DD-Michaels-END.rtf (16 page)

It was, Ethan had told the minister at the time, so very nice to be needed, even if, it would appear, he was to be used as a sort of shield.

What he had never told the minister was that, when they had met for the first time, his friend had explained that the only way to believe the English communiqués were legitimate, hadn't been tampered with along the way, was to be able to trust the messenger without question. A messenger who couldn't be bribed or threatened. It made a curious sort of sense.

Three times he'd ridden to Dymchurch. Once to be stopped along the road and led all the way to Dover. Once to be met in the town, then quickly taken to the port of Hythe. Only on his last mission had he actually met with his friend in Dymchurch itself...
w
ith that meeting nearly ending in disaster.

"And the Prince Regent's answer?" Ethan asked, getting to his feet.

"We'll need as much time as we can get, every moment of it, and all the arguing skills we can muster. No matter what, keep yourself ready, because you'll be leaving London in the next three to four days."

"Surely not four days to compose a reply. That's cutting a lit
t
le too close to the bone, and exposing my friend for more time than usual."

"When politics begins to run smoothly, Aylesford, you'll be the first to know," the minister said with some heat. "For now, we muddle through the best we can. All right, I'll make the decision now, and then pray we can convince his royal highness. Saturday. You meet your friend Saturday night, which means I'll have everything ready for you by Thursday morning. Two days, Aylesford. And
I'll need every moment of both of them
,
so go away and let me work. Get me that new rendezvous location by this evening, so I can send the messenger back with the information."

"There's no need to wait," Ethan said, an idea bursting into his brain, fully formed. "I already have a new location in mind, and a quite plausible reason for my face to be seen in the area. Do you have a map of southern England, my lord?"

The minister shook his head in obvious disgust at having to work with amateurs. 'This is the War Office, Aylesford. Of course we have maps. We've got dozens of maps. What is it you want to see?"

"Precisely? A map of Ro
m
ney Marsh, my lord."

The minister mouthed the words
Romney Marsh
silently a few times, as if Ethan had spoken in a foreign language, then snapped his fingers, a memory clicking in his brain. "I've got better than a map, Aylesford. I've got Chance Becket. Very useful man, very loyal. Just last year w
e
—
b
ut that's not important. His family comes from
Ro
m
ney Mars
h
—
s
omewhere in that mess of swamp and sheep. I'll have my clerk summon him."

Ethan's plan
,
although one he considered to
be good, climbed into the realm of perfection, from any angle. "I have made Mr. Becket's acquaintance, my lord. To be perfectly truthful, I'm courting his sister at the moment. I'm certain we can gain his cooperation in this matter."

"Courting his sister?
You?
And Becket allows this? I may have to rethink my confidence in the man. I wouldn't let you within five miles of my daughter."

Ethan smiled, knowing he wouldn't care to
be within ten miles of his lordship's daughter. "Yes, my lord. There's no limit to the man's folly, it would appear."

The minister rang the bell on his desk and directed the clerk to summon Mr. Becket to the office at once.

"You know, sir," Ethan said, as if speaking just as the idea came to him, "Becket's family estate is directly on the coast. I would imagine the
Marianna
could drop anchor off the shore at the appointed time, away from any port. I can deliver the communication aboard ship, and the agent can be at sea again almost immediately."

"Yes, yes, even better than any port, no matter how small, and with far less suspicion. Bad enough we have to worry about the French tooling about out there in the Channel, without problems from our own overzealous military on land. Yes, brilliant plan. I should have thought of it myself, eventually. Ah, Becket, you're here."

Ethan, who
had remained standing, bowed slightly to Morgan's brother, whose expression was carefully blank.

"Mr. Becket, a delight to see you again, sir," Ethan said, informing him that, yes, the minister had already been told that they were acquainted.

"Aylesford," Chance said, returning the slight bow. "My lord," he said then, bowing to the minister. "You wished to speak to me, sir?"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Now I can be alive again," Morgan whispered to Ethan, leaning back into him as he settled the cashmere wrap over her shoulders.

Ethan shot a quick look across the drawing room, to see that Chance and Julia Becket were concentrating on untangling the strings of her reticule from the tassels of her own shawl. A lovely, quite domestic scene that appealed to him only because it also served to keep the couple's attention away from anything he might do.

His hands still on Morgan's shoulders, Ethan bent to press a kiss just behind her ear. "The day only begins when I see you, when I touch you."

The very air in the large room should be crackling from the sparks that flew between them, this intense awareness of each other that had its own shape, its own smell, its own substance.

Could wanting another person like this be a sickness? If so, how was it cured?

"Yes, thank you, my lord," Morgan said, quickly stepping away from him as Chance lifted his head, looked in their direction, "I did spend a very pleasant day. I accompanied my sister-in-law and my niece to the park this morning. A very different place, the park in the morning. I noticed several people on horseback, as a matter of fact."

"Berengaria wouldn't get much of a run there, though, I'm afraid. The park being very circumspect, you understand. Isn't that right, Aylesf
o
rd?" Chance had crossed the room and overheard his sister. "I warned her not to bring the mare to town but, being Morgan, she didn't listen. I ride Jacmel to Richmond Park in the early hours when we both need a run."

Morgan looked at her brother. "I'll go with you tomorrow morning. You, too, my lord. Your Alejandro certainly must be in need of some exercise."

Chance and Ethan exchanged glances, Chance trying very hard not to appear pained, and Ethan acknowledging that man's pain with a slight inclination of his head; both
knew that a man needed some privacy in which to propose marriage. And, because he was not stupid in victory, Ethan did not smile.

"I'm afraid I can't, Morgan," Chance said as he continued looking at the earl, "as I'm needed early at the War Office. But perhaps his lordship would agree to accompany you? That is, my lord," Chance added in his frustration, "if you have ever seen the dawn."

"Oh, I've seen it many, many times, Mr. Becket. Usually on my way home to my bed."

Morgan bit back a giggle, then sobered. "So we can go? Exercise the horses, that is?"

Julia joined them, still adjusting the ends of her scarf around her forearms. "Only if you promise not to come home drenched." She turned to her husband. "I suppose I'm as ready as I'm going to be, darling. Shall we go?"

Ethan had arrived in Upper Brook Street shortly after dinner, having arranged with Chance to escort them all to the theater, as he had his own box for the Season.

He'd arrived in his town coach, so that all four of them could ride to the theater togethe
r
—
o
ne of the concessions he had made to Chance Becket earlier. This was to be an evening spent in the decorous pursuit of tame entertainment, followed by Morgan's safe return to Upper Brook Street.

Morgan would see Ethan, Ethan would have the pleasure of her company, society would see them together as a coupl
e
—
a
nd Chance wouldn't have to
lock anyone in her room or challenge anyone else to a duel.

It seemed a reasonable plan. But then, as Chance had days earlier admitted to his wife, when it came to Morgan most plans seemed reasonable, in theory.

Ethan entertained them on their way to Covent Garden, pointing out the sights to Morgan and delighting Julia with bits of harmless gossip, manfully ignoring the unexpectedly evocative smell of jasmine he was certain was emanating from Morgan's elaborately dressed hair. He held her hand only a moment too long as he assisted her from the coach.

"My box is on the third level, Mr. Becket. Number fourteen. In the event we are separated in this tangle of bodies, you understand."

"See that we're not, my lord," Chance answered, then turned to assist his wife from the coach.

"Take my hand, Morgan," Ethan told her quietly as they pushed their way through the crush of overdressed and heavily perfumed theatergoers on their way to the stairs, and
his box. Chance and Julia were already some distance behind them.

"Will we be alone at all?" Morgan asked, disgusted with the amount of people pressed together like ants in a box, and all of them seeming to think this was a jolly good thing. "Is most of London here?"

Ethan looked back down the stairs, then pulled Morgan along more quickly, as he could see that Julia was climbing slowly, lamenting the torn ruffle on the bottom of her gown, where someone's errant foot had done considerable damage.

That the clumsy "someone" had been Ethan's trusted valet
,
acting on orders from his master, was not information he felt necessary to impart to Morgan. He'd be ashamed of himself, knew he should be ashamed of himself, but his desire to be alone with her, if only for a few stolen minutes, outstripped any shame.

For, if what he felt for Morgan was some sort of exotic sickness, Ethan knew at least a temporary cure. Holding her. Kissing her.

At the next half-landing, he broke to his right, pushing aside a burgundy velvet curtain and letting it drop
once
he
and Morgan were behind it. They were
now inside a narrow hallway used by servants bringing refreshments to their employers, but at this hour, not yet in
use.

"One kiss," he breathed quietly, drawing her close. "Just to see us through."

Morgan pressed her palms against his fine black evening coat, her heart pounding with the nearness of him. "Until? I don't know how long I can survive on only your kisses."

"God, you had to say that," Ethan said, cupping her cheeks in his hands, his thumbs lightly tracing her full mouth. "You can't know what you're saying. This is a game to you, Morgan. Something outside your experience, and I'm a bastard fo
r
—"

"Oh, Ethan, please do shut up. It's already years too late for common sense or sermons," Morgan told him, pulling him toward her by the simple expedient of tugging on his neck cloth. Just before their lips met, she whispered, "We both want this. Like recognizes like, remember?"

Their kiss was anything but gentle. Because of their shared need. Because there could only be the one.

But its effect on Ethan would be noticeable if anyone in the crowd chanced to look, and at least Chance Becket would.

Ethan kissed Morgan twice more, quick, hard kisses, and then slid her shawl from her shoulders, folding it twice before draping it over his arm. The arm he would hold in front of him as they made their way up the remainder of the stairs and into their box...
w
here he could sink into a chair, and blessed darkness.

"What are you doing?" Morgan asked him as she watched, and then she recognized his problem. The realization that she could do this to the man, with just the power of a few shared kisses, was intoxicating, and her smile was part pleasure, part triumph. "Oh, Ethan, I'm so sorry."

"No, imp, you're not," he told her sternly, then added, "and you're supposed to be ignorant of my dilemma."

"And have you think me stupid? I grew up in the country, Ethan. All those sheep, all those horses. I mean, I do understand the...
t
he mechanics of the process."

"You do, do you? Marvelous. And am I now to be compared to a ram, or a stallion?"

"Why, sir, how would I know that?" Morgan's eyes widened as she bit her lips, her beautiful face taking on a comic expression that had Ethan shaking his head as he wondered whether, if he just retraced his steps back to the inn yard where he'd first seen her, he might be able to locate his mind.

"I know you're a virgin, Morgan," he said at last, handing her back the shawl, which he most certainly didn't need now, after the sheep and horse comment.

"Do you? How?" Morgan asked him, a part of her knowing they shouldn't be having this strange conversation. Then again, that was the same part that knew she shouldn't ever have kissed this man in the first place. Why start listening to that part of her now?

"Some things a
man just knows," he told
her, pulling back the curtain very slightly, then taking a quick look down the staircase. There was no sight of the Beckets. Either Chance had escorted his wife to a withdrawing room, where someone would sew up her flounce, or they were already in the box, and wondering where he and Morgan had got to. Damn. He let the curtain fall, and turned back to Morgan.