by Deb Marlowe
‘It could have been a fake.’
He saw hope flare in her eyes, but then her brow furrowed. ‘Much as I’d like to believe that, it did look official enough to me.’ She frowned. ‘I believed it to be J.T.’s signature. Both Dorinda and I examined the deed, and I asked Mr Newman to look it over, as well. We were all convinced.’
The clerk rose, groaning to his feet. ‘Did Mr Rankin not leave you a copy, when he came out to see you, ma’am?’
‘Keep quiet, Dobbins,’ the solicitor ordered.
Everyone ignored him.
Portia shook her head. ‘No, should he have?’
‘Well, it’s usual in these cases, but not required,’ the old man mused. ‘Certainly at one point there were three copies of the thing, right here in this office.’
Mateo waved a hand. ‘But if none of them can be produced, there is no proof. Stenbrooke will remain yours.’
The solicitor abruptly slumped into his desk chair. ‘Mr Riggs will see me drummed out of the county for this,’ he moaned.
Mateo could not help but notice that the clerk did not greet this pronouncement with any sort of distress.
‘But wait…’ Rankin straightened in his chair. ‘Perhaps his courier mistakenly took it back with him. Yes, of course!’ He slapped a hand on his desk and cast a look of triumph at Mateo and Portia. ‘It must be so! So sorry,’ he smirked, ‘but I’ll be in contact with Riggs and soon enough I’ll have your copy and one for the courts. I’ll file it at the quarter session and that will be an end to it.’
Portia took a step into the room. ‘Who is Riggs?’she asked. ‘The name on the deed was Averardo.’
Mateo stilled. Rankin’s expression fell again.
‘Enough!’ Mateo barked, suddenly impatient. ‘I have had my fill of these games. Mrs Tofton, who is the local magistrate? He can sort through this mess better than you or I.’
‘No!’ Rankin reached out a pleading hand.
The clerk’s mouth twitched. ‘The magistrate threatened to ride him out of town on a rail himself, should he catch him in another questionable bit of business.’
‘Shut up, Dobbins,’ Rankin growled.
‘Let’s go,’ Mateo said to Portia.
‘Please!’Rankin called. He stepped around the desk. ‘You’ll put my livelihood at risk, all for a misplaced piece of paper?’
‘Yes,’ Mateo said over his shoulder. ‘And with the same amount of pleasure that you have shown in displacing Mrs Tofton.’ He placed his hand on Portia’s elbow and stepped towards the door.
It was the clerk who spoke out. ‘Ma’am, I’m thinking you’ll want to hear his end of it.’
Mateo glanced over his shoulder.
Rankin’s shoulders slumped. ‘Come back,’ he said with a wave. ‘I’ll tell you.’ He looked up sharply. ‘But you’ll have to agree not to run telling tales to the magistrate.’
Mateo raised a quizzical brow at Portia. She nodded. Together they turned back, and he swept a pile of files from a chair for her. She arranged the heavy skirts of her habit, and once she was seated, he perched on the edge, firmly telling himself to ignore her sweetly spiralling scent. ‘Let’s hear the whole of it,’ he said.
Rankin took his seat again. He shrugged and darted a look of ill-concealed dislike at Portia. ‘There’s not so much to tell. Everyone knows her husband was a gambler and a wastrel.’
Portia flinched. Mateo leaned forwards, scowling. ‘The whole of it, where you are concerned,’he growled.
Rankin returned his glare. ‘It’s simple enough. Her husband used the estate as a stake in a card game. And lost. My client is someone who I have collaborated with before, handling his business matters in this part of the country. He sent the deed over by courier, along with signed statements of witnesses who were present when Mr Tofton lost his estate.’
Next to him, Portia tensed further. Her fists clenched in her lap and the elegant column of her neck tightened. Mateo had to blink and stop himself from running a soothing finger down the slender length of it.
‘I looked everything over carefully. It was all in order. So I travelled over to Stenbrooke to deliver the news,’ concluded Rankin.
Mateo listened with only half an ear. His brain was sifting through the man’s words, hearing everything that he did not say, but his gaze was still caught by the contrast of Portia’s creamy skin and thick, honeyed hair. He could see her pulse, beating steadily right at the tip of a richly curling lock of hair. The curl fluttered, shifting just the tiniest bit with each beat of her heart.
The clerk, still hovering at the filing cabinet where his employer had flung him, cleared his throat. Loudly. Then he did it again.
Mateo jerked his gaze away. ‘Is there something you’d like to add, sir?’
‘No,’Rankin answered for him—and viciously. ‘Absolutely, there is not.’
‘He come back from the lady’s estate chortling over their reactions,’ the clerk said defiantly. ‘Those ladies were shocked and devastated, and he enjoyed every moment of it.’
‘Hold your tongue, old man.’ The threat in Rankin’s tone was clear.
‘I’ve held it long enough,’ the clerk replied. He focused his attention on Portia. ‘I am old,’ he said simply. ‘I worked thirty years for my last employer, but they sent me out to pasture, wanted new blood. I took this job because I thought no one else’d have me. But I can’t abide the sick feeling it gives me.’
He raised his chin. ‘Don’t want to retire; I’d likely go mad with boredom. I’d like a nice, quiet position, though.’
Mateo’s mouth quirked. ‘It just so happens that Mrs Tofton is the controlling owner of a fleet of merchant ships. I’m sure she could find you something to your liking, should you have something she’d like to hear in exchange.’
Rankin stood. ‘That’s enough! I’ve told you what I know—you can’t go stealing my employees right out from under my nose.’ He cast a malevolent look at his clerk. ‘Even if they are traitorous dogs.’
Portia stood suddenly. ‘I’ve had as much of your company as a lady can tolerate, Mr Rankin.’She turned to the clerk. ‘Mr…?’
He bobbed his head. ‘Dobbins, ma’am.’
‘Mr Dobbins. I am certain we could find a quiet task verifying manifests or something similar. I’m sure we could round up a raised desk, a cushioned chair and an increase in pay. Does that sound to your liking?’
The clerk’s eyes lit up. ‘It does indeed, ma’am.’
She shot a dark look at Rankin, and then held her arm up invitingly to Dobbins. ‘Then let us go, sir. I’m quite anxious to hear what you have to say.’
‘Now, just a minute!’ Rankin objected, starting around his desk once more. ‘I won’t have—’
Mateo stepped in front of the man. ‘You won’t have an office, a business or all of your teeth, should I hear another word from you. Or another word about you, either. As of this minute, this affair is none of yours.’ He grasped the man by his oversized waistcoat and pulled him in close. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
Mateo pushed him away. Without another word he hastened after Portia and the clerk. They’d reached the outer office and were just stepping into the bustle of the street when he caught up with them.
‘Well, Mr Dobbins, I’d like to hear just what you can tell us. Now, before we go any further.’
‘Perhaps we could find a spot to sit down?’ Portia interrupted. ‘Poor Mr Dobbins has had quite a morning. I can feel your arm trembling,’ she said kindly to the man. ‘There’s a bench in front of that bookshop, down the street. Can you make it there?’
‘Surely I can, Mrs Tofton, thank you.’
They set off. At the clerk’s shuffling gait it took several long minutes to reach the spot. Mateo was bursting with impatience again by the time they arrived. All thoughts of Portia’s elegant nape and appealing new confidence aside, his mind was already drifting towards the sea, to the difficulties he was going to have to face back in Philadelphia. He needed to wrap this transaction u
p, and quickly, before he actually gave into temptation and touched that dancing curl of honeyed hair.
‘Smartly, Dobbins,’ he ordered once the old clerk had settled on to the bench and leaned back gratefully into the warmth of the sun. ‘Let’s hear what you have to offer.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Dobbins said with a flash of humour in his eyes. He sighed. ‘Rankin told you the truth, ma’am.’ He smiled at Portia. ‘Just not all of it.’
‘What is it that you thought I needed to know?’ she asked softly.
‘Just what you started to find out for yourself. The client Rankin mentioned was Mr Riggs. He’s a scientific type, an agriculturist—always trying to find a way to get a bigger, faster crop, or the harvest in quicker. He has a great tract of land outside Marlborough. Longvale, it’s called. But he also searches out small parcels of land in different areas and uses them in his experiments.’
‘Mr Rankin told my companion that his employer would likely plough Stenbrooke under, but Riggs was not the name on the deed.’
‘Exactly, ma’am! Riggs leased a bit of land from Rankin, then asked him to keep an eye out for more in this area. Oh, he found him a few lots, but he skimmed a little cream off the top of the deals, if you know what I mean.’
‘And Riggs found him out?’ Mateo asked.
‘He did. But he told him he would not turn him in—not if he handled this Stenbrooke case, fast and quiet-like.’ He looked to Portia. ‘Averardo is the one who won your estate at cards. I don’t know why he didn’t handle the conveyance himself, but he sent the documents out to Riggs, who sent them on to Rankin. Sent them by courier, in fact, and that fellow stayed here while Rankin set the conveyance in motion. Mighty curious man, that courier. Highhanded, I’d call him. He asked a lot of questions of Rankin, once he come back from Stenbrooke.’
‘What sort of questions?’ Mateo demanded.
‘Oh, he wanted to know who was with Mrs Tofton, and how did she take the news, that sort of thing.’ Dobbins patted Portia’s hand.
‘And do you believe the courier took the deed with him when he left?’
‘Must have done. It’s not in that office and there’s been no chance to file it with the courts. Won’t reconvene until quarter day.’
Mateo felt a surge of hope. All he needed was to find this Averardo before the next quarter day, before there was any chance of that conveyance being recorded. It would be simple enough then to make the man a generous offer. The deed and any copies would be destroyed and Stenbrooke would remain Portia’s as if the conveyance had never happened. Most importantly, he could be out of England and on his way to Philadelphia, with no need to wait for another deed to be drawn up, no need to involve clerks, solicitors or courts at all.
Mr Dobbins had reached a similar conclusion. ‘You’ll want to find Averardo, should you wish to buy Stenbrooke back,’ he told Portia.
‘Do you know where we might find him?’she asked.
‘I don’t know the first thing about him. Mr Riggs is the man to ask,’ Dobbins spoke kindly.
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Dobbins. I’ve heard of Mr Riggs and his work.’ She smiled at the old man. ‘Now, what are we to do with you?’
Mateo fished out his purse. ‘Are you familiar with Portsmouth, Mr Dobbins?’
‘I know where it is,’ the clerk replied cautiously.
‘Then take this.’ Mateo gestured and counted out a fistful of coins to the man. ‘Make your way there and in Union Street you’ll find offices for Cardea Shipping. Talk to Mr Salvestro—he’s the agent there. Tell him that I—’ He stopped and cursed inwardly. ‘Tell him that we sent you. We’ll write ahead so you’ll be expected. By the time you arrive, they’ll have a satisfying position set up for you.’ He raised a questioning brow. ‘Will you have any difficulty with that?’
‘None at all, sir!’ Dobbins replied happily.
Portia stood, smiling brilliantly. ‘That’s settled, then.’ She held out her hand to Dobbins. ‘Welcome aboard, Mr Dobbins.’
Chapter Five
Perhaps Portia should have felt disheartened. Her simple plan to regain Stenbrooke had suddenly become more complicated. The Michaelmas deadline had acquired a new significance and now she had Mr Rankin working actively against her, instead of just callously executing his duty.
She wasn’t in the least disheartened, however. Oddly, and against all reason, she felt elated. Rankin had been vile and rude, it was true, but he had a long way to go before he could match the habitual coarseness of her late husband. Rankin’s discourtesy had barely moved her—and it was not only because of her more than passing familiarity with a bully’s behaviour.
No—it was because she’d faced it with Mateo at her side. He’d always done that for her, boosted her confidence with his own. Her father, perpetually surprised that he’d fathered a girl after so many strapping sons, had always treated her as if he’d expected her to break, or perhaps just to break into tears. She’d always thought he’d be equally horrified at either occurrence. To her brothers she’d been a nuisance, or an occasionally amusing target, and as for J.T.…well, she was not going to ruin her good mood by recalling anything about him. But Mateo had always treated her with a simple acceptance, and she had come to crave that heady feeling of equality.
Today she’d had a taste of it again—and she wanted more. She bit her lip to keep from grinning. Watching him stride up Northbrook Street ahead of her, she knew that that wasn’t all she wanted.
Mateo was different in nearly every way from the other men in her life. He just seemed so much more. Darker and more handsome, without doubt—also strong enough in character to stand up against the unscrupulous and confident enough to extend a little kindness to the unfortunate. Mateo had never, she felt sure, dragged someone down to lift himself up.
Instead, the opposite held true—he exuded an incredible masculinity that was impossible to ignore. Perhaps it came from being a ship’s captain and the air of command that went with it. Perhaps it was the intriguing dichotomy of knowing that his large, calloused hands were equally comfortable gripping the top rigging of a merchant sloop or a lady’s hand amidst London’s grandest society. Whatever its origin, his appeal was a smoky, nearly tangible thing, reaching out to her and setting her blood to surging until she feared she couldn’t contain her response. Despite the difficulties ahead, she felt hopeful and light.
Unfortunately, Mateo’s temper was not pulling in tandem with hers. Since they’d parted from Mr Dobbins he’d been silent and withdrawn. Lost in contemplation, he’d walked beside her, but without touching her, until his absorption and his longer pace allowed him to gradually draw ahead. He had not even noted her absence, and though she knew he did not deliberately ignore her, and while she could certainly appreciate once more the pleasing prospect of broad shoulders, tight trousers and tall boots, she was not inclined to allow it to continue.
Already he’d reached the side street that led to the livery. ‘Mateo,’ she called as he made the turn. She was still a good distance behind him.
He did not pause.
She quickened her step. ‘Mateo!’ She reached the corner. The crowd was thinner here, but still the street was busy. ‘Mateo! If you pull much further ahead, I’ll lose sight of you completely.’
She saw his head turn and his step falter. He cast about for her and spun on his heel. She waved at him and he strode rapidly back to her.
‘My apologies, Portia.’ He offered her his arm.
‘Since I’m to benefit from your contemplation, I suppose I will forgive you,’ she said lightly.
‘Hmm.’
‘Are you thinking of the trip to Marlborough? It’s a good nineteen miles, nearly twenty by the time we reach Longvale, but we’ll be on the Bath road for most of the trip. We should make it there in a morning’s drive.’
‘Hunh.’
She tried again. ‘J.T.’s curricle is still in the carriage house at home. If the day is fine, and you don’t mind riding in the open, we could make use of it.
’
No response. Perhaps she should try another tactic. ‘My ears are purple, your nose is green and since I’m a widow now, I’m contemplating having a torrid affair with a rakehell of the first consequence. I know you’ve connections to the nobility through your cousin Sophie and that you’ve made a few forays into London society over the years. Can you recommend anyone who might do?’
‘Mmmph,’ was the entirety of his reply.
Portia nudged him with an unladylike jab of her elbow. ‘Mateo!’
He glanced down at her. ‘Yes?’
She rolled her eyes and gave up. ‘Are you fretting about how to deal with Mr Riggs? There isn’t the slightest need.’
‘Is there not? I hesitate to disagree, cara, but I have a bad feeling we are about to become mixed up in what your brothers would call a cavey business.’
They’d reached the livery. Portia nodded her thanks as he held the door wide for her to enter the dingy office. ‘A havey-cavey business, they might label this,’ she corrected. ‘While my father would storm about, calling the whole thing a damned hum.’
His eyes widened. ‘But he would not approve of you repeating it,’ he chided.
‘Well, I don’t approve of how he handled my inheritance, so we’d be even. In any case, I suppose that the question of whether they would be right or not depends on what Mr Riggs has to say.’
The livery attendant was a boy of about fourteen, sleeping soundly on the one rickety wooden chair. Mateo shook him awake and sent him off to ready their mounts. ‘I don’t know what caves have to do with any of it,’ he grumbled as he offered her the questionable chair.
‘I’m sure I don’t, either,’ she said with a smile. The office was wooden, nothing more than a lean-to attached to the side of an ancient barn. Sun shone through cracks in the boarded walls and ceiling, highlighting the straw dust in the air and touching the shabby room with a hint of magic. Mateo perched himself on an empty barrel and gave every indication of going off into deep thought again.
‘But are you not interested in what I have to say about Mr Riggs?’ she asked. ‘I assure you I know exactly how to handle him.’