Seducing the Heiress (27 page)

 

Taking a swift look around, as if to make sure there
were no observers, Ratcliffe opened the gate. He slipped
his arm around her waist and drew her out into the gloom of the mews. The stamp
and snort of a horse called her attention to the black outline of a coach at the
end of the alley.

 

Uneasiness prickled over her skin, especially when
Ratcliffe urged her in that direction. She reminded herself there were many
vehicles parked around the neighborhood, waiting for the ball to
end.

 

Nevertheless, she twisted away from him and stepped back against the
stone wall. “That’s quite far enough. No one will hear us here, so give me your
proof.”

 

He stepped very close, an ebony shadow blocking out the faint
starlight. “First I’ll have your vow not to speak of this to a soul, aside from
the people directly involved.”

 

She hesitated, reluctant to make promises
about the unknown. But curiosity got the better of her. “As you wish.”

 

“Let
me start by correcting a falsehood I’ve told you,” he said. “I suggested that
Hannah’s infant could have been fathered by any one of a number of gentlemen. In
actuality, the child is Albright’s.”

 

The statement hit Portia like a jab to
the ribs. Certain she must have misunderstood Ratcliffe, she stared up at him in
utter disbelief, trying to make out his features in the darkness.
“What?”

 

“You heard me. It’s the truth, I swear it on my father’s grave.” His
fingers gently kneaded her shoulders as if to soften the blow of his words.
“Hannah was my mistress for a time—I’d taken her away from the brothel where we
met and set her up in her own household so that she was mine exclusively. Then
one day I called on her unexpectedly and found Albright warming her bed. He’d
deliberately set out to woo her away from me with jewels and pretty
compliments.”

 

Portia remembered Hannah’s cagey
response as to why she and Ratcliffe had ended their liaison.
He discovered
me lying with another man.

 

Yet Hannah hadn’t named the duke. To attribute
such reprehensible behavior to Albright seemed impossible, the direct opposite
of the gentleman Portia knew.

 

She shook her head. “I . . . I cannot believe
it.”

 

“Hannah will corroborate the story if I ask her. Albright kept her as
his own mistress until he cast her out for the sin of conceiving his child. He
threatened to kill her if she told anyone.”

 

Portia leaned her head back
against the stone wall. Her mind whirled.
Was
it possible? The duke had
always behaved toward her with the utmost gentility. Yet the incident would
explain so much—such as why Ratcliffe regarded Albright with such loathing. Dear
God, it made her ill to think of any man being so callous as to abandon his own
baby.

 

Ratcliffe took hold of her arm. “I cannot allow you to marry him,
Portia. I
won’t
allow it. I hope you can understand that.”

 

Wrapped up
in her troubled thoughts, she didn’t realize his intentions until it was too
late. He propelled her the short distance to the waiting coach, yanked open the
door, and half lifted her inside.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 19

 

Portia
found herself dumped unceremoniously into the pitch-dark interior of the
vehicle. Landing on a cushioned seat, she heard the door shut, followed by the
click of a turning key.

 

With a cry of disbelief, she groped for the handle,
only to discover it wouldn’t budge. Ratcliffe had locked her in. He was
abducting her!

 

She pounded on the door. “Blast you, Ratcliffe! Open this door
at once. Let me go!”

 

There was no answer, nor had she expected one. The
abrupt rocking of the coach told her they were moving. She cupped her hands to
peer out the window, then realized that blacking had been applied to the outside
of the pane. There was no hope of signaling for help from a passing
vehicle.

 

Dear God, what was she to do? Her parents would be looking for her
by now. The duke would be waiting for her in the ballroom to join him for the
supper dance. At the very least, she wanted the chance to ask him about Hannah
Wilton and judge by his reaction whether or not Ratcliffe had spoken the
truth.

 

Behind her, a rustling noise caught her attention.

 

Portia whirled
around, her heart pounding. She tried
to discern
movement in the absolute blackness. “Is someone there?”

 

A sleepy little voice
replied, “Who’re ye?”

 

There was something very familiar about that childish
Cockney accent. But surely not. Wondering if she might have knocked her head on
entering the coach, she ventured, “Bane?”

 

“Aye . . . who be ye?”

 

“It’s
Miss Crompton. The lady whose purse you filched that day at the docks.”
Astonishment rose to the fore as Portia struggled to sort out an explanation for
his presence here. “Has Lord Ratcliffe abducted you, too?”

 

“Ab . . .
wot?”

 

“Abducted. Stolen you away.” She scooted closer, straining to see him.
It was impossible to distinguish anything through the gloom. “Oh, I do wish I
had the means to light a lamp.”

 

“There be a tinderbox, miss. Right ’ere
’neath the seat. Found it when oi was lookin’ fer a place t’ ’ide.”

 

Portia
heard him moving around, then a metallic rattle sounded as he opened the
container. A moment later, he struck the two pieces of flint together and a
shower of sparks revealed his presence. It took him several tries before a tiny
flame started in the pile of tinder.

 

Swiftly, she patted the walls and found
a lamp fastened to one overhead corner. She moved aside the glass chimney to
access the candle, then touched the wick to the tinder. At last a pale glow
illuminated the interior of the coach, showing Bane nestled in a blanket on the
seat across from her.

 

He looked considerably cleaner than the last time she’d
seen him. The accumulated grime was gone from his face. In place of his ragged
clothing, he wore a smart little suit of blue livery.

 

Mystified, she asked,
“What did you mean just now
when you said you were
looking for a place to hide? Were you concealing yourself from his
lordship?”

 

“Aye, mum. ’E tole me t’ stay wid Mr. Tudge. But oi jest
couldn’t.” Bane leaned forward, his blue eyes as big as the gold buttons on his
coat. “Mr. Tudge be a
pirate
.”

 

“A pirate?”

 

Bane nodded vigorously.
“ ’E captured ships an’ kilt folks wid ’is sword. ’Twas the master wot saved ’im
from a life o’ crime.”

 

Her confusion began to clear, replaced by a stunned
realization. “The master? Are you saying . . . you’re now
living
with
Lord Ratcliffe?”

 

Bane proudly thrust out his skinny chest. “Oi be ’is tiger.
Oi runs errands and oi ’olds the ’orse wherever the master goes. ’E pays me
tuppence a week.”

 

So Ratcliffe hadn’t abandoned Bane, after all. He hadn’t
fobbed him off with a handout, either. Instead, he had taken the grubby little
street urchin under his wing. He had scrubbed him spotless, given him new
clothing and a post where he could earn a wage.

 

Ratcliffe had done the same
for Orson Tudge, if Bane could be believed, and for Hannah Wilton—even though he
knew she was carrying the child of his enemy.

 

Portia drew in a shaky breath.
Was it possible she’d been blind to his true character? That he was more than
just a dissolute profligate? The notion was too much to absorb, so she
concentrated on Bane. “You ran away, then. Rather than remain home with Mr.
Tudge, you hid yourself in this coach. And you fell asleep here.”

 

“Aye.” Bane
eyed her warily. “Ye won’t tattle on me, will ye, miss?”

 

He looked so
woebegone at the prospect, she had to restrain the impulse to hug him close.
“No, of course not. Only tell me, do you know where his lordship is taking
me?”

 

Bane shrugged. “Dunno. But oi ’eard ’im say t’
Miss ’Annah not t’ expect ’im back fer three or four
days.”

 

Days!

 

Aghast, Portia sank back against the cushions. By
tomorrow, her reputation would be in shreds. If
days
passed, she would be
a complete disgrace to her parents, and her sisters would betainted by her
infamy, as well. In all likelihood, the ton would spread malicious rumors that
she’d run off with Ratcliffe of her own accord.

 

And the duke would endure the
humiliation of being abandoned by yet another bride. Though perhaps he deserved
that and more after his ill treatment of Hannah and his unborn child.

 

Now
that Portia had had time to adjust to the news, she could think more clearly.
She could see that only Ratcliffe’s version of events made all the pieces of the
puzzle fit. Albright had every reason to hate Lady Ratcliffe and her family. But
Portia had never quite been able to grasp why Ratcliffe despised the duke in
equal measure.

 

Unless the duke had exacted revenge against Ratcliffe in the
matter of stealing his mistress.

 

She shivered, chilled by the possibility
that she’d been a pawn in a dastardly chess match played by the duke. Her
thoughts ranged back to the first time she’d encountered Albright at the start
of the Season. It was the same night she had met Ratcliffe. Upon their
introduction, the duke had spared her scarcely a glance. It struck her now that
he had begun courting her only
after
he’d observed Ratcliffe’s interest
in her.

 

Her gaze fell on Bane and her heart melted. Asleep again, he lay
curled on his side, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. How astonishing to
know that Ratcliffe had given the boy a home.

 

Despite the lulling sway of the
coach, Portia felt wide awake. She wrapped herself in a blanket to ward off the
cold evening air and spent a long time mulling over
all that had happened, contemplating her future, and deciding what to do. Only
when she was satisfied with her appraisal of the situation did she finally close
her eyes and drift off to sleep.

 

 

Early morning light bathed the lush
hills of Kent as Colin drove past the pair of stone pillars that marked the
entrance to his estate. He waved to the gatekeeper, an ancient codger who had
held the position since the time of Colin’s grandfather. The old man lifted a
gnarled hand and then shuffled forward to close the gate again.

 

Holding the
reins in his gloved hands, Colin sat hunched in the coachman’s box. His breath
fogged the chilly air. The nighttime cold had settled into his bones even though
he had donned a greatcoat over his pirate’s costume. In preparation for the long
drive, he’d slept all the previous afternoon. Yet his eyes felt scratchy and his
limbs were stiff. It had required great concentration to traverse the dark
country roads that were lit only by moonlight and the feeble glow of the twin
headlamps.

 

As he directed the team of horses down the long curving drive, he
waited for the usual uplifting of his spirits that always occurred upon reaching
his estate. There was usually the pleasure of seeing the planted fields of hops
and barley in the distance, the satisfaction of viewing his orchards of apple
and pear trees. Instead, he could only brood about Portia, as he’d done all
night.

 

He had expected her to pound on the roof of the coach, to shout or
even curse him from time to time. He’d been prepared for her to enact some
clever ruse in order to convince him to release her.

 

But Portia hadn’t made a
peep after that one initial outburst, and her silence worried him. Had he been
too harsh with her? Had she bumped her head when he’d
pushed her into the coach? Or was she otherwise
indisposed? For all he knew, traveling over rutted roads for so many hours might
have made her ill. One of his aunts had seldom journeyed to London because of
the misery she’d endured en route.

 

For most of the trip, he had been plagued
by the image of Portia in such a wretched state. All of his planned strategies
would be for naught if she had fallen sick. Or if she’d been injured. Not to
mention, he’d have a hard time forgiving himself for putting her through any
pain or discomfort.

 

He urged the team faster. The ten minutes it took to
reach the final turn seemed more like ten hours. Then the ivy-covered stone
house appeared around a bend in the road. Sunlight touched the mullioned
windows, making them wink like diamonds.

 

Anxious to see his prisoner, Colin
reined the horses to a halt near the pillared entryway. He had purposely not
sent a note ahead to warn the staff of his visit. That way, there might be a
chance to coax Portia into the house with a minimum of fuss.

 

At least he
hoped so.

 

As he leaped down from the coachman’s box, a groom came running
from the stables to hold the horses. Luckily, no one inside the mansion seemed
to have noticed his arrival.

 

Colin dug in the pocket of his greatcoat.
Finding the ring of keys, he inserted one in the lock and prepared himself to do
battle. If he knew Portia, she wouldn’t submissively accept her fate. She might
well come at him with fists flying.

 

Cautiously, he opened the door. A
guttering candle cast a pale glow over the interior. Awake, Portia sat on one
side of the coach, looking like a goddess in that white tunic with the gold
diadem crowning her deliciously mussed
chestnut hair.
For a moment, he was awash in a fantasy in which she threw her arms around him
and praised him for saving her from the duke.

 

Instead, she gazed coolly at
him, her hands folded in her lap. She was not smiling.

 

Nevertheless, relief
poured through him. She appeared well and unharmed, so at least he could lay
those worries to rest. “Good morning, Portia. You must be wondering where we
are—”