Seducing the Heiress

by Olivia Drake

  There was no point in correcting them by saying Ratcliffe had abducted her, not vice versa. None of that mattered anymore. They would never understand that the duke was not a saint on a pedestal. Nor would they ever realize Ratcliffe was innocent of murder.

  Unless Portia was successful today.

  Word of his arrest had spread like wildfire through the ton. Her mother had announced it triumphantly, and in private her sisters had been eloquent with sympathy for Portia. Both Lindsey and Blythe had promised to keep Mama distracted this morning, long enough for Portia to perform this vital errand.

  The patter of footsteps drew her attention. Clad in a gown of diaphanous green gauze, Lady Ratcliffe glided down the curving staircase. Her mass of black hair had been drawn up to reveal her slender neck. On closer inspection, one could see dark circles under her eyes and her mouth had a pinched look.

  She regarded Portia with a trace of hauteur. Except for the handkerchief in her hand, there was little sign of the weeping, broken woman she had been after the duel. “Miss Crompton. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  “My lady.” Portia dipped the obligatory curtsy. “May we speak in private?”

  “May? I was under the impression you had commanded my presence.”

  “Forgive me. It’s a matter of great importance.”

  “Well, then. Follow me.” Despite her ascerbic tone, the viscountess led Portia down the corridor and into a morning room decorated in creams and yellows. The windows looked out on a rear garden where roses bloomed in profusion. The setting suited Lady Ratcliffe, so dainty and pretty and frivolous.

  How deep did her beauty go? Portia would soon find out.

  “Do sit down.” Her hostess waved a hand at a yellow-striped chaise. “Shall I ring for tea?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” Portia seated herself, then leaned forward, watching Lady Ratcliffe closely as she floated to a nearby chair. “I’ve come to talk to you about Ratcliffe … about Colin.”

  “He’s in prison, of course.” She waved the scrap of lace that masqueraded as a handkerchief. “Please be assured I have engaged a solicitor who is making every attempt to have the case dismissed.”

  “Have you told this man the truth about what really happened?”

  Lady Ratcliffe avoided Portia’s eyes. “There will be no need for that if it never comes to trial.”

  Portia bit back an indignant disagreement. But before launching into a tirade, she wanted to confirm something that had been nagging at her since the day of the duel. “Be that as it may, I came here to ask you a question. A very personal one. I am sorry in advance if it proves to be upsetting to you.”

  Lady Ratcliffe clutched the handkerchief to her bosom. “Upsetting? Nothing could cause me more distress than knowing that my only son is languishing behind bars.”

  Portia drew a steadying breath. “I need to know … was it you who killed your husband three years ago?”

  Lady Ratcliffe’s face turned paper white. Her bloodless lips parted. She sat very still, her wide green eyes conveying the terrible, guilty truth. “What? Why would you ask me such a thing?”

  A rush of cold anger enveloped Portia. So her suspicions had been correct. Just as with the death of Albright, and with the gambling, Ratcliffe had been protecting his mother.

  She curbed her emotions, keeping her voice soft but firm. “You are responsible. Pray don’t deny it, my lady.”

  That patrician chin wobbled. “I can’t imagine why you’re making these awful accusations.”

  “Nor can I understand why you would allow your son to shoulder the blame for your own misdeed. A gun went off. But it wasn’t Colin holding it. It was you.”

  Lady Ratcliffe seemed to shrink, her shoulders lowering, her chin dipping down like a child caught in a naughty act. “All right, then. But it was an accident. I swear it.”

  Portia felt no triumph at the admission. She only wanted to understand matters for Ratcliffe’s sake. “Tell me what happened.”

  For a long moment, Lady Ratcliffe was silent, her head bowed. “I quarreled with my husband,” she whispered. “Roger was angry because I’d lost a trifling sum at the card tables. It had happened a few times before, but this time he wouldn’t cease scolding me. He called me … a millstone around his neck.” A sob caught in her throat, and her fingernails dug into the arm of the chair, shredding the delicate silk. “Please understand my despair, Miss Crompton! I found one of my son’s pistols … and held it to my bosom. I asked Roger if he would be happier if I ended my life. I swear to you, I didn’t know the pistol was loaded. I didn’t. When Roger tried to wrest it away from me, it went off … it was nothing but a horrid accident …”

  Her voice faltered to a stop. She lapsed into wretched weeping, her beautiful face gone ugly with tears.

  Portia wanted to despise her, but could summon only pity. Lady Ratcliffe was a weak woman. She relied on the men in her life to conceal her errors of judgment. She had never been held accountable for her own actions.

  Portia intended to put an end to all that.

  Colin had been given one of the better cells at Newgate Prison. Which simply meant that rather than share his stone-walled cubicle with several other inmates, he had rats for company instead. Over the past few days, he had trained one rodent to beg like a dog for the bits of dry bread left over from his meager breakfast.

  At the moment, Colin was sitting on his pallet on the floor and holding out a crumb between his thumb and forefinger. The skinny gray creature perched on its hind feet, its whiskers and black snout quivering. Colin tossed the tidbit up in the air. The rat pounced on it, nibbled daintily, then ventured back for more.

  The tramp of footsteps approached from far down the corridor, but Colin took little notice. The prison was seldom quiet. Guards came and went. Prisoners howled and banged their tin cups on the bars. Men snored loudly or laughed raucously at all hours of the night. At least the noise drowned out the maddening drip-drip of water somewhere nearby, the source of which he had been unable to discern.

  His life had dwindled to this cramped stone cell. The damp chill had taken up residence in his bones, despite the blankets and a few other amenities his mother had provided through her solicitor. She herself had not been here to visit because Colin had forbidden it. Nothing would be more incongruous than to see his elegant mother in this stinking hellhole.

  Taking the blame for Albright’s death had been the only course of action open to him. His mother wouldn’t survive one night in prison. Besides, he was every bit as guilty as she. He would have pulled the trigger himself had she not done so first.

  The only regret he had suffered—still suffered—was losing Portia.

  He pulverized the last morsel of bread. The rat scurried here and there, cleaning the bits from the slimy stone floor.

  Colin clenched his jaw, struggling to keep the memories at bay. But a succession of vivid impressions branded him. The silken softness of her hair. Her joyous cries of ecstasy. The tender touch of her fingers on his face.

  I’ll go with you.

  He buried his head in his hands. Thank God he’d had the stamina to refuse her imprudent offer. Had she been tucked in bed with him when the runners had come, they might have arrested her as an accomplice. The scandal would have kept her from ever showing her face in public again.

  If his abduction of her hadn’t already accomplished her ruin. And if she hadn’t conceived on their night together.

  In such a dire instance, what would happen to her and their child? The question made him half mad with anxiety. He should never have given in to his base urges. He should have insisted on marriage first, even if it made him appear as prim and prissy as a maiden aunt. No one but he was responsible for her downfall.

  The jingle of keys penetrated his self-mortifying stupor. The tramp of footsteps had stopped in front of his cell.

  Colin jerked up his head. A husky guard with two missing front teeth was opening the iron-barred door. The pet rat made a dash for
a tiny hole in the corner.

  The guard stepped aside to let in a small, officious man in a sleek black coat with matching pantaloons. He was carrying a small satchel at his side. His nose twitched like the rat’s, and his dark eyes betrayed distaste at the surroundings, as if he were afraid he might catch a disease by touching anything.

  It was the solicitor who had been hired to handle the murder case. Thus far, the fellow had served as little more than a go-between for Colin and his mother. But at least the visit provided a break from his morbid thoughts.

  He rose, his legs stiff. “Entwhistle.”

  “My lord.” Entwhistle made a deep, formal bow. As he straightened, his narrow face broke into an unexpected grin. “I bring the happiest of tidings. You, my lord, are a free man!”

  “What?”

  “Indeed so. You have been cleared of all charges. I have the papers signed and sealed right here.” He patted his black satchel. “It was handled quite properly by the magistrate.”

  Disbelieving, Colin stared. “How can the case be dropped? I shot the Duke of Albright in cold blood. Unless he’s risen from the grave to dance in the streets.”

  Entwhistle laughed as if it were a brilliant jest. Then he coughed and cleared his throat. “The fact of the matter is, new evidence has come to light that proves irrefutably that you are not the guilty party. Indeed, I must admire you for your gentlemanly conduct in protecting Lady Ratcliffe from admitting her guilt.”

  Colin seized hold of the man’s lapels. “What the hell? Are you saying my mother has been arrested for the murder?”

  The attorney’s eyes bugged out. “Oh, nay, my lord! She is perfectly safe and sound at her home. I saw her there myself only a few hours ago.”

  “I don’t understand, then. Who have the authorities arrested?”

  “Why, no one. The magistrate was persuaded that it was an unfortunate accident. Both seconds have corroborated the testimony, along with the doctor who attended the duke. So you see, all’s well that ends well.”

  In shock, Colin released the man and stepped back. By damn, he really was free. He would never have expected Albright’s second to have revealed the duke’s dishonor. Yet he couldn’t feel any triumph, not when society must be blaming his mother for Albright’s death.

  Instead he felt mired in guilt. God help him, he had broken the promise he had made to his father as he lay dying. Colin had vowed to watch over his mother, to shield and protect her with his own life.

  And now he had failed.

  One fact was certain. His mother would never have willingly volunteered the truth about her involvement in Albright’s death. She was too delicate and ladylike to face the risk of being thrown into prison. But Colin could certainly guess the identity of the instigator.

  CHAPTER 27

  “LORD RATCLIFFE, INNOCENT OF murder?” Mrs. Beardsley pronounced. “Upon my word, it is too much to believe.”

  “Surely the courts have made a mistake,” her daughter Frances said hopefully, blinking her china-blue eyes.

  While the gossip swirled around her, Portia serenely sipped her tea. It took great concentration to keep from showing her elation over Ratcliffe’s release. The news had broken only a short time ago, and the grand hens of society had come flocking to the Cromptons’ drawing room—probably because they hoped to spark a reaction from the debutante who had been involved with Ratcliffe.

  “More tea?” Mrs. Crompton asked with grim-faced fortitude, offering the silver pot.

  With a gnarled hand, the Duchess of Milbourne waved her away. “There has been no mistake in the matter,” she told the disappointed Beardsleys. “I heard the truth from Lillian herself. Apparently, her son shouldered the guilt in order to protect her good name.”

  “Will she go to the gallows?” white-haired Lady Grantham asked with a shudder. “Oh, my stars, I cannot imagine it!”

  “The magistrate has verified the word of the seconds,” the duchess replied. “The incident was deemed an act of treachery on the duke’s part, so there will be no need for a trial. At present, Lillian is packing to return to the country.” The elderly woman stared straight at Portia. “It seems Ratcliffe has ordered her to take up residence in the dower house on his estate.”

  Portia pretended interest in the lukewarm dregs of her cup. Her mind worked feverishly. Ratcliffe was moving his mother out of the main house? What did it mean? That he didn’t want her interfering when he brought home a wife?

  She mustn’t let herself hope. So much had happened since the duel. To her, the night they’d shared had bound them together forever. However, it might have meant very little to Ratcliffe. After all, he had engaged in many such trysts. She may already have faded in his mind, especially if he believed her father viewed him as too scandal-ridden to deserve her dowry.

  Did he love her—or not?

  Mrs. Beardsley tut-tutted. “Poor Lady Ratcliffe, to be banished to the country.”

  Her daughter nodded vigorously, making her blond curls bounce. “How cruel of his lordship to send her away from all the shopping in the city. And to deny her the company of the ton, as well!”

  “Nonsense,” the duchess said crisply, motioning imperiously for Mrs. Crompton to hand her a slice of poppy seed cake. “No matter what the circumstances, Lillian is responsible for Albright’s death. I, for one, am pleased she has had the good sense to retire from society once and for all.”

  Her firm tone brooked no disagreement, and Lady Grantham and Mrs. Crompton quickly murmured their support. Portia bit back a smile to see the consternation on the faces of their other two guests. Stout Mrs. Beardsley looked as if she’d bitten into a lemon, while her pink-gowned daughter Frances thrust out her lower lip in a petulant pout.

  Mrs. Beardsley harrumphed. “Well, this incident certainly does not absolve Lord Ratcliffe of his many sins. He remains a menace to the young ladies of society.”

  “I quite agree,” said Frances, with a sly glance at Portia. “What do you think, Miss Crompton? You know him better than the rest of us.”

  Portia let her teacup clatter down on the nearest table. She had heard quite enough of their small-minded censure. Despite her mother’s warnings to stay silent, it was time to state her opinion in no uncertain terms.

  She looked at each woman in turn. “Ratcliffe deserves to be commended, rather than criticized. For too long, he’s been denigrated by those of you who know nothing of his admirable character. After having met every bachelor in the ton, I can say without doubt he is the finest gentleman of my acquaintance.”

  Her mother gasped. Lady Grantham’s jaw dropped. The Beardsleys stared agog.

  The Duchess of Milbourne thumped her cane on the fine carpet. “Well said, my girl! I myself must confess to a new admiration for the fellow. It is the mark of a true gentleman to protect his family from harm. Why, he harkens back to my day, when men were not so slavishly devoted to such silly matters as tying the perfect cravat!”

  “Ahem.”

  The sound of a clearing throat drew Portia’s attention to the doorway of the drawing room. Her father stood there. But that wasn’t why her heart took flight. Beside him, dressed to perfection in a topaz-brown coat and buckskin breeches, was Ratcliffe.

  Colin followed Portia down the corridor. Gazing at the sway of her hips, he was hard-pressed to remember the source of his grievance with her. The gauzy blue gown skimmed the curves of her perfect, womanly form. By damn, he wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her upstairs to the nearest bedchamber. Maybe in lovemaking they could forget all their differences. And he could do his best to ensure that she devoted herself to him for the rest of their lives.

  Not, of course, that he would dare any such brazen act right here under the noses of her parents. He needed their approval, which was why he had sought out her father rather than go straight to Portia. But that didn’t stop Colin from fantasizing.

  He burned to know why she had offered to go with him on his flight to the Continent. Was it lust—or love?


  He had caught only a few words spoken by that old crone Duchess Milbourne. Something about men nowadays being slavishly devoted to tying the perfect cravat. Now, he wished he’d had the opportunity to eavesdrop outside the doorway, because those biddies had to have come here to gossip about his discharge from prison. He desperately wanted to know what—if anything—Portia had said in response to them. Had she informed them of her own role in securing his release?

  The reminder of her interference irked him.

  At the end of the ornate passageway, they entered a cozy sitting room. Portia waved him past her and closed the door. When she turned to face him, her gaze was guarded. Rather than throw herself into his arms, she primly clasped her hands at her waist.

  God help him, he could drown in those blue eyes of hers.

  He expected her to ask why he’d been speaking to her father. Instead, she merely said, “You’re looking well. I must say, I’m happy your name has been cleared at last.”

  Her polite manner made him want to shake her. No, he wanted to haul her close and kiss her senseless. But first he had to set her straight. “My name was cleared at the expense of my mother. You deliberately interfered against my express wishes.”

  “Your wishes allowed Lady Ratcliffe to escape all responsibility for her actions. It was completely unfair to you—to both of you.”

  Colin negated the judgment with a slash of his hand. “That’s for me to decide, not you or anyone else. And because of you, she might have been thrown into prison.”

  Portia set her hands on her hips. “Well, she wasn’t. Once I persuaded her to do right by you, we went to speak to each of the seconds and the doctor, too. It was a simple matter to convince them all to tell the truth to the authorities.”