THE FLICKERING FLAME shone upon a face so ugly that only innate good manners stopped Portia from gasping. He had a bulbous, misshapen nose beneath sunken eyes and shaggy black brows. A number of hideous scars crisscrossed his skin, including the left side of his head where only half an ear remained. The coarse dark clothing that covered his massively muscled form marked him as a servant.
“Who the devil are ye?” he demanded. “An’ why are ye stealin’ the master’s goods?”
Portia realized she still held the boot scraper. It was imperative that he not view her as a thief.
She forced a pleasant smile. “Were I a burglar, I wouldn’t have knocked,” she said in a reasonable tone. “I only picked this up because … because I didn’t know who would answer the door and I thought I might need a weapon to defend myself.”
“Humph. Mayhap ye meant to clobber the wee maidservant what answered yer knock. Don’t suppose ye reckoned on me.”
“I assure you, sir, you’re mistaken.” Her heart thumping, Portia slowly set down the boot scraper while keeping a close watch on him. Bless Lindsey for giving her the pistol. Its slight but comforting weight rested against her hip. Mounting the steps to the porch, she reminded herself of the role she and her sister had planned. “This is Lord Ratcliffe’s house, is it not? I was sent here by him.”
One bushy eyebrow lifted. “Eh?”
“I left his lordship’s company only a few moments ago. He asked me to await him in his bedchamber.”
“Ye? Ye’re a lady.”
A wealth of suspicion layered his gruff tone. Belatedly she wondered if she ought to have adopted the speech of the lower class. But time had been too short to study the nuances of an accent that she hadn’t grown up hearing. Better this man should think her a gentlewoman fallen on hard times, reduced to being one of the viscount’s doxies.
She let the cloak fall slightly open so he could glimpse her form-fitting gown, the one that Lindsey had brought to her. “I was raised a lady, although those times are long past. Now, will you kindly show me to his lordship’s private chambers? If you refuse, you’ll be thwarting his wishes.”
The ogre continued to block the doorway. He glanced past her, peering into the night. “Where is the master? Why didn’t he come with ye?”
“He wanted to finish up a card game with his friends, so he sent me ahead to prepare myself for him.”
She had only a vague idea of what preparation a night of passion might entail, but she was desperate to make the ogre cease his questions. Although it was hardly the same circumstances, her own father never discussed private female concerns. The slightest reference to such matters would cause him to disappear into his study or to bury himself in his newspaper.
To her vast relief, the ploy worked and the servant stepped back, albeit still radiating grumpy distrust. “Follow me, then. An’ next time the master best warn me ’bout any visitors.”
He clomped down the corridor toward the front of the house, holding the lantern high to light the way. Portia scurried in his wake. Despite her nervous anticipation, she noticed that the place had a shabby air of neglect. There was no fresh scent of beeswax or gleam of polish on the chairs and tables. The marble floor looked scuffed and dull. Even the wallpaper was peeling in places.
Grasping her skirts, she hastened to keep pace with the ogre, who turned at the newel post and marched up a narrow staircase, his shovel-sized feet taking the steps two at a time. Elation filled her. What had seemed so hopeless the previous night now lay within her grasp. She had breached Ratcliffe’s defenses and had the chance to reclaim the evidence of her regard for Arun.
On the landing, they passed the gilt-framed portrait of a beautiful, dark-haired lady with a spaniel resting at her feet. Her aqua gown was in an old-fashioned style of some three decades in the past. Her smiling face radiated a sparkling vitality, as if she had trouble keeping herself seated sedately in the chair.
Was she the viscount’s mother, Lady Ratcliffe? Portia didn’t dare press her luck by asking unnecessary questions.
The ogre shoved open a door in the upstairs corridor and preceded her into the room. Muttering under his breath about the extra work, he set down the lamp on a table and stomped to the hearth, where the banked embers glowed faintly. He hurled coal from the hob onto the ashes, then jabbed around with the poker until the fire bit back with flaming orange teeth.
“Thank you for your kindness,” Portia said, aware of the precious minutes ticking away. “But it really isn’t necessary. I can see to my own comforts.”
“Master’d ’ave me ’ead if I left ye in the cold and dark.” He grabbed a beeswax taper and held the wick to the lamp, before jamming it back into a pewter candlestick, which he ungraciously left on a table. “An’ don’t bother pokin’ through the master’s things. All the gold’s been locked up.”
She swallowed a pithy retort and strove to look guiltless. Little could he guess, she had no interest in the usual valuables.
With one final glower, the manservant departed from the room, closing the door with an unnecessary bang.
Portia hastened to put her ear to the wooden panel. She listened until the tramp of his heavy footsteps disappeared down the stairs. Only then did she turn to survey her surroundings.
The meager light illuminated a chamber adorned with the threadbare elegance of the previous century. The colors were blue and gold, with velvet draperies covering the tall windows and age-darkened landscape paintings hanging on the walls. A faint spicy aroma hung in the cool air.
Ratcliffe’s scent.
Beneath the cloak, a shiver riffled over her skin. Again, she had that unnerving sense of being watched, as if his spirit lingered in the deep shadows.
Nonsense. The bedchamber was deserted because the wicked viscount had been lured away to Turnbuckle’s garden. Right now, he would be waiting for her to slip out of the ballroom and join him. Perhaps he was pacing, planning how best to use his charm to talk her into marriage. Hoping for the prize of her dowry, he would tarry there for a good while before he realized she had reneged on the tryst.
He might not even know he’d been deliberately duped until he returned here. By then, she would be long gone. And he would be faced with the maddening knowledge that she had been right here in his private quarters, that he had missed the perfect opportunity for seduction.
Averting her gaze from the four-poster bed that dominated the room, she spied a wingback chair by the marble fireplace. A stack of books sat on a nearby table, a pair of spectacles resting on the topmost one.
She had to laugh at the incongruous image of him wearing the eyeglasses. Ratcliffe was certainly no scholar. In truth, she couldn’t begin to guess what a man of his indecent character might be reading.
She held up the candle and scanned the titles. The Gentleman Farmer by Henry Home. The Gardener’s and Botanist’s Dictionary by Philip Miller. Horse-Hoeing Husbandry by Jethro Tull.
Portia blinked. Ratcliffe—studying techniques of agriculture? Perhaps he had made a muddle of his estate and was looking for ways to squeeze out every last bit of revenue. She could think of no other explanation for his interest.
Then the book on the bottom caught her attention. Her pulse sped up a notch. Now here was something more suited to him: the Kama Sutra.
Years ago in India, she had overheard a group of ladies whispering about the scandalous book, which one of them had confiscated from a servant and then burned. Portia had asked Arun about the work, and in dismay he’d warned her it was improper reading for an unmarried girl.
She had been curious about it ever since.
On a whim, Portia pulled out the tome. The text was in Hindi; she could read it tolerably well but surely Ratcliffe could not. Then her puzzlement vanished as she leafed through the pages and spied the illustrations. Now there was the likely source of his attention.
Her eyes widened at the explicit drawings of couples engaged in all manner of intimate relations. A blush suffused her from head to foot, yet she couldn’t stop staring. Who would have thought there were so many different ways a man and a woman could join their bodies? And did they really enjoy it? She couldn’t imagine herself doing such intensely personal acts with Arun. The whole business seemed more embarrassing than pleasurable.
Until she thought of Ratcliffe.
Her gaze went to the four-poster bed where pillows lined the headboard and hangings of midnight blue velvet formed an intimate bower. Heat seared her veins, pooling in her nether regions. She could see Ratcliffe lounging naked between the sheets, and herself clasped in his arms while they kissed and caressed …
A strong gust rattled the windowpanes, startling Portia back to her senses.
Mortified, she clapped the book shut. She shoved it to the bottom of the stack and stepped back, flushed and breathless. What was wrong with her, that she could think of that rogue in so unseemly a manner? It must be the effect of viewing those drawings, of catching a glimpse into the tantalizing secrets of the bedchamber.
Overly warm, she unfastened the merino cloak and tossed it onto the bed. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece showed the hour as a quarter past midnight. She had wasted enough valuable time.
The candlestick in hand, she looked around to determine the most likely places where he might have put the miniature. She hastened to a small writing desk and examined the contents of the cubbyholes and the single drawer. But there was only a sheaf of paper, quill pens and an inkpot, a glob of red sealing wax. A nearby cabinet held crystal decanters of liquor and a collection of glasses.
She made her way around the bedchamber, searching every drawer, every box, every receptacle, to no avail. Frustration nagged at her as she considered where he might have put her property. The manservant had mentioned safeguarding the gold. Suppose Ratcliffe had locked the miniature in a safe?
She stood stock-still by the bedside table. But no, that didn’t make sense. Ratcliffe would not have expected her to be so brazen as to break into his house. Surely he would have left the miniature somewhere close at hand.
Perhaps in his dressing room?
Of course. Upon his return home the previous night, he might have carelessly tossed it down on a table.
Whirling around, she headed toward the shadowed doorway in a corner of the bedchamber. The white-painted panel stood open to a yawning, pitch-dark hole. Inexplicably, the fine hairs at the back of her neck prickled. Scorning her foolish fears, she forced herself to move forward, only to halt with a gasp.
Something moved within the well of absolute blackness. A tall menacing shape entered the doorway.
Her heart gave a sickening jolt of recognition.
Lord Ratcliffe settled one broad shoulder against the doorframe. The half-smile on his mouth was at odds with the dangerous intensity of his eyes. “Looking for something, Miss Crompton?”