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Meandering across the glossy, dark nut-hued parquet floor, she inspected a portrait of a slender, distinguished gentleman with a roguish sparkle in his eyes.

He stood behind the chair of a plump, petite dark-haired woman, not particularly pretty, but regal and with an unmistakable air of confidence. Surrounding them were six lads of varying ages, and a chubby infant girl, swathed in white lace reclined upon her mother’s lap.

“Do ye think that’s him?” She angled her head toward the painting.

Bryston joined her, scar standing out in stark contrast against his sun-browned skin. “I dinna ken.”

“Tis magnificent, non?”

They turned as one to see the object of the portrait stride into the room.

Perhaps in his middling fifties, De La Beche wore a broad grin as he swept an affectionate glance over the painting. He pointed at the artwork with his unpretentious, curved silver-handled walking cane. “’Twas painted eight years ago. Alas, all my les enfants except my daughter are at school, and my wife took her to visit her family today.”

Attired in an unadorned burgundy suit and a gold-trimmed silk, ivory doublet, he bespoke understated elegance. He wore a simple chestnut brown wig, black-buckled shoes, and a single ring set with a sapphire glinted on the forefinger of his left hand.

Though he sported a tidily trimmed beard, Mical De La Beche wasn’t at all what she’d expected in a former pirate captain. Though, of course, she’d only ever known Bryston and seen Le Sauvage the one time. Of average height, nothing in De La Beche’s attire, bearing, or expression hinted at his former scandalous life.

He turned a penetrating gaze upon Bryston.

Except that look.

Thatunequivocally was a captain’s unflinching, expectant perusal.

“I suggested such a visit to my wife’s sister might be prudent after receiving your brusque message, Captain McPherson, non?”

“Wise of ye, De La Beche,” Bryston said. He indicated Branwen with a sweep of his hand. “Permit me to introduce Branwen Glanville, ward of the Duke of Roxdale, of Trentwick Castle.”

He didn’t bother with a formal introduction, which didn’t surprise her. Nor did he explain why Branwen was in his company or present for this meeting, either.

She nodded a greeting since there was no need to curtsy.

De La Beche strode to the bell pull, his heels rapping on the flooring.

“Refreshments?” he asked, cocking one imperious brow.

Bryston glanced at Branwen, but she shook her head.

“No’ for me, thank ye,” she said, finding her way to a comfortable looking, velvet-covered sofa before the roaring fire in the hearth. She sank onto the cushion, and primly folded her hands in her lap, welcoming the heat.

She’d grown chilled on the journey here.

Both in body and in spirit.

How would Bryston proceed?

He hadn’t discussed his intentions with her.

“Please, Captain.” De La Beche swept his hand outward, indicating Bryston should also sit.

Once they’d all claimed a seat, De La Beche placed one palm on a knee while gripping his cane with the other. The sapphire twinkled, almost merrily. He looked between Branwen and Bryston. “Well, what’s this all about then?”

In short order, Bryston explained about Le Sauvage’s obsession with the treasure Anne Foissey had claimed existed. He also informed the reformed swashbuckler that he’d fathered Delphine and that Le Sauvage had visciously murdered her.

That news elicited a strong reaction.

Blanching, the Frenchman sank against the plush upholstery of his chair and shook his head. “Zut, Anne never breathed a word to me, I swear.”

She probably hadn’t known she carried his child until he’d sailed from Tortuga.