“I haven’t had any complaints before, madam.”
“It’s a shame your little manhood isn’t as big as your ego.”
That saw the men in the room snort and the women giggle.
Playing to their audience, he rose quickly, throwing his napkin on the table. “I saved your reputation by marrying you—you could at least be a tad grateful. I think I need some fresh air, and maybe I’ll find company for the night more welcoming than yours.”
With that he stormed out of the dining room, to gasps from the onlookers. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to turn around, go back, and stay glued to her side. However, two of Seaton’s men were in place, tasked with ensuring her safety. This was the part of the plan he objected to—that he had to entrust her safety to others. Robert was likely turning in his grave.
He walked back toward the docks as planned. He was to give her thirty minutes; if their enemy had not attacked by then, then presumably they hadn’t fallen for their display in the dining room.
Grayson had walked only a short distance before he sensed he was being followed. Was it their enemy or simply an opportunistic thief? There was only one way to find out.
Grayson slowed and spun to face his pursuer.
Portia stood on shaking legs and held her head high as she swept out of the dining room. That went rather well, she thought. Her pretend tears were an inspired touch—she blubbered all the way up the stairs to their suite, hoping that if their enemy was watching, they would think her too distraught to notice what was going on around her.
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary as she made her way back to her room. She pulled the key out of her reticule and opened the door. She hesitated before stepping into the room. The shadows appeared sinister, and she fingered the pearls at her throat. Perhaps her plan wasn’t such a good idea. She only just stopped herself from seeking out the two men seeing to her safety until Grayson could double back to the hotel.
Gathering her courage, she entered the room, seemingly still upset. I should be on the stage, she thought briefly, as she was more scared than upset.
The maids had laid a fire and lighted a couple of lamps. The shadows flickering over the walls sent shivers running over her, though earlier in the afternoon the room had looked very pleasant.
She needed a drink to calm her nerves. As she poured a small sherry she prayed their plan worked. She wanted this adventure over so that Grayson’s attention would fall fully upon her.
The waiting seemed endless and she couldn’t settle down, so she walked the room, following the pattern on the carpet until she knew it by heart, drink in hand as if it were a weapon. After a quarter of an hour, her nerves demanded a call of nature, and she walked to the bedroom. The room was completely dark, and she felt as if she were teetering on the very edge of a cliff.
In that instant she sensed she was not alone.
She was proved right when a flint flared and lamplight suddenly flooded the room. “So nice of you to walk into the spider’s web, my dear.”
Three things struck Portia. One, the man had a pistol pointed directly at her. Two, his face looked familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. And three, his voice was refined. This was not some thug paid to kill her. Hope rose with the fear. If they could capture him, they would most likely uncover who exactly was doing this to Grayson, and perhaps who was responsible for Lord Markham’s problems too.
“Funny, you don’t look like a spider. More’s the pity, as if you were, I could squash you under my shoe.” She moved further into the room, the knowledge that with one scream Seaton’s men would enter giving her courage. “You appear to be wearing Lord Blackwood’s coat. I think I’ve been in this situation before. It was you at Vauxhall Gardens.”
He didn’t move from his position on the bed. He sat with his back to the headboard, his long legs crossed, the soles of his Hessian boots facing her. In the dim light anyone might confuse him with Grayson. He was so sure of himself that he let the pistol twirl in his fingers.
“You were so easy to lure, so eager to give yourself to Lord Blackwood. You played straight into my hands.”
Her pride took a beating. The smugness of his smile made her want to reveal their trap, but she held her tongue.
“I’m assuming from your voice that we mix in similar circles. How else would you know I held a tender regard for Lord Blackwood?”
He laughed. “My boss told me you were a clever one.”
“Interesting. I would not have thought a man such as you had a boss.” She looked him over carefully, a niggle of memory biting at the back of her brain. “A refined accent but he has a boss. Let me guess … gambling debts?” His smile immediately vanished, and the gun rose to point at her chest once again. “I love it when I’m right. You are a loser.”
“Touché. However, you’re not doing very well yourself. How old are you?” He leered at her, “You should be thanking me, because Blackwood’s done the noble thing and married you. A marriage at sea—how romantic. However, it would appear from the argument this evening that he won’t be unhappy when I make him a widower.” He waved the gun, and she took a step back. “Now where do you think you’re going? Come here,” he said patting the edge of the bed.
Portia knew she should give the signal, one long scream, but as it appeared he wasn’t about to kill her immediately, she decided to see what else she could learn. Perhaps she could stall him and he’d reveal vital information that could help Grayson. Besides, at any minute Grayson would come barging through the door.
“I must confess I always found you quite beautiful. And the fact you were, shall we say, unconventional appealed to me, because I was sure you’d put yourself in a position where I could compromise you.”
Portia tried to push aside her fear, racking her brain trying to unlock his identity. Surely Grayson would know. She snorted, saying, “My brother would never have forced me into a marriage.”
He rose from the bed without taking his cold, emotionless eyes from her. “I thought as much. Hence my acceptance of plan B.”
“Someone will clear your debts if you kidnap me.”
“You’re far too clever. Yes, that’s the deal, leaving me free to marry another heiress and still have my debts cleared. I’ll be set for life. Unfortunately, you were not supposed to return from the harem. I don’t get paid until Lord Blackwood is blamed. Your disappearance was supposed to point the blame at him. Everyone would assume he’d killed you to hide his dalliance. It’s very easy to dispose of a body.”
“No one would believe Grayson capable of such a crime.”
“I’ve made sure there is plenty of evidence.” He tugged at the coat.
She slowly moved her hand to her hidden pocket. The feel of the dagger there gave her courage. “You’re quite convincing. You fooled me by wearing Grayson’s greatcoat. In the dark you are the same size and build. Clever. I assume you had a hand in Lord Markham’s troubles too.”
He frowned. “I assure you I don’t know anything about Lord Markham.”
He was telling the truth—he hadn’t even blinked at her statement.
“No more questions.” He indicated with the gun for her to lie down, and he began to unbutton his trousers.
“You can shoot me just as well sitting up.” She knew exactly what he was planning, and bile rose in her throat. If she didn’t comply, would he simply shoot her? A scream might just see her killed. She hoped Grayson was all right.
“When you are found raped, abused, and dead, he will be blamed. The public spat in the dining room was fortunate. It provides Blackwood with a motive. Lord Blackwood didn’t wish to marry you. Everyone heard his declaration at dinner. Now be a good girl and lie back on the bed.”
When she failed to comply he pounced, wrestling her backward on the bed. He hit her with the pistol, and blood trickled into her eye, making it difficult for her to see. He pinned her down with his large body, and she could barely get breath into her lungs. The muzzle of his pistol once again pressed
against her temple. Panic took hold, and she tried to fight back. The hand holding the gun cuffed her chin. “Don’t struggle or it will be worse for you.”
She wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Besides, if she fought him, he might have to put his weapon down. She tried to remember everything her brothers had taught her about fighting off an attacker, but she’d never been flat on her back, weighed down by a large body. She did know his vulnerable parts, however. She stopped struggling momentarily, and as soon as she felt his body relax slightly atop her, she struck, fast like an adder—a knee to the groin and a thumb in his eye.
He cursed next to her ear, loud enough to reverberate through her head. She pressed her other thumb into his other eye and bucked her body. It worked—he flipped off her and the gun flew high into the air.
She immediately rolled away from him, and as she did, she kicked out at his groin once more. Her foot found its target, and he fell back on the bed, clutching his privates, his mouth open in a silent scream.
As luck would have it, the gun fell into her lap. In an instant the pistol was pointing at his heart.
“Now, if you want to keep your battered manhood, I suggest you tell me whom you’re working for.”
Grayson swore at the moon. Two of them. Cowards. Where the hell had these two come from? His anxiety over Portia being alone in their room didn’t affect his fighting spirit, however.
“Guv, hand over your money and valuables,” one of the goons said, waving a pistol that looked as if it would be more likely to misfire than shoot straight.
They were English—interesting. Had they been sent by his enemy to delay him or to finish him off? The gun pointed directly at him indicated the latter.
“You are a long way from home, gentlemen.”
“Cor, give the guv a medal. Why d’you think we’re robbin’ yer?”
Maybe this was simply a mugging. If so, he should pay them and be done. He couldn’t be delayed. The only thing keeping him from panicking was the knowledge that two of Seaton’s men were guarding Portia’s room. He drew out what little money he had and handed it over.
“We’ll take the fancy watch on that chain I see hanging out of yer pocket,” the crook said, then spat on the ground.
“No. I gave you money, and I shall keep my personal belongings.”
The bigger man moved closer. “You don’t want me to pound that noble face for you, p’raps loosen up a few teeth. What would the ladies say when pretty boy is not so pretty?” He blew Grayson a mock kiss, then stepped closer—close enough for Grayson to let loose with a huge punch, sending the attacker to the ground. He then turned his attention to the man with the gun.
“I have given you enough money to get back to England and then some. Shoot me, and my friends will hunt you down and kill you slowly. I suggest you take your partner here and leave before I disarm you and use that weapon to knock the last of your teeth out.”
The man shifted from foot to foot, suddenly unsure of himself. When he glanced down at his friend, Grayson made his move. He dived and tackled him around the waist, carrying both of them to the ground. They landed hard, Grayson on top, and the pistol went flying. Within seconds Grayson had his knife at the man’s throat.
“I gave you the option of leaving, and since you didn’t take it, I’ll have my money back.” He fished in the man’s pocket and removed the money he’d handed over. Then he got off the man, who lay winded. “If you want to get back to England this desperately, report to the Amelea tomorrow morning.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Bring your friend.”
With that he took off at a run back toward the hotel, praying his delay hadn’t cost Portia her life.
She eased off the bed and put some distance between her and her erstwhile attacker. She could take her time, as he was still rolling on the bed moaning. She kept glancing at the door, wondering where Grayson was. He should have been back by now.
She moved across to the window and peered out at the busy street below. She could not see him, but perhaps he was already back in the hotel.
“Why would I tell you anything?” wheezed the man. “I’m a dead man once Blackwood gets his hands on me.”
He was right, she knew. What did a man like this value? She smiled inwardly. “What if I could guarantee your safety and pay you double what your employer is paying you? And triple if you help us apprehend him?”
He sat up. “You can’t protect me from Blackwood. There is no way he’d agree to pay me.”
“Not Lord Blackwood, no. But I could pay you.”
“A woman? Where would you get the money?” He raised an eyebrow. “I owe a lot of money.”
“I make a lot of money with my cider business.”
“I had heard your cider business was very profitable. But twenty thousand pounds’ worth?”
“A trifling sum. You look familiar, but I cannot remember your name. Have we met before?”
“We have met twice now. Once at a masquerade ball at Lord Helthrop’s, where I tried to compromise you in the study, and then when I kidnapped you by impersonating Lord Blackwood.”
She spluttered in rage, recalling the incident, even though it had been a number of years ago. “That was you that night in the study?”
He nodded.
“I remember kicking you in the privates that night too. I would have thought you’d learn.” His face colored. “You ruined my favorite gown, ripping the sleeves.” She’d managed to escape, and Rose had helped her leave the ball without anyone noticing the disarray she was in. She had never told anyone besides Rose about the attack, as she had no idea who the man was—he too had been wearing a mask—and she’d handled the situation. She’d simply made it a point never to be alone in a room with a strange man ever again.
“You followed me into the study thinking I was Lord Blackwood. That’s what gave me the idea to trap you.”
“Except I’ve stopped you once again. I’m in control, so how about we start with an easy question: who are you?” He made as if to move, and she said angrily, “I’d be just as happy to shoot you for the indignities I suffered in Egypt. My brother Philip broke his leg!”
He sat back, wisely deciding to believe her. For a moment he sat assessing her silently. The moments ticked on. At last he said, “My name is Lord Weston.”
Ah, now she understood his desperation. “I’ve heard my brothers talk of you. You’re the Duke of Chester’s disavowed brother. No man would let his daughter near you. I’ve heard you have the French disease. Not a condition an heiress would want.” Horror slipped over her skin like a slimy worm. He’d been about to rape her. “I should shoot you,” she spat at him.
“No one would miss me if you do. You’d probably be doing me a favor too.”
She swallowed hard. “I’m waiting for your answer, Lord Weston.”
Finally he said, “My employer is ruthless. If she finds out I’ve helped you, I’m dead.”
Their enemy was a woman? Interesting. Portia understood that women could be just as intelligent, just as deviant, and just as vengeful as men. Perhaps she was a woman Grayson had scorned.
“I’ve heard you will probably die from the disease. If I were you, I’d want money so I could enjoy the years I have left. If you don’t agree to help me and I tell Grayson what you tried to do, you’re dead anyway. This way we help each other.”
He slowly nodded and ran a hand through his hair. “I seem to be between a cliff and the long fall to the bottom. How do I know I can trust you to keep your word? You could simply hand me over to the law once you have what you want.”
She walked toward him, the gun trained at his heart lest he forget she meant business. “You won’t know, except I give you my word, and it’s better than many gentlemen’s. Besides, what other choice do you have? Grayson’s not going to take kindly to you attacking his wife.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. Given that you two are at odds, he’s not likely to listen to your idea.”
“What idea?” a
deep voice boomed from the doorway.
An instant later Grayson was at her side, wanting to take the pistol she held. Much to his indignation, she ignored him. “Lord Weston and I have come to an arrangement. If he tells us who employed him, I’ll pay him double what she offered him to kill me.”
Grayson struggled to get his breathing under control, seeing her so close to the enemy. Weston was a son of a bitch and wouldn’t hesitate to snap her neck if it meant he could escape.
What really irked him was his feeling of disappointment that she’d not needed his help at all. She evidently had disarmed a man almost twice her size. Of course, he was very pleased she was safe and unhurt, but still …
“Weston. I should have known a man like you would be desperate enough to harm an innocent young girl. I should challenge you, but I rather think you’d cheat. Perhaps I’ll simply shoot you and rid the world of an abuser of women.”
Weston looked at Portia and sarcastically said, “I did say he would not agree.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t pay you a cent. I think I’ll simply beat the information out of you.”
“You can try,” came the growled reply.
The two men eyed each other like two rutting stags. Grayson heard Portia sigh, but he refused to be the first to look away. His hands itched to lay Weston out flat. Did the man think he couldn’t see the tear in Portia’s dress?
“Stop it. I’m the one who captured him, I’m the one holding the pistol, and I shall be the one making the decision,” she said, directing her comment at Grayson. “If you would tie him up—” At Weston’s cry she said, “I’m not stupid. I don’t trust you. You would sell your own mother to make money. You’re just as likely to double-cross me as you have our villainess.”
Grayson’s eyebrows rose. The word “villainess” and Portia’s earlier use of she finally penetrated into his consciousness. “A woman.”
A Touch of Passion: A Rouge Regency Romance: (Disgraced Lords #3) Page 13
