by Olivia Drake
“Rotten Row,” she repeated. “That’s such an odd name for so pretty a place.”
“Many years ago, this road was used by the king to travel from St. James’s Palace to Kensington Palace. It was known as La Route du Roi. Since the good people of England are famous for their mispronunciation of French, it became known as Rotten Row.”
Laughing at the story, she caught a glimpse of the waters of the Serpentine. Children sailed toy boats along the edge, while their nannies gossiped on benches. “Oh, look at the ducks, Your Grace. There, among the reeds. Do you suppose we could stop?”
“If it pleases you, certainly.”
He gave a brisk order to the coachman, who guided the landau onto the grassy verge. One of the footmen hastened to open the half-door and let down the step. The duke went out ahead of her, turning to offer his gloved hand to her in polite assistance.
As he did so, she spied two familiar faces in the stream of carriages. It was Mrs. Beardsley and her daughter Frances, the breeze blowing their magnificently feathered bonnets. Both women glared at Portia, only to smile obsequiously as the duke tipped his hat to them. Aware that he was the most eligible bachelor in the ton, Portia couldn’t deny a sense of petty satisfaction as she took hold of his arm.
If only they knew how little she wanted him as a husband.
She rested the handle of her parasol on her shoulder, resisting the urge to twirl it. The frilly white umbrella was a bothersome accessory, but Mama had been firm. Portia was not to let her skin become brown from the sun as she had done in India.
Chatting amiably, they set off down the path that led to the river. When they arrived at the edge of the Serpentine, she laughed in delight. A large russet duck glided through the water while five bits of yellow fuzz paddled after it.
Enchanted, she crouched down on the bank, wishing she could cuddle them in her hands. “It’s a mother and her babies.”
“So it is,” the duke said indulgently, leaning on his walking stick and smiling at her. “Mind you don’t dirty your gown, though.”
Portia longed to kick off her shoes and wade into the murky water, the better to see the ducks. Only the duke’s fastidious nature forestalled her. He would be aghast at such uninhibited behavior. He comported himself with perfect manners—unlike another nobleman she knew.
Viscount Ratcliffe would have applauded her. And then he would have splashed into the water himself.
The thought irritated her. They were not at all alike. He was a scoundrel who would invade a lady’s bedchamber and steal whatever he pleased. She scoured the man from her mind, unwilling to let even the thought of him spoil her day.
But fate intervened.
By ghastly coincidence, Lord Ratcliffe appeared on the path alongside the river. He was a fair distance away, strolling toward her, a woman clinging to his arm.
They appeared to be deep in conversation.
Portia forgot all about the ducks. She scrambled to her feet, only marginally aware of Albright rescuing her parasol as it slipped from her shoulder. Her attention was glued to Ratcliffe and his companion.
The woman wore a gown of vivid gold gauze that clung to her lush curves. She was half turned so that her overflowing bosom pressed against Ratcliffe’s arm. Loosely styled hair in a brassy shade of red draped one bare shoulder. She looked like a lady—yet not.
Who was she?
Portia knew the exact moment Ratcliffe spied her. He paused almost imperceptively. Even from a distance, she could feel the force of his scrutiny. His gaze moved over her azure-blue gown with its demure bodice, lingering there a moment. Her skin suddenly felt flushed, as if she’d been lying under the hot Indian sun rather than standing in the cool shade of an English oak.
The duke’s hand tightened on her arm. His face had gone hard and cold. “Ratcliffe. What a blight upon a beautiful day.”
She asked the question that gnawed at her. “Do you know the woman with him?”
“His cyprian, no doubt.”
“Cyprian?”
“His paramour. Suffice it to say, she is the sort of tawdry female he prefers.” Albright patted her hand. “But never mind, my dear. You are much too innocent to know of such sordid matters.”
Portia’s insides churned with dark emotions. Shock, because she had never imagined that Ratcliffe would be so bold as to walk in public with his mistress. Anger, because he had courted her the previous evening while the very next day sought the company of a fallen woman. And curiosity, because she couldn’t help wondering what exactly they did together behind closed doors.
The duke made no move to escort Portia back to the landau. His hand firm around her upper arm in a proprietary manner, he watched the approaching couple with narrowed eyes, almost as if he relished a confrontation. He was always the consummate gentleman. How could he not be mindful of the gossip if Portia were to be seen with the scandalous pair?
She herself was anxious to leave, though not because of any potential disgrace. Rather, she feared Ratcliffe might mention the note she had sent him that morning, asking him to meet her at midnight in the garden at Lord Turnbuckle’s ball. She couldn’t risk exposure of her plot to retrieve the miniature of Arun.
“We must go at once,” she murmured. “I cannot associate with those two.”
The duke gave a start as if he had been so intent, he had forgotten her presence. “You’re quite right, of course,” he said, handing her the parasol. “We should return to the landau lest his presence taint you.”
His presence—not the woman’s?
As they started back up the path, Portia sensed a revulsion in the duke that went beyond mere dislike. It was evident in his tightened lips and wrathful steps. She hastened to keep pace with his strides. “Why do you hate Lord Ratcliffe?”
“His behavior offends me. There is much you don’t know about the rogue.”
“I know you believe he murdered his father.”
“There can be no question of his guilt.”
“But he was never convicted in a court of law. Were you particular friends with his father—or with someone else in his family? Did you hear something that wasn’t told to the judge about circumstances of the death?”
The duke scowled, clearly displeased that she would question his verdict. “No, but the subject is not for your tender ears. However, if you wish further proof of Ratcliffe’s wicked nature, then know this—he also keeps his mother confined at his country estate.”
“Confined?” Portia asked in astonished confusion. “Do you mean … locked up?”
“Perhaps not in so literal a sense. But he refuses Lady Ratcliffe permission to come to London, to enjoy the simple pleasures of visiting her dearest friends and going to the shops. So you can see how he ill-treats the women in his life. You would be well advised to avoid him.”
The news about his mother deeply disturbed Portia. Was he truly so cruel? Although she disapproved of his low morals, he didn’t strike her as having a cold, heartless nature. Was the duke mistaken in his information? Or had she herself been too dazzled by Ratcliffe’s charm to recognize the depths of his depravity?
She glanced back, but a stand of boxwoods hid him from her view. She certainly would avoid him, but not because the duke commanded it. Rather, it would be extremely foolish to associate with a rakehell like Ratcliffe. He could entrap her in a compromising situation. Especially now that he had the miniature in his possession.
But all that would soon change.
Tonight.
* * *
“The place looks deserted,” Lindsey whispered. “The viscount must have taken the bait.”
Portia huddled with her sister in the shadows of a plane tree. A gust of wind stirred the leaves, making her grateful for the warm cloak that covered her revealing gown. The night had turned cold and blustery, the mild weather of the afternoon now only a distant memory.
Across the street, Lord Ratcliffe’s residence loomed at the end of a row of narrow town houses. The darkened windows revea
led no sign of life. Ratcliffe must have gone to the appointed rendezvous.
So why did she feel a prickly sense of foreboding? All evening, she’d had the jittery sense of being watched. It didn’t make sense because her plan thus far had gone off without a hitch.
She had attended Lord Turnbuckle’s ball, dutifully dancing with a number of eligible gentlemen, including the duke. At a quarter past eleven, she had gone to her parents and pleaded a headache, convincing them to remain behind to enjoy the festivities while the coachman took her home. Little did they know, she had slipped out a side door and escaped around the corner, where Lindsey was waiting inside a hired cab along with the necessary change of clothing. Portia had slithered hastily out of her fancy ball gown while the cab drove them to this shabby section on the outskirts of Mayfair.
“I certainly do hope he’s gone,” she murmured. “I’d feel more confident if I’d actually seen him at Lord Turnbuckle’s house.”
“He wouldn’t have been invited,” Lindsey said with a sniff. “But if the rat could sneak into your bedchamber, you can be certain he’ll also find a way to slip into the garden to meet you.”
Lindsey was right. Ratcliffe needed Portia’s dowry, and he would seize any chance to catch her alone and charm her into marriage. While he waited there in vain, however, she intended to invade his home and search for the stolen miniature.
Lindsey was consulting her pocket watch, angling the face to the dim light of the moon. “He’s supposed to be there at midnight. That’s precisely nine minutes from now, so there’s no time to waste. Come, let’s find a way inside.”
“What?” Alarmed, Portia grabbed her sister’s arm to drag her back into the shadows. “You’re not going in with me. We agreed you’re to wait in the cab.” The hired hack was parked out of sight at the far end of the block.
“You agreed, not me. I would never commit myself to any such craven act.”
“This isn’t a game, Linds. I’m handling the matter myself. And that’s that.”
Lindsey’s pouting expression was visible through the darkness. “I shan’t hide myself away while you brave all manner of danger. Do you think me a coward, to flee at the merest hint of peril?”
Portia’s agitation faded beneath a rush of fond humor. It was no wonder her sister relished this act of skullduggery—she read far too many adventure stories. It was partly Portia’s fault for always fetching her the latest books from the lending library.
Gently, she rubbed her sister’s hands. “Of course you’re not a coward. It’s only that I’ve already embroiled you in my troubles far more than I ought.”
“Yes, and just so you know, I won’t be a party to your scheme to marry Arun,” Lindsey declared, sabotaging their brief closeness by pulling away. “You shouldn’t have kept his miniature in the first place. Then Ratcliffe wouldn’t have been in a position to steal it.”
Portia parted her lips in a defensive retort, then decided that, given the present circumstances, it might be wiser to placate her sister. “Yes, well, be that as it may, there is something you can do to assist me.”
“What’s that? Do you want me to pick the lock?”
“No!” How in the world did her sister know of such things, anyway? “It would be helpful to have someone cry an alarm if the viscount returns home unexpectedly. If you wait on the side street, you can observe both the front and the back doors.”
Lindsey made a grumbly noise in her throat. “I’ll be the lookout, if I must. Don’t worry, the villain won’t get past me.” She took a step away, then turned back, fishing in her reticule before pressing something into Portia’s hand. “Here, you might need this more than I.”
In consternation, Portia found herself grasping a dainty pistol that fit easily into her palm. “Where did you get a gun?”
But her sister already had crept off into the gloom. In her dark clothing, Lindsey blended so well with the shadows that she might have been mistaken for part of the shrubbery. Her sister had a truly astonishing knack for subterfuge, Portia realized.
Now if only she herself could do as well.
She stepped out from under the tree to examine the pistol by the faint light of the moon. In India she had handled guns for hunting, although nothing quite so small as this one. After assuring herself it wouldn’t go off by accident, she gingerly secreted the pistol in the pocket of her cloak. She couldn’t imagine pointing the weapon at Lord Ratcliffe, let alone firing it, but at least it made her feel marginally safer.
Taking a deep breath, she glanced up and down the deserted street before heading toward the mews behind the row of attached houses. According to their plan, it would be safest for her to make her entry out of sight of any passersby.
The stench of dung permeated the alley. There were stables back here where the genteel residents kept their horses, and sleeping grooms that she had no wish to awaken. The dense darkness forced her to proceed carefully lest she trip and fall. When she found the gate and gave it a push, the hinges squeaked loudly.
She froze in place, half expecting someone to throw up a window sash and yell, “Stop, thief!”
But the only sounds were the sleepy twittering of a bird in one of the trees and the bark of a dog in the distance.
She slipped into a tiny garden that smelled of roses and refuse. Going down the graveled path, she winced several times as the flimsy dancing slippers provided scant protection from the stones. A small porch led to the back door. There, she cupped her eyes and peered through a window to see a long dark passageway lined with black lumps of furniture.
Very carefully, she tried the door handle. Locked.
Pursing her lips, she moved down the narrow width of the house, checking all the back windows. To her frustration, they were secured as well.
Blast, perhaps she ought to have had Lindsey try to pick the lock, after all—if indeed she really had acquired such a skill. But Portia disliked involving her sister in this act of burglary any more than she had already done.
That left one unpleasant course of action. She would have to break the glass.
The noise might bring a servant running if any were awake at this late hour. Reasoning that it was better to take a chance on brazening her way inside than to be caught red-handed, Portia rapped hard on the back door.
Her palms felt cold and damp inside her kidskin gloves. Any servants were probably fast asleep in the attic bedchambers. Nevertheless, she forced herself to wait a few minutes to see if anyone responded to her knock. Conscious of the time ticking away, she shifted from one foot to the other while rubbing her arms beneath the cloak in an effort to stay warm.
How long would Ratcliffe wait at the rendezvous before he grew impatient with her absence? At that point, would he suspect something and come straight back here? Or would he go and seek out the comforting arms of his mistress?
Portia clenched her teeth at the memory of him strolling in Hyde Park with that red-haired strumpet. What a wicked charlatan he was, to declare his fascination for Portia while he continued to consort with women of ill repute!
And what about him banishing his mother to his estate? No decent gentleman would treat a parent so callously. In so many ways, the man was beyond the pale.
Buoyed by righteous anger, Portia stepped down to the garden in search of a rock to break the window. She found a better missile at the base of the porch. It was a small iron boot scraper the length of her hand. Straightening up, she was startled by the glow of an approaching light inside the house.
The handle rattled and the door swung open. The breath froze in her throat. Holding up a lantern in one meaty paw, an ogre stood glowering at her.
CHAPTER 6
THE FLICKERING FLAME shone upon a face so ugly that only innate good manners stopped Portia from gasping. He had a bulbous, misshapen nose beneath sunken eyes and shaggy black brows. A number of hideous scars crisscrossed his skin, including the left side of his head where only half an ear remained. The coarse dark clothing that covered his massiv
ely muscled form marked him as a servant.
“Who the devil are ye?” he demanded. “An’ why are ye stealin’ the master’s goods?”
Portia realized she still held the boot scraper. It was imperative that he not view her as a thief.
She forced a pleasant smile. “Were I a burglar, I wouldn’t have knocked,” she said in a reasonable tone. “I only picked this up because … because I didn’t know who would answer the door and I thought I might need a weapon to defend myself.”
“Humph. Mayhap ye meant to clobber the wee maidservant what answered yer knock. Don’t suppose ye reckoned on me.”
“I assure you, sir, you’re mistaken.” Her heart thumping, Portia slowly set down the boot scraper while keeping a close watch on him. Bless Lindsey for giving her the pistol. Its slight but comforting weight rested against her hip. Mounting the steps to the porch, she reminded herself of the role she and her sister had planned. “This is Lord Ratcliffe’s house, is it not? I was sent here by him.”
One bushy eyebrow lifted. “Eh?”
“I left his lordship’s company only a few moments ago. He asked me to await him in his bedchamber.”
“Ye? Ye’re a lady.”
A wealth of suspicion layered his gruff tone. Belatedly she wondered if she ought to have adopted the speech of the lower class. But time had been too short to study the nuances of an accent that she hadn’t grown up hearing. Better this man should think her a gentlewoman fallen on hard times, reduced to being one of the viscount’s doxies.
She let the cloak fall slightly open so he could glimpse her form-fitting gown, the one that Lindsey had brought to her. “I was raised a lady, although those times are long past. Now, will you kindly show me to his lordship’s private chambers? If you refuse, you’ll be thwarting his wishes.”
