Portia Da Costa (11 page)

But she still couldn’t stop herself.

“Well, I’m sorry, Wilson. I was just a weak, lickerish woman. We
do
have urges, you know, just like you men. I was subject to the carnal itch, that’s all, and I forgot myself for a moment and reached out for you as the convenient one to scratch it. Nothing more.”

What in the world is wrong with me? When did I turn into such a shrew?

She glanced at Wilson and saw a look of horror on his face as his head popped out of the opening of his shirt, an expression of genuine pain. But then it was gone again, and his beautiful mouth thinned into a line that was almost ugly, if anything about Wilson could ever be considered thus.

“Well, that is gratifying, Adela. To know that my cock means nothing more than that to you. I never realized you were quite such a progressive.” His eyes narrowed, hard and brittle as slate. “I will, of course, marry you if you are pregnant, despite the fact that my finer feelings mean so little to you.”

Your feelings mean everything to me. Or at least they did....

“Well, I’m sure I’m not with child. I’m told that it’s most unlikely the first time.... So I think you can breathe easy and count yourself lucky that you’ve probably escaped the horrible fate of marrying me. It’s clear that you find the idea repugnant.” She flopped down again, to pull on her boots, unable to look at him. The silly tears were threatening once more, and she would not show him them, she simply would not.

“I don’t find you repugnant, Della. Not at all. That should have been obvious.” She felt a jerk, and realized he was trying to retrieve his dressing gown from beneath her. Shake her off so casually, would he? “Although I am very averse to the idea of being trapped into marriage, and I’ve seen the way your mother’s eyes dart from you to me when we’re in the same room. It seems to me she sees me as a good catch for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Adela leaped up, shamed to admit that her mother probably did feel that way, with three daughters who’d all need marrying off. And that in her own secret daydreams, Adela had supported Mama’s hopes, even if she’d never informed her parent of the fact.

Wilson whipped up the robe and whirled into it in a way she’d have thought dramatic and dashing in any other circumstances, even though it now bore some grass stains.

“Ah, but it’s not ridiculous, is it? We’re cousins, but not very close ones. Your mama is playing the odds. Hedging her bets. Three daughters and no son, and she’s a woman of middle years...and if anything should happen to cousin Henry, well, you don’t have to be a logician or any other kind of theorist to arrive at the obvious solution.”

He was right. So right. Mama would have tried to marry her off to Henry, just in case, if he hadn’t already been engaged elsewhere. Anything to ensure that Grandfather’s wealth and title would come to her eldest daughter through marriage, if she herself couldn’t produce a brother for Adela, Sybil and Marguerite.

“Of course you wanted me to scratch your itch, Della, but it served your mother’s purpose, too. Did she put you up to it?”

Like a mighty wind, anger swirled inside her. How could he be so hateful? He was wrong, and Mama, for all her scheming, was not as devious as all that.

Without thinking, Adela fetched back her hand to strike him, but he caught it in a firm grip, meeting her glare. She thought he might kiss her in anger, to punish her somehow, and for a moment he seemed to let his guard down in readiness. Feeling the lapse, Adela jerked free, spun around and set off down the path leading back to the house, hurling the words
“You’re disgusting!”
over her shoulder as she went.

Hurtling along, her eyes blurred with tears, she just wanted to get away from him, as fast as possible. She sped along on instinct, not even sure that she was going the way they’d come....

Then
bang!
Something thick and greenish-brown flew into her face with a crack, as if from out of nowhere. Pain exploded in the bridge of her nose and she saw stars as a hot rush of blood gushed from her nostrils and splattered crimson down the front of her gown. At the same time, she heard thudding footsteps approaching and a body bashing through the undergrowth.

Go away, Wilson,
was her final thought as unconsciousness claimed her.

8

Mother and Daughter

Rayworth Court, 1891

Where the dickens was that girl?

Mrs. Amelia Ruffington glanced around, seeking a familiar figure, stubborn and slender, and clad in black. Not seeing her daughter Adela, Mrs. Ruffington shuddered. The sun was warm and pleasant, and the company convivial, but somehow, “mislaying” Adela like this, in these particular circumstances, always brought with it a dark, disquieting memory.

The horrid shock of fear and worry when she’d been sitting on a lawn, much like this one, drinking tea, much like this, and Wilson Ruffington had walked out from among a stand of trees, carrying Adela with her face and her dress covered in blood.

Horrible. Horrible. Horrible. A day of disaster. Poor, poor Adela. Suffering not just the pain and shock, but a permanent disfigurement, too. Her straight and elegant nose, so much like that of her handsome father’s, had been badly broken. Not the best efforts of the finest surgeon the Ruffingtons could afford had been able to correct it, and Adela’s nose remained crooked to this day.

But where was she now? And, for that matter, where was Wilson?

Mrs. Ruffington reached out, almost expecting tea, and found that she’d been drinking lemonade. Good grief, anxiety over Adela was quite taxing her wits. She took a sip and pulled a face. Not sweet enough. The robust tang of the lemons reminded her of Adela, too. Her willful yet still strangely lovable daughter, a strong personality, always challenging but never tedious.

Yes, Wilson was nowhere to be seen, either. Was there any chance the two of them might be together? Mrs. Ruffington’s heart leaped. Might there still be a chance for those two, despite Adela’s undisguised disdain and dislike of her cousin? It was a constantly perplexing puzzle. Until the day of the broken nose, Mrs. Ruffington had been so hopeful of a match between them, and her eldest off her hands at eighteen, despite her independent nature and worryingly radical outlook.

But then the accident had occurred, and all had changed. Adela had barely spoken to Wilson after she’d regained her senses, and had looked upon him with patent dislike, despite the fact that the young man had carried her all the way back to the house, having happened upon his cousin insensible, during one of his health walks.

A dark suspicion stirred, and Mrs. Ruffington quashed it. As she always did. It was nothing more than that. Nothing. Nothing.

And yet Adela’s enmity toward her cousin remained, and the rather strange young man who’d once seemed quite smitten with her eldest daughter had seemed indifferent at best to her at every social encounter since.

Shaking off the less than pleasant thoughts, Amelia glanced around the happy group on the lawn, her heart warming at the sight of her pretty Sybil, so enchanting in one of her new summer frocks, smiling winsomely at Lord Framley. The young aristocrat was grinning back adoringly.

Ah, those two are so smitten!

There was the great hope for the fortunes of the Ruffington women, in the face of her father-in-law’s cruelty and stinginess. A brilliant marriage into a high family with vast wealth would ensure the comfort and security of them all. And then it wouldn’t matter if Adela persisted in her spinsterish ways, and didn’t try to overcome her unfortunate nose, and less than perfect skin. She could remain unwed, while Sybil’s new family supported the lot of them and covered their ever-mounting debts.

And that would mean the diamonds wouldn’t have to be sold, after all.

“Are you well, Mrs. Ruffington? You look a little perturbed about something. May I get you some more lemonade? Some sugar biscuits, perhaps?”

Snapping away from her ever-present worries, Mrs. Ruffington looked up and smiled with pleasure, a flutter of feminine excitement in her breast. Even though still technically in mourning, she couldn’t stop herself feeling this way at the attentions of a handsome younger man.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Devine. That’s so kind....” She made a practiced gesture toward her glass, one of her most elegant, she thought, hoping that the amenable young solicitor would notice the delicacy of her wrists in her black lace mittens. “I was just wondering where my Adela had got to. It seems a shame that she’s not out here enjoying this beautiful day with us.”

Blair Devine beamed at her, inducing more flutters. He really was a most thoughtful man, and so clever, too. Mrs. Ruffington had been so pleased to meet him at her friend Violet’s poetry evening and was impressed by his professional credentials as well as his good looks. She knew he’d done discreet services for a number of her acquaintances, and some of the suggestions he’d made about her own situation were very exciting. The possibilities he’d raised, though a little problematical in some aspects, that might eventually lead the way to a radical improvement in the fortunes of her daughters and herself. She hardly dare think about it all too deeply, though, in case it all came to naught.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure she’s taken herself off somewhere sketching,” said Devine pleasantly, reaching for the jug of lemonade and replenishing Amelia’s glass. He really did cut a fine figure in his dashing summer suit of pale linen. “She has such an exceptional talent, does Adela. So rare in a woman. I’m sure that artistic fervor must drive her to exercise it constantly. She’s probably taken a walk in the rose garden, or even the arboretum, searching for suitable subjects.”

Amelia smiled back at him. He was so handsome and agreeable, with his smooth, beautifully groomed brown hair and his fine eyes and his sympathetic expression. Was it wrong of her to find him so attractive, and to harbor what amounted to a tendre for him? It was much more sensible to encourage his interest in Adela. He seemed to respect and admire her eldest’s accomplishments. Might that not lead to more ardent feelings?

If only Adela would do something with herself! A more becoming and fashionable hairstyle. A new gown or two...surely they could run to it, especially with the surprising amount of pin money she earned with her pretty drawings of pets and flowers? And, though God forbid they mention it to anyone, perhaps a little bit of powder for her cheeks? There was nothing to be done about her nose, but surely the aftereffects of a late affliction with chicken pox could be hidden? The little red marks were faint enough to be hidden by a very discreetly applied cosmetic.

And if Adela were to wear the Ruffington diamonds a bit more often, the gentlemen, in this case Mr. Devine, might be sufficiently dazzled by them to overlook their wearer’s defects.

“Yes, perhaps you’re right, Mr. Devine. My daughter is a most diligent artist. It’s rare to see her without a pencil and her sketchbook. I’m sure she’s somewhere about with them, hard at work.” Amelia leaned forward, touching Blair Devine’s linen-clad arm. “I’m so proud of her, you know. She’s a splendid girl. Much sought after, but very particular.... Although I’m sure that it won’t be too long before she finds a suitor to match her exacting standards.”

“I’m sure any man would be proud of such an accomplished wife.”

Amelia’s excitement surged, along with a perplexed confusion. He seemed interested. Should she push? Encourage? Was all hope of Adela’s landing Wilson gone?

How will I feel if my daughter marries the man that I admire?

Amelia forged a smile to match the one on Blair Devine’s face.

* * *

S
ILLY
OLD
BAG
.
Her eldest is more firmly on the shelf than any other spinster I’ve seen, yet still she parades her in front of any poor man who happens to cross her path.

Blair Devine smiled, yet beneath the facade he had nothing but disdain for the anxious mother he was courting. Most fortune hunters would have thought that the Ruffington women, both mother and daughter, presented very lean pickings indeed, but to him, they represented a variety of promising possibilities.

At the very least, there were those famous diamonds. They belonged to Amelia Ruffington, free and clear, given as a personal gift by her late husband and not part of the family estate. Blair had been delicately hinting that she might sell them, and that he could arrange for a set of very fine paste replacements to be made, and act as her discreet agent in the matter.

He didn’t tell her that he knew he could get a very fine price for them indeed, and that his “commission” would exceed the sum she’d receive. This was a ruse that had worked well in a number of instances, with the ladies in question still none the wiser and happy to commend him to their friends. Amelia Ruffington was particularly gullible. Just look at her, preening and all of a tiz-woz. Making a needy, overweight widow feel as if she was desirable again only made her all the more malleable to his schemes.

But the Ruffington diamonds weren’t the only prize.

By a combination of happy accident and a keen eye for what was advantageous to him, Blair Devine had developed some unusually nefarious contacts for a solicitor of superficially impeachable pedigree...and some even more unusual ways of acquiring income. Of late, blackmail and leverage had become increasingly lucrative. And ever more amusing, because people were always happy and grateful to deal with him, so sympathetic and discreet, acting as their agent in these grubby matters so they needn’t soil their hands...never realizing that it was he who was the blackmailer!

Yes, there were always letters he hoped to acquire, and for a little while now, he’d been on the lookout to acquire a particular bundle. One day, over tea, Mrs. Ruffington had revealed a little worry of hers, a scandal narrowly avoided, that had involved the flighty Sybil, and certain indiscreet love notes. How it had pleased him to hear that these incriminating missives were still in existence, and he’d resolved to find a way to get his hands on them.

Such little bundles were always useful, either as leverage to be employed promptly, or tucked away for a rainy day, when they might be used to obtain even larger sums.

There were other documents, too, that he’d put out delicate feelers to acquire when he’d first begun to amass information about the Ruffington family. He wasn’t the only young man of the law who was far from averse to twisting it, to a greater or lesser degree, if advantage were forthcoming, and a conversation at his club one evening had opened up the exciting possibility of an exchange of intelligence with a like-minded acquaintance.

Pretending to enjoy the languid afternoon, he watched the Ruffingtons and the rest of the party at their leisure, while he turned over his many schemes in his mind.

You’re all such idiots. So many of you living beyond your means, and if you have the means, you haven’t lifted a finger to deserve them.

He hated the aristocracy, especially its minor orders. By means of wills, bequests and inheritance, they kept the wealth all to themselves rather than spreading it about a bit. He’d been cheated out of family money himself; a good sum that had gone to a cousin who was already well-to-do, because a will had not been drawn out correctly. That was what had driven him to the law...to make it work for him, wherever he could, and so that he might know how to bend it judiciously.

But he’d get a tidy amount out of the Ruffingtons, one way or another. And there was the potential to ensure himself quite a fortune out of them, if the cards fell his way. It would even be worth wedding that stubborn, surly rationalist Adela in order to secure the greatest prize. Through her, there was a ready path to the millions of Lord Millingford, her grandfather, if all worked out and the most daring of his schemes were to materialize.

And in the dark, it might even be fun to fuck her now and again.