“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.
He inclined his head in a curt nod. “On one condition. I will have
your solemn vow that you will behave yourself.”
“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 a 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.
“Mmm, 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.”
“But I loathe
sewing,” Blythe said, plucking out a rose and brushing the soft petals against
her cheek. “It seems so pointless when we have servants to do such tasks for us.
And who cares if we have embroidered chemises, anyway? It’s not as if I’ll be
undressing in front of a man anytime soon.”
At once, Portia saw herself
slithering out of her chemise while Ratcliffe watched from his bed. In the midst
of sewing a stitch, she accidentally pricked herself with the
needle.
Annoyed, she sucked on her injured forefinger until the sting
receded. “Honestly, Blythe, you shouldn’t even be thinking about such matters
yet.”
“Why not?
You
were carrying on with that Hindu prince when you
were my age.”
Portia shared a cautionary glance with Lindsey. Blythe didn’t
know about Portia’s secret plan to return to India.
“His name was Arun,”
Portia said. “As for ‘carrying on,’ I certainly wasn’t doing anything immoral
with him.”
“Then why did Mama and Papa move us to England in such a rush,
hmm?” In the pale green gown, Blythe looked older than her fifteen years—at
least until she gave a childish toss of her flowing auburn hair. “Not that I
mind, of course. I would far rather be in London than stuck in the backwaters of
India, far from any decent shops.”
“It’s having close neighbors that I like,”
Lindsey said. “There’s always someone to watch. Did you know that Mrs. Faraday
picks her teeth in the privacy of her garden? And Lord Gilhearst . . . I wonder
where he goes at precisely nine o’clock each morning?”
“To his club,
perhaps.” Portia welcomed the change in
topic from
Arun. “Or to Tattersall’s to look at the horses for sale. Or to the watchmaker
or the tailor or any one of a number of places that gentlemen frequent.”