Seducing the Heiress (23 page)

 

There would
never be a better opportunity.

 

Unfortunately, traffic on the main streets had
been heavy, and the trip was taking longer than she’d anticipated. She opened
her reticule and checked her pocket watch. The dainty gold hands indicated she
had been riding in this cramped vehicle for more than an hour
already.

 

Uneasily, she wondered if the coachman might be leading her astray.
Her imagination offered up a scenario in which he was in cahoots with a band of
thieves and was at this very moment driving her to their lair. Perhaps he did
that all the time, waited until he picked up a vulnerable female passenger and
then took her deep into the stews of London, never to be seen
again.

 

Shivering, she scooted closer to the door and peered
through the smeared window. To her vast relief, a forest
of masts pierced the skyline. The cramped tenements had given way to clusters of
brick warehouses and small office buildings.

 

Men scurried to and fro, hefting
heavy crates or rolling casks down gangways. Sailors swabbed down the deck of a
huge merchant ship. A workman moved along the railing, pausing now and then to
pound in a nail with his hammer.

 

She watched all the activity in wide-eyed
fascination. It had always been a treat for her to accompany her father to the
docks in Bombay. There, the workers had been dark-skinned Hindus and the burning
hot sun had replaced the overcast sky, but otherwise, the hustle and bustle was
much the same.

 

Did any of these ships belong to her father? Luckily, he
hadn’t mentioned any new arrivals before disappearing into his study after
breakfast. Nor had he spoken of visiting the docks to check on cargoes. It was a
blessing not to have to worry about running into him here.

 

And now that she’d
arrived, matters would go smoothly. It would take only a few minutes to conduct
her business. Then she could return home again with no one the wiser.

 

Her
emotions had been in such turmoil of late, she couldn’t bear to wait until Kasi
had her next half-day off. Portia had to know right now if Arun had written any
letters.

 

She closed her eyes, calling up the memory of their last meeting.
Under the guise of an errand, she had joined him in the bazaar the morning
before her father’s ship had set sail for England.

 

The rendezvous had been
planned as a chance encounter. They’d stood side by side in a booth, pretending
to examine the colorful saris on the display table.
A
lump tightened her throat, and she’d scarcely noticed the swirl of native
shoppers and the cacophony of voices.

 

“Promise me you’ll write,” she’d
whispered, sliding her hand over his, entwining their fingers atop a pile of
silk garments. “Please, I must be certain you won’t forget me.”

 

“I
will send you many letters, my dear Portia,” Arun vowed in his musical voice.
“And you, too, must not forget me, either. You must take this as a token of my
love. It will help you remember.”

 

He pressed the miniature of himself
into her palm. While she blinked away tears, he purchased a sari for her in a
deep marigold color, waiting gravely while the shopkeeper wrapped it in brown
paper. Then Arun had presented that to her, as well. She had looked up at him,
memorizing every aspect of his dear features . . .

 

Opening her eyes
inside the cab, Portia realized with a knell of dismay that she could no longer
conjure Arun in her mind. The previous evening, the same awful event had
happened. When she had tried to picture him, his image had grown somewhat hazy.
Was the dimple on the right side of his face—or the left? Did his black hair
cover the tips of his ears—or was it cut shorter? If only she had the miniature,
she could have checked every detail.

 

In its absence, she craved a letter from
Arun as a reminder of the boy who had been her dearest friend for many years—the
man she loved with all her heart. She wanted a tangible token that would prompt
her to think of
him
while falling asleep at night. Not
Ratcliffe.

 

Ratcliffe
.

 

Portia had been steadfast in her
determination to shut him from her thoughts, but before she could slam the door
on those memories, a slew of vivid impressions
rushed
out to entice her. His laughing green eyes. The sinful quirk of his lips. The
hard strength of his body as he held her close.

 

And oh, sweet heaven, his
hands on her bosom, beneath her skirts, between her legs. A powerful wave of
desire swept away all her good intentions, and she found herself flushed with
yearning again, aching for the pleasure of his touch . . .

 

The coach jerked
to a stop. She drew several shaky breaths in an effort to compose herself. Blast
the man! He was a cad of the worst ilk. His disrespectful treatment of her only
proved him to be the most ungentlemanly of gentlemen.

 

Fuming, she climbed out
and fished in her reticule for a coin. Handing the stoop-shouldered man half a
guinea, she instructed him to wait for her return. Then she started toward the
soot-blackened brick building in front of her. The structure had a squalid
appearance from the sagging lintel of the door to the cracked windows and
peeling paint.

 

Upon her arrival in London the previous year, Portia had made
arrangements for her overseas mail to be delivered here. Kasi had accompanied
her on that occasion, and ever since had collected the mail once a month. Mr.
Brindley, the shipping agent, had been wary at the prospect of dealing with a
woman, at least until Portia had made it well worth his while.

 

In a matter of
moments she would have her hands on Arun’s letter, the one that had failed to
arrive a few weeks ago. Surely it had come on one of the many ships that entered
port daily. By reading Arun’s words, by smelling the faint sandalwood scent that
clung to the paper, she would recall all the nuances of his kind and chivalrous
nature. She would reassure herself that he was the perfect husband.

 

Not a scoundrel who tried to win her by using the most
unscrupulous of methods. Who thought nothing of preying upon a young lady’s
virtue. Who had the audacity to introduce her to intimacies that should be known
only to a wedded wife.

 

Caught up in her brooding thoughts, Portia failed to
sense impending danger. As she approached the door, a small dark form rushed at
her from around the corner. She caught the whiff of a fetid odor, saw the flash
of a dirty face in the instant before the midget thief grabbed her
reticule.

 

She cried out and attempted to fend him off, but it was too late.
The strings of the purse broke under a hard tug. The robber turned and ran,
taking the coins that were supposed to pay for Arun’s letter.

 

Portia acted on
pure instinct. Lifting her skirts, she plunged after him in pursuit. “Stop,
thief!”

 

With the noise from the docks, no one paid any heed. The felon darted
toward the narrow lane, heading for a warren of tenement buildings.

 

The
grizzled old coachman sat blinking in befuddlement atop the hackney. He made a
creaky move to climb down, but his lack of speed rendered him useless as a
rescuer.

 

Then she glimpsed a gentleman tying up an old nag a short distance
behind the coach. “Help!” she called. “Help me, sir!”

 

As the criminal
attempted to dash across the street, the man reached out and seized him by the
scruff of his neck.

 

She hastened toward them, her heart pounding and her mind
awash with thankfulness. It was only upon nearing the pair that she noticed two
facts in quick succession.

 

Firstly, the robber was not a midget, as she’d
initially
assumed. Beneath the filth on his face and
the ragged garments that hung from his skinny form, he was a boy of perhaps
eight or nine.

 

Secondly, the hero who had made the swift capture was none
other than Viscount Ratcliffe.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 17

 

The
shock of his presence slowed her steps. In stark contrast to his tattered
prisoner, Ratcliffe was the essence of masculine grooming in a tiered greatcoat,
tasseled Hessian boots, and a beaver hat. He held one arm extended, from which
dangled the wriggling youngster.

 

All of her gratitude vanished under an
avalanche of insight. Ratcliffe’s sudden manifestation could be no
coincidence.

 

“You!” she accused on reaching them. “What are you doing here?
Did you follow me?”

 

“And lucky for you that I did.” He turned his attention
to his sullen captive. “Hand over the goods, lad.”

 

“Nay!”

 

“Do it quickly
now. Or by God, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born.”

 

The urchin angled a
suspicious scowl up at Ratcliffe, then slowly stuck out his grubby
paw.

 

Portia took the reticule, its weight reassuring her that the contents
were intact. The broken cord dangled uselessly, so she tucked the purse into an
inner pocket of her cloak. Then she bent down to take a closer look at the boy.
He gazed back with defiant blue eyes that were ringed with what looked like
years of accumulated dirt. The mistrust he radiated unexpectedly touched her
heart.

 

“What is your name?” she
asked.

 

“Bane.”

 

“Bane?”

 

“Aye, me mum said oi were a bane an’ a
pain.”

 

Good heavens. “Where is your mother? Does she live nearby?”

 

“She be
dead,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “ ’T were a fever wot took
’er.”

 

“Have you a father? Or any other family?”

 

Glowering, he gave a quick
shake of his head and offered nothing more, as if he regretted admitting so
much.

 

His plight appalled Portia. She vacillated between wanting to empty the
contents of her reticule into his dirty hands and realizing that she shouldn’t
reward his thievery. “You oughtn’t steal what doesn’t belong to you, Bane,” she
chided. “If you had asked politely, I would have been happy to give you a
coin.”

 

Ratcliffe stood watching, one eyebrow cocked. “I’m sure he’ll remember
that little lesson in manners while he’s rotting in Newgate.”

 

The statement
set off a wild panic in Bane. He redoubled his efforts to get free, wriggling
and kicking to no avail. “Lemme go.
Lemme go.
”

 

Horrified, Portia
hastened to reassure him. “Do calm down. I promise, you won’t be sent to
prison.” To Ratcliffe, she snapped, “I have no intention of prosecuting him.
He’s merely a child. I won’t let him be locked up with hardened
criminals.”

 

“Shall I release him, then, so he can rob someone else?”

 

“Yes
. . .
no.
Well, he won’t turn to stealing if he has funds of his own.”
She reached into her reticule, intending to give Bane enough to purchase a hot
meal. A month’s worth of hot meals, if he were prudent.

 

Ratcliffe stopped
her. “Thieves don’t deserve handouts. He should work for his pay.”

 

This elicited another futile struggle from Bane. “Oi
ain’t goin’ t’ no work’ouse!”

 

“Not the work house.” Ratcliffe produced a
coin, which he waved in front of Bane. The boy’s eyes followed it avidly. “Guard
my mount while the lady and I conduct our business. If you—and the horse—are
still here when we return, you’ll have earned your wages.”

 

He released his
hold on the boy. Rubbing the back of his neck, Bane gazed askance at Ratcliffe,
then at the ancient brown horse that was cropping a skimpy patch of grass. For a
moment, Bane looked as if he might take off running. Then he edged toward the
horse and stationed himself by the wooden post where the reins were tied,
looking small and defenseless beside the great beast.

 

Ratcliffe took hold of
Portia’s arm, steering her toward the shipping office. She bit her lip, glancing
over her shoulder. “Is your mount very spirited? Will he kick or
bite?”

 

“
She
is as placid as a lamb.”

 

“Humph. Was it truly necessary
to frighten Bane so badly?”

 

“If he’s ever to better himself, then he needs to
learn the value of hard work.”

 

She blinked at Ratcliffe in surprise. It was
odd to hear such sensible talk from a dissolute like him. Her mind shifted back
to Bane. It broke her heart to imagine the child all alone in the world. “What
will happen to him when we leave? He’s too young to survive on his
own.”

 

“Children do it all the time in London. In India, too.”

 

Portia often
had seen street children in Bombay as well as here, and to her shame she’d
seldom spared a thought for their welfare beyond giving them a few coins. “I
can’t leave him to his own devices. Where is this work house you mentioned?
Perhaps he should go there.”

 

“Certainly, if you’d
like him to subsist on gruel and beatings. You might as well put him in
prison.”

 

How did Ratcliffe know so much when she herself had never even heard
of such a place? “Then we should take him to an orphanage.”

 

“
We
will
do no such thing,” Ratcliffe said as they reached the door. “Now, enough talk of
that pint-sized pickpocket. Isn’t it time you told me why we’re here?”

 

The
memory of her purpose came rushing back. Heaven help her, she didn’t want
Ratcliffe discovering where she picked up her letters from Arun. The rogue might
abscond with them as he’d absconded with the miniature.

 

She dug in her heels.
“As you said, there is no
we
. I have business to conduct. You will wait
right out here. Or better yet, mount your horse and go away.”

 

“No. You’ve
already proven yourself vulnerable to attack. I’m not leaving your side until
you’re safely home.”