Seducing the Heiress (9 page)

 

Gently, she rubbed her sister’s hands. “Of course you’re not
a coward. It’s only that I’ve already embroiled you in my troubles far more than
I ought.”

 

“Yes, and just so you know, I won’t be a party to your scheme to
marry Arun,” Lindsey declared, sabotaging their brief closeness by pulling away.
“You shouldn’t have kept his miniature in the first place. Then Ratcliffe
wouldn’t have been in a position to steal it.”

 

Portia parted her lips in a
defensive retort, then decided that, given the present circumstances, it might
be
wiser to placate her sister. “Yes, well, be that as
it may, there
is
something you can do to assist me.”

 

“What’s that? Do
you want me to pick the lock?”

 

“No!” How in the world did her sister know of
such things, anyway? “It would be helpful to have someone cry an alarm if the
viscount returns home unexpectedly. If you wait on the side street, you can
observe both the front and the back doors.”

 

Lindsey made a grumbly noise in
her throat. “I’ll be the lookout, if I must. Don’t worry, the villain won’t get
past me.” She took a step away, then turned back, fishing in her reticule before
pressing something into Portia’s hand. “Here, you might need this more than
I.”

 

In consternation, Portia found herself grasping a dainty pistol that fit
easily into her palm. “Where did you get a gun?”

 

But her sister already had
crept off into the gloom. In her dark clothing, Lindsey blended so well with the
shadows that she might have been mistaken for part of the shrubbery. Her sister
had a truly astonishing knack for subterfuge, Portia realized.

 

Now if only
she herself could do as well.

 

She stepped out from under the tree to examine
the pistol by the faint light of the moon. In India she had handled guns for
hunting, although nothing quite so small as this one. After assuring herself it
wouldn’t go off by accident, she gingerly secreted the pistol in the pocket of
her cloak. She couldn’t imagine pointing the weapon at Lord Ratcliffe, let alone
firing it, but at least it made her feel marginally safer.

 

Taking a deep
breath, she glanced up and down the deserted street before heading toward the
mews behind the row of attached houses. According to their plan, it would be
safest for her to make her entry out of sight of any passersby.

 

The stench of dung permeated the alley. There were stables
back here where the genteel residents kept their horses, and sleeping grooms
that she had no wish to awaken. The dense darkness forced her to proceed
carefully lest she trip and fall. When she found the gate and gave it a push,
the hinges squeaked loudly.

 

She froze in place, half expecting someone to
throw up a window sash and yell,
“Stop, thief!”

 

But the only sounds
were the sleepy twittering of a bird in one of the trees and the bark of a dog
in the distance.

 

She slipped into a tiny garden that smelled of roses and
refuse. Going down the graveled path, she winced several times as the flimsy
dancing slippers provided scant protection from the stones. A small porch led to
the back door. There, she cupped her eyes and peered through a window to see a
long dark passageway lined with black lumps of furniture.

 

Very carefully, she
tried the door handle. Locked.

 

Pursing her lips, she moved down the narrow
width of the house, checking all the back windows. To her frustration, they were
secured as well.

 

Blast, perhaps she ought to have had Lindsey try to pick the
lock, after all—if indeed she really had acquired such a skill. But Portia
disliked involving her sister in this act of burglary any more than she had
already done.

 

That left one unpleasant course of action. She would have to
break the glass.

 

The noise might bring a servant running if any were awake at
this late hour. Reasoning that it was better to take a chance on brazening her
way inside than to be caught red-handed, Portia rapped hard on the back
door.

 

Her palms felt cold and damp inside her kidskin gloves. Any servants
were probably fast asleep in the attic bedchambers. Nevertheless, she forced
herself to wait a few minutes to see if anyone responded to her knock.
Conscious of the time ticking away, she shifted from one
foot to the other while rubbing her arms beneath the cloak in an effort to stay
warm.

 

How long would Ratcliffe wait at the rendezvous before he grew
impatient with her absence? At that point, would he suspect something and come
straight back here? Or would he go and seek out the comforting arms of his
mistress?

 

Portia clenched her teeth at the memory of him strolling in Hyde
Park with that red-haired strumpet. What a wicked charlatan he was, to declare
his fascination for Portia while he continued to consort with women of ill
repute!

 

And what about him banishing his mother to his estate? No decent
gentleman would treat a parent so callously. In so many ways, the man was beyond
the pale.

 

Buoyed by righteous anger, Portia stepped down to the garden in
search of a rock to break the window. She found a better missile at the base of
the porch. It was a small iron boot scraper the length of her hand.
Straightening up, she was startled by the glow of an approaching light inside
the house.

 

The handle rattled and the door swung open. The breath froze in
her throat. Holding up a lantern in one meaty paw, an ogre stood glowering at
her.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 6

 

The
flickering flame shone upon a face so ugly that only innate good manners stopped
Portia from gasping. He had a bulbous, misshapen nose beneath sunken eyes and
shaggy black brows. A number of hideous scars criss-crossed his skin, including
the left side of his head where only half an ear remained. The coarse dark
clothing that covered his massively muscled form marked him as a
servant.

 

“Who the devil are ye?” he demanded. “An’ why are ye stealin’ the
master’s goods?”

 

Portia realized she still held the boot scraper. It was
imperative that he not view her as a thief.

 

She forced a pleasant smile.
“Were I a burglar, I wouldn’t have knocked,” she said in a reasonable tone. “I
only picked this up because . . . because I didn’t know who would answer the
door and I thought I might need a weapon to defend myself.”

 

“Humph. Mayhap ye
meant to clobber the wee maid-servant what answered yer knock. Don’t suppose ye
reckoned on me.”

 

“I assure you, sir, you’re mistaken.” Her heart thumping,
Portia slowly set down the boot scraper while keeping a close watch on him.
Bless Lindsey for giving her the pistol. Its slight but comforting weight rested
against
her hip. Mounting the steps to the porch, she
reminded herself of the role she and her sister had planned. “This
is
Lord Ratcliffe’s house, is it not? I was sent here by him.”

 

One bushy eyebrow
lifted. “Eh?”

 

“I left his lordship’s company only a few moments ago. He asked
me to await him in his bedchamber.”

 

“Ye? Ye’re a lady.”

 

A wealth of
suspicion layered his gruff tone. Belatedly she wondered if she ought to have
adopted the speech of the lower class. But time had been too short to study the
nuances of an accent that she hadn’t grown up hearing. Better this man should
think her a gentlewoman fallen on hard times, reduced to being one of the
viscount’s doxies.

 

She let the cloak fall slightly open so he could glimpse
her form-fitting gown, the one that Lindsey had brought to her. “I
was
raised a lady, although those times are long past. Now, will you kindly show me
to his lordship’s private chambers? If you refuse, you’ll be thwarting his
wishes.”

 

The ogre continued to block the doorway. He glanced past her,
peering into the night. “Where is the master? Why didn’t he come with
ye?”

 

“He wanted to finish up a card game with his friends, so he sent me
ahead to prepare myself for him.”

 

She had only a vague idea of what
preparation a night of passion might entail, but she was desperate to make the
ogre cease his questions. Although it was hardly the same circumstances, her own
father never discussed private female concerns. The slightest reference to such
matters would cause him to disappear into his study or to bury himself in his
newspaper.

 

To her vast relief, the ploy worked and the servant stepped back,
albeit still radiating grumpy distrust.
“Follow me,
then. An’ next time the master best warn me ’bout any visitors.”

 

He clomped
down the corridor toward the front of the house, holding the lantern high to
light the way. Portia scurried in his wake. Despite her nervous anticipation,
she noticed that the place had a shabby air of neglect. There was no fresh scent
of beeswax or gleam of polish on the chairs and tables. The marble floor looked
scuffed and dull. Even the wallpaper was peeling in places.

 

Grasping her
skirts, she hastened to keep pace with the ogre, who turned at the newel post
and marched up a narrow staircase, his shovel-sized feet taking the steps two at
a time. Elation filled her. What had seemed so hopeless the previous night now
lay within her grasp. She had breached Ratcliffe’s defenses and had the chance
to reclaim the evidence of her regard for Arun.

 

On the landing, they passed
the gilt-framed portrait of a beautiful, dark-haired lady with a spaniel resting
at her feet. Her aqua gown was in an old-fashioned style of some three decades
in the past. Her smiling face radiated a sparkling vitality, as if she had
trouble keeping herself seated sedately in the chair.

 

Was she the viscount’s
mother, Lady Ratcliffe? Portia didn’t dare press her luck by asking unnecessary
questions.

 

The ogre shoved open a door in the upstairs corridor and preceded
her into the room. Muttering under his breath about the extra work, he set down
the lamp on a table and stomped to the hearth, where the banked embers glowed
faintly. He hurled coal from the hob onto the ashes, then jabbed around with the
poker until the fire bit back with flaming orange teeth.

 

“Thank you for your
kindness,” Portia said, aware of the precious minutes ticking away. “But it
really isn’t necessary. I can see to my own comforts.”

 

“Master’d ’ave me ’ead if I left ye in the cold and dark.”
He grabbed a beeswax taper and held the wick to the lamp, before jamming it back
into a pewter candlestick, which he ungraciously left on a table. “An’ don’t
bother pokin’ through the master’s things. All the gold’s been locked
up.”

 

She swallowed a pithy retort and strove to look guiltless. Little could
he guess, she had no interest in the usual valuables.

 

With one final glower,
the manservant departed from the room, closing the door with an unnecessary
bang.

 

Portia hastened to put her ear to the wooden panel. She listened until
the tramp of his heavy footsteps disappeared down the stairs. Only then did she
turn to survey her surroundings.

 

The meager light illuminated a chamber
adorned with the threadbare elegance of the previous century. The colors were
blue and gold, with velvet draperies covering the tall windows and age-darkened
landscape paintings hanging on the walls. A faint spicy aroma hung in the cool
air.

 

Ratcliffe’s scent.

 

Beneath the cloak, a shiver riffled over her skin.
Again, she had that unnerving sense of being watched, as if his spirit lingered
in the deep shadows.

 

Nonsense. The bedchamber was deserted because the wicked
viscount had been lured away to Turnbuckle’s garden. Right now, he would be
waiting for her to slip out of the ballroom and join him. Perhaps he was pacing,
planning how best to use his charm to talk her into marriage. Hoping for the
prize of her dowry, he would tarry there for a good while before he realized she
had reneged on the tryst.

 

He might not even know he’d been deliberately duped
until he returned here. By then, she would be long gone.
And he would be faced with the maddening knowledge that
she had been right here in his private quarters, that he had missed the perfect
opportunity for seduction.

 

Averting her gaze from the four-poster bed that
dominated the room, she spied a wingback chair by the marble fireplace. A stack
of books sat on a nearby table, a pair of spectacles resting on the topmost
one.

 

She had to laugh at the incongruous image of him wearing the eyeglasses.
Ratcliffe was certainly no scholar. In truth, she couldn’t begin to guess what a
man of his indecent character might be reading.

 

She held up the candle and
scanned the titles.
The Gentleman Farmer
by Henry Home.
The Gardener’s
and Botanist’s Dictionary
by Philip Miller.
Horse-Hoeing Husbandry
by
Jethro Tull.

 

Portia blinked. Ratcliffe—studying techniques of agriculture?
Perhaps he had made a muddle of his estate and was looking for ways to squeeze
out every last bit of revenue. She could think of no other explanation for his
interest.

 

Then the book on the bottom caught her attention. Her pulse sped up
a notch. Now here was something more suited to him: the
Kama
Sutra.

 

Years ago in India, she had overheard a group of ladies whispering
about the scandalous book, which one of them had confiscated from a servant and
then burned. Portia had asked Arun about the work, and in dismay he’d warned her
it was improper reading for an unmarried girl.

 

She had been curious about it
ever since.

 

On a whim, Portia pulled out the tome. The text was in Hindi; she
could read it tolerably well but surely Ratcliffe could not. Then her puzzlement
vanished as she leafed through the pages and spied the illustrations. Now there
was the likely source of his attention.