Portia Da Costa (31 page)

She watched, entranced, as he employed a device that was a combination of a large rubber suction cup and a pair of protractors, ingeniously carving out a circle of the window glass, removing it in one piece, then reaching in through the aperture to open the window snib.

The room lay accessible before them, and first Wilson climbed nimbly over the sill, then he assisted Adela’s entrance, reaching though, gripping her strongly and lifting her to the sill, too, so he could help her down onto the carpet. With purpose, Wilson strode to an incredibly ugly and badly rendered painting of a horse, then ran his fingertips down the edge of the frame. With a barely audible click it yielded to him, too, and when he swung it back out of the way, a green painted safe was revealed, squat and heavy and impressively defiant.

“Now for the more difficult task, my sweet.” His eyes glittered in the gloom, and Adela had to smile. Oh, how he relished this. Challenges. Difficulties. They were all meat and drink to her husband. He thrived on pitting his fine intellect and instincts against obstacles.

I wonder if that’s why he’s come to hold me in a better regard? Because I’m certainly not the easiest person to get along with?

But that was a question for another time. Now she had to help him. She drew a small dark lantern from her satchel, lit it carefully then set it on an adjacent chest of drawers to one side. Wilson handed her a leather pouch from his satchel, and she unrolled it, revealing not his usual set of tools, but those of a cracksman. As if stripping for action, he removed his black gloves and his mask, pushing them into his pocket. Adela removed mask and gloves, too.

For a moment or two, Wilson just stood there, his narrow hands pressed together in front of him, forefingers just touching his lips, thinking, assessing. To Adela he looked more than anything like a genie or mystic summoning a trancelike state of concentration, and she suspected that was more or less exactly what he was doing.

In a low, intense voice, he requested the first tool.

Adela wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Perhaps that the safe would spring open in short order for Wilson, because his skills were so much more refined than hers, and his equipment was far superior to the stiff hairpins she’d resorted to when she’d broken into Lord Rayworth’s secret library, and on the few other occasions she’d employed what Wilson had taught her. It seemed like a hundred years since the house party now, and as if it had been another world. How much had changed since she and Wilson had been thrown back into close orbit around each other, like two celestial bodies who’d swung away for a few years, but circled back under the power of a strange gravity.

Ten minutes passed, then another ten, punctuated by Wilson’s terse demands for items from the roll. The torsion wrench. The offset diamond pick. The short hook. She’d learned all their names and functions in preparation.

Eventually, though, when Adela’s nerves were almost shredded, there came a fearsomely ringing clunk, a noise that seemed infinitely louder than it actually was, and Wilson’s jubilant but quiet, “Excellent!”

A twist of the handle and the safe door swung open in a heavy arc.

Documents filled one entire shelf—small bundles and individual envelopes. Many looked like personal letters, some poignantly fastened with ribbons, as if they were keepsakes of love affairs, much like Sybil’s. Others appeared more formal, perhaps business documents and papers.

“You skim the love letters, Della. I’ll peruse these.” Wilson lifted out the far less romantic items, a frown creasing his brow. “Lord alone knows what the blackguard has been up to. I suspect far more than personal threats against incautious sweethearts are involved here.”

They took everything to the rug in front of the fire, where the best light was, and began to study them. Adela blessed her ability to rapidly scan and absorb the content of any given thing, her invaluable gift as an artist. But speedy as she was, her talent was rudimentary compared to Wilson’s amazing powers of comprehension. He was reading and assessing documents ten or twenty times as fast as she was, and she suspected his recall was far more detailed than hers.

Quickly, she found Sybil’s letters, tied with a familiar rose-pink ribbon, one Adela herself had given her as a birthday gift when they were girls. Her sister’s name was printed on a small slip of paper tucked into the bundle, and she noticed other names affixed to other bundles. With a pang, she prized off the ribbon and slipped it into her pocket. She didn’t intend to read the words. It seemed an invasion. Gingerly, she reached for one of the fire irons and poked the coals as quietly as she could.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” she whispered to her absent sister, then threw the envelopes into the flames, pressing them in with poker and watching until every scrap was consumed. Obliterating the letters was the only way to be sure. If she returned them to Sybil, she would keep them out of sentiment, and someday in the future, her marriage might be shattered because of them. Another heinous blackmailer and another traitorous maid would come along and the whole horrid business would start all over again.

What to do with the other bundles? Adela knew she’d made the correct choice for Sybil, but did she have the right to do the same for these other correspondents, these other lovers? Surely they should be left to decide for themselves? Gathering up all the bundles, she began stowing them into her satchel. It would be necessary to make discreet appointments, and visit their rightful owners.

“Good God!” It was a low exclamation, barely more than a let-out breath, but with the last of the letters in her hand, Adela turned toward Wilson. He’d clearly found, read and evaluated something momentous. “He has business letters, details of secret transactions...and yes, I do declare, political papers here. Where does he get all this? He must have a secret low life and connections that nobody in polite circles is aware of....” Wilson turned to her, frowning. “I suspect the man’s a filthy spy as well as some kind of master blackmailer.”

“Well, he always did boast to Mama about his influential friends. Seems he must have connections with the servants, and maybe the disgruntled clerks and secretaries of these people, too.”

“I agree,” said Wilson, still sifting through documents. “Ironic, isn’t it, though? He seems to have a profitable working relationship with underlings of all kinds, and yet by the sound of it he treats his own servants extremely shabbily. Come his downfall, which will be inevitable if I have anything to do with it, I must see that they all find decent places.”

Adela eyed her husband with ever-gathering respect. The more she had close dealings with him, the more she admired his principles. The wild, heedless boy had become a man of great integrity.

“Now, what have we here?” he went on, opening a last slim file, having stowed away the crucial documents in his satchel. He tilted it her way, and Adela saw Wilson’s own name inscribed on the manila.

He read in silence, taking what seemed an age for him, scanning and comparing several sheets, and then staring blankly.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

He handed them to her, and Adela read quickly, scanning the words with growing shock.

The first document was a sworn affidavit, a statement by one Henry Rowson, groom to Mr. Arthur Edward Ruffington, describing how Rowson’s mistress, Mrs. Berta Ruffington, had already been secretly married to him when she’d wed Mr. Ruffington. Along with it there was their marriage certificate, and a second affidavit from a maid, detailing a conversion with Mrs. Ruffington in which she admitted that her only child, her son, Wilson, was fathered by Rowson.

The papers shook in Adela’s hand. How must Wilson be feeling? She reached out and rested her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Wilson. This must be a horrible shock for you.”

He turned to her, his face a curious amalgam of a slight smile and blankness, a jolted state. Then he shrugged in the firelight. “No, my dear, not a complete surprise. I always felt there was some secret my mother kept, but we didn’t converse much.... She didn’t seem to care for my company.”

“Oh, Wilson...” How sorry Adela felt for him. Her own mother was a silly woman sometimes, but she loved her girls, pretty or otherwise.

Wilson pursed his lips, tapping one long forefinger against them. “This explains much. My father, bless him, was always the best and kindest of parents, as if lavishing his love on me was a way of compensating, and assuring me that I wasn’t second best to him, and that he didn’t resent me for my birth. He must have known, but he didn’t want me to suffer for it.”

“And what of...of this other man?” asked Adela, surprised. What a rare and tolerant man Wilson’s father must have been.

Wilson’s expression grew more bitter. Well, perhaps not bitter; he appeared more sad than anything, on closer inspection. “Would you believe that I barely noticed him? When I was home from school, I saw the lack of love between my parents. But...but, my God, Adela, Rowson was a servant. We exchanged the usual words. He seemed a decent man while he worked for us. He came with my mother from her previous household. She was a young widow....” Wilson heaved a sigh. This emotional conundrum was somehow beyond his cool brain. “I cannot imagine why she would marry him, and then not acknowledge it...not acknowledge me as the product of their union.”

Adela didn’t know what to say. She slid her arm around her husband’s shoulder, his comforter in this valley of the shadow of memories...and of present felony.

“I think I was a constant reminder of her mistake, who knows? And she certainly resented my father, too, perhaps for his easy tolerance.” Wilson gave Adela a perplexed look. “I’m not an expert on the human heart, my dear, but I could certainly tell from an early age that my mother didn’t really like either of us very much.”

How sad for him, denied a mother’s love. Denied knowledge of his true sire. The only compensation was that his faux father had given him affection.

“It could be fraudulent. It might all be lies.” Adela shook the papers.

“We’ll never know. Unless there are other documents or letters...other people my mother might have told. Witnesses... All the parties involved are deceased now, however.” Wilson waggled his fingers, indicating she should give him the affidavits. “I’d better show these to the Old Curmudgeon’s solicitors. It makes a good deal of difference to us, Adela.” He quirked his dark brows. “If I’m not my...my father’s son, I’m no longer Lord Millingford’s legitimate heir...at least I don’t think I am. I’ll be out of the frame like a shot once your grandfather discovers I’m not of his blood.” A crooked little grin formed on Wilson’s lips, real humor this time. “He’ll be forced to relent and bequeath his millions to you, my sweet, in the absence of somebody with a cock. Even if the title itself dies out...”

The papers shook again, this time involuntarily. The world shook, too. Adela saw her mother’s elation, her joy at securing the title for her daughter that she’d been denied by fate herself, turning to ashes.

27

The Future Lady Millingford?

Adela gazed into the fire, where Sybil’s incriminating letters were reduced to hot flakes of disintegrating dust. She flexed her fingers, wishing to toss the affidavits and the marriage lines after them.

But she couldn’t act so impulsively. She turned to Wilson, fixed her eyes on his, willing him to pay attention.

“Wilson, I know you’ve never wanted the title or the money, but...” She bit her lip. “Let me destroy these documents. Let things be as they were...please.” He was frowning. “Ever since Papa died, one of Mama’s dearest wishes, perhaps her dearest wish of all, has been to see me as Lady Millingford, because she never held the title herself. I know it’s not possible in my own right.... It would require litigation, legislation, I don’t know what.... Chances are it could never happen. But we both know what Mama’s always hoped for—that I’d marry you and acquire the title that way.” Adela shook her head. It sounded all wrong and jumbled. “Please don’t deny her that dream. I don’t want any of it for myself, and I know it might be, well, temporary...but at least give her the chance of basking in her wish fulfilled for a little while. Please, Wilson.”

Time seemed to halt while he stared at her, his expression inscrutable in the uncertain light. Seconds and minutes were ticking by, seconds and minutes in which something could go horribly wrong and they might be caught in their act of lawbreaking. But still she knew she had to wait until Wilson was ready to answer.

Her heart lifted when he smiled at her and touched her arm.

“You’re a loving and dutiful daughter, Della. My dear mother-in-law should be proud of you, and I’m sure she is.” His pale eyes shone. Was he proud, too? “So I think I should try and make some effort toward acting the loving and dutiful son-in-law.” He nodded at the papers, then looked toward the fire and the destroying heat, and nodded again.

Adela flung them on the coals, and Wilson took up the poker and pressed them down, prodding and stirring until they caught and began to blaze.

“Don’t worry, my sweet, I’m sure I can endure the title when the time comes.... It’s not as if I’ll be a duke or anything, and Ruffington Hall is a fine old pile. Lots of excellent outbuildings for experiments.” He paused and his smile widened to a distinctly lascivious smirk. “Some very amenable walks by the river, too...although I think we might have to do some path clearing and careful management of low-hanging tree branches, don’t you?”

Adela’s fingers twitched, as if preparing for the usual protective gesture across the bridge of her nose, but she resisted. Nothing to be ashamed of. Her appearance might be less than perfect by the standards of a Professional Beauty, but that didn’t seem to cool Wilson’s carnal ardor, so who cared about a little bump out of shape here and there?

“And it might be fun to make a bit of mischief in the House of Lords, don’t you think? Stir them up a bit, eh?”

“Oh, they’ll be delighted to have you among them, I’m sure.” Adela grinned, imagining Wilson in the House, his long form lounging on one of the famous benches, not a speck of respect for the august institution in him. But one never knew, perhaps he’d do some good? He was probably more intelligent than all the rest of the peers put together, twice over, and he was certainly of a humanitarian bent.

The chime of a small clock on the mantel shattered her fancy, and seemed to galvanize Wilson, too. “I think we’d better get a move on, Della. Time’s a-passing and we have a fair drive to Spencerleigh House. Your mother will be fretting over where the future Lady Millingford has got to.”

“Sadly, you’re right. She’ll be fussing, wanting us all to present a united front. I believe we’re done here, though, aren’t we? We have both the personal letters and all the critical documents. We must decide how to return them when we’re safe and home.”

Wilson nodded approvingly, and rose to scan the strongbox one last time. When he’d rummaged through everything, and ensured that only Devine’s personal papers and some rather large bundles of money were left, he swung closed the heavy door. “I wish I knew who he intimidated to get all this cash, and then we could return that, too. But I suspect we’ll never know.” Wilson turned the handle back to where it had been, then inserted a pick into the lock and gave a few swift, decisive jiggles and jerks until it clicked again. Reversing his successful crack somehow, Adela assumed.

With all stowed carefully in their satchels, and the ashes double-checked to ensure all was burned beyond retrieval, they set masks and gloves aright, and looked around to ensure everything in the room was just as it’d been when they arrived. Then it was out over the windowsill and into the garden.

Carefully closing the window by reaching through the circular aperture, Wilson then took a syringe from a small box that he’d had stowed in his satchel. Adela watched, rapt, as he squeezed a thin stream of some sticky, colorless substance around the edge of the circle, then around the matching piece of glass that he’d removed and, using the suction cup, fitted it back into place. When he released the suction, the glass stayed put, and it remained so when he tapped it lightly.

“A new adhesive I developed especially for this job. I think I’ll patent it.” Grinning, he put the last of his tools in his bag, then took her by the hand and led her back along the path they’d arrived by, skirting the bushes before helping her back over the wall.

“Now, to the carriage. I need to assure Earnest that all’s gone well.”

Adela obeyed, looking back when she reached the corner, to see the small figure of a very young footman emerge from his observation spot in the shadows. Wilson took something from his inner pocket—banknotes, she suspected—and passed them to the lad, before offering his hand, which was shaken with enthusiasm. The two exchanged a few inaudible words, then Wilson saluted and turned, sprinting toward her.

“Look sharp. No loitering. This countrified area seems to be unpoliced, but you never know, a constable might come ambling along any moment.” He grabbed her hand and hauled her after him. Adela clutched her cap with her free hand, feeling the weight of her plait slide inside it.

At the end of the lane, around the corner in the lee of a line of copper beeches, stood their carriage. The tiny glow of a cigarette tip indicated that Teale was savoring a smoke to pass the time, and the two-in-hand horses were enjoying their break, too, with a nose bag apiece. As Adela and Wilson approached, Teale extinguished his gasper and leaped lightly down, to attend to them.

Wilson drew out his pocket watch and checked the time. “Eight-thirty. Do you think these two beauties can get us there in half an hour, John?” Snapping shut the watch case, he gave the nearest horse a pat on the neck.

“Shouldn’t be a problem, sir. It might be a bit of rock and rattle inside, but I’ll do my best to keep them smooth.”

“Good man.” Flinging open the carriage door, Wilson bundled Adela inside, pushing her up by her bottom, then following close on her tail, and settling down beside her on the velveteen seat. “Let’s go,” he called softly up to Teale, then latched the door, enclosing them in the intimate, well-padded interior of their conveyance.

Immediately, Teale got them under way, the well-matched pair moving at a steady walk at first, until they were out of the lane and onto the nearest road.

As the motion of the carriage settled into a smooth fast clip, Wilson reached up and removed his mask, then pulled off Adela’s, too, followed by her hat.

“So, my dear Cinderella, you shall go to the ball,” he said in a low, excited voice. “Now let’s get you out of those tweeds and give me a chance to admire you in your frillies before you have to get dressed again.”

Grabbing her by the shoulders, he leaned in close and kissed her hard. Adela couldn’t help but respond, even though she knew there was much to do in a limited time, and none of it easy in the rocking carriage. Wilson’s mouth was irresistible. It always had been. She slid her arms around him as his tongue darted and thrust. Her skin felt hot in its carapace of tweed. She wanted to be naked against him, whether he took his own clothes off or not.

Still kissing her, Wilson pressed her back against the seat, his nimble hands attacking her jacket, almost ripping it open and then finding and cradling her breast within, squeezing and caressing through the layers of her light woolen shirt and the filmier, lacier things beneath.

“Oh, Della, Della,” he gasped, cupping her bosom with a rough enthusiasm, “you make the most adorable safecracker’s assistant a felon could ever wish for. Although I could probably have breached that box in half the time if I hadn’t been distracted by thoughts of flinging you down on the carpet, ripping off your breeches and having you there and then.” He laughed against her lips. “Just think how amusing it would be to look at Devine when we encounter him, and know that we’d fucked in his office while we were robbing him.”

Adela giggled, too, but it cracked into a groan as Wilson’s thumb and finger tweaked her nipple through her clothing. Squirming, she pressed her pelvis against him, unable to resist the urge to excite herself.

He pushed her down to lie on the seat, and with his hands on the buttons of his trousers now, he seemed just about to climb on top and ravish her when suddenly he threw back his head.

“What the devil are we doing?” He laughed and sat back, reaching out to pull Adela up to a sitting position, too. “Aren’t we incorrigible, eh?”

In a turmoil of lust, she still saw the funny side, too. She still wanted to be ravished, or even to climb atop Wilson and ravish
him,
but it was perfectly absurd when in not more than twenty minutes they’d be pulling up at the august residence of Sybil’s fiancé’s family, and would need to appear presentable, stately and respectable.

“Yes, we’re terrible. Like a pair of rutting weasels.” She reached out and laid a gentle finger on Wilson’s lips. They looked rather red where he’d kissed so hard. “We really must save our ardor for later, and behave ourselves.”

He shrugged, wickedly licked her fingertips then put her hand from him. “Quite right, dear wife, quite right.” He waggled his dark brows. “But we have an appointment later for carnal intercourse, so please make a note of that.”

“Duly noted,” said Adela, and began the awkward process of changing herself from a breeches-clad tomboy into an elegant, if somewhat idiosyncratic, lady of quality attired for a gala ball.

The transformation was nowhere near as straightforward as they’d hoped. Two people taking off their garments and replacing them with others, in a confined space that was jerking and rocking as it moved at high speed, was no easy feat. Adela cursed and grappled with stockings and the little satin belt to hold them up, and her petticoats, the latter having seemed to triple in volume since she’d last tried them on.

“A curse on this frightful palaver!” she cried, batting down the layers of lace and cambric. “Heaven alone knows how I’d manage if I was like all those other poor creatures who still wear corsets. It would be impossible.”

“Here, let me help.” With his long, firm hands, Wilson smoothed down the masses of cloth. “There, that’s better.... But I must admit I’m having trouble with this shirtfront, and my studs. Usually in this situation, Teale is helping me to dress, rather than driving a carriage.”

“Come here, let me.” Adela attacked the studs, but found them difficult and fiddly. “Devilish things...they’re dashed hard to manipulate, aren’t they?”

She struggled and struggled, but her fingers fumbled and the studs ended up rolling about on the floor of the carriage. Wilson bent to retrieve them just as Adela did, and they cried out as their heads knocked together with a bump.

Rubbing their skulls, they collapsed into helpless mirth at their plight.

“This is hopeless. We’ll have to stop,” said Wilson, nodding to himself. “I’ll ask Teale to pull up somewhere secluded if he can find a place, and we’ll get out and arrange our apparel while on solid ground and standing still. It’s the only way.” Reaching up, he rapped on the roof of the carriage, and as it slowed and stopped, he lowered the lamp, raised the shutter and looked out. Adela huddled in a corner, drawing her evening cloak around her, while Wilson leaped out, in shirtsleeves, to converse with Teale.

“He knows a place,” announced Wilson as he climbed back in and the carriage quickly got under way. “We’re not too far off now, and there’s a small lane leading to a side entrance to Spencerleigh House...the tradesmen’s entrance.” Wilson grinned. “Perfect for a pair of lowlifes such as we.” Rummaging in Adela’s dress box, he pulled out the last petticoat and shook out the creases. “Now let’s do the best we can in the meantime, eh, my dear?”