Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(87)

Another, longer hesitation. “There are rumors,” Peter said quietly.

“Tell me what’s being said.” They reached the bottom of the stairs.

“I . . .” The footman dropped his gaze and fidgeted uncomfortably. “I shouldn’t, sir. But if I may show you something . . .”

Intrigued, Ethan went with him down a long hallway that opened into a narrow rectangular gallery. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with framed paintings. The footman led him slowly past a row of portraits, all of Ravenel ancestors in the dress of their time. Some of them were as large as life, in heavy gold frames up to seven feet high.

They stopped in front of a stunning full-length painting of a dark-haired, blue-eyed man in a commanding posture. Strikingly, he was dressed in a full-length blue brocade robe with a gold rope belt. Power and arrogance radiated from the canvas. There was a disconcerting hint of sensuality in the long-fingered hand braced on a lean hip, and in the coolly appraising, secretive stare. And there was something cruel about the mouth.

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?”