by Olivia Drake
Her sister was shocked to learn that Portia intended to leave England and marry Arun. She had argued vehemently against it. But regardless of her disapproval, she did agree that Portia needed to retrieve the miniature and had offered several sound suggestions on how to do so.
Now, they sat at the breakfast table with their parents. Always tardy, Blythe had not yet come downstairs to join them. At one end of the white-draped table, Edith Crompton spread orange marmalade on her toast, while at the other end, George Crompton sat reading the newspaper as a footman discreetly removed the china dish containing the remains of his kippers and eggs.
The scenario was so familiar that a lump formed in Portia’s throat. For as far back as she could remember, the family had always eaten breakfast together. Of course in India, they would have been feasting on mangos and bananas with naan, and the air would have been scorching hot, with a punka turning overhead, the fan operated by a native boy sitting on the other side of the wall.
Yet she couldn’t deny the present moment had a certain heartfelt coziness, too, with a fire blazing in the hearth and the watery English sunlight trickling past the tall blue draperies.
You’re giving up everything, your life, your country, your family. Once you act on this foolishness, there’ll be no turning back.
Using her fork, Portia stabbed a strawberry on her plate. Ratcliffe had had no right to express any opinions on her actions. She knew her own mind, and if she wished to wed a chimney sweep and live in a hovel, it was no concern of his. He was a scoundrel who only wanted her dowry—
“Darling, did you hear me?”
Portia started, realizing her mother was staring at her. “I’m sorry, I must have been woolgathering.”
“I was just saying that seventeen gentlemen asked after you yesterday evening. Seventeen!” A satisfied smile on her face, Mrs. Crompton addressed her husband. “Mr. Crompton, didn’t I tell you Portia would be an unqualified success?”
Stout and balding, George Crompton looked every inch the prosperous businessman in his dark coat and white cravat. A pair of reading glasses was perched on the end of his nose. He groped for his coffee cup without looking up from his newspaper. “I’m sure you’re right, my dear.”
“Of course I’m right. And Portia, you’ve had nearly twenty bouquets delivered already this morning. Everyone was terribly concerned when I told them you were indisposed.”
“Thank you, Mama. My cold is ever so much better today.”
Portia had made a miraculous recovery because she needed to attend Lord Turnbuckle’s ball tonight. At Lindsey’s suggestion, she had already sent Kasi to Ratcliffe’s town house with a note inviting him to a rendezvous in Turnbuckle’s garden. Ratcliffe would take the bait, she was sure of it. The knave would believe he had achieved his purpose, to make her cowed by his treachery and ready to do his bidding.
Little did he know how sorely he’d underestimated her.
“Are you quite certain you’re well?” Her mother peered closely at Portia. “You’re looking a bit flushed.”
“It’s the flush of good health,” Lindsey said, giving Portia a meaningful glance. “She’s adjusting very nicely to the climate of England. After all, this is where she belongs.”
Portia ignored the jab. “I assure you, Mama, I feel perfectly fine.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” Mrs. Crompton said, taking another slice of toast from the platter offered by a white-wigged footman. “I shouldn’t like for you to cancel your drive with Albright this afternoon.”
“My drive? Oh … I’d nearly forgotten.” Dismayed, Portia recalled that several days ago—a lifetime ago—she had agreed to a carriage ride with the Duke of Albright. So much for her hope to spend the afternoon finalizing every aspect of the plan with her sister.
Mrs. Crompton slathered butter on her toast. “How could you possibly forget? The duke is more attentive than any of your other suitors. And certainly the richest and most important as well.”
Portia blinked. “The duke isn’t my suitor. He’s merely a friend, a protector.”
“Is that what you think?” Mrs. Crompton laughed indulgently. “Why, a man of his stature would never bother himself with a young lady unless he had an eye on matrimony. Isn’t that so, Mr. Crompton?”
George Crompton tore his gaze from the newspaper long enough to give Portia a fond smile. “Quite. I understand the fellow is nearly as wealthy as the Regent. It would please me greatly to see you betrothed to the duke, rather than one of those other greedy pups.”
Portia couldn’t speak. Her gaze flew from him to her mother, who was beaming proudly. Was it true? Had she misread the duke’s kindness toward her? Dear God, she must have.
She wanted to protest that the duke was more than twice her age, that she viewed him as a paternal figure, not a potential husband. But her parents looked so delighted that the words lodged in her throat.
Everyone was gazing at her expectantly. “I … I don’t know what to say,” she hedged.
“You need only smile and look pretty,” her mother advised. “If you’ll make every effort to be agreeable, darling, you’ll be a duchess by autumn.”
Portia regretted the coddled eggs that lay sourly in her stomach. She glanced to her sister for support, but Lindsey merely gave her a wry look of concern. Clearly, she, too, considered the duke a more suitable husband than the son of a maharajah. Portia couldn’t be angry at her sister. After all, Lindsey only wanted her to remain in England with the family.
But Portia had never felt more alone, and she suddenly longed for reassurance that she was doing the right thing. If only she had received a letter from Arun …
A footman entered the breakfast room and approached Portia’s father. “A visitor to see you, sir.”
George Crompton rattled the newspaper impatiently. “I don’t take callers during breakfast.”
“I’m sorry, but he asked specifically for you to be notified of his presence at once.”
Ratcliffe. It has to be Ratcliffe.
Alarm spurred Portia to sit up straight. Gripping the arms of her chair, she watched as her father picked up a small pasteboard card from the silver salver held by the footman. Frantic thoughts tumbled through her mind. Ratcliffe had lost no time in approaching her father to ask for her hand in marriage. Papa would refuse on her behalf, of course; he and Mama wanted her to wed the Duke of Albright. Then, out of spite, Ratcliffe would reveal her secret plan to elope with Arun.
Oh, why hadn’t the viscount come to her first? She had expected him to threaten exposure in exchange for her hand in marriage. She had anticipated having the chance to outwit him …
Her father rose. “I’ll see him in my study.”
“No.”
Without conscious decision, she was pushing back her chair, shooting to her feet, hurrying to her father’s side. The footman jumped back to give her space. Seeing everyone looking strangely at her, she gathered her composure. “You really should finish your coffee, Papa. Whoever it is can wait.”
And then Portia could go and eject Ratcliffe from the house.
Her father frowned distractedly. He was looking at her mother, as if trying to convey a covert message—perhaps that their daughter had suddenly gone mad. “It’s quite all right,” he told Portia, patting her on the arm. “I’m through here.”
“But you can’t go yet,” she blurted out. “Because …” Her mind went blank of excuses.
“Good morning, everyone.” Blythe’s cheerful voice came from the doorway. “I hope you don’t mind that I invited someone for breakfast. He was waiting in the foyer for you, Papa.”
Portia spun around to see her sister glide into the room. Blythe was dressed in pale green, her hair a mass of perfect auburn ringlets. Her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief, causing Portia’s heart to jump into her throat. Oh, she was going to murder her sister. It would be just like her to bring the viscount here …
But the elderly man who shuffled into the doorway was no one familiar.
Thin and stooped, he wore an ill-fitting brown coat and old-fashioned knee breeches with buckled shoes. His bushy brows matched the untidy mass of white hair on his head. He turned a battered top hat in his gnarled hands. With his deferential manner, he brought to mind a tutor or perhaps a scholar.
The breath left Portia in a long whoosh. How foolish of her. Of course Ratcliffe wouldn’t have played his hand so swiftly. He was far more likely to toy with her as a cat teases a mouse.
Then she noticed her mother staring at the visitor with an oddly intense look. The impression vanished in an instant as Mrs. Crompton addressed her youngest daughter, who stood at the buffet table, loading a plate with eggs and sausages. “Blythe, dear,” she said in a firm tone.
“Yes, Mama?”
“I’ll see you in my boudoir at once.”
“But I’m hungry—”
“Immediately.”
Pouting, Blythe defiantly took her plate and sashayed out of the breakfast room. Portia hadn’t the least sympathy that Blythe would face a scolding for her impetuous invitation. Not after the scare she had given to Portia.
Rising, Edith Crompton rounded the table and glided toward the stranger. “Sir, you must be eager to conduct your business with my husband. You may talk in the study.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He slid a longing glance at the array of delicacies on the buffet, then followed George Crompton out of the breakfast room. Mrs. Crompton departed right after them, followed by Lindsey.
Left alone at the table, Portia mulled over her mother’s rudeness. She couldn’t imagine what business he had with Papa, but that was no reason to refuse the man sustenance. Before they had moved to London, all English guests, no matter how humble, had been invited to dine with the family. That had been the informal way of life she had known growing up near Bombay.
But here, the aristocracy had strict rules about mingling with the lower classes. They kept themselves sequestered as if they were more godlike than human. It made her all the more determined to return to the freedom of India.
Edith stood at the window of her boudoir, peering through the lace undercurtain that kept the room dim and private. The streets around the square teemed with carriages and horsemen, while ladies and gentlemen strolled the tidy green jewel of the park. It was a sight she had craved to see during all those wretched years in India. She had dreamed of residing in a stately home like this one, of acquiring the vast wealth that would enable her to shed her common roots at last and take a place in the elite society that ruled England.
But today, ambition foundered beneath a stormy sea of anxiety.
She had ordered Blythe here for a scolding. That task had been completed swiftly; then she had sent her youngest daughter away, for once without a care for her saucy behavior. The poor girl didn’t know the reprimand had been only a pretext. Edith’s true reason for coming up here was to keep watch at the window.
She was just beginning to fidget when a movement far below caught her attention. Their visitor was trudging down the front steps. He hadn’t stayed more than fifteen minutes.
She gripped the curtain, heedless of the fragile lace shredding under the pressure of her fingernails. How had Percy Thornton learned of their arrival in England?
She had recognized him at once. His hair had gone completely white and his face now had a webwork of wrinkles, but he was the same man who had once made her feel stupid and slow. He had been the estate manager then, responsible for keeping the books and paying the wages. She had resented his patronizing manner, the way he looked down on those he considered less intelligent than himself.
She was the clever one now. As much as she would have liked to flaunt that fact in his face, she hoped and prayed he hadn’t recognized her.
Feverishly, she studied Thornton’s progress down the foot pavement. He didn’t look like a successful black-mailer; there was no spring in his step or gloating grin on his face. Nevertheless, she watched until he vanished around a corner. Then she hurried to the door, intending to confront her husband.
George was already marching down the corridor toward her. The grimness on his weathered face could have been worry or just his usual grumpiness, she couldn’t tell.
“I knew you’d want a full report,” he said gruffly. “So I came straight up here.”
Edith glanced up and down the passageway to make sure no maids were lurking nearby, listening as servants often did. Taking him by the sleeve, she yanked him into the boudoir. She closed the door and leaned her back against it, grasping the handle to keep her hands from shaking. “Hush, someone will hear you.”
“There’s no one nearby.”
“Nevertheless, we must be extremely careful. So tell me, why on earth did Percy Thornton come here?”
George shrugged. “To catch up on old times, what else?”
Fraught with frustration, Edith itched to take hold of his shoulders and shake him. “And? What did he say? What did you say? Does he know—”
“He knows nothing. He inquired after my health, that’s all. And he asked about my experiences in India. It was naught more than a courtesy visit.”
“I find that hard to believe. He must have wanted something.”
George hesitated, then said, “I believe he was hoping for a pension. So I wrote him a bank draft for fifty guineas.”
“You did what?” Edith lunged at her husband, seizing hold of his lapels. “How idiotic can you be? You’ll rouse his suspicions. Don’t you realize that if you give him money, he’ll keep coming round for more?”
Her attack made his face darken. Jerking himself free, George slammed his fist onto the dressing table. The glass bottles rattled and clashed, but he took no notice. “This is precisely why I never wanted to return to England. We should have stayed in India where no one would ever ask questions.”
Edith realized she had pushed him too far. In a conciliatory tone, she said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted. And you know full well why we had to come to London. It was for the sake of the girls.”
“Was it?” he asked sharply. “Or did we really come here for you? So that you could finally play the lady?”
Edith was too canny to deny it; he knew her too well. “Be that as it may, Portia should be our main concern. She nearly disgraced herself once already. You wouldn’t want anything to ruin her chance at making an excellent marriage, now would you?”
As she’d hoped, George’s anger crumbled at the mention of their eldest daughter. Portia had always been his favorite, the apple of his eye. She was the one he had taken for rides in the palka-ghari every Sunday, the one who had accompanied him on his business trips to the maharajah’s palace. If not for George, she would never have met that dark-skinned boy, the one who had enticed her into an indiscretion. Edith shuddered to remember the shock of finding them together, kissing and whispering in the darkness of the verandah. It had taken swift action to avert a ruinous scandal, all because George had indulged Portia with far too much freedom.
Thank God it was all over now.
Edith’s only consolation was that her husband still suffered guilt for his mistake. It had given her the ammunition to force him to move back to England.
Heaving a sigh, he ran his fingers through the sparse brown hairs on the top of his balding head. “You’re right, we must concentrate on what’s best for her. But are you quite sure she favors Albright?”
George might be a shrewd businessman, but he had no notion of how to arrange marriages. “Of course—what girl wouldn’t wish to become a duchess? She’ll have a perfect life, and our first grandson will be the heir to a dukedom. So long as you make certain Thornton won’t cause any trouble for us.”
“He’s nothing,” George assured her. “No one would take the word of that old pensioner over mine. I’ll make certain of it.”
Edith smiled. Oh, how she loved wealth and the power it brought. And with Portia a duchess, no one would ever again dare to close their door to her. She would let
nothing—and no one—stand in the way of her daughter’s marriage to the Duke of Albright.
CHAPTER 5
AS THE OPEN landau entered the gates to Hyde Park, Portia tilted her head back to bask in the sunlight. The warm rays felt wonderful after several weeks of rain and gloomy skies. She breathed in the aromas of damp earth and new green foliage, so fresh and different from the smells of her youth. If it wasn’t so improper, she would have shed her bonnet and let the breeze flutter through her hair.
“Enjoying the balmy weather?” the Duke of Albright asked from beside her.
She turned to see him smiling at her, his white-gloved hands wrapped around the silver knob of his walking stick. The duke was the epitome of elegance in a charcoal-gray coat and black trousers, with a dazzling white cravat at his throat. A top hat covered his silvering dark hair.
It shook her anew to think of him as her suitor. Especially since being with him like this reminded her of the leisurely drives she’d taken with her father in India. Perhaps her parents were reading too much into Albright’s attentiveness. Perhaps, like her, he was interested only in passing the time with a pleasant companion. Because if he had no need of her rich dowry, why would he court a commoner when there were so many blue-blooded girls who would leap at the chance to wed a duke?
The answer didn’t signify. It was too beautiful a day to fret about the future. If ever he made her an offer of marriage, she would simply find a gracious way to refuse him.
She returned the duke’s fond smile. “It’s a lovely afternoon, indeed. Is it often so warm here in the spring?”
“I’m afraid today is something of an anomaly for April,” he said wryly. “That is why nearly all of London seems to be out on Rotten Row enjoying the fine weather.”
A coachman in blue livery sat on the high perch ahead of them, directing the landau toward a broad sandy avenue where carriages and horsemen abounded. The aristocrats were out in full force, dressed in their finery, to see and be seen. No one had better equipage than the duke, she decided, from the silver crest on the polished black door to the two footmen like statues standing at the rear. A set of perfectly matched grays pranced in front, hooves clopping and harness jingling.
