Little did her jailers realize, however,
there was a crack in their defenses. The door to the balcony had not
been secured. If Ratcliffe had once managed to climb down
the rose trellis, then by heaven so could she.
But it was too early to make
her move yet. She didn’t dare risk being spotted by a servant or a neighbor or
one of her parents. As nerve-racking as it might be, Portia had decided to wait
until after midnight to make her escape.
Meanwhile, she had been roaming
aimlessly through her bedchamber. Now, she went to the bedside table, opened the
bottom drawer, and found the oval miniature that lay hidden beneath some books
and papers.
A lump in her throat, she gazed down at the image of Ratcliffe.
Her fingers moved lovingly over the tiny painting. He had been depicted at a
younger age, his face not yet marked by maturity. But that devilish glint in his
eyes brought a smile to her lips.
He had placed his image over Arun’s, and
she had left it there. It seemed the appropriate thing to do. After all, Arun
was her past, Ratcliffe would be her future.
Or at least she prayed
so.
Holding the miniature to her breast, Portia recalled the night when she
had come out of her dressing room to see Ratcliffe lounging in the chair by the
fire. How cocky he had been, how very handsome and charming. He had brought her
a stem of orchid blossoms. At the time, she hadn’t realized the unique quality
of his gift. Who would have thought he had collected the plant himself in the
jungles of India, brought it back to England, and coaxed it into bloom in his
own conservatory? Back then, there had been so many things about him that she
hadn’t known, so much about his capacity for compassion and tenderness.
Her
body still ached pleasantly from the residual effects of their night together.
Only twenty-four hours ago, she had been in his arms, rejoicing in the warmth of
his
embrace and the passion of his kisses. The
closeness they had shared had brought her a greater happiness than she had ever
dreamed possible. Then in one felling blow, it had ended.
Dear God, where was
Ratcliffe at this moment? Lying unconscious in his bed—or dead?
Shuddering,
Portia ordered herself not to assume the worst. He would recover, he
must
recover. And in the meantime, she intended to find her way back to his estate,
by mail coach or hired carriage.
She went into the dressing room and added
the miniature to the small bundle of her belongings. It contained a change of
clothing, the meager amount of money she could find, and several small pieces of
jewelry to use for barter. The rest of her things were just that—things. She
would suffer no qualms about leaving behind a wardrobe full of fancy ball gowns
and other costly personal items. None of it mattered to her anymore, not if it
came at the expense of love.
Her thoughts ranged back to Ratcliffe’s manor
house. What must the servants think of her abrupt disappearance? And what about
Bane? How frightened he must have been to see Ratcliffe injured. Hopefully,
Thurgood had taken the boy under his wing and soothed his distress.
The sound
of voices came from out in the corridor. Hurrying to the door, she bent down to
listen through the keyhole. That feminine tone had to belong to Blythe. She was
talking excitedly to James, although Portia couldn’t quite make out their
words.
Then all fell silent again. No key rattled in the lock. James must
have refused her entry.
Discouraged, Portia prowled back and forth in front
of her bed. How she would have loved to have seen her sister! Although Blythe
was a flighty fifteen-year-old, at least she would have offered a friendly
listening ear so
that Portia would not feel so all
alone. And Portia would have had the chance to hug her sister good-bye.
Her
heart ached. Mama and Papa surely would denounce her for fleeing to Ratcliffe.
It might be weeks, even months, before she could see her sisters again. She only
hoped that her parents would eventually realize the value of welcoming Ratcliffe
as her husband. Despite his shady reputation, he was a peer, after all. And
perhaps his mother would assist in smoothing things over with society . .
.
Another noise outside in the corridor caught her attention. She spun
around, staring. Was it Blythe again? Had she succeeded in persuading James,
after all?
The door opened, and to Portia’s surprise, Lindsey slipped into
the bedchamber. Her chestnut hair hung in a long braid down her back. Clad in a
dark blue night robe, her sister scanned the corridor one last time before
closing the door.
Portia hastened to give her a quick, heartfelt embrace.
“What are you doing here? James said he had orders not to let you or Blythe into
my room.”
Lindsey’s blue eyes danced with mischief. “I borrowed the master
key from Papa’s desk. As for James, well, Blythe asked him to hurry and catch a
mouse that’s running loose in her chamber. Which should take him quite a while
since the mouse doesn’t exist!”
Portia laughed. “How clever of her—of you
both.”
“Surely you didn’t think we’d forgotten you, I hope.” Grabbing
Portia’s hand, she led her to a chair by the fire, then perched on a nearby
footstool. “Now tell me all that’s happened. Lord Ratcliffe abducted you, didn’t
he? Mama was afraid you’d run away with him of your own accord, but I knew that
couldn’t possibly be true.”
“Yes, he did induce me to go with him.” Biting
her
lip, Portia glanced at the door. If James wasn’t
standing on guard, then maybe she should leave right now. Except for the fact
that her parents might catch her in the act . . .
She returned her attention
to her sister. “You mustn’t think ill of Ratcliffe. There’s so much you don’t
know about him. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, my feelings toward him
have utterly changed. I’m in love with him now and I’m determined to marry
him.”
Lindsey recoiled. “What do you mean? He’s a rake and a
gambler.”
“He’s so much more than just that. Oh, Linds, he’s truly a
wonderful man.” Quickly, she outlined his kindness toward his servants, his keen
interest in horticulture, and his refusal to seduce her—without mentioning that
she herself had taken the first step. Their night together was a precious secret
that belonged to no one else but her and Ratcliffe. “Then this morning . . . it
was so dreadful. I was out for a walk when Papa and the duke arrived to bring me
home. When Ratcliffe tried to stop them, the duke knocked him over the head with
his walking stick. Ratcliffe fell down . . . and . . . oh, dear God, I don’t
know what’s happened to him.”
The despair in her overflowed, and she buried
her face in her hands.
Lindsey rubbed a soothing hand over Portia’s back. “I
never did like that prissy old duke,” she declared. “When you seemed to favor
the match, well, I didn’t want to disparage him too much. But I always suspected
there was something sneaky about him. In truth, it’s no wonder . . .”
Portia
lifted her head. “Yes?”
“It’s no wonder you prefer Lord Ratcliffe. I’ll
concede, he
is
exceedingly handsome.”
From the way her sister avoided
her gaze, Portia had the feeling that wasn’t what she had meant to say. “Please,
at least give him a chance. Do try to see there’s more
to him than meets the eye.”
“I’m trying, truly I am.” Frowning, Lindsey
gripped Portia’s hands. “Are you certain, absolutely certain, that he’ll make
you a good husband?”
“Yes. And I’ve already thought things through. If I can
convince him to live on his estate and avoid the city, he won’t have much
opportunity to gamble.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.” Portia
drew a shaky breath. She didn’t want to admit aloud that Ratcliffe had yet to
declare his love for her. Did he want to wed her for herself or for her dowry?
She desperately needed to find out the truth. “I’m leaving tonight, Linds. I
have to make certain he’s well. Somehow I must find a way to return to his
estate in Kent.”
Lindsey sprang to her feet. Seizing the fireplace poker, she
stirred the burning coals in the hearth. Then she swung back to face Portia.
“There’s something you should know. It’s the real reason I came in here to see
you.”
An ominous quality to her tone lifted the fine hairs at the back of
Portia’s neck. “Tell me.”
“A little while ago, Mama and Papa were talking in
his study. They didn’t know I was out in the corridor, listening.” She sat down
again and took Portia’s hands in hers. “You’ll be happy to know your beloved
Ratcliffe is very much alive. He’s come back to London. But . . . he’s
challenged the Duke of Albright to a duel.”
Peering out the window of the
hackney cab, Portia watched as the pitch blackness of night lightened to indigo.
Veins of pink and orange slowly appeared in the deep blue depths of the sky. She
gripped her gloved fingers, her every nerve strung as taut as a bow.
The duel was to take place at dawn. Would she reach
Hampstead Heath in time to stop the madness?
Nothing thus far had gone her
way. First, she’d had the very devil of a time convincing Lindsey to return to
her chamber and leave matters to Portia. Then, upon tiptoeing out on her balcony
just after midnight, she had been dismayed to hear the low drone of her parents’
voices in the room below hers. She’d been forced to cool her heels and
wait.
It had been past two by the time they’d gone to bed and she could climb
down the rose trellis to freedom. Then she had walked—or rather, run—the long
blocks to Ratcliffe’s town house on the outskirts of Mayfair. She had banged on
the door for what seemed like hours before finally awakening Hannah Wilton. To
Portia’s consternation, Ratcliffe and Orson Tudge had already set out for
Hampstead Heath, a location north of the city favored by duelers since such
matches were prohibited.
It had taken another precious half an hour to locate
a cabbie who was willing to drive the long distance in the middle of the night.
Unluckily, though, the cab was drawn by the slowest nag in all of London. Which
was why Portia sat on the edge of her seat as the cramped houses of the city
gave way to open land and small hamlets nestled in misty valleys.
Ratcliffe
had survived the duke’s attack, praise God. She wanted urgently to see him, to
convince him not to risk his life. Closing her eyes, she whispered a frantic
prayer that she would not be too late.
At last the cab jerked to a stop on
the edge of a clearing. Scrambling out, she spied a copse of trees straight
ahead where several carriages were parked, one group on one side, another group
on the other. Portia tossed a few coins to the driver and bade him wait. Picking
up her skirts, she darted across the dewy grass to join the
small party of people. The stout man in the black top hat
was clearly a doctor, judging by the brown satchel he held.
The dim morning
light shone on the silvering hair of the duke. He was approached by a youngish
man who looked vaguely familiar, his broad form clad in a leaf-green coat and
buff breeches. She recognized him as the Earl of Turnbuckle, a friend of
Ratcliffe’s.
Turnbuckle held out an open case from which Albright removed a
long-barreled pistol. Then the earl returned to the other party, half hidden by
several carriages. As he did so, another man stepped into view and her heart
leaped in wild joy.
Ratcliffe.
Slowing to a walk, she drank in the
sight of him. In a dark blue coat, buckskins, and knee-high boots, he looked
ready for a morning ride in the park rather than a duel to the death. His
attention was on the case that Turnbuckle proffered to him. Her happiness turned
to revulsion as Ratcliffe took out the second pistol, pointed it away into the
trees, and sighted down the long barrel.
She closed the distance between
them—and received a jolt of surprise. Lady Ratcliffe came out from behind the
screen of carriages and touched his arm, saying something to him. He gave a
sharp, impatient shake of his head and strode away from her. His mother stood
there, a slim tragic figure wrapped in a sea-foam-green cloak, the hood down to
reveal her swanlike neck.
He headed toward a flat area of ground a short
distance away. So did Albright.
Portia hastened to the carriages. “Ratcliffe,
no!”
He spun around on his heel and stared at her. His steely glare pierced
her. He voiced no greeting, his face betraying no sign of pleaure at her
presence, no trace of the tender lover who had awakened all of her hopes and
dreams. If anything, he appeared irked by her sudden
appearance.
Under the close watch of their seconds—Turnbuckle for Ratcliffe,
and an unknown gentleman for the duke—the two duelers stood back to back and
then counted off ten paces apiece.
Lady Ratcliffe hastened to Portia. “Colin
mustn’t do this!” she said frantically. “He’ll die and it will be all my
fault!”
With that, she ran to the duke and seized hold of his arm. “Please
don’t punish my son. I’ll pay the money back to you somehow, just as I did last
time. I should never have gambled with you in the first place.”
Portia had
stepped forward, but the comment confused her for an instant. Lady Ratcliffe was
a gambler? She owed money to Albright?
The duke shook her off so hard she
stumbled backward. His second took hold of Lady Ratcliffe and guided her back to
Portia.
The men had achieved their ten paces. They turned. The Earl of
Turnbuckle stood nearby, ready to drop the white handkerchief as a signal to
fire.