The Dangerous Debutante

“Michaels has done it again…. Witty dialogue peppers a plot full of delectable details exposing the foibles and follies of the age.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review,

on The Butler Did It

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—Publishers Weekly on This Must Be Love

“If you want emotion, humor and characters you can love, you want a story by Kasey Michaels.”

—New York Times bestselling author Joan Hohl

“Kasey Michaels creates characters who stick with you long after her wonderful stories are told.”

—New York Times bestselling author Kay Hooper

“Kasey Michaels aims for the heart and never misses.”

—New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts

Kasey Michaels

The Dangerous Debutante

Dear Reader,

In the midst of the war with Napoleon, Romney Marsh is far removed from the remainder of England; not geographically, but in the minds of its inhabitants, who believe the English Crown cares little that the area’s precarious economy is being devastated by that war.

At the same time, those on the Marsh are grateful for this neglect, as this leaves them free to pursue that time-honored enterprise of Marshmen: smuggling.

Ainsley Becket had come to Romney Marsh to live in peace, raise his family and keep the dangerous secrets of their past well buried. But the winds of war blow where they will, and before long Ainsley and his sons are caught up in helping the Marshmen in their nocturnal pursuits, protecting them from a large, dangerous gang out to destroy any competition. The Black Ghost, so carefully hidden by the Beckets for more than a dozen years, has been resurrected, opening the family to danger that cannot be avoided.

When Morgan Becket is found riding out with the Black Ghost, Ainsley knows it is time for his headstrong daughter to leave Romney Marsh and discover the larger world that awaits, which hopefully is big enough to contain her strong will and even banish her own lingering demons.

As England looks to wage war on yet another front, Ainsley Becket’s carefully constructed new world faces danger and discovery yet again…and this time it is Morgan who unwittingly brings that danger home in the person of the man she loves.

I hope you enjoy this second book in The Beckets of Romney Marsh series. Don’t miss Beware of Virtuous Women, Eleanor’s story, available next month.

Sincerely,

To Bob and Maryjane Daday.

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

11 March 1812

My dearest Chance and Julia,

Warmest greetings from Becket Hall, my children.

It seems so long since your visit at Christmastime, but we understand how occupied you must be at the War Office, Chance, what with our new Lord Wellington so busily preparing to storm Badajoz now that he has at last dispensed with opposition from Ciudad Rodrigo. Wellesley now an English duke, and even Duque de Ciudad Rodrigo into the bargain? ¡Madre de Dios! How we reward men for the efficient killing of other men in this upside-down world.

I wonder, do the honors change him, or will his good common sense prevail? With the rumblings we hear about Bonaparte possibly setting his sights on Russia, Wellington would be wise to let the Little Corsican have his head, and concentrate on the Peninsula, as I have a great respect for the Russian spirit. No one, as we both know, fights with more determination than a man with his back to the wall.

But that is a discussion for another time.

There continue to be no red skies at morning, and only clear black nights, all of them without incident, and we rejoice in the fair weather. Courtland keeps himself busy about the countryside.

All else remains quiet here, or will be as soon as Morgan is dispatched to you on Friday. She’ll be heavily accompanied until well into civilization, and should be with you by dinnertime on Sunday, unless she bedevils Jacob into some mischief along the way. I have commissioned Jacob to guard her because the poor besotted boy would die for her.

I have, however, yet to decide whether this makes the lad eminently suited for the position, or fatally flawed.

Cassandra, of course, is exceedingly jealous of her sister, and has demanded I remind you that she will be needing a Season of her own in a few years, a truth this father greatly wishes to ignore.

Fanny has not asked for the same consideration, as she remains more invested with her horse and Romney Marsh, and you know that Eleanor has made it quite plain she has no intentions of traveling to London, much less considering marriage.

I say this only in the hope you will not envision the whole of the thing at once, this continuing sponsoring of your sisters, and decide to pack your bags in the middle of the night as you and Julia flee to America.

As to America. Forgive this recluse his interest in the world. What hear you at the War Office about the possibility of war between our countries? Someone here has heard rumblings, although you, of course, cannot mention your most unreliable source if you speak to your superiors.

Were I a betting man, however, I would place my wager on the rumor becoming fact before summer.

Spencer and Rian keep themselves busy, with Jacko and some others beating in their heads with knowledge that should have been theirs years ago, while I have, as you know, made Courtland my special project for the nonce. So I suppose I should correct myself. All is not quiet here at Becket Hall, and I must say, life grows more enjoyable by the day.

Monsieur Aubert, the dancing master you were so kind to dispatch, has left here a fortnight past, contemplating the pursuit of another calling, and with the protective gad a sympathetic Odette fashioned for him. But Morgan has learned her steps, if she does tend to move with a bit more flamboyance than the good monsieur felt he could countenance. Mon Dieu, but that Frenchman could weep!

I do feel I also must tell you that I have just yesterday received a rather impassioned note from the good monsieur, apologizing most profusely for allowing Morgan to tease him (the man said tease, and I shudder to consider the implications!) into teaching her the steps to the Viennese waltz, supposedly considered quite acceptable in Paris, yet, mourns Monsieur Aubert, totally offensive to London society.

Yes, son, this all comes to you in the way of a warning. If, at a ball, you hear the strains of anything you believe even vaguely Bavarian or German in tone, you might wish to grab Morgan by the ear and drag her to the nearest refreshment table, so that she cannot disgrace you in public.

Although I must tell you that Eleanor and I are pleased with the modiste that accompanied the monsieur, and Morgan’s wardrobe should be most fitting for a London debutante with aspirations to set the ton on its collective ear.

It is Morgan herself, as you know, who is not quite so demure, as she is, physically, her mother’s daughter. Clad in fine silks or sackcloth and ashes, our Morgan remains impossible to overlook.

But I need not tell you any of this. I know Morgan is in good hands, thanks to my dearest Julia, who could most probably whistle a herd of stampeding elephants to heel.

You will see us all soon enough, God willing, and your siblings send their love, with Courtland adding a special message that he fully expects you to pop Morgan off on some unsuspecting Romeo before the man has a chance to see her with both eyes open.

Keeping you both to your promise to accompany Morgan back to her family at the end of the Season, I look forward to regular reports of the girl’s progress. Do think to spare this old man’s blushes, however, and don’t tell me everything my dear daughter might do. My imagination is terrifying enough. I shall hold out only faint hope there exists a man in London who will be up to the challenge she presents.

A grateful parent’s thanks, blessings, and prayers on you both.

Your loving father,

Ainsley G. B. Becket

“YOU’LL BE DELIGHTED to know that my father remains the master of understatement,” Chance Becket said, then handed the two-page letter to his wife before heading to the drinks table in the drawing room of their Upper Brook Street town house, to pour himself a glass of wine. “Would you care for some lemonade?”

“No, thank you, dearest,” Julia said, quickly scanning both pages, then putting them down beside her. “Ainsley never worries about the cost of postage, does he? I’ll read this later. Why don’t you tell me what he has to say—and what you believe he was really saying.”

Chance sat down beside his bride of nearly a year and took her hand, raised it to his lips. There was no sense in lying to her. “I believe, sweetings, he was warning us that Morgan could present a problem.”

Julia rested her head against her husband’s shoulder and sighed, for she knew Morgan, and believed Chance’s words also to be in the way of a gross understatement. “Oh, is that all. I’m already expecting problems, and I’m certain the last thing Morgan would want to do is to disappoint me. What else did he say?”

“The Red Men Gang is still happily absent from Romney Marsh, Court’s still in charge as the Black Ghost, and everything continues to run smoothly on that head.”

Julia straightened, thoughts of their time spent at Becket Hall rising to the surface, bringing back old memories, old fears. She’d first met Chance, met the Beckets, when she’d answered an advertisement and became nanny to Chance’s young daughter, Alice. And her life had never been the same. “He actually said that?”

“No, not in so many words. But he did say it.” Chance put down his wineglass and became occupied in twirling a lock of his wife’s blond hair around his finger. “He also sees a defeat in Bonaparte’s future and an English war with America. Why a man who never leaves Romney Marsh is still so interested in the rest of the world amuses me. That he can know so much, analyze and deduce so much, amazes me. I wish he’d come to London, join me in the War Office.”

Julia squeezed Chance’s hand, the secrets they shared about Ainsley Becket, all of the Beckets, already holding them fast. “But he won’t. He doesn’t dare be recognized, or else everything he’s so carefully built will come tumbling down.”

“I’m not sure even he believes that anymore. He’s been safe for more than a dozen years. Well, we’ll soon have Morgan, at least. That’s a start. Then possibly Spence and Rian will come for a visit, and I can chase them out of every gambling hell and whorehouse in the city.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Julia said, then bit her bottom lip for a moment. “Yes, they would, wouldn’t they? I think I’ll allow you to be in charge of your brothers when they visit, and I’ll watch over the girls. Do we have a bargain, sir?”

Chance grinned, then kissed her cheek. “If I’d known how easily I could be shed of responsibility for Morgan, madam, I would have been a happier man these past months. So it’s a promise? You’re in charge of bearleading Morgan, and any of my sisters who want to cut a dash in society, and I’m in charge of my brothers?”

Julia saw her husband’s smile and reached for Ainsley’s letter. “Before I agree to that, I think perhaps I ought to read your father’s warnings for myself.”

Chance rolled his eyes dramatically and picked up his wineglass again. “So much for my hopes. Did I tell you, dearest, that I’ll be needed at the War Office almost continuously for the next three months?”

Julia’s eyes had already widened as she read about Monsieur Aubert. “Oh, I doubt that, Chance. I doubt that very much. The waltz? She wouldn’t dare. I may be new to society myself, but I know the waltz is frowned on—why, even Lord Byron condemns it.”

“As being unchaste. Yes, I know. While Byron himself, of course, is virgin as a new-fallen snow.” Chance took a sip of wine. “Ainsley seems to want Morgan married off quickly. I think that’s fairly clear. Do you think we should be drawing up a list of eligible bachelors?”

“And then steer her toward them? Oh, I don’t think so, darling. It’s the one we’d steer her away from that she’d most likely find interesting. That said, yes, I believe I’ve reconsidered, and will join you in a glass. And not lemonade.”

CHAPTER TWO

JACOB WHITING WAS SO upset he could barely keep from wringing his hands like some fretful old lady as visions of disaster evilly danced in his head. He’d thought this would be such a grand adventure.

Just once before in his twenty years had he been anywhere interesting, when he’d been taken to Dymchurch to have a tooth drawn. Traveling up to Londontown had come to him unexpectedly, like a special treat from Father Christmas, and traveling there with Morgan Becket was like all of Christmas and his birthday combined.

And now, not even two days into his grand adventure, Morgie was ruining everything and he wished himself back at Becket Hall, or snug in his bed above The Last Voyage in the small village Ainsley had built for everyone, listening to the old sailors telling tall tales as they drank their rum in the tap room below him.

“Morgie—that is, Miss Morgan, please. Your papa will have my head on a pike if anything happens to you.”

Morgan Becket frowned at Jacob, who was proving unusually uncooperative, not to mention melodramatic. She was much more used to having him twisted neatly around her finger, as he had been from the first day he’d laid eyes on her, more than a dozen years ago.

But this time, smiling hadn’t worked. Teasing hadn’t worked, either. Her papa must have truly put the fear of God in the poor fellow. “Very well then, timid-toes. I’ll saddle her myself. I can do that, you know.”

“No!” Jacob protested, then quickly ran after Morgan, who was grinning as she marched, chin held high, across the dusty inn yard toward the stables. She’d been waiting for this moment, when the outriders her papa had sent along with them had been dispatched back to Becket Hall, and only Jacob stood between her and adventure.

“Please, Miss Morgan,” he repeated, fairly dancing along beside her as she ate up ground easily with long, fluid strides that might look distressingly mannish on some females…females with less curves, that is. “You can’t be riding into Londontown on Berengaria, you just can’t.”

And then Jacob winced, because he knew immediately that he had made a fatal mistake.

“Can’t, Jacob?” Morgan asked, turning to include him in her grin. “Well now, that fairly settles the matter for us, doesn’t it?”

She put her gloved hand on his upper arm, and Jacob’s country-fresh complexion turned beet-red as he felt his resolve fleeing out the back door of his brain-box.

“Morgie, don’t. Please?”

“Think about it, my friend. The entire world goes to London for the Season. Am I to be just one more country bumpkin sent off to snare a husband? I don’t think so. I don’t think I’d be able to countenance that. Besides,” she added, when her childhood friend seemed ready to weep, “Chance and Julia will be expecting something outrageous. We wouldn’t want to disappoint them, now would we?”

“Odette said you’d behave, just like a little lamb.” He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a small brown bag tied up with multicolored ribbons, looked at it in some disgust. “This is what I think of her voodoo!”

“Stop!” Morgan, genuinely alarmed, caught his wrist before he could throw the bag to the ground. “Are you out of your mind? Odette made that for you.”

Jacob nodded, wide-eyed as he wondered if Morgan had just saved him from having a lightning bolt reach out of the sky to explode his intestines. “She said I could control you with it. I didn’t believe her, not really. I’ve heard the stories. About how she’s been wrong before, how she promised safety all those years ago when you all were on some island, and—”

“Jacob Whiting, shut your mouth,” Morgan warned tersely, then looked about to see if anyone was watching, had overheard. She moved closer and continued, “God gave you a brain, or at least one could hope so. Use it. And use your mouth less, or you’ll be on your way back to Becket Hall before you can so much as plant a foot on the cobbles of Upper Brook Street—and you’ll be walking all the way, my friend, still with the feel of my boot on your backside.”

“I’m sorry, Morgie. I know I shouldn’t have thought to throw…And I shouldn’t have said what I said about,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “the you-know-what. You’ve got me so I don’t know if I’m on my head or on my heels. I thought we’d be just fine for these last few miles. Only two more hours, after all, and in the light of day, with plenty of other folks on the road to keep us company. I wasn’t counting on trouble from you the moment the others left us. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Jacob knew as well as she did that the outriders had been sent back to Becket Hall because tempting fate by allowing any of their faces to be seen so far from Romney Marsh would be foolish in the extreme. It would mean certain destruction, allowing any of them who had been fully grown and fully formed when they had all “died” and come to England, to be recognized.

Morgan and her siblings were safe, except perhaps for Courtland, who had already gone ten and seven when they’d arrived in Romney Marsh. Chance had also been older, but he’d changed so from who he had been that no one had yet made the connection between the gentleman he’d become and the man he’d been.

No, there was little fear that the child Morgan had been would be remembered, or recognized in the young woman she was now.

“It’s all right, Jacob,” Morgan assured him quickly. How could they be nearly the same age—with Jacob the elder by two full years—and yet him still so much the child? “But no talk of times past, remember?”

“It…it’s not like I know anything, anyway, is it?” Jacob’s complexion, a moment before so colorful, had paled dangerously. “You won’t…you won’t tell anybody?”

“Not a soul, I promise.” And then, to take the look of worry from his face, she asked, “Did Odette actually promise that little bag would give you control over me?”

He shook his head. “She said it would keep me from being trampled.” And then he smiled, his humor restored. “And, thinking on it, if I stand back out of the way when you have the bit between your teeth, I suppose she might be right. But you will be wanting the new saddle? I don’t think my heart could take anything else.”

Morgan laughed, and the two of them headed toward the stables once more. She’d been in the coach all day yesterday, acting the lady, and for most of today, and she didn’t believe she could stand another moment of being so confined. Especially now, when they were so close to London.

Which was why she had asked Jacob to bring her second largest trunk into the inn while she dined in a private room that had been arranged for her, then quickly dressed herself in one of her new riding habits. The marvelous dark green creation, with its tight-fitting, short velvet jacket held closed with braided frogs, and the shako hat with the dyed green feather, seemed perfect for the day and her mood.

The skirt was split, but daring as she was, she was not foolish enough to believe riding astride to be an option. Besides, she rather enjoyed the sidesaddle, which had been a parting gift from her brother Spencer. He’d told her he doubted he could sit a horse half so well if he were forced to ride in skirts and with both legs dangling over the same side of the animal.

She’d known her brother’s compliment had been meant to cajole her into not arguing about the sidesaddle, but she’d allowed herself to be flattered.

She’d also made sure Jacob had sneaked out to the traveling coach before dawn yesterday, to hide her usual saddle in the boot.

“I thought Papa’s guard would never leave us, you know. Berengaria must be itching for a run as much as I am,” she commented as she stopped outside the stables, allowing Jacob the face-saving gesture of ordering one of the ostlers to fetch the mare.

“Not a run, Miss Morgan,” Jacob said, for once looking as if he meant what he said. “You said you wanted to ride right out in front of the coach for a ways where we could see you, that’s all. There’ll be no runs, or else—”

“Don’t say any more, Jacob,” Morgan warned cheerfully, “because we both know how difficult it would be for you to carry through on any threat.”

Not caring who saw, because Morgan never cared a snap for what anyone else thought of her as long as she was happy with herself, she raised her arm and draped it around Jacob’s shoulder, then leaned her head against him. “Ah, Jacob, we aren’t children anymore, are we? Isn’t that incredibly sad?”

He turned adoring blue eyes on her for a moment, then quickly put some distance between them, his heart aching. “We could go back, Morgie. We don’t have to go on. You don’t need no London gentlemen to be looking at you, pawing over you. You know I—” He stopped, appalled at himself for almost saying the words. “That is…you shouldn’t have to do anything makes you unhappy, Miss Morgan, so if you want to turn back to Becket Hall, I—”

“Oh, Jacob,” Morgan said, hating herself for upsetting her friend, who only meant the best for her. But now, almost overnight, she was Miss Morgan, not his playmate, his cheerful nemesis, and the sudden transition was proving troublesome for both of them.

She would be a terrible person, indeed, to make the situation even more difficult. “Please stop apologizing, Jacob. I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m horribly selfish, and I’m mean. What’s worse is that I know I am, and I still behave so badly to people who certainly don’t deserve such treatment. But, truth to tell, and only between us, I’m nervous, too. I don’t want to disappoint everyone who believes I’m going to have such a brilliant Season.”

Jacob’s slow smile was Morgan’s first warning that she’d almost talked herself into behaving. “Then you’ll ride into London in the coach?”

She jammed her gloved fists against her hips and glared at him. “Jacob Whiting, when did you get so smart? What do you think you just did?”

“I handled you? Well, almost,” Jacob said, his smile fading as he realized perhaps he’d been just a tad too proud of himself. “At least that’s what Mr. Courtland called it. ‘She seems heartless, but she wouldn’t hurt a fly, not on purpose,’ he told me, ‘so just fold on under like a blanket on a bed, and she’ll come around and stop her nonsense.’”

Morgan tried to raise a wave of anger, but found that, try as she would, humor was winning out. “I’ll kill that stick of a brother of mine,” she declared without heat, and then began to laugh. “Oh, Jacob, I don’t know which of us is the worse. You for being so truthful, or me for being so bad. And here I am, going from worrying Papa and my meddling brothers to yet another meddling brother. Why do men think they are here to protect us fragile females? How I long to be in charge of my own life.”