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.
She regarded Portia with a trace of hauteur. Except for the handkerchief in her hand, there was little sign of the weeping, broken woman she had been after the duel. “Miss Crompton. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“My lady.” Portia dipped the obligatory curtsy. “May we speak in private?”
“May? I was under the impression you had commanded my presence.”
“Forgive me. It’s a matter of great importance.”
“Well, then. Follow me.” Despite her ascerbic tone, the viscountess led Portia down the corridor and into a morning room decorated in creams and yellows. The windows looked out on a rear garden where roses bloomed in profusion. The setting suited Lady Ratcliffe, so dainty and pretty and frivolous.
How deep did her beauty go? Portia would soon find out.
“Do sit down.” Her hostess waved a hand at a yellow-striped chaise. “Shall I ring for tea?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.” Portia seated herself, then leaned forward, watching Lady Ratcliffe closely as she floated to a nearby chair. “I’ve come to talk to you about Ratcliffe … about Colin.”
“He’s in prison, of course.” She waved the scrap of lace that masqueraded as a handkerchief. “Please be assured I have engaged a solicitor who is making every attempt to have the case dismissed.”
“Have you told this man the truth about what really happened?”
Lady Ratcliffe avoided Portia’s eyes. “There will be no need for that if it never comes to trial.”
Portia bit back an indignant disagreement. But before launching into a tirade, she wanted to confirm something that had been nagging at her since the day of the duel. “Be that as it may, I came here to ask you a question. A very personal one. I am sorry in advance if it proves to be upsetting to you.”
Lady Ratcliffe clutched the handkerchief to her bosom. “Upsetting? Nothing could cause me more distress than knowing that my only son is languishing behind bars.”
Portia drew a steadying breath. “I need to know … was it you who killed your husband three years ago?”
Lady Ratcliffe’s face turned paper white. Her bloodless lips parted. She sat very still, her wide green eyes conveying the terrible, guilty truth. “What? Why would you ask me such a thing?”
A rush of cold anger enveloped Portia. So her suspicions had been correct. Just as with the death of Albright, and with the gambling, Ratcliffe had been protecting his mother.
She curbed her emotions, keeping her voice soft but firm. “You are responsible. Pray don’t deny it, my lady.”
That patrician chin wobbled. “I can’t imagine why you’re making these awful accusations.”
“Nor can I understand why you would allow your son to shoulder the blame for your own misdeed. A gun went off. But it wasn’t Colin holding it. It was you.”
Lady Ratcliffe seemed to shrink, her shoulders lowering, her chin dipping down like a child caught in a naughty act. “All right, then. But it was an accident. I swear it.”
Portia felt no triumph at the admission. She only wanted to understand matters for Ratcliffe’s sake. “Tell me what happened.”
For a long moment, Lady Ratcliffe was silent, her head bowed. “I quarreled with my husband,” she whispered. “Roger was angry because I’d lost a trifling sum at the card tables. It had happened a few times before, but this time he wouldn’t cease scolding me. He called me … a millstone around his neck.” A sob caught in her throat, and her fingernails dug into the arm of the chair, shredding the delicate silk. “Please understand my despair, Miss Crompton! I found one of my son’s pistols … and held it to my bosom. I asked Roger if he would be happier if I ended my life. I swear to you, I didn’t know the pistol was loaded. I didn’t. When Roger tried to wrest it away from me, it went off … it was nothing but a horrid accident …”
Her voice faltered to a stop. She lapsed into wretched weeping, her beautiful face gone ugly with tears.
Portia wanted to despise her, but could summon only pity. Lady Ratcliffe was a weak woman. She relied on the men in her life to conceal her errors of judgment. She had never been held accountable for her own actions.
Portia intended to put an end to all that.
Colin had been given one of the better cells at Newgate Prison. Which simply meant that rather than share his stone-walled cubicle with several other inmates, he had rats for company instead. Over the past few days, he had trained one rodent to beg like a dog for the bits of dry bread left over from his meager breakfast.
At the moment, Colin was sitting on his pallet on the floor and holding out a crumb between his thumb and forefinger. The skinny gray creature perched on its hind feet, its whiskers and black snout quivering. Colin tossed the tidbit up in the air. The rat pounced on it, nibbled daintily, then ventured back for more.
The tramp of footsteps approached from far down the corridor, but Colin took little notice. The prison was seldom quiet. Guards came and went. Prisoners howled and banged their tin cups on the bars. Men snored loudly or laughed raucously at all hours of the night. At least the noise drowned out the maddening drip-drip of water somewhere nearby, the source of which he had been unable to discern.
His life had dwindled to this cramped stone cell. The damp chill had taken up residence in his bones, despite the blankets and a few other amenities his mother had provided through her solicitor. She herself had not been here to visit because Colin had forbidden it. Nothing would be more incongruous than to see his elegant mother in this stinking hellhole.
Taking the blame for Albright’s death had been the only course of action open to him. His mother wouldn’t survive one night in prison. Besides, he was every bit as guilty as she. He would have pulled the trigger himself had she not done so first.
The only regret he had suffered—still suffered—was losing Portia.
He pulverized the last morsel of bread. The rat scurried here and there, cleaning the bits from the slimy stone floor.
Colin clenched his jaw, struggling to keep the memories at bay. But a succession of vivid impressions branded him. The silken softness of her hair. Her joyous cries of ecstasy. The tender touch of her fingers on his face.
I’ll go with you.
He buried his head in his hands. Thank God he’d had the stamina to refuse her imprudent offer. Had she been tucked in bed with him when the runners had come, they might have arrested her as an accomplice. The scandal would have kept her from ever showing her face in public again.
If his abduction of her hadn’t already accomplished her ruin. And if she hadn’t conceived on their night together.
In such a dire instance, what would happen to her and their child? The question made him half mad with anxiety. He should never have given in to his base urges. He should have insisted on marriage first, even if it made him appear as prim and prissy as a maiden aunt. No one but he was responsible for her downfall.
The jingle of keys penetrated his self-mortifying stupor. The tramp of footsteps had stopped in front of his cell.
Colin jerked up his head. A husky guard with two missing front teeth was opening the iron-barred door. The pet rat made a dash for a tiny hole in the corner.
The guard stepped aside to let in a small, officious man in a sleek black coat with matching pantaloons. He was carrying a small satchel at his side. His nose twitched like the rat’s, and his dark eyes betrayed distaste at the surroundings, as if he were afraid he might catch a disease by touching anything.
It was the solicitor who had been hired to handle the murder case. Thus far, the fellow had served as little more than a go-between for Colin and his mother. But at least the visit provided a break from his morbid thoughts.
He rose, his legs stiff. “Entwhistle.”
“My lord.” Entwhistle made a deep, formal bow. As he straightened, his narrow face broke into an unexpected grin. “I bring the happiest of tidings. You, my lord, are a free man!”
“What?”
“Indeed so. You have been cleared of all charges. I have the papers signed and sealed right here.” He patted his black satchel. “It was handled quite properly by the magistrate.”
Disbelieving, Colin stared. “How can the case be dropped? I shot the Duke of Albright in cold blood. Unless he’s risen from the grave to dance in the streets.”
Entwhistle laughed as if it were a brilliant jest. Then he coughed and cleared his throat. “The fact of the matter is, new evidence has come to light that proves irrefutably that you are not the guilty party. Indeed, I must admire you for your gentlemanly conduct in protecting Lady Ratcliffe from admitting her guilt.”
Colin seized hold of the man’s lapels. “What the hell? Are you saying my mother has been arrested for the murder?”
The attorney’s eyes bugged out. “Oh, nay, my lord! She is perfectly safe and sound at her home. I saw her there myself only a few hours ago.”
“I don’t understand, then. Who have the authorities arrested?”
“Why, no one. The magistrate was persuaded that it was an unfortunate accident. Both seconds have corroborated the testimony, along with the doctor who attended the duke. So you see, all’s well that ends well.”
In shock, Colin released the man and stepped back. By damn, he really was free. He would never have expected Albright’s second to have revealed the duke’s dishonor. Yet he couldn’t feel any triumph, not when society must be blaming his mother for Albright’s death.
Instead he felt mired in guilt. God help him, he had broken the promise he had made to his father as he lay dying. Colin had vowed to watch over his mother, to shield and protect her with his own life.
And now he had failed.
One fact was certain. His mother would never have willingly volunteered the truth about her involvement in Albright’s death. She was too delicate and ladylike to face the risk of being thrown into prison. But Colin could certainly guess the identity of the instigator.