With a strangled cry, Portia dashed in between Albright and Ratcliffe.
“Stop this nonsense at once. I won’t allow it.”
Ratcliffe stood with his
dueling pistol pointed to the ground. His face grim, he said nothing, only
nodded to Orson Tudge. At once, the beefy man marched forward to pull her off
the field. She struggled to free herself, but it was like wrestling with a tree
trunk.
“Ratcliffe, listen to me! This isn’t necessary. I’ve ended my
betrothal to the duke. I intend to marry
you
.”
Ratcliffe had been
watching the duke. But now his gaze flashed to her and at last she glimpsed a
flare of
intense emotion in him. In the same instant,
she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Taking advantage of
Ratcliffe’s distraction, the duke was raising his arm to fire.
“No—” she
screamed in warning.
Too late.
Two shots shattered the air. The duke’s
went off wildly, and he stumbled backward, clutching his chest. Blood bloomed on
his pearl-gray coat as he fell awkwardly to the ground.
CHAPTER 25
A
short distance away, Lady Ratcliffe stood frozen with her arm extended, a small
pistol glinting in the early morning light. A sob escaped her, and she swayed on
her feet.
Ratcliffe and the other menrushed to the duke. The doctor knelt
beside him to assess the wound.
Gripped by horror, Portia sprang to Lady
Ratcliffe and slid an arm around her to keep her from falling. The older woman
dropped the spent pistol and clung to Portia, tremors rippling through her
slender form.
While murmuring soothing words to Lady Ratcliffe, Portia
watched in disbelief as the doctor shook his head and closed the duke’s eyes. He
was dead? Her mind resisted the truth of it.
In a daze, she drew Lady
Ratcliffe away. The woman was weeping uncontrollably, and it would only be worse
if she lingered near the body.
“Which is your carriage?” she asked.
For a
moment, Lady Ratcliffe stared dully at her, her green eyes misted with tears.
Then she pointed. “The last one.”
Portia took her there and helped her inside
while the coachman held the door. Unwilling to leave the distraught
woman alone, she seated herself beside Lady Ratcliffe and
offered her a folded handkerchief.
“Here, my lady. Dry your tears.”
“It’s
all my fault. What have I done? Oh, what have I done?”
“You did what was
necessary. The duke attempted an act of treachery. If not for you, he would have
shot your son.” The notion of what might have happened to Ratcliffe made Portia
shiver. How close he had come to being the one lying cold on the ground!
Lady
Ratcliffe wiped her eyes, then twisted the handkerchief between her fingers. As
if speaking to herself, she whispered, “I should have known better than to let
Albright draw me into that card game. If I hadn’t owed him so much money . .
.”
Gambling. She had been gambling with the duke.
Reminded of what Lady
Ratcliffe had said in an attempt to stop the duel, Portia was appalled. Why
would the viscountess be so foolish as to gamble with a man who hated her and
her family? “How much did you lose to Albright?”
Lady Ratcliffe blinked at
her. “Quite a lot. Colin was furious with me. You see, I—I’d sworn to stay away
from the card tables. But I only wanted a bit of fun . . . there’s nothing wrong
with that. It wasn’t fair of Colin to make me stay away from London for so
long.”
As the woman continued to justify her own wrongdoing, Portia’s mind
worked furiously. Lady Ratcliffe was a gambler. Had Ratcliffe needed the dowry
in order to pay off his mother’s illicit debts, rather than his own? Was it
possible that Ratcliffe himself was not the wastrel people believed him to be?
The revelation shook Portia to the core.
If that was the truth, why hadn’t he
told her so? Was it
some sort of misguided gallantry
on his part, a means of protecting his mother’s reputation?
Portia eyed the
dainty woman who sat crying piteously. What would become of Lady Ratcliffe now?
She had killed a peer of the realm. Surely there would be consequences . .
.
The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. The door opened and
Ratcliffe thrust his head inside. He glanced at his mother, then looked at
Portia. Their gazes locked for one long eloquent moment. A depth of feeling
seemed to leap across the small confines of the coach. Then the intensity in his
eyes faded to a bleak coldness.
Lady Ratcliffe groped for his hand. “Colin! I
didn’t mean to kill him. Whatever am I to do?”
“You’re to go straight back to
your town house. Perhaps Miss Crompton will be kind enough to escort
you.”
His formal use of her name caused a knell of alarm in Portia.
“Certainly. But where are you going?”
“I’ll be leaving England,” he stated
grimly. “Quite possibly for a long time.”
She gasped. “What?”
“I shot
Albright to death. That is the story the seconds have agreed to tell. Mother,
you were merely a bystander.”
Lady Ratcliffe looked stricken. “But . . . my
dear boy . . .”
“You did nothing, is that quite clear?” She nodded slowly,
releasing his hand and sitting back to stare down at her hands. He turned his
stern gaze on Portia. “And you are to corroborate the tale. No one else is to
know what really transpired here today.”
Portia was aghast. He intended to
shoulder the blame for his mother’s act. He would flee to the Continent to
avoid being prosecuted for murder. Her spine stiffened at
the injustice of it. “I most certainly will not repeat such a lie! No one will
blame Lady Ratcliffe for firing her pistol. She did it to save your
life!”
“That is not the way society will view matters. I won’t have her
involved in such a scandal.”
“I’ll explain it to everyone. I’ll vouch for
you—and for her!”
A wintry smile touched his lips. “No one will believe you.
You’ll be wasting your breath. I’m the one with the wild reputation,
remember?”
The cynical truth in his words gave her pause. The self-righteous
snobs of society had already tarred and feathered him. They viewed him as a
worthless profligate. Everyone knew about the feud between Ratcliffe and
Albright, so they would be quick to believe he had killed the duke in cold
blood. No matter what they heard to the contrary.
Agonized by the notion of
losing him, Portia lifted her hand to his face and stroked the vital warmth of
his skin. She made a swift, heartfelt decision. “Then I’ll go with you.”
A
muscle in his jaw clenched. He drew back sharply, out of her reach. “No. I’m
riding fast, and you’ll slow me down.”
His rejection hit her like a slap.
Without further ado, he slammed the door of the carriage and walked out of her
life.
Colin lay on his back in the narrow bed, his arms folded behind his
head. It made a better pillow than the flat one provided by the inn. Because a
storm had blown in, he had been forced to take a room in Dover. No ships would
risk crossing the channel until the morning at the very earliest.
Rain drummed against the window, and a damp chill seeped
through cracks in the walls. If the nasty weather kept up tomorrow, he would be
forced to go into hiding farther up the coast. He certainly couldn’t remain here
where he was a sitting duck for the Bow Street runners.
Cautiously, he
fingered the lump nestled in his hair. He had the very devil of a headache. The
cowardly blow had caught him off guard the other morning because he had been so
livid at seeing Albright with his hand on Portia.
Now Albright was dead. And
Colin was left with nothing more than a hollow sense of relief. The spider had
devoted his life to playing sly tricks on Colin’s family, but when he had
extended his web to ensnare Portia, that had been the final straw. If his mother
hadn’t pulled the trigger, then Colin would have done so—gladly. Either way, the
road to ruin led straight here to this rented room with its bare walls and dingy
furnishings.
The law wouldn’t look kindly on the murder of an exalted
duke.
Colin stared up at the bare plank ceiling. The crashing of the surf and
the howling of the wind should have lulled him to sleep. God knew, he was weary
enough. In preparing for the duel the previous night, he had slept only an hour
or two, and not much more the night before that—the night he had spent in
Portia’s arms.
Those golden hours had been burned into his memory. Nothing
could have prepared him for the bond of closeness between them. The depth of his
feelings for her had knocked him off kilter. Even now, when he knew it was
impossible, he kept entertaining feverish, foolish hopes of a
reunion.
I’ll go with you.
She had no idea of what she was
offering. All of her talk about traveling to India and becoming a governess
had been just so much nonsense. Poverty was out of the
realm of her experience. Having grown up in luxury, she would be miserable
living on the run with him, without being able to set down roots or even knowing
if they had the funds to purchase their next meal. And once the romantic haze
wore off, their closeness would deteriorate into wretched squabbling—as had
happened to his own parents.
Nevertheless, Colin found himself wishing he had
hauled her out of the carriage and taken her up onto his horse. It had nearly
killed him to close the door on her, his last memory the sight of her stricken
expression. The pull of her magnetism kept luring his thoughts back to London.
He fought the craving to abandon his flight and damn the consequences.
He
shifted restlessly on the bed. The last thing he needed was to be alone with
only his thoughts for company. He ought to go down to the tavern where at least
there would be a few other lost souls hunched over their pints of ale. But it
was too dangerous to show his face. Better he should stay out of sight so that
fewer people could identify his presence.
The gray light slowly faded to
black. Colin fell asleep. Sometime during the night, he was awakened by the
faint rattle of a key in the lock. Snapping to awareness, he sat up, the covers
falling away. He grabbed the primed pistol lying on the bedside table.
A
party of men burst into the room. One held an oil lamp high.
Squinting
against the brightness, Colin cursed.
One shot. Three men.
“Lay down your
weapon, my lord, lest things go worse for you,” stated the tall one with the
lantern. “As a representative of the Crown, I am hereby arresting you for the
murder of His Grace of Albright.”
CHAPTER 26
Four
days later, Portia marched up the stairs of an elegant town house in Berkeley
Square. Her gloved fingers grasping the brass knocker, she rapped hard. A moment
later, a white-wigged footman opened the door.
“I should like to speak to
Lady Ratcliffe,” she said.
“I’m afraid her ladyship is not receiving at the
moment. You may, however, leave your card.”
“No. Pray tell her that Miss
Crompton is here to see her.”
“That is quite impossible. You see, her
instructions were very specific—”
Portia pushed past the startled servant and
walked into the foyer. The high-ceilinged entry was decorated in delicate greens
and yellows, and a crystal chandelier glinted in the sunlight streaming through
the front windows. But the beauty of the place didn’t interest her. She headed
straight for the curving marble staircase.
The pompous footman leaped forward
to block her passage. “You mayn’t go up there, miss.”
“Then fetch your
mistress at once. And pray relay the message that if she refuses to see me, I
will come in search of her.”
The footman hastened up the stairs, casting
glances back over his shoulder as if she were a lunatic. He wouldn’t
be far from wrong. At the moment, Portia felt in the
grips of a mad fear that Ratcliffe would go to the gallows and she had no power
to stop it.
Her soles scuffed on the marble floor as she paced back and forth
in the foyer. She was lucky to have escaped her mother’s watchful eyes this
morning, for she had been kept a virtual prisoner in her house. After the duel,
with Ratcliffe gone, she’d had no other choice but to return home. She had been
lectured until her ears hurt. Her parents had been aghast over the death of the
duke, and Horrified she had been brazen enough to sneak out of the house and
witness it. They blamed her for Ratcliffe challenging the duke. If she hadn’t
run off with the wicked viscount, they’d said, Albright would still be
alive.
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.