Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(51)

“In truth, I could not say. My father’s acknowledged children number three. I have one brother, whom you have met, and one sister, whom you have not. We are all of different mothers. So to answer your earlier question, it would seem the West Indies proved an ineffective remedy for dissolution.” He watched her for signs of shock or displeasure. Her brow, however, remained as placid as this godforsaken sea.

“I know your father is …”

“Dead.”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, dead. Is your mother still living?”

“No. She died when I was an infant. I’ve no memory of her at all.”

A single crease scored her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

The words simply rolled off his tongue, uttered with no particular inflection or intent. But Miss Turner snapped to attention. Gray fought the urge to fidget under her scrutiny.

“Yes,” she said, a note of defiance in her voice. “I am sorry. It’s a tragic thing, to have no memory of your mother.”

Gray shrugged. “Better than having some memory of her, and feeling the pain of the loss.”

“Do you truly believe it’s better?”

He frowned and tugged at his ear.

“I didn’t think so.”

Gray put a hand on the armrest and shifted his weight. Perhaps allowing this interrogation hadn’t been such a brilliant idea after all. Miss Turner was supposed to be the one growing uncomfortable, not him.

“Brown or white?” She propped her chin in one hand and stared at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Bread, Mr. Grayson. Given a choice, do you take brown bread or white?”

He chuckled. “Brown, if there’s butter. If not, white.”

“Ale or grog?”

“Ale. Chased with brandy.” Not a bad idea, he thought, reaching into his coat for his flask. He unscrewed the cap and lifted it to his lips.

“Have you ever stolen anything, Mr. Grayson?”

He froze, looking at her over the flask. With deliberate slowness, he tipped it back until the fiery liquor spread down his throat. Then he wiped his mouth, recapped the flask, and replaced it carefully in his breast pocket.

“Of course.”

She tilted her head and raised one eyebrow, inviting him to elaborate.

“Where shall I begin? With the typical childhood petty thievery?

Pineapples, chickens, my father’s stickpin … I could go on for several minutes there. Shall I detail for you all the dozens of ships I’ve boarded, the boatloads of precious cargo I’ve seized? Privateering is sanctioned thievery, perhaps, but theft nonetheless.” He drummed one finger lightly on the tabletop. “I’ve made stealing a way of life, Miss Turner. I could go on about it for hours. How much elaboration do you care to hear?”

She paused a moment, considering. “You’re not ashamed to own to it, then. Your thievery.”

“In most cases, no. I’m not.”

“Then in some cases, you are? What is it you’re ashamed of stealing, Mr. Grayson?”

Gray wrestled with her clear, unwavering gaze. Dare he make the confession? It would serve his purpose well, expose him for the blackguard he was. The girl ought to know just what sort of man she regarded. Then maybe she’d cease looking at him with those trusting eyes, expecting things of him she had no right to expect. Expecting things he had no way or means of giving.

Dropping his gaze to the floor, he rubbed a thumb across his lower lip. “I stole my brother’s inheritance.” His own voice sounded strange, oddly hollow. His whole body felt oddly hollow. “Twice.”

“Well,” she said. He glanced up to find that her expression held not disdain or shock, as he might have expected. As such an admission deserved. Rather, she looked intrigued.

“The pineapples and chickens, the dozens of ships …” She traced a groove in the tabletop with her finger. “All these I can easily imagine. But stealing an inheritance … twice? However did you manage that?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve no pressing engagements.”

“I was in England, on break from Oxford, summering in Wiltshire at my grandfather’s estate. We received word that my father had died. My grandfather took the news hard. I think the old man always held out hope that his prodigal son would one day make good, return to the fold. When that hope was extinguished …” Gray cleared his throat. “He suffered an apoplexy within the week and never recovered.”

She made a small, crooning noise in the back of her throat. “You lost your father and your grandfather in the space of one week?”

“No. My father had already been dead for two months.”

“Yes, but still. You’d only just learned of it.” She hugged herself. Gray frowned as she stroked her shoulder, inflaming his own long-buried hurt even as she soothed herself. Damn it, she was supposed to be reviling him, not pitying him. And certainly not sympathizing with him. “Do you want me to finish the story or not?”

“I’m sorry. Go on.”

He spoke briskly now, as if conducting a business transaction. “My grandfather left Clarendon to my father. In the event my father was no longer living, the lands were to be divided between my father’s male children.”