PORTIA SELDOM SAW her sisters speechless. But she did now.
Blythe had entered first, of course. As the youngest, she considered it her right to do as she pleased, even if it meant invading a bedroom without an invitation. Spying the man standing beside Portia, she stopped short and stared.
Lindsey, the middle sister and the tallest of the three, barreled straight into Blythe. For once they didn’t squabble over who had caused the collision. They were too busy ogling Lord Ratcliffe.
Portia longed to sink into the floor. She bitterly regretted inducing him to unlock the door. Had he not done so, she would have had the chance to hide him from sight. How in the world was she to explain his presence here?
Blythe recovered first. Short and curvaceous, she patted her coppery hair, which was tied up in rags to create the wavy curls that came naturally to her sisters. Of the three, she looked the most like their mother. “I couldn’t sleep. Linds and I were going down to the drawing room to fetch a deck of cards when we heard voices.”
“More specifically, a man’s voice,” Lindsey corrected. Always a stickler for rules, she frowned accusingly at Portia while eyeing her sari. “Why are you dressed like that? And who is he?”
Portia was keenly aware of how damning the scene must look. She decided it was best to ignore the question about her garb. “This is Viscount Ratcliffe. Lord Ratcliffe, my sisters, Blythe and Lindsey.”
As if they were in a ballroom, Lord Ratcliffe bowed deeply from the waist. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I can see that beauty is a family trait.”
Blythe giggled like a seasoned coquette instead of the barely fifteen-year-old schoolgirl she was. “How generous of you to say so, my lord, since we’re hardly dressed for company.”
“Ratcliffe?” Lindsey muttered, pulling the edges of her nightgown close around her neck. “I should like to know why he’s in your bedchamber.”
“He came to … to give me something.” Portia cast about for an excuse, then snatched up the stalk of orchids from the table. “This.”
Blythe clasped her hands to the bosom of her nightdress. “Oh, famous. They’re beautiful. Exactly like the ones Patel used to fetch from the jungle.”
Lindsey looked unimpressed. “They should have been delivered at a more suitable time and place.”
“I’ve already told Lord Ratcliffe exactly that,” Portia said. “He oughtn’t to have come here. He needs to leave at once.”
“As you wish,” he said in a suspiciously meek tone. “Oh, but I seem to have dropped my pocket watch.”
He casually sauntered back to the fireplace to pick up the gold-framed miniature of Arun, half-hidden by the arm of the chair. Her sisters fell for the ruse, much to Portia’s relief. Although they knew about Arun, they—like her parents—believed she had put the youthful indiscretion behind her. They had no inkling of her plan to return to India and become his bride.
In the next breath, Portia realized that Ratcliffe was heading toward the balcony door with the miniature hidden in the palm of his hand.
Alarmed, she went flying after him. “I’ll see him out,” she told her sisters over her shoulder.
She caught up to him as he opened the door. In her haste, she brushed against him. The feel of his hard-muscled form caused a tingling rush of awareness in her. Portia rubbed her arms, wishing she could blame the irksome reaction on the chilly air.
Glancing at her sisters to make sure they couldn’t overhear, she whispered, “The miniature. I want it back.”
A calculating smile touched his lips. “I’m sure you do. However, I don’t stand a chance of winning your heart if you’re mooning over another man.”
“You don’t stand a chance regardless.” Though he towered over her, she stood her ground, thrusting out her hand. “Now give it to me at once.”
“You look as if you’d like to claw my eyes out. Pray remember it wouldn’t be wise to create a scene in front of your sisters.”
He was right. She didn’t want Lindsey and Blythe to witness her wrestling him for the miniature. Besides, if they saw the painting, they would discover that Arun remained a shining part of her future.
Ratcliffe lifted her hand to his mouth, and the warm brush of his lips tickled her skin. It set off a scandalous heat in the depths of her body. “Forget about him,” he murmured, his voice deep, soft, velvety. “Dream of me tonight.”
Shaken by his audacity, Portia yanked her hand free and stepped back in an instinctive effort to put distance between them. As she did so, he tucked the miniature in an inner pocket of his coat, then strode out onto the night-darkened balcony. He grasped hold of the stone railing, vaulted over the side, and vanished from sight.
She flew to the balcony. “Wait,” she cried out.
But he was already a dark shadow at the bottom of the rose trellis. He turned, gave her a jaunty wave, then went loping off into the gloom of the garden, where the trees soon hid him from sight.
Her tongue brimmed with unladylike curses. Blast him, blast him to hell. Dream of him? She would sooner dream of the devil himself!
A panicky thought displaced her fury. He alone knew her secret, he alone had the proof of her devotion to Arun. If Ratcliffe tried to blackmail her, threatened to tell her parents …
She realized that Blythe stood beside her, peering out into the darkness. “Is that how Lord Ratcliffe reached your bedchamber, by climbing up the trellis?” she asked in awe. “How very romantic! Why, it’s like something out of a storybook.”
“It’s appalling, that’s what,” Lindsey said, marching over to join them. She pulled them both back inside, then shut the balcony door with a decisive bang. “Had we not arrived when we did, he might have murdered our sister in her bed.”
“Oh, bah,” Blythe said with a wave of her hand. “You always think the worst of people.”
“I have the good sense to be cautious. And I’ve heard talk about Lord Ratcliffe from the servants, that he shot his own father in cold blood.” Lindsey gripped Portia’s arm and gazed searchingly at her. “Do you suppose he had a pistol just now?”
“No! Of course not.” Portia didn’t want to give her sister any more fodder for suspicion. “He … he wishes only to court me. For my dowry, of course.”
“How can you be certain? I shall report the matter to Papa the instant he arrives home.”
“And then Papa will make Lord Ratcliffe wed you,” Blythe added. Clasping her hands to her bosom, she sighed. “He’s so handsome and dashing, only think how the other ladies will envy you!”
Portia rolled her eyes, then turned to Lindsey. “Do you see what will happen if you tell? I’ll be forced into marriage. And Ratcliffe is a scoundrel—he would make a deplorable husband. So you must both promise me you’ll keep silent.”
Her sisters glanced at each other, Lindsey clearly troubled and Blythe just as clearly disappointed. Much to Portia’s relief, however, they both nodded. At least she knew she could trust them.
Needing time to think, she shooed them out of the bedchamber. Then she paced to the fireplace and used the poker to brutally stir the coals, causing the flames to hiss and dance. The action failed to calm her volatile mood.
Now that Ratcliffe had stolen the miniature from right under her nose, he had her in his power. He could threaten to go to her father with the evidence of her duplicity. He could claim the picture had fallen out of her reticule, that he had coaxed her into telling him the truth, that she planned to return to India at the end of the season. Her parents would be furious, heartbroken, and, worst of all, disappointed in her. They would keep her under lock and key until she married an English lord according to their wishes.
The alternative would be to submit to Ratcliffe’s blackmail and accept him as her husband. Either way, she would lose Arun forever.
Despair washed over her. What was she to do now? In one fell swoop, Ratcliffe had ruined everything. Unless …
Her mind working feverishly, Portia set down the poker and straightened her shoulders. Unless she could figure out a way to steal the miniature back from him.
* * *
By breakfast the next day, Portia had settled on a plan. It was risky, it was dangerous, but it just might work. The only trouble was, the scheme would be difficult to manage without help—and she needed more than Kasi’s assistance this time. So after much agonized reflection, Portia had decided to take Lindsey into her confidence.
Her sister was shocked to learn that Portia intended to leave England and marry Arun. She had argued vehemently against it. But regardless of her disapproval, she did agree that Portia needed to retrieve the miniature and had offered several sound suggestions on how to do so.
Now, they sat at the breakfast table with their parents. Always tardy, Blythe had not yet come downstairs to join them. At one end of the white-draped table, Edith Crompton spread orange marmalade on her toast, while at the other end, George Crompton sat reading the newspaper as a footman discreetly removed the china dish containing the remains of his kippers and eggs.
The scenario was so familiar that a lump formed in Portia’s throat. For as far back as she could remember, the family had always eaten breakfast together. Of course in India, they would have been feasting on mangos and bananas with naan, and the air would have been scorching hot, with a punka turning overhead, the fan operated by a native boy sitting on the other side of the wall.
Yet she couldn’t deny the present moment had a certain heartfelt coziness, too, with a fire blazing in the hearth and the watery English sunlight trickling past the tall blue draperies.
You’re giving up everything, your life, your country, your family. Once you act on this foolishness, there’ll be no turning back.
Using her fork, Portia stabbed a strawberry on her plate. Ratcliffe had had no right to express any opinions on her actions. She knew her own mind, and if she wished to wed a chimney sweep and live in a hovel, it was no concern of his. He was a scoundrel who only wanted her dowry—
“Darling, did you hear me?”
Portia started, realizing her mother was staring at her. “I’m sorry, I must have been woolgathering.”
“I was just saying that seventeen gentlemen asked after you yesterday evening. Seventeen!” A satisfied smile on her face, Mrs. Crompton addressed her husband. “Mr. Crompton, didn’t I tell you Portia would be an unqualified success?”
Stout and balding, George Crompton looked every inch the prosperous businessman in his dark coat and white cravat. A pair of reading glasses was perched on the end of his nose. He groped for his coffee cup without looking up from his newspaper. “I’m sure you’re right, my dear.”
“Of course I’m right. And Portia, you’ve had nearly twenty bouquets delivered already this morning. Everyone was terribly concerned when I told them you were indisposed.”
“Thank you, Mama. My cold is ever so much better today.”
Portia had made a miraculous recovery because she needed to attend Lord Turnbuckle’s ball tonight. At Lindsey’s suggestion, she had already sent Kasi to Ratcliffe’s town house with a note inviting him to a rendezvous in Turnbuckle’s garden. Ratcliffe would take the bait, she was sure of it. The knave would believe he had achieved his purpose, to make her cowed by his treachery and ready to do his bidding.
Little did he know how sorely he’d underestimated her.
“Are you quite certain you’re well?” Her mother peered closely at Portia. “You’re looking a bit flushed.”
“It’s the flush of good health,” Lindsey said, giving Portia a meaningful glance. “She’s adjusting very nicely to the climate of England. After all, this is where she belongs.”
Portia ignored the jab. “I assure you, Mama, I feel perfectly fine.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” Mrs. Crompton said, taking another slice of toast from the platter offered by a white-wigged footman. “I shouldn’t like for you to cancel your drive with Albright this afternoon.”
“My drive? Oh … I’d nearly forgotten.” Dismayed, Portia recalled that several days ago—a lifetime ago—she had agreed to a carriage ride with the Duke of Albright. So much for her hope to spend the afternoon finalizing every aspect of the plan with her sister.
Mrs. Crompton slathered butter on her toast. “How could you possibly forget? The duke is more attentive than any of your other suitors. And certainly the richest and most important as well.”
Portia blinked. “The duke isn’t my suitor. He’s merely a friend, a protector.”
“Is that what you think?” Mrs. Crompton laughed indulgently. “Why, a man of his stature would never bother himself with a young lady unless he had an eye on matrimony. Isn’t that so, Mr. Crompton?”
George Crompton tore his gaze from the newspaper long enough to give Portia a fond smile. “Quite. I understand the fellow is nearly as wealthy as the Regent. It would please me greatly to see you betrothed to the duke, rather than one of those other greedy pups.”
Portia couldn’t speak. Her gaze flew from him to her mother, who was beaming proudly. Was it true? Had she misread the duke’s kindness toward her? Dear God, she must have.
She wanted to protest that the duke was more than twice her age, that she viewed him as a paternal figure, not a potential husband. But her parents looked so delighted that the words lodged in her throat.
Everyone was gazing at her expectantly. “I … I don’t know what to say,” she hedged.
“You need only smile and look pretty,” her mother advised. “If you’ll make every effort to be agreeable, darling, you’ll be a duchess by autumn.”
Portia regretted the coddled eggs that lay sourly in her stomach. She glanced to her sister for support, but Lindsey merely gave her a wry look of concern. Clearly, she, too, considered the duke a more suitable husband than the son of a maharajah. Portia couldn’t be angry at her sister. After all, Lindsey only wanted her to remain in England with the family.
But Portia had never felt more alone, and she suddenly longed for reassurance that she was doing the right thing. If only she had received a letter from Arun …
A footman entered the breakfast room and approached Portia’s father. “A visitor to see you, sir.”
George Crompton rattled the newspaper impatiently. “I don’t take callers during breakfast.”
“I’m sorry, but he asked specifically for you to be notified of his presence at once.”
Ratcliffe. It has to be Ratcliffe.
Alarm spurred Portia to sit up straight. Gripping the arms of her chair, she watched as her father picked up a small pasteboard card from the silver salver held by the footman. Frantic thoughts tumbled through her mind. Ratcliffe had lost no time in approaching her father to ask for her hand in marriage. Papa would refuse on her behalf, of course; he and Mama wanted her to wed the Duke of Albright. Then, out of spite, Ratcliffe would reveal her secret plan to elope with Arun.
Oh, why hadn’t the viscount come to her first? She had expected him to threaten exposure in exchange for her hand in marriage. She had anticipated having the chance to outwit him …
Her father rose. “I’ll see him in my study.”
“No.”
Without conscious decision, she was pushing back her chair, shooting to her feet, hurrying to her father’s side. The footman jumped back to give her space. Seeing everyone looking strangely at her, she gathered her composure. “You really should finish your coffee, Papa. Whoever it is can wait.”
And then Portia could go and eject Ratcliffe from the house.
Her father frowned distractedly. He was looking at her mother, as if trying to convey a covert message—perhaps that their daughter had suddenly gone mad. “It’s quite all right,” he told Portia, patting her on the arm. “I’m through here.”
“But you can’t go yet,” she blurted out. “Because …” Her mind went blank of excuses.
“Good morning, everyone.” Blythe’s cheerful voice came from the doorway. “I hope you don’t mind that I invited someone for breakfast. He was waiting in the foyer for you, Papa.”
Portia spun around to see her sister glide into the room. Blythe was dressed in pale green, her hair a mass of perfect auburn ringlets. Her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief, causing Portia’s heart to jump into her throat. Oh, she was going to murder her sister. It would be just like her to bring the viscount here …
But the elderly man who shuffled into the doorway was no one familiar.
Thin and stooped, he wore an ill-fitting brown coat and old-fashioned knee breeches with buckled shoes. His bushy brows matched the untidy mass of white hair on his head. He turned a battered top hat in his gnarled hands. With his deferential manner, he brought to mind a tutor or perhaps a scholar.
The breath left Portia in a long whoosh. How foolish of her. Of course Ratcliffe wouldn’t have played his hand so swiftly. He was far more likely to toy with her as a cat teases a mouse.
Then she noticed her mother staring at the visitor with an oddly intense look. The impression vanished in an instant as Mrs. Crompton addressed her youngest daughter, who stood at the buffet table, loading a plate with eggs and sausages. “Blythe, dear,” she said in a firm tone.
“Yes, Mama?”
“I’ll see you in my boudoir at once.”
“But I’m hungry—”
“Immediately.”
Pouting, Blythe defiantly took her plate and sashayed out of the breakfast room. Portia hadn’t the least sympathy that Blythe would face a scolding for her impetuous invitation. Not after the scare she had given to Portia.
Rising, Edith Crompton rounded the table and glided toward the stranger. “Sir, you must be eager to conduct your business with my husband. You may talk in the study.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He slid a longing glance at the array of delicacies on the buffet, then followed George Crompton out of the breakfast room. Mrs. Crompton departed right after them, followed by Lindsey.
Left alone at the table, Portia mulled over her mother’s rudeness. She couldn’t imagine what business he had with Papa, but that was no reason to refuse the man sustenance. Before they had moved to London, all English guests, no matter how humble, had been invited to dine with the family. That had been the informal way of life she had known growing up near Bombay.
But here, the aristocracy had strict rules about mingling with the lower classes. They kept themselves sequestered as if they were more godlike than human. It made her all the more determined to return to the freedom of India.
Edith stood at the window of her boudoir, peering through the lace undercurtain that kept the room dim and private. The streets around the square teemed with carriages and horsemen, while ladies and gentlemen strolled the tidy green jewel of the park. It was a sight she had craved to see during all those wretched years in India. She had dreamed of residing in a stately home like this one, of acquiring the vast wealth that would enable her to shed her common roots at last and take a place in the elite society that ruled England.
But today, ambition foundered beneath a stormy sea of anxiety.
She had ordered Blythe here for a scolding. That task had been completed swiftly; then she had sent her youngest daughter away, for once without a care for her saucy behavior. The poor girl didn’t know the reprimand had been only a pretext. Edith’s true reason for coming up here was to keep watch at the window.
She was just beginning to fidget when a movement far below caught her attention. Their visitor was trudging down the front steps. He hadn’t stayed more than fifteen minutes.
She gripped the curtain, heedless of the fragile lace shredding under the pressure of her fingernails. How had Percy Thornton learned of their arrival in England?
She had recognized him at once. His hair had gone completely white and his face now had a webwork of wrinkles, but he was the same man who had once made her feel stupid and slow. He had been the estate manager then, responsible for keeping the books and paying the wages. She had resented his patronizing manner, the way he looked down on those he considered less intelligent than himself.
She was the clever one now. As much as she would have liked to flaunt that fact in his face, she hoped and prayed he hadn’t recognized her.
Feverishly, she studied Thornton’s progress down the foot pavement. He didn’t look like a successful black-mailer; there was no spring in his step or gloating grin on his face. Nevertheless, she watched until he vanished around a corner. Then she hurried to the door, intending to confront her husband.
George was already marching down the corridor toward her. The grimness on his weathered face could have been worry or just his usual grumpiness, she couldn’t tell.
“I knew you’d want a full report,” he said gruffly. “So I came straight up here.”
Edith glanced up and down the passageway to make sure no maids were lurking nearby, listening as servants often did. Taking him by the sleeve, she yanked him into the boudoir. She closed the door and leaned her back against it, grasping the handle to keep her hands from shaking. “Hush, someone will hear you.”
“There’s no one nearby.”
“Nevertheless, we must be extremely careful. So tell me, why on earth did Percy Thornton come here?”
George shrugged. “To catch up on old times, what else?”
Fraught with frustration, Edith itched to take hold of his shoulders and shake him. “And? What did he say? What did you say? Does he know—”
“He knows nothing. He inquired after my health, that’s all. And he asked about my experiences in India. It was naught more than a courtesy visit.”
“I find that hard to believe. He must have wanted something.”
George hesitated, then said, “I believe he was hoping for a pension. So I wrote him a bank draft for fifty guineas.”
“You did what?” Edith lunged at her husband, seizing hold of his lapels. “How idiotic can you be? You’ll rouse his suspicions. Don’t you realize that if you give him money, he’ll keep coming round for more?”
Her attack made his face darken. Jerking himself free, George slammed his fist onto the dressing table. The glass bottles rattled and clashed, but he took no notice. “This is precisely why I never wanted to return to England. We should have stayed in India where no one would ever ask questions.”
Edith realized she had pushed him too far. In a conciliatory tone, she said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted. And you know full well why we had to come to London. It was for the sake of the girls.”
“Was it?” he asked sharply. “Or did we really come here for you? So that you could finally play the lady?”
Edith was too canny to deny it; he knew her too well. “Be that as it may, Portia should be our main concern. She nearly disgraced herself once already. You wouldn’t want anything to ruin her chance at making an excellent marriage, now would you?”
As she’d hoped, George’s anger crumbled at the mention of their eldest daughter. Portia had always been his favorite, the apple of his eye. She was the one he had taken for rides in the palka-ghari every Sunday, the one who had accompanied him on his business trips to the maharajah’s palace. If not for George, she would never have met that dark-skinned boy, the one who had enticed her into an indiscretion. Edith shuddered to remember the shock of finding them together, kissing and whispering in the darkness of the verandah. It had taken swift action to avert a ruinous scandal, all because George had indulged Portia with far too much freedom.
Thank God it was all over now.
Edith’s only consolation was that her husband still suffered guilt for his mistake. It had given her the ammunition to force him to move back to England.
Heaving a sigh, he ran his fingers through the sparse brown hairs on the top of his balding head. “You’re right, we must concentrate on what’s best for her. But are you quite sure she favors Albright?”
George might be a shrewd businessman, but he had no notion of how to arrange marriages. “Of course—what girl wouldn’t wish to become a duchess? She’ll have a perfect life, and our first grandson will be the heir to a dukedom. So long as you make certain Thornton won’t cause any trouble for us.”
“He’s nothing,” George assured her. “No one would take the word of that old pensioner over mine. I’ll make certain of it.”
Edith smiled. Oh, how she loved wealth and the power it brought. And with Portia a duchess, no one would ever again dare to close their door to her. She would let nothing—and no one—stand in the way of her daughter’s marriage to the Duke of Albright.