crackling splits of oak. The air was as hot as blood.
The butler departed, closing the door behind him.
Ethan’s heart thumped uncomfortably as he saw Jenkyn sitting by the fireplace, a sheaf of papers in hand.
“Gamble,” Jenkyn said without looking up from the pages. “Bring your guest over here, and deliver your report.”
Ethan caressed Garrett’s wrist surreptitiously before releasing it. “The job didn’t go exactly as planned,” he replied curtly, tugging the handkerchief out of his collar.
Jenkyn’s head jerked up. He fixed Ethan with an unblinking gaze, his eyes dilated to black surrounded by bleach-white.
Something vicious and ugly stirred inside Ethan as they stared at each other. For a few appalling seconds, he felt suspended in some mad place between murder and weeping. The place where he’d been shot seemed to throb. He fought the temptation to cover it with a protective hand.
Jenkyn was the first to speak. “Gamble was so certain he’d be the last man standing.”
“I didn’t kill Gamble,” Ethan said flatly.
That seemed to surprise Jenkyn nearly as much as the sight of Ethan having returned from the dead. Remaining in his chair, the spymaster withdrew a cigar from a stand on a nearby table. “I wish you had,” he said. “Gamble’s of no use to me if he hasn’t managed to dispatch you after two attempts.” His tone was cold, but there was a visible tremor in his fingers as he lit the cigar.
Ethan realized that neither of them were entirely in control. Garrett, by contrast, was self-possessed and almost relaxed, wandering slowly around the room to investigate shelves and cabinetry and paintings. Since she was a mere woman, Jenkyn paid little attention to her, keeping his focus on Ethan.
“What is the nature of your connection to the Ravenels?” Jenkyn asked. “Why did they decide to harbor you?”
So he didn’t know. Ethan was inwardly amazed to discover there were some secrets beyond Jenkyn’s reach. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Never tell me that,” Jenkyn snapped, reverting to their usual dynamic. “If I ask a question, it matters.”
“I beg your pardon,” Ethan said softly. “I meant to say ‘none of your business.’”
An incredulous look came over Jenkyn’s face.
“While I was recuperating,” Ethan continued, “I had a chance to finish reading Hamlet. You wanted me to tell you what reflection I saw in it. That’s why I’m here.” He paused as he saw the flicker of interest in the older man’s gaze. The astonishing realization came to him that Jenkyn did care about him in some undefinable way, and yet he’d tried to have him killed regardless. “You said in a fallen world, Hamlet realized there’s no good or bad, no right or wrong . . . everything is just a matter of opinion. Facts and rules are useless. Truth isn’t important.” Ethan hesitated. “There’s a kind of freedom in that, isn’t there? It lets you do or say whatever you want to achieve your goals.”
“Yes,” Jenkyn said, the reflected firelight dancing in his copper eyes as he gazed steadily at Ethan. His face had softened. “That’s what I hoped you would understand.”
“But it’s not freedom for everyone,” Ethan said. “It’s only freedom for you. It means you can sacrifice anyone for your benefit. You can justify killing innocent people, even children, by saying it’s for the greater good. I can’t do that. I believe in facts, and the rule of law. I believe something a wise woman told me not long ago: every life is worth saving.”
The light seemed to die out of Jenkyn’s eyes. He reached for a match and heated the clipped end of the cigar binding, taking refuge in the ritual. “You’re a naïve fool,” he said bitterly. “You have no idea what I would have done for you. The power you could have had. I would have brought you along with me, and taught you to see the world as it really is. But you’d rather betray me, after all I’ve given you. After I created you. Like any simpleminded peasant, you’d rather cling to your illusions.”
“Morals,” Ethan corrected gently. “A man of high position should know the difference. You shouldn’t be in government, Jenkyn. No man who changes his morals as easily as he does his clothes should have power over other people’s lives.” A sense of peace and lightness came over him, as if he’d been untethered, cut loose from a burden he’d carried for years. He glanced at Garrett, who appeared to be browsing over objects arranged on the mantelpiece, and he felt a surge of intense tenderness mingled with desire. All he wanted was to take her away from here, and find a bed somewhere, anywhere. Not in passion . . . at least, not yet . . . He longed just to hold her safe in his arms, and sleep.
Ethan pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted the time. One-thirty in the morning. “The presses have started by now,” he said casually. “One of the editors at the Times told me they can churn out twenty thousand copies of the paper per hour. That means they’ll have at least sixty, perhaps seventy thousand copies ready for the morning edition. I hope they don’t misspell your name. I wrote it out carefully for them, just to make sure.”
Slowly Jenkyn set the cigar on a crystal dish, staring at him with emerging fury.
“I almost forgot to mention the meeting I had with them today,” Ethan said. “I was full of interesting information, and they seemed very eager to hear it.”
“You’re bluffing,” Jenkyn said, his face darkening with rage.
“We’ll find out soon, won’t we?” Ethan began to tuck the pocket watch back into the waistcoat, and nearly dropped it as he was startled by the sound of something whipping through the air, a sickening impact of blunt force on flesh, the crack of bone, a scream of pain.
Ethan’s entire body tensed in preparation for action, but he stopped in response to Garrett’s staying gesture. She stood beside Jenkyn with a fireplace poker in hand, while the older man was doubled over in his chair, gripping his forearm and crying out in agony.
“My aim was at least three inches off,” Garrett said, regarding the iron in her hand with a perturbed frown. “Probably because it’s heavier than my cane.”
“What did you do that for?” Ethan asked, bewildered.
She picked up an object from the small table and showed it to him.
“This was fitted into the cigar stand. He took it out when he lit the cigar.”
As Ethan came to take the gun from her, Garrett said, “Sir Jasper seems to believe he created you, and therefore has the right to destroy you.” She regarded the groaning man in the chair with cool green eyes and said crisply, “Wrong on both counts.”
The butler and a footman burst into the room, followed immediately by the two warehouse guards. As the room erupted with questions and shouts, Garrett stood back to let Ethan handle it. “After we’re finished here, darling,” she asked, just loudly enough for him to hear over the commotion, “could we possibly find a place where someone doesn’t want to shoot you?”
Chapter 25
In the tumultuous days that followed, Garrett found many reasons for joy. Her father returned from his holiday at the Duke of Kingston’s seaside estate, and the healthful regimen of sun, fresh air, and sea bathing had done wonders for his health. He had put on a bit of weight, and he was rosy-cheeked and in high spirits. According to Eliza, who was also refreshed and glowing, the Duke and Duchess, and everyone in the Challon family, had spoiled, indulged, and made much of Stanley Gibson.
“They laughed at all of ’is jokes,” Eliza had reported, “even the old one about the parrot.”
Garrett had winced and covered her eyes with her hands. “He told his parrot joke?”
“Three times. And they all liked it just as much the third time as the first!”
“They didn’t like it,” Garrett had moaned, looking at her through the screen of her fingers. “They were just being remarkably kind.”
“And the duke played draw poker with Mr. Gibson twice,” Eliza had continued. “You’d faint if I told you how much he won.”
“The duke?” Garrett had asked weakly, while visions of debtor’s prison had flashed before her eyes.
“No, your father! It turns out, the duke is the worst draw poker player in the world. Mr. Gibson gave him a fleecing, both times. Your father would have beggared the poor man if we’d stayed longer.” Eliza had paused to regard her with bemusement. “Doctor, why is your head on the table?”