Riveted and repelled, Ethan instinctively backed away from the portrait. He saw the likeness to himself, and his soul revolted. Managing to drag his gaze away, he focused on the worn Persian rug.
“That’s Master Edmund,” he heard the footman say. “I came to Eversby Priory after his lordship had passed on, so I never met him. But some of the older servants saw you when you were brought in and . . . they knew. They knew exactly who you were. They were very moved, sir, and said we must all do our best for you. Because you’re the last living man in the true bloodline, you see.”
At Ethan’s silence, the footman continued helpfully, “Your blood goes all the way back to Branoc Ravenel, who was one of Charlemagne’s twelve paladins. He was a great warrior, the first Ravenel. Even if he was French.”
Ethan’s mouth twitched, despite his inner turmoil. “Thank you, Peter. I’d like to be alone for a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
After the footman had left, Ethan went to set his back against the opposite wall. He leveled a brooding stare at the portrait, his thoughts in a welter.
Why had Edmund chosen to be portrayed for posterity in such unconventional attire? It seemed like a gesture of disdain, as if he couldn’t be bothered to dress for his own portrait. The robe was thickly embroidered and luxurious, something a Renaissance prince might have worn. It conveyed the rather spectacular self-assurance of a man who didn’t doubt his own superiority, no matter what he wore.
Memories jolted loose as Ethan stared at the resplendent figure in the portrait. “Ah, Mam,” he whispered unsteadily. “You shouldn’t have had a damned thing to do with him.”
How could his mother have thought any good would come of it? She must have been awestruck. Intoxicated by the idea of being desired by a man of high position. And some corner of her heart had always been kept for him, this man who had treated her like an object to be used and discarded.
Ethan closed his eyes. They turned hot and liquid beneath his lids.
A casual masculine voice broke the silence.
“Up and about, I see. I’m glad they managed to find clothes to fit you.”
Ethan froze, horrified to be caught in a vulnerable moment by West Ravenel. He darted a blurred glance at him and forced his mind to focus on the conversation. Something about clothes. West’s butler and valet had brought an assortment of garments in varying sizes from his closet and trunks for him to make use of. Some of the clothes had been costly, with perfect tailoring and buttons made of gold or ornamental stones such as agate or jasper, but they had been too roomy for Ethan to wear.
“Aye, they did,” Ethan muttered. “Thank you.” Swiftly he dragged a coat sleeve across his eyes and found himself saying the first thing that came to mind. “You used to be fat.”
West seemed amused rather than offended. “I prefer ‘pleasingly plump.’ I was a London rake, and for your information, all true rakes are fat. We spend all our time indoors, drinking and eating. Our only exercise consists of bedding a willing wench. Or two.” He gave a nostalgic sigh. “God. There are times when I miss those days. Fortunately I can take a train to London when the need arises.”
“There are no women in Hampshire?” Ethan asked.
West gave him a speaking glance. “You’re suggesting I bed the innocent daughter of a local squire? Or a wholesome milkmaid? I need a woman with skills, Ransom.” He wandered to a space next to Ethan and braced his back on the wall in an identical posture. As his gaze followed Ethan’s to the towering portrait, he looked sardonic. “That painting captures him perfectly. A member of the Upper Crust, lording it over the crustless.”
“Did you know him well?”
“No, I saw the earl only a handful of times at large family events. Weddings and funerals and such. We were the poor relations, and our presence didn’t exactly improve a gathering. My father was a violent sod, and my mother was a coquette who, as they say, ‘had a tile loose.’ As for my brother and I, we were a pair of sullen tots who went around trying to pick fights with our cousins. The earl couldn’t stand either of us. He caught me by the ear on one occasion, and told me I was a bad, wicked lad, and someday he would see to it that I was placed as a cabin boy on a trading vessel bound for China, which would undoubtedly be captured by pirates.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I hoped he would do it as soon as possible, because pirates would do a much better job of raising me than my parents.”
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.