by Olivia Drake
Ratcliffe’s good humor faded. “I see you’ve decided to disregard my warning about Albright.”
“There is no reason for me to discourage his friendship. At least he isn’t chasing after my wealth.”
“You should know he has a fondness for intrigue and trickery. He amuses himself by playing the marionette, by making people dance on his strings.”
“I am not his puppet,” she flared. “His Grace has been the perfect gentleman. The only cunning schemer I know is you.”
Ratcliffe took hold of her hand, his warmth penetrating the thin kid glove. For once, his face was absolutely serious. “Portia, listen to me. I’m telling you the truth. You don’t know him as well as I do.”
When he looked at her that way, his eyes so deep and green, she felt her defenses melting, letting in an element of doubt about the duke. But she wasn’t a naïve schoolgirl to accept Ratcliffe at his word. Nor was she a featherbrained lady, easily gulled by a handsome face and smooth charm. “Then answer the question I’ve asked you before. Explain to me exactly what he’s done to you.”
Uttering a growl of frustration, he looked away from her. “I cannot. To do so would require me to break a confidence. And it is not my story to tell—”
His voice broke off. His eyes narrowed, he stared intently across the theater. “Good God,” he muttered under his breath.
“Is something wrong?”
He surged to his feet. “Pray excuse me.”
“Wait. Where are you going?”
But she was talking to the air. Ratcliffe had already leaped onto the railing and departed the way he’d arrived.
A few moments later, the duke came storming back, along with her parents. She had to explain to them what had happened, that yes, Lord Ratcliffe had entered her box in a most unorthodox manner, but that nothing untoward had happened. They had conversed in full view of enough members of the ton to satisfy even the strictest of moralists.
As she pleaded her case, Portia caught sight of Ratcliffe entering a box across the theater, just below the one he’d occupied with his friends. He went straight to a dark-haired female standing with several gentlemen. The woman was petite and slim, her fine figure enhanced by a gown in a brilliant shade of peacock blue. He pulled her aside as if his rights to her company superseded all others. They stood near the rear of the box with their heads together, apparently deep in conversation.
A burning lump smoldered inside Portia. Who was she? Another of Ratcliffe’s mistresses? The nerve of him to come courting her, then to rush off to join another female.
The woman was too far away to discern her features. Portia dared not pick up the opera glasses to take a closer look, not with the duke and her parents hovering nearby, dissecting Ratcliffe’s rude behavior and lack of manners.
Then, just as the duke’s party was settling down for the rise of the curtain, Ratcliffe took the woman by the arm and led her out of the box. Although Portia kept close watch for the remainder of the play, they never reappeared.
Colin allowed her to precede him through the front door. The house in Berkeley Square had to have cost a tidy sum, he noted bitterly, assessing the extravagant interior with its gilt chairs, fine paintings, and curving marble staircase. No doubt he would receive the invoice for its rental shortly. The thought made him livid.
They handed their wraps to a waiting footman. Then Colin ushered her into the drawing room, while another footman hurried ahead to light several branches of candles and to stir up the fire on the hearth. “Go,” he ordered the servant. “And close the doors behind you.”
He waited in the center of the plush rug until his command was obeyed. Only when they were alone did he pivot toward the woman who had seated herself on a striped chaise.
The sight of her after all these months stirred a powerful tide of emotion in him—resentment, anger, and yes, affection. Annoyed with himself for feeling even the slightest softening, he released the rigid restraint he had employed at the theater, when he had been determined not to cause a public scene.
“The truth now, Mother. Why have you come to London?”
Lady Ratcliffe looked up from arranging her peacock-blue skirt. Except for the fine lines around her green eyes, her features showed little sign of aging. Her hair was as dark and luxuriant as it was in the painting that hung in his house; he wondered if she used lamp blacking to conceal the gray seen in other women of nine-and-forty years.
“As I said at the theater, I’ve grown weary of the country,” she said coolly. “All of my dearest friends are here for the Season. It isn’t fair of you to expect me to languish in the backwaters of Kent for the rest of my life.”
“You know precisely why you were to stay there. You agreed to the terms yourself.”
“And I’ve abided by them for three long years.” Her lips formed a pout. “Besides, my concession was made before I realized how dull it would be to count the sheep in the meadow and to have as my only entertainment the doddering old vicar for tea.”
“Dull?” Rage surged in Colin, so strong he couldn’t stand still. He stalked to the fireplace and brought his fist down on the mantel, rattling a china figurine of a shepherdess. “And you believe that’s an adequate excuse for canceling out what you’ve done?”
Behind him, her skirts rustled as she rose to her feet and approached him. When she laid a gentle touch on his arm, he stiffened. “Please look at me, Colin, I beg of you.”
He couldn’t disregard that soft voice. It was the same voice that had read him stories as a young boy, the same voice that had sung him lullabies when he was ill. He reluctantly turned to face her.
“I’m truly sorry for all that’s happened,” she murmured, reaching up to touch his cheek. The faint, familiar scent of roses wafted to him. “How many times must I tell you so? If I could change the past, I would. I swear I would.”
The tears swimming in her eyes almost did him in. The trouble was, he believed she spoke the truth. She really did feel remorse for her actions. But unfortunately, regret wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
He stepped away from her. “I want you to return to Kent in the morning. You know full well I haven’t the funds to rent this pile.”
“The lease covers half a year, and anyway, I wish to stay for the remainder of the Season.”
“The lease is invalid without my signature.”
She took hold of his hand and rubbed the back of it. “Please, Colin, don’t be angry. My behavior will be exemplary, I promise you. Besides, I do so want to meet the heiress who has caught your interest. Miss Portia Crompton, I believe is her name.”
He scowled, realizing that his mother must have witnessed his balancing act in the theater, then his conversation with Portia. “She’s no concern of yours.”
“Pish-posh. You’re my only son, so of course your choice of a bride concerns me. And I must say, she appeared rather disapproving of you. I thought perhaps I could help in that respect—”
“No,” he said sharply. “I won’t brook any interference from you.”
“But it’s imperative that you marry her. She’s the premier heiress of the season. We need her dowry.”
“Yes, we do, don’t we.”
Rather than chide him for his sarcasm, his mother merely pursed her lips. “You, then. As head of the family, you need her money. And there’s no time to waste. Albright is courting her, too, and you mustn’t let him walk off with such a prize.”
Colin wanted to retort that Portia was far more than a trophy to be won. She had independent thoughts and deep convictions, along with a saucy manner that intrigued him. But how could he chastise his mother, when he, too, regarded Portia as a rich bank account?
“Albright won’t win her,” Colin said flatly. “I’ll see to that.”
He started to walk away when Lady Ratcliffe touched his arm. “And you’ll let me stay, then?”
He shouldn’t. It went against all rational judgment. Yet the hopeful pleading in her eyes did him in.
“Of course.”
She didn’t have to ask what he meant, he noted cynically. She knew her own weaknesses as well as he did.
Now, if only he could trust her promise.
CHAPTER 12
PORTIA AND KASI sat in the hired hack parked halfway down the street from Ratcliffe’s house. The ayah had come as chaperone on a fictitious errand to the milliner’s shop. It was a flimsy excuse, which was why Portia needed to hurry back home before her mother discovered her absence at breakfast and grew suspicious.
They had been waiting here for half an hour already.
Outside, a fine mist made the early morning cold and damp. Water droplets beaded on the grimy window of the cab. Anxiously, she peered out, watching the tall brick façade of the row house. Not so much as a blind twitched in the windows.
She wanted to go up to the porch and knock on the front door. But that hulking ogre, Orson Tudge, would likely answer. He would inform the viscount of her presence and then all of Portia’s scheming would be for naught.
Of course, it might be for naught, anyway, if Hannah Wilton failed to heed the instructions in the letter Portia had sent two days ago. Belatedly, it had occurred to her that the former courtesan might never have had the benefit of schooling. Which meant she’d have had to have asked someone else to read the letter to her.
What if that person was Ratcliffe? He would likely forbid Hannah to come to this rendezvous.
Ratcliffe. The mere thought of him made Portia’s heart beat faster. It was a ridiculous reaction, considering how much she loathed him. Was he at this very moment slumbering in his chamber? More to the point, was that woman from the theater in bed with him?
A hot blade of resentment twisted through Portia. She didn’t care if he cavorted with anything in skirts. It was just that he had dumped her like a bit of Haymarket fluff the instant he’d caught sight of one of his paramours. And to think Portia had made excuses about his behavior to her parents and the duke!
A touch on her arm distracted her. Kasi shifted on her seat, her short legs not quite reaching the floor, a cloak swathing her stout form. Her black-currant eyes glinted from within the burnt-orange scarf that covered her thin gray hair. “Lady not come, missy. We go now, or memsahib be angry.”
“Leave Mama to me.” Not yet ready to give up, Portia studied the Indian woman. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what did Mama want with you, the day she came up to your chamber?”
Kasi hesitated, then looked down at her folded brown hands. “Memsahib wish to see my shrine. She tell me no more pray to false gods.”
Portia had the nagging feeling there was more to the matter than Kasi let on. “But why? Did one of the other servants complain about the smell of incense? Or perhaps the sour milk?”
Kasi lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I do not know.”
The unfairness of it troubled Portia. Kasi always seemed so placid, even in the face of this new development. Was she unhappy living in England, so far from the land of her birth? “Well, you needn’t fret about it,” she said, patting the old woman’s hands. “When I return to India, you can go with me. Arun and I will provide a home for you. And you’ll be able to worship Shiva to your heart’s content.”
To her surprise, Kasi stubbornly shook her head. “London your home now, missy. I stay with you right here.”
Portia was about to protest when a movement outside caught her eye. Someone trudged around the corner of Ratcliffe’s house. The woman was wrapped in a dark hooded cloak, from which a few strands of brassy red hair escaped. She paused beneath the spreading branches of an oak tree and peered uncertainly toward the hired hack.
“There she is,” Portia said in excitement.
She opened the cab door and beckoned. Hannah Wilton glanced nervously over her shoulder, and then hastened toward the vehicle. She ducked inside, accepting the aid of Portia’s extended hand.
“Miss Crompton,” she said by way of greeting, pushing back the hood to reveal of spill of brilliant hair. The voluminous cloak concealed all evidence of her pregnancy. Even in drab clothing, however, she was a strikingly beautiful woman, with high cheekbones, luminous skin, and ruby-red lips. “Forgive me for being so late. I had to wait until Mr. Tudge went down into the wine cellar.”
“It’s quite all right. You were able to read my letter, then.”
Hannah gave a tight smile. “My father was a sergeant in the army. He and my mother never married, nor did he ever openly acknowledge me as his. However, he did arrange for my education.”
Portia had the uneasy suspicion that she’d offended the woman. Odd that, for she had never before considered that a courtesan might harbor a sense of pride. “Well, you’re here now and that’s all that matters.” Seeing Hannah flick a glance at her thickset companion, Portia added, “This is Kasi, my ayah—my former nursemaid. Let me say, she’s entirely trustworthy.”
Silently, Kasi flattened her palms together and bowed her head.
Hannah nodded in return, before shifting her attention back to Portia. “You said you wished to ask me a few questions. I haven’t much time, so I will get straight to the point. His lordship and I ended our liaison nearly a year ago. There is nothing intimate between us anymore.”
Portia fought against an awkward blush. Her etiquette lessons had not prepared her for how to respond to such a blunt comment. It was difficult enough to keep herself from imagining what the two of them had done together in bed. “Um … that isn’t what I wanted to ask you.”
“No?”
“I’m curious about how long you’ve known him. Were you … acquainted with him at the time of his father’s death three years ago?”
“Only briefly. Lord Ratcliffe used to visit occasionally at the house where I worked. Eventually he set me up in my own place, with servants and a carriage.”
Hannah exuded an air of sensuality, from the lush fullness of her lips to the knowing look in her eyes. In her company, Portia felt gauche and juvenile, uncomfortably aware of her own inexperience—and undeniably resentful of this woman who had satisfied his appetites. It was an irrational reaction, Portia knew, considering she had no intention of marrying the man.
She forced herself to focus on her purpose. “Do you know what happened to his father?”
Hannah shrugged. “ ’Twas an accident with a gun, some of the other gentlemen said. But his lordship never talked to me about anything so personal.”
“Have you ever heard him mention the Duke of Albright?”
Hannah’s eyes widened, deep brown and unfathomable. “Albright? Why do you ask?”
Intrigued, Portia leaned forward. “You do know the name, then.”
“Yes.” Hannah turned her gaze out the window of the cab, whether to peer into the past or to avoid Portia’s scrutiny, Portia couldn’t tell. “Those two despise one another. His lordship has quarreled with His Grace.”
“When? And what was the nature of their quarrel?”
“These are questions you should direct to Lord Ratcliffe himself.”
“I have—and he won’t tell me.”
“Then neither should I speak of it.” Her manner suddenly secretive, Hannah reached for the door handle. “I’ve gossiped more than I ought. It’s a poor way to repay his lordship after all the help he’s given me and my poor babe. Now, I mustn’t tarry any longer, else my absence will be questioned.”
Beset by frustration, Portia placed her hand over the woman’s. She wanted to know something, even if it was none of her business. “At least tell me this: why did Ratcliffe end his liaison with you?”
Hannah blinked. Her cheeks faintly flushed, she gave Portia a brittle smile. “He discovered me lying with another man. You see, it has never been my nature to wait alone for one man to come calling on me. Now, I really must get back to my work.”
Shocked, Portia watched as Hannah pushed open the door and
stepped out onto the foot pavement. Drawing the hood back up over her head, she hastened through the mist to the house. As she approached, a thick-chested man emerged onto the front porch.
It was the ogre. Orson Tudge.
Portia drew back out of sight behind the rain-streaked glass of the cab window. She watched as Hannah spoke a few words to him; then he took her by the arm and led her into the row house. Thankfully, he didn’t even glance at the hired hack parked down the street.
“We go now?” Kasi asked.
Portia gave a start of surprise. She had nearly forgotten the ayah’s presence beside her. “Yes, of course.”
Reaching up, she knocked on the roof to signal to the driver to take them home. As the cab moved slowly away from Ratcliffe’s house, she brooded about Hannah’s evasiveness. The woman had seemed open and willing to talk until Albright’s name had been mentioned. Was her abrupt change of heart due only to her loyalty to Ratcliffe?
Or was it something else?
Portia didn’t know. But if she had learned nothing else, it was that Hannah Wilton knew more than she’d let on about the hostility between Ratcliffe and the duke.
“Mm, how lovely these smell,” Blythe said, bending over a bouquet of pink roses in the drawing room.
It was early afternoon the next day, and the three Crompton sisters had gathered together to attend to their sewing. Miss Underhill believed all ladies should devote an hour a day to the art of needlework. Portia wasn’t required to attend their lessons any longer, given her busy social schedule. But on the rare occasions when she was free, as she was today, she enjoyed the company of her sisters as they embroidered handkerchiefs and undergarments.
Miss Underhill herself was absent. She had been called upstairs to help the housekeeper organize the linen closets. Blythe had immediately seized upon the opportunity to abandon her assigned work, leaving it in a tangle of threads and gauzy white fabric on her chair.
“You ought to sit down,” Lindsey chided. “You’ll be in trouble when Miss Underhill returns to check on your progress.”
