“No. Go back to your chamber at once.”
“Wait,” Portia
said, countermanding his order. Her eyes narrowed, she marched toward the woman.
“You’re Hannah Wilton, aren’t you? I saw you walking with Lord Ratcliffe in Hyde
Park.”
“Yes, miss, I recognize you, too.” Dipping a curtsy, Hannah gazed
askance at Portia’s skimpy gown, as if trying to work out why she was in his
bedchamber. “You’re Miss Crompton. His lordship mentioned your name.”
Portia
arched a skeptical eyebrow at Colin. “Oh? And just what did he say—”
Another
arrival interrupted her, much to Colin’s relief. The last thing he wanted was
any conversation between his former mistress and the woman he intended to coax
into marriage.
Orson Tudge stomped into the bedchamber. “Wot’s goin’ on in
’ere?” he asked. “I ’eard a gun go off. Woke me up all the way down in the
basement.”
“It was nothing,” Colin snapped. “Return to bed, both of
you.”
But Tudge was staring from the dainty pistol lying on the floor to
Colin, who was still sitting down while holding the compress over his upper arm.
“So the little lady shot ye, eh?” He cast a rather admiring look at
Portia.
She gave a crisp nod. “I did, indeed. He tried to force me into his
bed.”
Colin bit back a retort that she had encouraged him
by melting in his arms. But no gentleman kissed and told,
and despite her low opinion of him, he possessed at least a modicum of
honor.
Much to his annoyance, Tudge chortled. “Lemme ’ave a look at the
damage.” He tramped closer, pushed Colin’s hand away, and pulled off the
handkerchief. “A right fine furrow. But t’ain’t near as bad as when Westbrook
shot you in that duel last year.”
“He’d never have succeeded had not my
pistol misfired,” Colin said, gritting his teeth as Tudge poked at the wound. He
waved the servant away. “That’s enough of your fussing.”
Hannah was hovering,
too. “You should pour some whiskey on it,” she advised. “My father was in the
army and that is what he would have done.”
“I believe I saw some right here,”
Portia said, hurrying to a cabinet and withdrawing a chipped crystal decanter.
She brought it over, along with a glass.
Hannah gave her a sidelong look of
startlement. She must be wondering how a refined young lady like Portia knew her
way around his bedchamber, Colin thought blackly. Hannah didn’t know about
Portia’s search for the miniature. He would have to come up with an explanation,
lest she think Portia had come to his bedchamber for a liaison gone
awry.
Good God, how had he landed himself in such a royal mess?
A searing
pain penetrated his arm. He sucked in a breath as Portia poured a trickle of
liquor over the injury while Hannah held a washbasin beneath his arm to catch
the drips.
“Cease and desist,” he growled, tired of being treated like a
complete sapskull who had no say in his own treatment. “It’s a waste of good
Irish whiskey. Pour me a glass instead.”
No one
listened to him.
“Have you any basilicum ointment, Mr. Tudge?” Portia asked.
“It will help prevent infection. And fetch some bandages, too, if you
will.”
As Tudge went to do her bidding, he was nearly bowled over by a tall,
pretty girl who came running into the bedchamber. A black cloak flapped like the
wings of a crow around her dark gown. Colin was taken aback to realize she was
Portia’s middle sister, Lindsey, whom he had met the previous night in Portia’s
bedchamber.
What the devil was she doing here?
Remembering his manners, he
attempted to stand up, saw spots swirl in his vision, and promptly sat back
down. It was aggravating since he’d hardly lost enough blood to fill a
thimble.
Well, perhaps several large thimbles.
“What’s happened?” she
cried out. “I heard a shot downstairs and came as quickly as I
could.”
“Downstairs?” Portia asked. “You were supposed to be outside.”
“I
was searching his lordship’s study. It didn’t make any sense for me to stand out
in the cold, doing nothing.”
“ ’Ow’d ye get in?” Tudge asked with a lowering
frown. “Place is locked up tight as a drum.”
“I used a hairpin to spring the
back latch,” Lindsey said. “You really ought to invest in iron bolts. Now, what
is going on here?” She pushed everyone aside and planted herself squarely in
front of Colin, her hands on her hips. “Did you harm my sister, Ratcliffe?
Because if you touched one hair on her head, I shall summon the Watch and have
you hauled off at once to Bow Street Station.”
“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-face 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 haute 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 cakes 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.”