Seducing the Heiress (13 page)

 

Tilting her capped head up, Miss
Underhill gave her a severe look. “If you are seeking tittle-tattle, may I
remind you that would be most improper.” She nodded at the sheaf of music on the
stand. “Now, mind your duty, Miss Crompton.”

 

“Oh.” Portia hastened to turn
over the page. “I’m not asking for gossip, only the facts as you know them. It’s
difficult for an outsider like me to remember everything I need to
know.”

 

That admission, too, was calculated to encourage Miss Underhill’s
sense of superiority.

 

“Indeed,” Miss Underhill said, taking the bait. “About
whom in particular are you inquiring?”

 

“I’m wondering about Viscount
Ratcliffe and his family.”

 

Her fingers paused almost imperceptibly on the
keys as her lips formed a prim line. “He is a rake of the worst ilk. You must
take care never to be seen in his company.”

 

To avoid
Miss Underhill’s sharp eyes, Portia pretended to watch Mr. Horton correct her
sisters over a missed step in the dance. The aging woman would keel over in a
swoon if she knew the truth—that only the previous evening Portia had been in
Ratcliffe’s private chambers and had lain beneath him on his bed while he kissed
her senseless. Even in the light of day, she could still feel the dark,
scorching intensity of it.

 

And she cringed to recall the aftermath, when she
had shot him in the arm. It had happened so fast, Portia still wasn’t certain if
her finger had slipped on the trigger, or if she had deliberately pulled it. Odd
that, for she was no stranger to firearms, had even bagged a tiger in India, for
heaven’s sake. But her mind had been rattled by that kiss, her poise shaken by
the fear that Ratcliffe intended to steal her virtue. When he had grabbed for
the pistol, she had panicked.

 

What if she had killed him? Only a scant few
inches to the left, and the bullet would have penetrated his heart. The
horrifying notion had haunted her ever since.

 

Devilish man, she thought
angrily. It was ridiculous for her to feel even a shred of remorse. He had
brought trouble down on himself by his own arrogant actions.

 

Miss Underhill’s
censorious voice called her back to the present. “Lord Ratcliffe was tried in
court for the murder of his father. That should be sufficient proof of his
despicable nature.”

 

“But he was acquitted, was he not? What was his
defense?”

 

“He claimed to have been cleaning his dueling pistol when it went
off. The death was pronounced an accident due to the lack of evidence to the
contrary.”

 

The news jolted Portia. She immediately noted the eerie parallel
between the two shootings. Right after he’d been hit, Ratcliffe had looked pale
and grim, more
so than the flesh wound had warranted.
Had last night’s mishap reminded him of another pistol going off by accident,
resulting in his father’s death?

 

She could not begin to imagine how terrible
that incident must have been. And because of his disreputable character, people
in society still held him to blame. But she herself wasn’t so certain. It made
her all the more determined to uncover the facts of the case.

 

At Miss
Underhill’s nod, she turned over another page of music. “If the court has
absolved him, then we should accept the verdict. Besides, I find it difficult to
credit that any gentleman could purposely do something so monstrous.”

 

“You
are being willful and obtuse today,” Miss Underhill scolded, her fingers flying
over the keys during a lively section. “It is a blessing that you have attracted
the attention of the Duke of Albright. Not only will it be a brilliant match for
you, he will keep you safe from scoundrels like Ratcliffe.”

 

Portia’s stomach
churned. Why did everyone take it as a foregone conclusion that she would accept
Albright’s offer—
if
he made one? “Speaking of the duke, there seems to be
bad blood between him and Ratcliffe’s family. I’m sure it wouldn’t be proper for
me to ask His Grace about it.”

 

“I should hope not! Nor should you question
anyone else in society, lest you become known as a scandal-monger.”

 

Miss
Underhill needn’t learn that Portia was already guilty of quizzing the duke.
“But I can ask
you,
can’t I? Have you knowledge of any particular
incident in the past that might have caused this feud?”

 

Miss Underhill
frowned thoughtfully down at the pianoforte. “Now that you mention it, I believe
there
was
something. I heard my mother discussing it with her
cousins quite a long time ago. I cannot recall exactly
what it was, though . . .” She shook her head. “I was only a little girl then. I
am nine-and-thirty now, so that would have been perhaps thirty years
ago.”

 

Portia hid her shock. She had assumed Miss Underhill to be closer to
fifty years old at the very least. Perhaps laboring for a living caused a lady
to age faster. It made Portia more keenly aware of the lucky stroke of fate that
allowed her to live in luxury while other women struggled to make ends
meet.

 

Women like Hannah Wilton, although Miss Underhill would be aghast to be
placed in the same category as a ladybird.

 

“My mother has passed on,” Miss
Underhill was saying, concluding the piece with a flourish of her fingers over
the keys, “but if you like, I can write to her cousin and see if perhaps she can
enlighten you.”

 

“Would you?” Thrilled by her unexpected success, Portia bent
down and embraced the woman’s bony figure. “Thank you so very much. I’ve been
wondering, and it would set my mind at ease.”

 

“You’re welcome, my dear.” Miss
Underhill lost her starch for a moment and awkwardly hugged Portia back. For a
moment, she looked younger and happier . . . almost pretty. Then she reverted to
the vinegary old maid and chastised Portia for the public display of emotion.
“That’s quite enough gossiping. Run along now. Mrs. Crompton surely must be
ready to depart.”

 

Portia started toward the arched doorway. The thought of
facing Mama brought on an attack of nerves. She had been on pins and needles
since the previous evening, fearing her mother might discover her deceit in
leaving the Earl of Turnbuckle’s house under false pretenses. She had planned to
return to the ball after leaving
Ratcliffe’s house and
cover her tracks by taking the family coach home, but it had been too late to
risk it. Besides, Ratcliffe had insisted upon escorting her and Lindsey
home.

 

This morning, much to her relief, Mama had chattered away at breakfast
about having shared a cozy tête-à-tête with the Duke of Albright. With that
triumph foremost in her mind, she’d apparently never thought to question the
coachman as to whether or not he had actually taken her daughter home
early.

 

But she might still find out by belated mischance.

 

“Portia,
wait!”

 

She turned back to see Lindsey hurrying toward her. In a gown of
celery green, her long chestnut hair held back with a ribbon, she looked younger
than seventeen. Her cheeks were flushed from dancing and her blue eyes bright
with purpose. She looped arms with Portia. “I haven’t had a chance to ask you
what we’re going to do next.”

 

“Next?”

 

“You know, about the . . .” Glancing
furtively over her shoulder, she pulled Portia out into the spacious corridor
outside the ballroom and lowered her voice to a whisper. “The miniature. Since
you couldn’t find it in you-know-who’s chambers, where else do you think he may
have hidden it?”

 

Portia had lain awake at night wondering that very thing. It
still incensed her that he had stolen her property and held it over her head
like the sword of Damocles. “Perhaps in his safe or his desk or a hundred other
places. However, he’ll be on his guard now, so I won’t go skulking around his
house again. Nor will you.”

 

“But what if we create a better diversion?”
Lindsey leaned closer, her eyes alight with zeal. “Just listen, I have
it all thought out. You can go with him on a drive,
actually
go
this time, whilst I creep into his house and search the
premises.”

 

“No!” Portia’s blood ran cold at the prospect of the scandal that
would ensue if her sister were caught in an act of robbery. “Henceforth, you are
to forget all about the miniature. Do you understand me?”

 

Lindsey scowled.
“Just because you couldn’t find it doesn’t mean I won’t. I’m a far better sleuth
than you are. Remember the time Mama lost her reticule, and I found it in the
tikka-ghari,
stuck between the seat cushions, because no one else
remembered she’d gone for a drive that morning? And what about when Blythe
wanted to know who was leaving flowers on her pillow, and I sat in hiding for
hours and hours, only to discover it was that rascal Harvey Stanhope?”

 

Portia
smiled at the memory. Harvey had been the fifteen-year-old son of her father’s
shipping agent, and he had earned a sound thrashing for his romantic efforts.
“The silly boy was smitten with the minx. She was only thirteen, but she’d been
flirting shamelessly with him.”

 

“Yes, well, as far as I’m concerned
she’s
the silly one, always sighing over the gentlemen,” Lindsey
declared. “
I
have more important concerns on my mind. Now, I’ve been
wrestling with the problem of how to open Ratcliffe’s safe. I might be lucky
enough to find the key in his desk, but—”

 

“For heaven’s sake, didn’t you hear
me? You won’t be looking in his desk or anywhere else.” To emphasize the point,
Portia took hold of Lindsey’s shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “If I find
out that you did, I’ll tell Mama about the stash of adventure novels you have
hidden under your bed.”

 

“You wouldn’t dare, because
then I would tell her that
you
borrowed them from the lending library for
me.”

 

“And I will declare I had no idea they were so full of manly derring-do
and swaggering nonsense unfit for a lady’s eyes. In any event, she will make
certain you never read one ever again.”

 

Crossing her arms, Lindsey stuck out
her lower lip. “Why are you being so mean? If that’s all the thanks I receive
for helping you last night—”

 

“You did help me, very much so,” Portia
conceded. “Although I have mixed feelings about the pistol. Where did you obtain
it, anyway?”

 

“It’s Mama’s, of course.”

 

“Mama’s?”

 

“Yes, she keeps it in
her bedside table for protection against thieves; I heard her tell her maid.”
Lindsey shrugged. “And don’t worry, I put it back this morning while she was
asleep.”

 

“Good heavens.” Portia was astonished to learn their mother kept a
pistol, let alone that her sister had the bravado to steal it and then return it
while their mother was in the room. Truly, Lindsey was becoming far too adept at
subterfuge.

 

“There will be no more guns or knives,” Portia said firmly. “And
promise me you won’t go anywhere near his lordship’s house ever again.” She held
up her hand. “I’ll have your sacred blood vow.”

 

With obvious reluctance,
Lindsey touched the tips of their fingers together according to the secret
gesture they had devised as children, when they had been shut inside during the
monsoon season with nothing else to do but dream and play.

 

“Oh, have it your
way, then.” She lowered her voice to a petulant whisper. “But it’ll serve you
right if Ratcliffe
presents that miniature to Papa—and
tells him about your plan to marry Arun. That might be the best thing, anyway.
At least then our family wouldn’t be split asunder by your moving back to
India.”

 

Her head high, she flounced back into the ballroom to finish the
dancing lesson.

 

Portia released a long sigh. She wilted down onto one of the
gilded chairs that lined the opulent passageway. In a distinctly unladylike
pose, she leaned forward to rest her chin in her hands.

 

Her mind dwelled on
the troublesome realization of how distressed Lindsey would be when Portia left
England. She had been so wrapped up in her own secret plans that it hadn’t even
occurred to her to consider the effect on her sisters and her parents. What if
she never saw them again? Was her love for Arun strong enough to sustain a
permanent separation from her family?

 

It hadn’t been strong enough to stop
her from finding pleasure in another man’s arms.

 

The vivid memory of that
kiss threatened to beguile her again, but she pushed it away. Ratcliffe was a
skilled lover, that was all. He could probably coax a nun into sinful acts.
However, there was no substance to his passion because it lacked the vital
essence of love.

 

But Arun felt true affection for her. Arun, with his warm
smile and gallant nature. She
would
return to India and be re united with
him. No one must be allowed to dissuade her from that purpose.

 

She felt a
sudden desperate emptiness that could only be attributed to a longing to be back
in the familiar surroundings of her childhood. Perhaps it was just that she
hadn’t received a letter from Arun in ages. She craved to read his thoughtful
observations about life there. It was frustrating that she would have to wait
for weeks until her old
ayah,
Kasi, had her next half-day off and could
make inquiries at the London docks. No doubt next time
there would be two letters at once.

 

Buoyed by the thought, Portia rose to her
feet. In the meantime, it would be prudent to unearth the truth about the feud
between Albright and Ratcliffe. If she were to hold both suitors at bay, she
needed as much knowledge as possible in her arsenal. With any luck, she might
even uncover information to hold over Ratcliffe’s head.

 

Wouldn’t