by Deb Marlowe
‘No need at all,’ he replied. ‘I’ve quite resigned myself that my boots will not survive my acquaintance with you, Portia.’ He grimaced. ‘Let’s just hope they are the only casualty.’
Only Portia could contrive to look completely fetching while striding across farmland, wearing bulky work boots and an old linen wrapper dragged from the bottom of a storage bin. Mateo spent a few minutes watching her carefully, but she appeared to be fully recovered from her earlier lethargy.
He felt relieved, and restless because of the intensity of that relief. Though she’d always been quiet—at least when he was around—she’d always been full of interest and enthusiasm once you looked past the surface. But her companion had conjured an unpleasant image of what Portia’s married life must have been like, and he couldn’t shake the ugly picture from his mind. It disturbed him to think of all that quiet, industrious energy subverted by cruelty or negligence.
He hardly had time to dwell on it, thank goodness. The boy dispatched to guide them had been promised a slice of berry pie on his return, and he set a brutal pace. Portia literally took it in her stride, and indeed appeared remarkably at home crossing fields and jumping ditches. She never stalled until they skirted a damp meadow planted thick with tall, rough stalks, hairy leaves and drooping pink flowers.
She stopped and broke a stalk off. ‘Comfrey,’ she said musingly.
Mateo was far beyond the area of his expertise. ‘Is that significant?’
‘Only unusual, to see an entire plot of it planted,’ she returned. She waved to their impatient escort. ‘I’m sorry. Lead on.’
Clearly Portia had landed smack in the middle of her area of expertise. Watching her, with Miss Tofton’s story fresh in his mind, the significance of Stenbrooke and all that it must have meant to her became suddenly clear. More than a childhood passion for gardening and landscape had gone into that magnificent estate. Stenbrooke must have provided both purpose and escape. To keep her home and live her life according to her own choosing—it would be the ultimate victory, the symbol of triumph over all that she had endured.
The idea added another level of commonality to their already dangerous understanding of each other. It also added another dimension to his determination to see both their goals met.
His master was just ahead, the boy told them, pointing to a field of spindly grain stalks. Mateo shared a smile with Portia as the boy left them at a run, and together they crossed to the far edge of the field, where a group of labourers had gathered in a loose circle.
The men parted as they approached, and he saw that they watched a man wielding a shovel. He was of middling years, and dressed as a gentleman, but his breeches were shabby, his waistcoat stained and the string of curses coming out of his mouth would have earned any sailor’s respect.
‘Mr Riggs.’ Mateo stepped closer. ‘I apologise for the interruption, but we’d like a moment to speak to you.’
‘Not now.’ The portly man spoke without looking around. He knelt down in the dirt and pulled a clump of scrawny plants up by the roots. He shook the dirt free, spraying it everywhere, and began to examine the root ball closely, grumbling under his breath all the time.
Mateo’s patience had met its end. ‘Sir, we’ve come—’
His gruff speech was interrupted when Portia laid a hand on his arm and squeezed. The wry twist of her mouth surprised him, but not nearly so much as the slow wink of her eye.
She stepped forwards and knelt down next to the obnoxious man.
‘Drainage is fine, roots are healthy,’ he said without looking at her. ‘But just look at this barley; it’s got barely a whisker, let alone a beard.’
‘Too many heavy feeders?’ she asked.
Riggs started at the sound of her voice, and at last his head whipped around.
Portia maintained her serious expression and gestured across the field. ‘Have you tried beans?’
The man’s eyes grew rounder. ‘And clover,’ he said grudgingly.
‘Had the sheep in?’
He nodded.
Slowly she peeled her gloves off. Riggs and his labourers stared as if she’d sprouted two heads. Mateo wondered what under the deep blue sky she was up to when she looked over her shoulder and handed him her gloves.
Every man in the field held his breath as she knelt down, close to the earth. She peered at the hole Riggs had made, then scooped up a handful of soil. Cradling it, she picked through it. She closed her eyes, brought it close to her face and sniffed deeply. She squeezed her fist tight around it, and then examined the soil again. ‘I can see you’ve added malt waste,’ she said thoughtfully. She met Riggs’s gaze. ‘Have you tried marl?’
Mateo saw respect bloom on the man’s face and surprise show on the labourers’.
‘Aye,’ Riggs answered her. ‘It was the last thing I tried. It’s been three seasons I let this field rest. I thought ’twould be ready again.’ He kicked at the row of spindly stalks. ‘But you see the results.’A crafty look grew in his eye. ‘So then, will you make a suggestion of what I should try next?’ He allowed open amusement to colour his voice and Mateo saw several of the surrounding men smirk.
Portia stood, clapping her hands together, then wiped them on the rough linen of her wrap. She took her gloves back from Mateo, but did not don them. Instead she waved them negligently to indicate the sparse field of grain. ‘Plough it all in,’ she said curtly. ‘Now, have you a river or tributary on your land?’
‘I do.’ Riggs popped to his feet, as well, and Mateo was surprised at how sprightly he moved.
‘Then I would dredge up a goodly amount of river mud,’ Portia instructed. ‘Lay in a store of fish, grind them and mix it in with the mud. Spread the whole mess over your field and plough it under, good and deep.’ She grinned. ‘It stinks to high heaven, but it works wonders.’
Riggs’s jaw dropped. ‘By God, I’ve never thought of such a thing—but it sounds as if it just might work.’ He stuck out a grubby hand and Mateo bit back a smile as Portia took it with her own. ‘Who the h—?’ He checked himself. ‘Who the blazes are you?’
‘Lady Portia Tofton,’ she said briskly.
Mateo stared. He had not heard her use her hereditary title since he’d arrived. Not that he’d given it much thought, but he’d supposed that she’d given it up on her marriage.
‘We’ve come to discuss some important business with you,’ she continued. ‘But I’m pleased if I’ve been of some help.’
‘Business?’ Riggs eyed her up and down in a fashion that set Mateo’s teeth on edge. ‘It’s enough of a shock to find a woman who understands agriculture. Will you tell me now that you’ve a head for business, too?’
Mateo edged closer. ‘We want to discuss an acquaintance of yours, sir. Mr Averardo.’
‘Never heard of him,’ Riggs said. He also never took his eye off of Portia.
She took a deep breath. Mateo wished she hadn’t. Riggs appeared to enjoy it far too much.
‘Mr Riggs, I am the owner—was the owner—of property south of Newbury. Stenbrooke,’ she said gently. ‘Perhaps you recall it?’
‘Newbury?’ he beamed. ‘Ah, then you’re a Berkshire girl! Wonderful country, is it not? No place better than Wiltshire and Berkshire for research into important agricultural developments.’ He took her arm and, turning her away from Mateo, led her a step or two to one side. ‘You’ll never see so many different terrains situated so close. Why, do you know that on this acreage alone I have high chalk plains, a lowland landscape and deeper-lying vales? Three separate soil systems in one estate! Not to mention the nearby river valleys, the—’
‘Stenbrooke, Mr Riggs?’ Mateo interrupted, following the two of them. ‘You might recall sending your solicitor, Mr Rankin, to serve a deed of conveyance on the property—even though your name was not to be found on the deed.’ He raised a brow. ‘We were wondering how that came about?’
The man reddened. He clapped his hand to the milling, chatting men still standing about. ‘You hea
rd the lady, lads! Fetch the plough and get this blasted barley tilled under—and then we’re for the river.’
The men scattered and Portia laid a hand on the man’s arm. ‘Please, Mr Riggs. That deed of conveyance has gone missing. I need to find it, so I can get Stenbrooke back.’
‘I can’t discuss it!’ He seemed genuinely upset. ‘It’s not my business to share with you or anyone.’
‘It’s my business, sir,’ Portia asserted. ‘And you made it yours when you sent Mr Rankin to my home.’
‘Would never have done it, had I known…’ he waved his hand ineffectually ‘…had I known you.’
‘I love Stenbrooke, just as you obviously love Longvale. Berkshire is indeed a remarkable country. I would be heartbroken to leave it.’
‘I am all sympathy, my lady, but there is nothing I can do.’
‘Of course you can. You can tell us about Mr Averardo.’
Riggs rubbed his fingers vigorously over his ears, as if he could block out the sound of her request. ‘Don’t know the man, I tell you!’
Mateo’s frustration was building. ‘Then how did the deed to Stenbrooke come into your possession? Why were you involved at all?’
Mute, Riggs shook his head.
Hell and damnation. Mateo’s fists clenched. Was he to be thwarted at every step of this miserable business? He took a menacing step towards the man, determined to wring the information out of him, if need be.
But once again, Portia stalled him. She stepped in close to Riggs and wrapped her hand around his arm. She breathed deeply and smiled at the man. ‘Perhaps you have not realised, Mr Riggs, that my father was the Earl of Winbury? I grew up at Hempshaw, also in Berkshire.’
Riggs stared at her, clearly not understanding what that information had to do with anything, but also clearly grateful for the reprieve. Mateo hadn’t a clue what she was up to, either, but after her earlier success, he was willing to play this out her way.
‘You’ve been to Hempshaw before, I believe, sir? At least, I thought I recalled that you had escorted your mother there on at least one occasion.’
Horrified comprehension dawned on the man’s face. Mateo could only hope it boded well for them.
‘That’s right—’ Portia smiled ‘—I can see that you do recall it. My mother was the Countess of Winbury. Our mothers were the best of friends. I am still in contact with your mama, in fact.’ Her smile grew slightly knowing. ‘She’s such a dedicated correspondent.’
Riggs gave a massive shudder. ‘Well, I know it. You have my sympathies, if you are on the receiving end of her acid pen.’
Portia managed to look shocked. Mateo hid a smile.
‘That’s not a very chivalrous thing to say about your own mother, sir,’ she chided. ‘She’s a lovely woman.’ She paused and regarded him in a considering manner. ‘But I admit she does seem to be a bit obsessed with your unmarried state.’
‘Twenty years and I’ve heard of nothing else,’ he moaned.
‘Well, now that I’ve been to Longvale I have a greater insight into her objections. Your house is in a deplorable condition and your person is not much better. I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but you could do with a bath, a hair cut and a trip to the tailor.’ The mischievous smile returned. ‘Clearly you are in want of a woman’s guidance.’ She darted a quick glance in Mateo’s direction. ‘In my next letter I shall tell your mama that I am in complete agreement with her. I dare say she will be very grateful to have her maternal urgings validated. Very grateful, indeed.’
Mateo gaped at her. The minx! He’d accused her of blackmailing him into marriage and now she used the threat of marriage to blackmail Riggs. Dio, but it was a brilliant strategy. She was brilliant. He had to fight the mad impulse to laugh out loud, and the more insaneurge to grab her up by her arms and kiss her, hard and long.
Except that her strategy appeared to have backfired. Instead of blurting out the information they were after, the repulsive man was running an evaluating eye over her. As if she was a prized filly at a horse fair. Mateo’s heart began to pound.
‘Well, I might actually consider my dear mother’s feelings in this matter, were the chit in question one with a brain in her head and an understanding of what I’m doing here.’ The lecherous devil leered at Portia. ‘Damned if I wouldn’t like to shock the old woman by presenting her with my wife!’ Mateo watched him gnaw the inside of his cheek, considering. ‘It would seem to solve your problems, as well, Lady Portia. What do you say?’
It was Portia’s turn to gape. Her mouth actually dropped. Ah, but she was hoist by her own petard! Mateo had to recognise the humour in the situation, then, even though he could swear the man’s words had started a red haze around the edge of his vision.
Portia recovered quickly. She threw another glance his way and then let loose with a gay laugh. ‘Oh, Mr Riggs, you flatter me! Your mother will in no way consider me eligible to be your bride.’
‘Certainly not,’ Mateo agreed. ‘Lady Portia is a widow, childless and likely too old, besides.’
This time she did not feign to look at him, although her lips tightened. She looked absolutely lovely, even covered with mud and awash with annoyance.
‘But how happy she will be to hear you are finally ready to take her well-meant advice!’ she exclaimed. ‘Of course you will be expected to find a fresh young bride. Your mother will likely insist that you spend the Season in London next spring, looking over the new crop of available young ladies.’
‘She knows I can’t do the Season,’ Riggs said, aghast. ‘The spring planting!’
‘You’ll have to count on missing part of the summer, for likely your young bride will wish to marry from her own home,’ mused Mateo. ‘Oh, and the autumn will be taken up with a bridal trip.’
‘At harvest time?’ Riggs shook his head. ‘No. I’ve said it all along—marriage is a bad idea.’
‘But imagine the rewards,’ Portia cajoled. ‘A lovely young woman, and likely children to follow. She’ll keep your house, see to hiring more servants and make your life so much more pleasant!’
‘Yes,’ Mateo said sourly. ‘She’ll run through your money, expect you to keep regular hours, eat regular meals and keep her informed of your whereabouts at all times.’ Mateo shuddered right along with their victim. ‘And the people that will be about! Young hostesses must prove their mettle, mustn’t they? There will be dinners and house parties and you’ll have to do the pretty with all your neighbours—’
‘Enough!’ Riggs nearly shouted. ‘I know what you’re trying to do, but the devil of it is, it’s likely to work! Lady Portia, I beg you, do not start my mother off on a tear. My nerves won’t take it!’ He sighed. ‘But, truly, I cannot help you.’
‘Tell us what you know,’ Mateo said simply.
He drooped in defeat. ‘All right, but come, you’ve quite worn me out. I need a drink.’ He led them to the corner of the field, where an earthenware jug rested in the shade. He tipped it up and took a long draught, then offered it around. Both Mateo and Portia declined.
‘It’s just tea, not rotgut,’ he clarified. ‘It’s gone cold, but it’s good none the less.’
‘No, thank you. The deed? Do you have it in your possession?’ asked Mateo.
‘What? No. I sent it on weeks ago.’ He heaved a great sigh and settled to the ground, leaning back against a tree. ‘There are a couple of stumps there.’ He indicated with a wave of his hand. ‘You’re a strapping fellow,’ he said to Mateo. ‘Roll them over here and you two can sit.’
Mateo wrestled one of the wide remnants over and Portia perched herself upon it. He leaned against a tree and invited Riggs to continue.
‘I handled the business for a friend,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I owed him, you see. Could hardly refuse.’
‘Why not?’ Portia asked.
He took another drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘It all started with Bright Early Morning.’
Mateo and Portia exchanged a look.
‘Finest sp
ecimen of a racehorse I believe I’ve ever seen.’
‘A racehorse?’ Portia looked as startled as Mateo felt.
‘Yes. It was a project of mine.’ Riggs’s expression lost focus and he gazed up into the canopy overhead. ‘I thought to develop a special feed. Something to increase endurance, strengthen the bones, give a horse an advantage in a race. I proposed the plan to a friend, a man mad for racing and involved in breeding horses. I talked him into it, you might say.’
‘Ah,’ Portia said suddenly. ‘The comfrey!’
‘Yes, that was a component. We kept her on a special diet of my design. And she looked so damned healthy! Sound and strong—and fast, too. I thought we’d struck upon something big. We entered her in the Oxford races. My friend and I both bet heavy on her.’
‘What happened?’ asked Mateo, although the answer seemed obvious.
‘She nearly did it, nearly won. They were turning into the last stretch and she started to pull away from the pack. Another jockey saw her making to leave them, and he jostled her—set his mount against her hard and deliberate.’
‘Oh, no.’ Portia’s face fell.
‘Aye. She went down in a tumble. Shattered a front leg and a back. Had to be put down right there on the track. Another colt was caught up in it, too. They tried to save him, but after a day or two, had to give it up.’ He shook his head, closed his eyes and drank again. ‘Worst day of my life.’
‘But what does Bright Early Morning have to do with Stenbrooke?’ asked Portia.
‘My friend, the breeder, he lost his most promising filly. He lost a fortune. And he lost a good bit of his reputation, as well.’ He turned pleading eyes to Mateo. ‘You see, don’t you? I owed him. Money, but more, too. It was a debt of honour.’ He looked again to Mateo for understanding.
And Mateo knew what he meant. ‘So he asked this of you? That you deliver the deed to Stenbrooke?’
‘Among other things, but, yes. He sent the paperwork by courier. But at the time we were having major drainage problems in an important field. So I sent the fellow on to Rankin so he could handle it for me.’