by Olivia Drake
“It should be obvious who has come to harm here,” he said testily. “And I don’t appreciate having a crowd in my bedchamber. It’s the middle of the night and I command all of you to depart.”
Tudge immediately ducked out of the room. Hannah also glided toward the door, but Portia stopped her. “Before you go, I would like a word with you. If you’ll sit down, please.”
Hannah flashed a cautious glance at Colin. “I—I couldn’t.”
“You’re exactly right,” he concurred. “Go on off to bed.”
“Nonsense, this will only require a few moments of your time,” Portia said, taking Hannah by the arm and leading her to one of the overstuffed chairs by the fire.
“Who is she?” Lindsey hissed to her sister. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain later,” Portia said, shushing her with a wave of her hand. She picked up her cloak and put it on, covering that delectable gown before going to sit opposite Hannah. “Forgive me for being blunt, but Lord Ratcliffe told me about your situation. However, he neglected to mention you were staying here under his roof.”
“There was no need for you to know,” Colin snapped, surly from the throbbing in his arm. “And there still isn’t. So run along now. I won’t have you badgering my servants.”
“Your servant?”
“Quite. She’s my new housekeeper.”
“Ah,” Portia said, giving him a long, inscrutable stare that made Colin want to shift in his seat like a naughty schoolboy. Of course, she probably believed the employment was merely a ruse for him to keep a handy woman available for his lecherous pleasures.
“I feared this might happen,” Hannah said in a miserable tone, her fingers twisting the folds of her dressing gown. “I told his lordship it wasn’t fitting for one of my ilk to stay in his house, that people of consequence will find out, and the gossip won’t bode well for a gentleman about to be married.”
As if she’d been poked by a pin, Portia sat up straight. “He isn’t getting married—at least not to me.”
“Oh! I do beg your pardon, miss.” Hannah looked as if she didn’t quite know what to believe. “But regardless, I don’t wish to be a burden. I—I’ll depart at first light, if that’s all right. I’d go straightaway, but it’s dark and there are footpads—”
“You misunderstand me.” Portia leaned forward to lay her hand over Hannah’s nervous fingers. “I won’t allow you to do anything to endanger yourself or your unborn child. You’ll stay right here—so long as Ratcliffe gives his solemn vow not to make undue demands on you.”
Livid at the implication that he’d force himself on a pregnant woman, Colin jumped to his feet. He willed away a brief dizziness and stalked toward Portia. “I haven’t given you permission to issue orders in this house,” he said. “Nor have you the right to make any stipulations in regard to my—”
“Stop, villain!” Lindsey rushed in between him and Portia. In her hand, she brandished a small pocket knife. “Keep your distance from my sister.”
Colin went stock-still. “Good God, have you lost all sanity?”
“Lindsey!” Portia popped up from the chair to seize her sister’s arm. “For heaven’s sake, Lord Ratcliffe isn’t threatening me, at least not anymore. Now, put that knife away at once and go wait out in the corridor.”
“But he might—”
“Go.”
To Colin’s relief, Lindsey dropped the blade into her reticule. She scooped up the toy pistol and walked out of the bedchamber, scowling at him over her shoulder as if he were the devil incarnate. Like her sister, she was a bossy little baggage. But at least Miss Lindsey Crompton knew when to bow to authority.
Unlike Portia.
He stalked over to pour himself a double splash of whiskey. “A bloodthirsty lot, you and your family,” he muttered.
“If you don’t like us, then pray stay out of our lives,” Portia said tartly before returning her attention to Hannah. “Now, I should like to have a look at the room you’ve been given. If it’s up in the attic as I suspect, you must move at once to this floor. It cannot be good for you to be climbing too many steps in your delicate condition.”
Colin almost choked on a swallow of liquor. Coughing, he couldn’t manage to voice a protest as the two women left his bedchamber. By the time he could breathe normally again, Tudge had come bustling back, armed with linen and ointments. He bullied Colin into sitting down and having his arm bandaged.
Colin could hear the faint buzz of female conversation far down the passageway. But no matter how he strained his ears, he couldn’t make out their words. It jolted him that Portia would even speak to a fallen woman, let alone see to her comfort. Any other well-bred lady would have given Hannah the cut direct, pretending she didn’t even exist.
Portia had to have an ulterior purpose. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it could be. Her abrupt about-switch made him extremely uneasy. Nothing good could come of her asking questions of his former mistress.
Nothing good at all.
CHAPTER 9
THE NEXT DAY, Portia entered the nearly deserted ballroom in her house to see her sisters taking a dancing lesson. Sunlight poured through the soaring windows, shining over the polished parquet floor and brightening the plaster medallions that decorated the pale yellow walls. As usual, Lindsey and Blythe were squabbling over who was to play the male role as they prepared to practice a reel.
“You’re taller so you should do it,” Blythe said with a toss of her coppery curls. “It would look quite ridiculous for a petite girl like me to take the lead.”
“You’re younger,” Lindsey argued. “I’m going into society next spring, so I need more practice as a lady than you do.”
Their dancing master, Mr. Bartholomew Horton, looked as if he wanted to tear out the remainder of his sparse sandy hair. He was a prissy, middle-aged man in a curry-brown coat, dark knee breeches, and old-fashioned buckled shoes. Plagued by allergies, he alternately swabbed at his red nose with an oversized handkerchief and pleaded with them to get on with the lesson.
The woman seated at the pianoforte rose gracefully from her bench and glided toward them. Miss Agnes Underhill wore a modest gown of gray serge with long sleeves and a high neck that emphasized her sallow features. A plain white cap tied beneath her chin covered her salt-and-pepper chignon. She had been hired shortly after the Cromptons’ arrival in England and charged with the task of teaching the sisters all the myriad rules of polite society.
She ended the battle with a clap of her hands. “This nonsense must stop at once. Bickering is most unbecoming of a lady. You will take turns, as you always do. Miss Blythe, you will play the gentleman for the first dance, then it will be Miss Lindsey’s turn.”
As Miss Underhill headed back to the pianoforte, Blythe stuck her tongue out at the older woman. Portia swallowed a laugh. Having herself been subjected to Miss Underhill’s rigorous guidance for nearly a year, she could understand her sister’s irritation.
But today, she hoped to utilize Miss Underhill’s close connections to society. The woman hailed from a proud noble family that traced its ancestry back to the Conqueror himself, as she was fond of reminding the girls. Over the centuries the ancestral wealth had been lost, putting Miss Underhill in the heinous straits of needing to earn an income. Yet as poor as she might be, her blue blood made her welcome in the finest households.
Portia reflected on their contrasting situations. If not for her father’s vast riches, she would be sent around back to the tradesmen’s entrance. That ironic thought served as a caution against adopting the haughtiness of the haut ton.
She strolled to the pianoforte and stood beside it. “If you like, I’ll turn the pages for you.”
Miss Underhill glanced up, her bony fingers moving over the ivory keys without missing a beat. “Why, thank you. But shouldn’t you be out making calls with Mrs. Crompton?”
Portia spent most afternoons in one noble household or another, chatting over tea and cak
es with the ladies and parrying the fawning attentiveness of their purse-poor sons. Her mother was in her glory, but Portia found it all exceedingly tiresome.
“Mama isn’t quite ready yet.” She paused, striving for a casual air. “I’ve been hoping for a chance to ask you about something. Whenever you have a free moment, that is.”
“You may speak now. I am quite competent enough on the pianoforte to play and hold a conversation at the same time.”
Portia had expected her to say as much, since Miss Underhill took great pride in her genteel achievements. “I’ve been meeting so many of the nobility that it’s set my mind awhirl. I was hoping you could enlighten me about several of the families.”
Tilting her capped head up, Miss Underhill gave her a severe look. “If you are seeking tittle-tattle, may I remind you that would be most improper.” She nodded at the sheaf of music on the stand. “Now, mind your duty, Miss Crompton.”
“Oh.” Portia hastened to turn over the page. “I’m not asking for gossip, only the facts as you know them. It’s difficult for an outsider like me to remember everything I need to know.”
That admission, too, was calculated to encourage Miss Underhill’s sense of superiority.
“Indeed,” Miss Underhill said, taking the bait. “About whom in particular are you inquiring?”
“I’m wondering about Viscount Ratcliffe and his family.”
Her fingers paused almost imperceptibly on the keys as her lips formed a prim line. “He is a rake of the worst ilk. You must take care never to be seen in his company.”
To avoid Miss Underhill’s sharp eyes, Portia pretended to watch Mr. Horton correct her sisters over a missed step in the dance. The aging woman would keel over in a swoon if she knew the truth, that only the previous evening Portia had been in Ratcliffe’s private chambers and had lain beneath him on his bed while he kissed her senseless. Even in the light of day, she could still feel the dark, scorching intensity of it.
And she cringed to recall the aftermath, when she had shot him in the arm. It had happened so fast, Portia still wasn’t certain if her finger had slipped on the trigger, or if she had deliberately pulled it. Odd that, for she was no stranger to firearms, had even bagged a tiger in India, for heaven’s sake. But her mind had been rattled by that kiss, her poise shaken by the fear that Ratcliffe intended to steal her virtue. When he had grabbed for the pistol, she had panicked.
What if she had killed him? Only a scant few inches to the left, and the bullet would have penetrated his heart. The horrifying notion had haunted her ever since.
Devilish man, she thought angrily. It was ridiculous for her to feel even a shred of remorse. He had brought trouble down on himself by his own arrogant actions.
Miss Underhill’s censorious voice called her back to the present. “Lord Ratcliffe was tried in court for the murder of his father. That should be sufficient proof of his despicable nature.”
“But he was acquitted, was he not? What was his defense?”
“He claimed to have been cleaning his dueling pistol when it went off. The death was pronounced an accident due to the lack of evidence to the contrary.”
The news jolted Portia. She immediately noted the eerie parallel between the two shootings. Right after he’d been hit, Ratcliffe had looked pale and grim, more so than the flesh wound had warranted. Had last night’s mishap reminded him of another pistol going off by accident, resulting in his father’s death?
She could not begin to imagine how terrible that incident must have been. And because of his disreputable character, people in society still held him to blame. But she herself wasn’t so certain. It made her all the more determined to uncover the facts of the case.
At Miss Underhill’s nod, she turned over another page of music. “If the court has absolved him, then we should accept the verdict. Besides, I find it difficult to credit that any gentleman could purposely do something so monstrous.”
“You are being willful and obtuse today,” Miss Underhill scolded, her fingers flying over the keys during a lively section. “It is a blessing that you have attracted the attention of the Duke of Albright. Not only will it be a brilliant match for you, he will keep you safe from scoundrels like Ratcliffe.”
Portia’s stomach churned. Why did everyone take it as a foregone conclusion that she would accept Albright’s offer—if he made one? “Speaking of the duke, there seems to be bad blood between him and Ratcliffe’s family. I’m sure it wouldn’t be proper for me to ask His Grace about it.”
“I should hope not! Nor should you question anyone else in society, lest you become known as a scandalmonger.”
Miss Underhill needn’t learn that Portia was already guilty of quizzing the duke. “But I can ask you, can’t I? Have you knowledge of any particular incident in the past that might have caused this feud?”
Miss Underhill frowned thoughtfully down at the pianoforte. “Now that you mention it, I believe there was something. I heard my mother discussing it with her cousins quite a long time ago. I cannot recall exactly what it was, though …” She shook her head. “I was only a little girl then. I am nine-and-thirty now, so that would have been perhaps thirty years ago.”
Portia hid her shock. She had assumed Miss Underhill to be closer to fifty years old at the very least. Perhaps laboring for a living caused a lady to age faster. It made Portia more keenly aware of the lucky stroke of fate that allowed her to live in luxury while other women struggled to make ends meet.
Women like Hannah Wilton—although Miss Underhill would be aghast to be placed in the same category as a ladybird.
“My mother has passed on,” Miss Underhill was saying, concluding the piece with a flourish of her fingers over the keys, “but if you like, I can write to her cousin and see if perhaps she can enlighten you.”
“Would you?” Thrilled by her unexpected success, Portia bent down and embraced the woman’s bony figure. “Thank you so very much. I’ve been wondering, and it would set my mind at ease.”
“You’re welcome, my dear.” Miss Underhill lost her starch for a moment and awkwardly hugged Portia back. For a moment, she looked younger and happier … almost pretty. Then she reverted to the vinegary old maid and chastised Portia for the public display of emotion. “That’s quite enough gossiping. Run along now. Mrs. Crompton surely must be ready to depart.”
Portia started toward the arched doorway. The thought of facing Mama brought on an attack of nerves. She had been on pins and needles since the previous evening, fearing her mother might discover her deceit in leaving the Earl of Turnbuckle’s house under false pretenses. She had planned to return to the ball after leaving Ratcliffe’s house and cover her tracks by taking the family coach home, but it had been too late to risk it. Besides, Ratcliffe had insisted upon escorting her and Lindsey home.
This morning, much to her relief, Mama had chattered away at breakfast about having shared a cozy tête-à-tête with the Duke of Albright. With that triumph foremost in her mind, she’d apparently never thought to question the coachman as to whether or not he had actually taken her daughter home early.
But she might still find out by belated mischance.
“Portia, wait!”
She turned back to see Lindsey hurrying toward her. In a gown of celery green, her long chestnut hair held back with a ribbon, she looked younger than seventeen. Her cheeks were flushed from dancing and her blue eyes bright with purpose. She looped arms with Portia. “I haven’t had a chance to ask you what we’re going to do next.”
“Next?”
“You know, about the …” Glancing furtively over her shoulder, she pulled Portia out into the spacious corridor outside the ballroom and lowered her voice to a whisper. “The miniature. Since you couldn’t find it in you-know-who’s chambers, where else do you think he may have hidden it?”
Portia had lain awake at night wondering that very thing. It still incensed her that he had stolen her property and held it over her head like the sword of Damocles. “Perha
ps in his safe or his desk or a hundred other places. However, he’ll be on his guard now, so I won’t go skulking around his house again. Nor will you.”
“But what if we create a better diversion?” Lindsey leaned closer, her eyes alight with zeal. “Just listen, I have it all thought out. You can go with him on a drive, actually go this time, whilst I creep into his house and search the premises.”
“No!” Portia’s blood ran cold at the prospect of the scandal that would ensue if her sister were caught in an act of robbery. “Henceforth, you are to forget all about the miniature. Do you understand me?”
Lindsey scowled. “Just because you couldn’t find it doesn’t mean I won’t. I’m a far better sleuth than you are. Remember the time Mama lost her reticule, and I found it in the tikka-ghari, stuck between the seat cushions, because no one else remembered she’d gone for a drive that morning? And what about when Blythe wanted to know who was leaving flowers on her pillow, and I sat in hiding for hours and hours, only to discover it was that rascal Harvey Stanhope?”
Portia smiled at the memory. Harvey had been the fifteen-year-old son of her father’s shipping agent, and he had earned a sound thrashing for his romantic efforts. “The silly boy was smitten with the minx. She was only thirteen, but she’d been flirting shamelessly with him.”
“Yes, well, as far as I’m concerned she’s the silly one, always sighing over the gentlemen,” Lindsey declared. “I have more important concerns on my mind. Now, I’ve been wrestling with the problem of how to open Ratcliffe’s safe. I might be lucky enough to find the key in his desk, but—”
“For heaven’s sake, didn’t you hear me? You won’t be looking in his desk or anywhere else.” To emphasize the point, Portia took hold of Lindsey’s shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “If I find out that you did, I’ll tell Mama about the stash of adventure novels you have hidden under your bed.”
