Seducing the Heiress (36 page)

 

She regarded Portia
with a trace of hauteur. Except for the handkerchief in her hand, there was
little sign of
the weeping, broken woman she had been
after the duel. “Miss Crompton. What an unexpected pleaure.”

 

“My lady.”
Portia dipped the obligatory curtsy. “May we speak in private?”

 

“
May?
I was under the impression you had commanded my presence.”

 

“Forgive me. It’s
a matter of great importance.”

 

“Well, then. Follow me.” Despite her acerbic
tone, the viscountess led Portia down the corridor and into a morning room
decorated in creams and yellows. The windows looked out on a rear garden where
roses bloomed in profusion. The setting suited Lady Ratcliffe, so dainty and
pretty and frivolous.

 

How deep did her beauty go? Portia would soon find
out.

 

“Do sit down.” Her hostess waved a hand at a yellow-striped chaise.
“Shall I ring for tea?”

 

“No, that won’t be necessary.” Portia seated herself,
then leaned forward, watching Lady Ratcliffe closely as she floated to a nearby
chair. “I’ve come to talk to you about Ratcliffe . . . about Colin.”

 

“He’s in
prison, of course.” She waved the scrap of lace that masqueraded as a
handkerchief. “Please be assured I have engaged a solicitor who is making every
attempt to have the case dismissed.”

 

“Have you told this man the truth about
what really happened?”

 

Lady Ratcliffe avoided Portia’s eyes. “There will be
no need for that if it never comes to trial.”

 

Portia bit back an indignant
disagreement. But before launching into a tirade, she wanted to confirm
something that had been nagging at her since the day of the duel. “Be that as it
may, I came here to ask you a question. A very personal one. I am sorry in
advance if it proves to be upsetting to you.”

 

Lady
Ratcliffe clutched the handkerchief to her bosom. “Upsetting? Nothing could
cause me more distress than knowing that my only son is languishing behind
bars.”

 

Portia drew a steadying breath. “I need to know . . . was it you who
killed your husband three years ago?”

 

Lady Ratcliffe’s face turned paper
white. Her bloodless lips parted. She sat very still, her wide green eyes
conveying the terrible, guilty truth. “What? Why would you ask me such a
thing?”

 

A rush of cold anger enveloped Portia. So her suspicions had been
correct. Just as with the death of Albright, and with the gambling, Ratcliffe
had been protecting his mother.

 

She curbed her emotions, keeping her voice
soft but firm. “You
are
responsible. Pray don’t deny it, my
lady.”

 

That patrician chin wobbled. “I can’t imagine why you’re making these
awful accusations.”

 

“Nor can I understand why you would allow your son to
shoulder the blame for your own misdeed. A gun went off. But it wasn’t Colin
holding it. It was you.”

 

Lady Ratcliffe seemed to shrink, her shoulders
lowering, her chin dipping down like a child caught in a naughty act. “All
right, then. But it was an accident. I swear it.”

 

Portia felt no triumph at
the admission. She only wanted to understand matters for Ratcliffe’s sake. “Tell
me what happened.”

 

For a long moment, Lady Ratcliffe was silent, her head
bowed. “I quarreled with my husband,” she whispered. “Roger was angry because
I’d lost a trifling sum at the card tables. It had happened a few times before,
but this time he wouldn’t cease scolding me. He called me . . . a millstone
around his neck.” A sob caught in her throat, and her fingernails dug into the
arm of the chair, shredding the delicate silk. “Please understand my despair,
Miss Crompton! I found one of my son’s pistols . . . and
held it to my bosom. I asked Roger if he would be happier
if I ended my life. I swear to you, I didn’t know the pistol was loaded.
I
didn’t.
When Roger tried to wrest it away from me, it went off . . . it was
nothing but a horrid accident . . .”

 

Her voice faltered to a stop. She lapsed
into wretched weeping, her beautiful face gone ugly with tears.

 

Portia wanted
to despise her, but could summon only pity. Lady Ratcliffe was a weak woman. She
relied on the men in her life to conceal her errors of judgment. She had never
been held accountable for her own actions.

 

Portia intended to put an end to
all that.

 

 

Colin had been given one of the better cells at Newgate Prison.
Which simply meant that rather than share his stone-walled cubicle with several
other inmates, he had rats for company instead. Over the past few days, he had
trained one rodent to beg like a dog for the bits of dry bread left over from
his meager breakfast.

 

At the moment, Colin was sitting on his pallet on the
floor and holding out a crumb between his thumb and forefinger. The skinny gray
creature perched on its hind feet, its whiskers and black snout quivering. Colin
tossed the tidbit up in the air. The rat pounced on it, nibbled daintily, then
ventured back for more.

 

The tramp of footsteps approached from far down the
corridor, but Colin took little notice. The prison was seldom quiet. Guards came
and went. Prisoners howled and banged their tin cups on the bars. Men snored
loudly or laughed raucously at all hours of the night. At least the noise
drowned out the maddening
drip-drip
of water somewhere nearby, the source
of which he had been unable to discern.

 

His life had dwindled to this cramped
stone cell. The damp chill had taken up residence in his bones, despite
the blankets and a few other amenities his mother had
provided through her solicitor. She herself had not been here to visit because
Colin had forbidden it. Nothing would be more incongruous than to see his
elegant mother in this stinking hellhole.

 

Taking the blame for Albright’s
death had been the only course of action open to him. His mother wouldn’t
survive one night in prison. Besides, he was every bit as guilty as she. He
would have pulled the trigger himself had she not done so first.

 

The only
regret he had suffered—still suffered—was losing Portia.

 

He pulverized the
last morsel of bread. The rat scurried here and there, cleaning the bits from
the slimy stone floor.

 

Colin clenched his jaw, struggling to keep the
memories at bay. But a succession of vivid impressions branded him. The silken
softness of her hair. Her joyous cries of ecstasy. The tender touch of her
fingers on his face.

 

I’ll go with you.

 

He buried his head in his
hands. Thank God he’d had the stamina to refuse her imprudent offer. Had she
been tucked in bed with him when the runners had come, they might have arrested
her as an accomplice. The scandal would have kept her from ever showing her face
in public again.

 

If
his abduction of her hadn’t already accomplished
her ruin. And
if
she hadn’t conceived on their night together.

 

In such
a dire instance, what would happen to her and their child? The question made him
half-mad with anxiety. He should never have given in to his base urges. He
should have insisted on marriage first, even if it made him appear as prim and
prissy as a maiden aunt. No one but he was responsible for her downfall.

 

The jingle of keys penetrated his self-mortifying stupor.
The tramp of footsteps had stopped in front of his cell.

 

Colin jerked up his
head. A husky guard with two missing front teeth was opening the iron-barred
door. The pet rat made a dash for a tiny hole in the corner.

 

The guard
stepped aside to let in a small, officious man wearing a sleek black coat with
matching pantaloons. He was carrying a small satchel at his side. His nose
twitched like the rat’s, and his dark eyes betrayed distaste at the
surroundings, as if he were afraid he might catch a disease by touching
anything.

 

It was the solicitor who had been hired to handle the murder case.
Thus far, the fellow had served as little more than a go-between for Colin and
his mother. But at least the visit provided a break from his morbid
thoughts.

 

He rose, his legs stiff. “Entwhistle.”

 

“My lord.” Entwhistle
made a deep, formal bow. As he straightened, his narrow face broke into an
unexpected grin. “I bring the happiest of tidings. You, my lord, are a free
man!”

 

“What?”

 

“Indeed so. You have been cleared of all charges. I have the
papers signed and sealed right here.” He patted his black satchel. “It was
handled quite properly by the magistrate.”

 

Disbelieving, Colin stared. “How
can the case be dropped? I shot the Duke of Albright in cold blood. Unless he’s
risen from the grave to dance in the streets.”

 

Entwhistle laughed as if it
were a brilliant jest. Then he coughed and cleared his throat. “The fact of the
matter is, new evidence has come to light that proves irrefutably that you are
not the guilty party. Indeed, I must admire you for your gentlemanly conduct in
protecting Lady Ratcliffe from admitting her guilt.”

 

Colin seized hold of the man’s lapels. “What the hell?
Are you saying my mother has been arrested for the murder?”

 

The attorney’s
eyes bugged out. “Oh, nay, my lord! She is perfectly safe and sound at her home.
I saw her there myself only a few hours ago.”

 

“I don’t understand, then. Who
have the authorities arrested?”

 

“Why, no one. The magistrate was persuaded
that it was an unfortunate accident. Both seconds have corroborated the
testimony, along with the doctor who attended the duke. So you see, all’s well
that ends well.”

 

In shock, Colin released the man and stepped back. By damn,
he really was free. He would never have expected Albright’s second to have
revealed the duke’s dishonor. Yet he couldn’t feel any triumph, not when society
must be blaming his mother for Albright’s death.

 

Instead he felt mired in
guilt. God help him, he had broken the promise he had made to his father as he
lay dying. Colin had vowed to watch over his mother, to shield and protect her
with his own life.

 

And now he had failed.

 

One fact was certain. His mother
would never have willingly volunteered the truth about her involvement in
Albright’s death. She was too delicate and ladylike to face the risk of being
thrown into prison. But Colin could certainly guess the identity of the
instigator.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 27

 

“Lord
Ratcliffe, innocent of murder?” Mrs. Beardsley pronounced. “Upon my word, it is
too much to believe.”

 

“Surely the courts have made a mistake,” her daughter
Frances said hopefully, blinking her china-blue eyes.

 

While the gossip
swirled around her, Portia serenely sipped her tea. It took great concentration
to keep from showing her elation over Ratcliffe’s release. The news had broken
only a short time ago, and the grand hens of society had come flocking to the
Cromptons’ drawing room—probably because they hoped to spark a reaction from the
debutante who had been involved with Ratcliffe.

 

“More tea?” Mrs. Crompton
asked with grim-faced fortitude, offering the silver pot.

 

With a gnarled
hand, the Duchess of Milbourne waved her away. “There has been no mistake in the
matter,” she told the disappointed Beardsleys. “I heard the truth from Lillian
herself. Apparently, her son shouldered the guilt in order to protect her good
name.”

 

“Will she go to the gallows?” white-haired Lady Grantham asked with a
shudder. “Oh, my stars, I cannot imagine it!”

 

“The magistrate has verified
the word of the seconds,” the duchess replied. “The incident was deemed an act
of
treachery on the duke’s part, so there will be no
need for a trial. At present, Lillian is packing to return to the country.” The
elderly woman stared straight at Portia. “It seems Ratcliffe has ordered her to
take up residence in the dower house on his estate.”

 

Portia pretended
interest in the lukewarm dregs of her cup. Her mind worked feverishly. Ratcliffe
was moving his mother out of the main house? What did it mean? That he didn’t
want her interfering when he brought home a wife?

 

She mustn’t let herself
hope. So much had happened since the duel. To her, the night they’d shared had
bound them together forever. However, it might have meant very little to
Ratcliffe. After all, he had engaged in many such trysts. She may already have
faded in his mind, especially if he believed her father viewed him as too
scandal-ridden to deserve her dowry.

 

Did he love her—or not?

 

Mrs.
Beardsley tut-tutted. “Poor Lady Ratcliffe, to be banished to the
country.”

 

Her daughter nodded vigorously, making her blond curls bounce. “How
cruel of his lordship to send her away from all the shopping in the city. And to
deny her the company of the ton, as well!”

 

“Nonsense,” the duchess said
crisply, motioning imperiously for Mrs. Crompton to hand her a slice of
poppy-seed cake. “No matter what the circumstances, Lillian is responsible for
Albright’s death. I, for one, am pleased she has had the good sense to retire
from society once and for all.”

 

Her firm tone brooked no disagreement, and
Lady Grantham and Mrs. Crompton quickly murmured their support. Portia bit back
a smile to see the consternation on the faces of their other two guests. Stout
Mrs. Beardsley looked as if she’d bitten into a lemon, while her pink-gowned
daughter Frances thrust out her lower lip in a petulant
pout.

 

Mrs. Beardsley harrumphed. “Well, this incident certainly does not
absolve Lord Ratcliffe of his many sins. He remains a menace to the young ladies
of society.”