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.