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.”
Morgan
