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 of 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.
“Mm, 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.”
“I think they’re all going to buy flowers,” Blythe said as she strolled to another table overflowing with bouquets. “It does seem the standard token to send to a lady he danced with the previous evening.”
Portia had to concur. She had attended a ball at Lord and Lady Wortham’s house until the wee hours, and her feet still ached from the hours of dancing. This morning, a torrent of gifts had begun arriving from the men who had vied for her attention. A team of servants had been kept busy accepting deliveries and arranging flowers in vases.
“Men.” Lindsey snorted. “I can’t imagine why they think a mere posy would influence how a lady regards them.”
“Oh, I rather think it depends upon the posy,” Blythe said. “Portia, do you hold any affection for the Honorable Henry Hockenhull? I hope not, because he’s only sent you daisies.”
Portia laughed. “Daisies are fine enough. And in his defense, he’s a third son with very few coins to spare.”
Blythe was reading the cards tucked into each vase of blooms. “The daffodils are from Lord Dunn. Pretty but a bit too prissy, I think. And this enormous bouquet of tulips is from the Duke of Albright, of course. He always manages to outdo all of your other suitors.”
Portia kept silent. Increasingly, she felt uncomfortable showing any interest in the duke. She didn’t know what the fuss was all about, anyway. He always treated her with the utmost courtesy. He never asked her for more than two dances at any ball. He had never made any improper advances toward her, either.
Unlike another man she knew.
Ratcliffe had flirted outrageously at every opportunity. He had pushed her onto his bed and kissed her madly. The mere memory of it threatened to suck her into a quagmire of longing.
“I suppose one can learn something about a man by the gifts he chooses,” Lindsey said thoughtfully.
“Absolutely,” Blythe agreed. “Take these pink roses from Lord Wrayford, for instance. They’re beautiful, I’ll grant, but rather clichéd, which suggests the gentleman himself is lackluster. Is that true, Portia?”
The man’s sole interest was staring at her bosom. “Quite.”
“And look at the other presents. Bonbons? Delicious, but dull. A handkerchief? How practical of a suitor to give a lady something with which to wipe her nose.”
Lindsey looked up from her sewing, her mouth curled in droll humor. “What’s worse, it’s something else that Miss Underhill will expect Portia to embroider.”
As the girls shared a laugh, Blythe went on. “The best flowers you’ve received aren’t even here, Portia. Remember how Lord Ratcliffe climbed up to your bedchamber to deliver a stem of orchids to you? Now that’s original.”
A thrill skittered over Portia’s skin. She did remember. Far too well. Even now, she couldn’t walk through her room without thinking of him sitting in her chair by the fire, a wicked half-smile on his lips.
“Shhh,” she said, glancing at the open doorway. “I don’t want anyone to know about that.”
“I expected him to call on you sometime,” Blythe went on in a lowered tone, giving her a speculative look. “I wonder why he hasn’t.”
“Obviously you’ve forgotten, the scoundrel has been barred from polite society.” Anxious to change the subject, Portia added, “So you’ve found fault with everything here. What sort of gifts would please you?”
Her sister took the distraction. “Diamonds,” she declared, a mischievous glint in her hazel eyes. “Necklaces and bracelets and earbobs.”
“A young lady must never accept jewelry from a man unless they are betrothed,” Lindsey said in a fair imitation of Miss Underhill’s severe voice.
“Oh, pooh. When I am a debutante, I intend to break all the rules.” Blythe twirled around the drawing room, her skirts flying. “I’ll waltz at my first ball. I’ll dance more than twice with any man I like. I’ll—oh!”
She came to an abrupt halt, narrowly avoiding a collision with a footman who had entered the drawing room.
The poker-faced servant was carrying a silver salver, on which rested a parcel no larger than a snuffbox. He advanced straight to Portia. “A delivery for you, Miss Crompton.”
In the middle of a stitch, she nodded at the table across the room. “Pray set it down over there with the other things, please.”
Blythe came hurrying over, snatching the little box from the tray and turning it over in her hands. “Who is it from? Oh, there doesn’t seem to be a return address. May I open it, please? I do so enjoy unwrapping presents.”
Portia smiled. “It’s likely another handkerchief. But go ahead.”
“Maybe it’s jewelry. Maybe one of these buffoons has finally given you something interesting.” Blythe gleefully tore at the paper and opened the box. Reaching inside, she lifted out a small object and frowned. “Why, look at this. Someone’s sent you a miniature.”
Portia’s head shot up. From across the room, she recognized the distinctive filigreed gold frame.
Horror surged through her. Blythe would see the painting of Arun. She would want to know where it had come from. She might run to Mama with the news and there would be all sorts of sticky questions …
Uttering a choked cry, Portia threw down her sewing and leaped out of her chair. Too late.
Blythe had turned over the frame and was gazing down at the picture. “Oh, my! Now here’s something novel—”
“Give me that.” Portia snatched it out of her hands. Fingers trembling, she looked at the little oval frame, expecting to see Arun’s familiar features.
Instead, she was flummoxed to find herself staring at a portrait of Ratcliffe. It must have been painted at least a decade in the past because his face had a more youthful look, his black hair was cut shorter, and his features had not yet gone hard and calculating.
Blast him! The scoundrel had replaced the painting of Arun with one of himself. She was too livid to feel even the slightest relief that her secret was safe.
“What’s wrong with you?” Blythe said in an injured tone. “You told me I could open it.”
Portia reined in her runaway fury. “I know. I’m sorry. I—I just couldn’t believe anyone would be so bold as to send me a miniature of himself.”
“Let me see,” Lindsey said. Taking it, she studied it for a moment before handing it back to Portia. “Lord Ratcliffe. And to think we were just talking about what a depraved man he is.”
“I knew he hadn’t given up on you,” Blythe crowed. “I just knew it.”
“Oh, bah,” Lindsey said. “Imagine, giving such a personal item as a gift. I’ve never heard of anything so conceited.”
“I don’t believe it’s conceited at all,” Blythe enthused. “I believe it’s romantic and clever. Lord Ratcliffe wants Portia to think of him, and what better way than to send her a miniature of himself?”
What better way, indeed? Portia thought darkly as she jammed the miniature into her pocket. It gave her more reason than ever to despise him. She was incensed to know he had dared to get rid of Arun’s picture. What had the rascal done with it?
Just what had he done with it?