Beware Of Virtuous Women

The Beckets of Romney Marsh saga continues

Our story so far…

Patriarch Ainsley Becket had taken his band of orphans and given them all new identities and a new life on the shores of Romney Marsh. His intention was to secure each a safe haven from their shocking beginnings and to give Ainsley a reprieve from his dangerous past. But one by one his children are leaving him to find new experiences…and to find mates.

Eldest son Chance Becket moved to London to become a true gentleman, though that did not work out exactly as planned. Now Chance is happily married to his young daughter’s governess, Julia, and they are raising a family of their own.

Feisty Morgan Becket was to have a season in London, hopefully securing the hand of a proper suitor…a man who could tame the troublesome debutante. She found a husband, all right, though Ethan, Lord Aylesford, might be just as wild as his new wife.

And then there’s Eleanor Becket. Quiet. Unassuming. Or so everyone thinks. But one should beware of virtuous women…

KASEY MICHAELS

Beware of Virtuous Women

Dear Reader,

It is 1813. England is fighting on two fronts, against both Napoleon and the United States. There is a third, smaller front—but hardly less important in certain quarters—and this front is on England’s own shores, the combatants England’s own citizens.

Anywhere the smallest boat might land, everywhere the Crown’s war-tightened purse has made day-to-day living precarious, there is the chance that the local populace is dabbling in a bit of free trading—smuggling.

The Beckets of Romney Marsh do not engage in smuggling themselves, but they have jumped in with both feet to protect those of their neighbors who do. Their Black Ghost Gang has secured the area and operated in peace for two years. But now that peace and the entire enterprise are being threatened by the Red Men, a large, vicious gang whose tentacles reach from France to London’s exclusive Mayfair.

And so is born an unholy alliance between Ainsley Becket’s business partner and his own oldest daughter, Eleanor, who travel together to London posing as man and wife to unmask the leaders of the Red Men Gang. Trust between the two is paramount if they are to succeed, but one is tightly wrapped in lies and the other has a potentially explosive secret to protect.

It had all seemed so simple. The man Ainsley Becket had been, the family he had built would all die and come to Romney Marsh to be reborn—safe, hidden, hopefully forgotten.

But the world keeps creeping in…

Please enjoy Eleanor’s story and watch for more Beckets in 2007.

Best,

Kasey Michaels

To Tom and Carol Carpenter

Beware of Virtuous Women

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

1813

ELEANOR BECKET SAT in her usual chair near the fire, bent over her embroidery frame.

Her sisters Fanny and Cassandra, the latter still downstairs only because their papa had retreated to his study and didn’t know she’d left her bedchamber, were playing a card game they’d invented together, and neither of them quite knew the rules.

Morgan Tanner, Countess of Aylesford, sister to the three and quite happily pregnant, sat with her legs up on a Chinese hassock, wiggling her slipper-clad toes in delight, for the slippers were new, and she rarely saw them. At least not while standing up and attempting to peer straight down.

A log fell in the large fireplace in the drawing room where they sat, and all four women momentarily looked up from what they were doing, then settled back to passing the time as best they could.

“They’re fine,” Eleanor said a few minutes later in answer to the unspoken question that had been hanging in the room all evening, and Fanny agreed that of course they were.

“Just enough mist over the water to hide the Respite, not enough to hamper them. And the moon couldn’t be more perfect,” Morgan said, looking toward one of the large windows and the dark beyond. “Callie, stop chewing on your curls. You’ll end up with a hair ball in your belly. Odette will pour castor oil down your gullet, and there will be no lack of volunteers to hold you down.”

Fifteen-year-old Cassandra Becket used her tongue to push the light brown corkscrew curl from her mouth, then frowned at its damp length. “I can’t help it, Morgie. I’m nervous.”

“And hours past your bedtime, as it’s nearly three,” Eleanor pointed out, taking another stitch in her embroidery, pleased that her hands were steady. “You, too, Morgan.”

“Me? I’m pregnant, Elly, not delicate. In fact,” she said, looking down at her stomach, “I’m about as delicate as a beached whale.”

Fanny giggled. “Maybe if you didn’t eat so much…?”

Morgan reached behind her and drew out one of the small silk pillows she’d placed there to make her comfortable, then launched it at her sister’s head.

Fanny neatly caught the pillow, then stood, pressed it against her own flat stomach. She bent her spine back as far as she could, still holding the pillow to her, and began walking across the room, her feet spread wide. “Do I have it right, Callie? Enough of a duck’s waddle to look like our dear, sophisticated countess?”

Callie considered this, then said, “Perhaps if you had first stuffed your cheeks with sugarplums?”

Eleanor smiled as she continued to bend over her embroidery. It was so good to have Morgan home with them after so many months away, but if her baby didn’t come soon even Eleanor would be harboring a few fears that the girl would simply explode on her own, and not need Odette’s midwifery.

“What was that? Fanny, Callie, sit down and be quiet. I think I heard something. Elly? Did you hear anything?”

Eleanor stood and walked over to Morgan, gently pushing her back down into the chair. “We don’t want to appear to be too anxious, Morgan. It’s bad enough we’re all sitting up with you, just as if we don’t expect them all to be fine. Ah—now I hear it, too. They’re back. Everyone, do your best to appear unconcerned.”

Fanny and Cassandra had already picked up their cards again, and Eleanor was once more bending over her embroidery frame as the Becket men entered the drawing room to catch Morgan in the middle of a prodigiously overdone yawn.

“Oh. Look who’s back,” Morgan said, “and none the worse for wear. Although, darling, could you possibly manage to wipe that ridiculous grin from your face?”

Ethan Tanner, Earl of Aylesford, pulled at the black silk scarf tied loosely around his throat and lifted it up and over his mouth and nose. “Better, darling?” he asked, then bent down and kissed her rounded belly. “Up late, aren’t you, infant?”

“Are you referring to me or the baby? Come here, let me hold you. I know you were enjoying yourself romping about playing at freetrader, but I haven’t had a peaceful night waiting for you.”

Eleanor watched, glad for her sister’s happiness and yet somehow sad at the same time, as Morgan yanked down Ethan’s mask and grabbed his face in her hands, pulling him close for a long kiss on the mouth.

“At it again, Ethan?” Rian Becket said as he stripped off his gloves and accepted the glass of wine Fanny had fetched for him. “I think I should point out that the damage is already done.”

Cassandra giggled, which drew the attention of Courtland Becket. “Been chewing on your hair again? And what are you doing down here at this hour? Get yourself upstairs where you belong.”

Eleanor hid a sympathetic wince as Cassandra’s pretty little face crumpled at this verbal slap and the child plopped herself down on one of the couches, to sulk.

Didn’t Courtland know how desperately Cassandra worshipped him? Or perhaps he did, poor man. “Court? Does Papa know you’re back?”

“He does. We came up the back stairs from the beach,” Courtland told her, pouring himself a glass of claret. “And, before you ladies ask, the run was completely uneventful.”

“You may say that, Court,” Ethan said, sitting perched on the arm of the chair, holding Morgan’s hand. “If it’s uneventful to you that we had to evade the Waterguard and make land two hours behind schedule.” He lifted Morgan’s hand to his mouth, kissed her fingers. “God, but it makes your blood run, darling. I’ll have to do this more often. Can’t let everyone else have all the fun.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “Yes, of course. There’s nothing like a good smuggling run to liven your exceedingly dull and boring married life. You should go out on every run, really. And don’t you worry, I’ll be sure to tell our child what you looked like before the Crown hanged you in chains.”

“Ha! I think we’ve all just been insulted, Court,” Rian said, pushing back his sea-damp black hair as Fanny looked at him, her heart in her eyes. “As if the Black Ghost could ever be caught.”

Eleanor picked up her needle once more, not bothering to follow the lively exchange of jokes and verbal digs that were so commonplace in this rather wild, always loving clutch of Beckets. Like little boys, the men were still riding high on their excitement, and the girls were all more than willing to play their happy audience, even if that meant poking a bit of fun at them.

Was she the only one who saw beneath the surface of that banter? Saw that Fanny believed herself in love with Rian, and that Cassandra’s devotion to Courtland was much more than that of a youngest child for her older brother and staunch protector?

This was what happened when you lived in the back of beyond, isolated from most of the world. Siblings in name, but not by blood, as the Beckets had grown into the healthy animals they were, problems had been bound to arise.

But not for her. Not for Eleanor. She was the different one, the odd Becket out, as it were. The one part of the whole that had never quite fit.

Perhaps it was because she had been the last to join the family, and as a child of six, not as an infant or even as experienced as Chance and Courtland had been; already their own persons, older than their years when Ainsley Becket had scooped them up, given them a home on his now lost island paradise. She had landed more in the middle, and had been forced to seek her own identity, her own place.

And that place, she had long ago decided, had been with Ainsley Becket, the patriarch of the Becket clan. She had made herself into the calm one, the reasonable one, the quiet voice of sanity in the midst of so many more earthy, hot-blooded young creatures who eagerly grabbed at life with both hands.

The others would leave one day, as Chance had when he’d married his Julia, as Morgan had when she’d wed her Ethan. Spencer was also gone, his commission purchased, and he’d been in Canada the last several months, fighting with his regiment against America, much to Ainsley’s chagrin.

No matter how loving, how loyal, one by one the perhaps odd but yet wonderful assortment of Becket children would leave Becket Hall. Much as they loved and respected him, they’d leave Ainsley Becket alone with his huge house and his unhappy memories of the life he’d loved and lost before fleeing his island paradise and bringing everyone to this isolated land that was Romney Marsh.

But she’d stay. She and Ainsley had discussed all of that, in some detail. She would stay. As it was for Ainsley, it might even be safer for her to stay.

Eleanor watched now as Rian recounted the night’s smuggling run to Fanny, who listened in rapt attention. As Courtland gave in and let Cassandra fuss over him, even try on the black silk cape that turned the sober, careful Courtland into the daring, mysterious Black Ghost. As Morgan and her Ethan whispered to each other, their heads close together, Ethan’s hand resting casually on her belly.

Eleanor put aside her embroidery and got to her feet, barely noticing the dull ache in her left leg caused by sitting too long, her muscles kept too tense as she’d held her worries inside by sheer force of will. Her siblings, everyone, believed her to be so composed, so controlled…and never realized how very frightened she was for all of them, most especially since the Black Ghost had begun his nocturnal rides to aid the people of Romney Marsh.

She left the drawing room unnoticed, her limp more pronounced than usual, but that would work out the more that she walked. By the time she reached Ainsley’s study, it would barely be noticeable at all, which would be good, because her papa noticed everything.

The door to the study was half open and Eleanor was about to knock on one of the heavy oak panels and ask admittance when she heard voices inside the large, wood-paneled room.

Jacko’s voice. “And I say leave it go. Cut our losses and find other ways, other people. There’s always enough of the greedy bastards lying about, willing to get rich on our hard work.”

Eleanor stepped back into the shadows in the hallway, realizing she’d stumbled onto a conversation she wouldn’t be invited to join.

“True enough, Jacko,” Ainsley agreed, “but we must also deal with this now, or else face the same problem again. Jack?”

Eleanor’s eyes went wide. Jack? Her breathing became shallow, faster, and she pressed her hands to her chest. He was here? She hadn’t known he was here. He must have arranged for a rendezvous with the Respite off Calais, then sailed home with them.

Jack Eastwood’s voice, quiet, with hints of gravel in its cultured tones, sent a small frisson down Eleanor’s spine. “Ainsley’s right, Jacko. Someone got to these people, and if they did it once, they can do it again. Two men dead on their side of the Channel, most probably as an example to the others, and the rest now understandably too frightened to deal with us. My connections on this side of the Channel are also shutting the door on me, on us. This is the last haul we’ll get, the last we can deliver anyway. Much as I want to keep the goods running—and I can do that, I know of other connections I can cultivate—I want to find out who did this to us, who discovered and compromised our current connections.”

“And eliminate them,” Ainsley said, his voice low, so that Eleanor had to strain to hear. She could picture him, sitting behind his desk, his brow furrowed, his right hand working the small, round glass paperweight she’d given him this past Christmas. “I thought we were done with bloodshed when we rousted the Red Men Gang from Romney Marsh.”

Eleanor heard the creak of the leather couch, and knew Jacko had sat forward, shifting his large, muscular frame. “You think it’s them, Cap’n? It’s been two years since we trounced them, sent them on their way. You really think they’re back?”

“Who else could it be? Perhaps its time to put a halt to all of this.”

“Cap’n, you don’t mean that.” The leather couch protested again, and Eleanor stepped back farther into the shadows as Jacko’s large frame passed in front of the open door.

She’d known Jacko since the moment he’d discovered their hiding place, his wide smile and booming laugh so frightening. Julia, Chance’s wife, had once confided that her first thought when she’d seen Jacko was that the man would smile amiably even as he cut your beating heart from your chest, and Eleanor knew Julia’s description was not an exaggeration.

But Jacko was loyal to Ainsley. Fiercely so. And if Eleanor hadn’t learned to love the man, she had learned to trust his loyalty if not always his judgment, even when the memories had begun rolling back to her….

Ainsley was speaking again. “I do mean it, Jacko. We only began this to help the people here, protect them from the Red Men Gang. A laudable reason, but no one of us suspected the enterprise to grow as it has. We’re bringing attention to ourselves, from London, and most probably from the Red Men again. Moving some wool and coming back with tea and brandy, helping these people survive. That was the plan, remember? Now we control most of the Marsh. Someone was bound to notice.”

“So you withdraw our protection, leave everyone to find their own suppliers, their own landsmen, their own distributors in London? You watch as they run up against the Red Men on their own, and then bury a few more bodies, add a few more widows and fatherless children to the Marsh. Is that what you’re saying, Cap’n?”

Eleanor held her breath. If Ainsley put a stop to the Black Ghost Gang they’d all be safe…but Jack Eastwood would never visit Becket Hall again.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, Jacko. It’s what I’m hoping. A selfish return to our quiet existence for my sons, our men and, yes, for myself. But we all know that isn’t possible, at least not until the war is over and wool prices eventually climb again. Jack? Tell me more of your idea.”

Eleanor stepped closer, not wishing to miss a word.

“All right. As I said, someone is trying to cut off both our head and our feet—our contacts both around London and in France. After this last shipment, I have no one lined up to buy our people’s wool, and no one to sell the goods we, well, that we import.”

“You’ve been sloppy? How else would anyone know your contacts?”

Eleanor heard the hint of distaste in Jack’s tone. “No, Jacko, I don’t think I’ve been…sloppy. I think someone else has been very smart. Why confront us here on the Marsh, on the Black Ghost’s home ground, when cutting off our head and feet is so much easier than hitting at our well-protected and well-armed belly? And I think it all begins in London, not France. This hasn’t happened overnight, our sources have been shrinking for some time now. I’ve been watching, and I have some ideas, which is why I traveled to France, and why I’m here now.”

As Eleanor listened, Jack further explained his conclusions, and his plan.

No one in France had any reason to stop the flow of contraband either into or out of that country. To the French, profit was profit, and they’d deal with the Red Men, the Black Ghost, the devil himself, as long as that profit was maintained, often with much of that profit going directly into Napoleon’s war chest. If the French were nothing else, they were always eminently practical.

Which left London. More specifically, Mayfair, the very heart of the ton. Bankers and wealthy cits, industrialists, were also suspected of acting as financial backers to the smugglers, but it was common if unspoken knowledge that many an impecunious peer had staked his last monies on a smuggling run and then suddenly found his pockets deep again.

And Jack had an idea where in the ton he should look to find the people who had the most to gain if the Black Ghost Gang was rendered impotent.

“I’ve narrowed my search down to a trio of men,” he said. “Three gentlemen friends who have had happy and yet inexplicable reversals of fortune in the past few years. We all know the major profits from smuggling go to people at the very top of society.”

“People with the money to put up to buy contraband goods in order to resell them at ten times the price, yes,” Ainsley interrupted. “But these men you speak of? You said they’ve had reversals of fortune, which is not the same as having amassed a fortune the likes of which we know can be gotten. That would put them somewhere in the middle, wouldn’t it? High-placed minions, the slightly more public face of the true leaders, but still minions.”

“True, none of them certainly is another Golden Ball, but there is money there now, where there had been only debts. If we can get to them, hopefully we can get to the person or persons at the very top,” Jack said. “And I’m willing to wager that whoever that is, he’s also the brains behind the Red Men Gang. They may not be here in Romney Marsh anymore, but they’re everywhere else, like a large red stain spreading over the countryside these past years. No one makes a move without them, and if anyone dares, they’re mercilessly crushed. You, Ainsley, you and your sons and Romney Marsh? You are all that stand between the Red Men Gang and complete domination of the smuggling trade in the south of England. The Marsh is too tricky, navigation too dangerous for them to work this area without the cooperation of the local inhabitants.”

Jacko spoke up. “All very well, Eastwood, and you’ve made your point with that pretty speech. But we are here, not about to budge, and you’re only one man. Let’s hear more of this grand plan of yours.”

“I’m getting there, Jacko. You know I’ve bought a house in Portland Square, to go along very nicely with my estate in Sussex. I’m a fairly wealthy man, thanks to you, Ainsley, and you aren’t the only one who sees the merits in planning for a more…conventional future, a life after we’re done with our adventure. I think it’s time I make a rather large but concentrated splash in London society.”

“To get you close, have you noticed by this trio of men you suspect,” Ainsley said quietly. “You interest me. Go on.”

“I think my way in would be through the gambler in the group, Harris Phelps. He’s the most reckless, and the most stupid. He’s taken to wearing a scarlet waistcoat and always wagering on the red, saying it’s his lucky color.”

“Damn,” Jacko muttered. “Sounds like we’re being beaten by an idiot. That stick in your craw as much as it does mine, Cap’n?”

“On the contrary, Jacko. It’s always comforting to know you’re smarter than your enemy, as long as you don’t make the mistake of becoming overconfident. Always remember that even idiots are successful at times, if only by accident. Go on, Jack. I imagine you plan to get close with this Phelps person, and through him, with the others?”

“I intend to lose a lot of money playing at cards with Phelps, yes,” Jack said, and Eleanor bit her bottom lip, smiling at the cleverness of the idea. Lose some money, bemoan his shrinking pockets, wish for a huge turn of luck…and then appeal to his new friend for some way to increase his fortune.

“You’re that sure Phelps is your man? That you’d put your own money on the line?”

“Yes, Ainsley, I am, and I’ve already begun doing just that. I won’t always lose, either, not once I’ve firmly hooked our fish. Which, if I’m lucky, should be quickly enough to have only a two-or three-week interruption of our runs.”

“You’ve always been a dab hand with the cards, I’ll give you that.”

“You gave him a lot more than a dab of your money, Jacko, as I recall the thing,” Ainsley said, and Eleanor pretended not to hear Jacko’s low string of curses.

She remembered when they met Jack Eastwood, and how. A gambler, that was Jack, a gentleman of breeding but little fortune, living on his wits. But that had all changed the day, two years past, when he’d ridden up to Becket Hall with Billy slung facedown across his saddle after rescuing him from a pub in Appledore, where a deep-drinking Billy had the bad sense to accuse a man of cheating when he had no friends present to guard his back. Jack had stepped in, saved the sailor from a knife in the gullet, although both he and Billy had suffered several wounds.

During his weeks of recuperation at Becket Hall, Jack had done more than strip Jacko of five thousand pounds as they’d passed time playing at cards. He also had gained Ainsley’s thanks for the rescue of one of his oldest friends, Ainsley’s trust and, with that trust, a future.

And never once in that month or in the two years since had he said more than “Good morning, Miss Becket,” or “Good evening, Miss Becket,” to Eleanor.

She cocked her head toward the doorway, listening as Jack explained more of his plan. “I’m going to get even closer to Phelps, who will bring me closer to the others, close enough that I can find ways to bring them down, each one of them. But I may need that initial entrée into a wider society, as well. I discussed this with your son-in-law as we crossed the Channel tonight, and he’s agreed to give me a letter of introduction to his friend Lady Beresford. I’m now a gentleman who has spent much of his time these past years on his plantations in the West Indies, happily visiting my homeland.”

“That should be enough to gain you at least a few invitations. Chance could help you there, too, except that he and Julia plan to remain at his estate with the children until the end of summer, now that he’s left the War Office,” Ainsley said. “All right. What else? You have the look of a man who isn’t quite finished saying what he needs to say.”

“No,” Jack said, “that’s about it. The rest is just details I’ll need to handle on my own.”

“Such as?”

“I’m thinking I may need a wife.”

Eleanor clapped her hands over her mouth, hoping no one had heard her short, startled gasp. Then, once back under control, she stepped closer, anxious to hear what else Jack might say.

“Wives go a long way in making a man appear respectable. It’s not enough that I play the rich, amiable fool. I believe I need a wife, as well. Most especially a wife who listens with both ears to other men’s wives. Hiring an actress to play the part is chancy, but also worth the risk, I believe. Phelps’s wife, for one, has a tongue that runs on wheels. Ask her the right questions, and I may get answers that will help me.”

“I can see you believe this Harris Phelps to be the weakest link,” Ainsley said. “Who are the other two?”

“Sir Gilbert Eccles is one. But the fellow who most interests me is the strongest of the lot. If he’s not the head of the Red Men, then he is very close. Rawley Maddox, Earl of Chelfham.”

Before Eleanor could clap her hands to her mouth again, someone did it for her, and she was pulled back against the tall, rangy body of Odette, the one woman in the Becket household who knew every secret, the voodoo priestess who had come to England with the Beck