Seducing the Heiress

by Olivia Drake

  Upon her arrival in London the previous year, Portia had made arrangements for her overseas mail to be delivered here. Kasi had accompanied her on that occasion, and ever since had collected the mail once a month. Mr. Brindley, the shipping agent, had been wary at the prospect of dealing with a woman, at least until Portia had made it well worth his while.

  In a matter of moments she would have her hands on Arun’s letter, the one that had failed to arrive a few weeks ago. Surely it had come on one of the many ships that entered port daily. By reading Arun’s words, by smelling the faint sandalwood scent that clung to the paper, she would recall all the nuances of his kind and chivalrous nature. She would reassure herself that he was the perfect husband.

  Not a scoundrel who tried to win her by using the most unscrupulous of methods. Who thought nothing of preying upon a young lady’s virtue. Who had the audacity to introduce her to intimacies that should be known only to a wedded wife.

  Caught up in her brooding thoughts, Portia failed to sense impending danger. As she approached the door, a small dark form rushed at her from around the corner. She caught the whiff of a fetid odor, saw the flash of a dirty face in the instant before the midget thief grabbed her reticule.

  She cried out and attempted to fend him off, but it was too late. The strings of the purse broke under a hard tug. The robber turned and ran, taking the coins that were supposed to pay for Arun’s letter.

  Portia acted on pure instinct. Lifting her skirts, she plunged after him in pursuit. “Stop, thief!”

  With the noise from the docks, no one paid any heed. The felon darted toward the narrow lane, heading for a warren of tenement buildings.

  The grizzled old coachman sat blinking in befuddlement atop the hackney. He made a creaky move to climb down, but his lack of speed rendered him useless as a rescuer.

  Then she glimpsed a gentleman tying up an old nag a short distance behind the coach. “Help!” she called. “Help me, sir!”

  As the criminal attempted to dash across the street, the man reached out and seized him by the scruff of his neck.

  She hastened toward them, her heart pounding and her mind awash with thankfulness. It was only upon nearing the pair that she noticed two facts in quick succession.

  Firstly, the robber was not a midget, as she’d initially assumed. Beneath the filth on his face and the ragged garments that hung from his skinny form, he was a boy of perhaps eight or nine.

  Secondly, the hero who had made the swift capture was none other than Viscount Ratcliffe.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE SHOCK OF his presence slowed her steps. In stark contrast to his tattered prisoner, Ratcliffe was the essence of masculine grooming in a tiered greatcoat, tasseled Hessian boots, and a beaver hat. He held one arm extended, from which dangled the wriggling youngster.

  All of her gratitude vanished under an avalanche of insight. Ratcliffe’s sudden manifestation could be no coincidence.

  “You!” she accused, on reaching them. “What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”

  “And lucky for you that I did.” He turned his attention to his sullen captive. “Hand over the goods, lad.”

  “Nay!”

  “Do it quickly now. Or by God, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born.”

  The urchin angled a suspicious scowl up at Ratcliffe, then slowly stuck out his grubby paw.

  Portia took the reticule, its weight reassuring her that the contents were intact. The broken cord dangled uselessly, so she tucked the purse into an inner pocket of her cloak. Then she bent down to take a closer look at the boy. He gazed back with defiant blue eyes that were ringed with what looked like years of accumulated dirt. The mistrust he radiated unexpectedly touched her heart.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Bane.”

  “Bane?”

  “Aye, me mum said Oi were a bane an’ a pain.”

  Good heavens. “Where is your mother? Does she live nearby?”

  “She be dead,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “ ’Twere a fever wot took ’er.”

  “Have you a father? Or any other family?”

  Glowering, he gave a quick shake of his head and offered nothing more, as if he regretted admitting so much.

  His plight appalled Portia. She vacillated between wanting to empty the contents of her reticule into his dirty hands, and realizing that she shouldn’t reward his thievery. “You oughtn’t steal what doesn’t belong to you, Bane,” she chided. “If you had asked politely, I would have been happy to give you a coin.”

  Ratcliffe stood watching, one eyebrow cocked. “I’m sure he’ll remember that little lesson in manners while he’s rotting in Newgate.”

  The statement set off a wild panic in Bane. He redoubled his efforts to get free, wriggling and kicking to no avail. “Lemme go. Lemme go.”

  Horrified, Portia hastened to reassure him. “Do calm down. I promise, you won’t be sent to prison.” To Ratcliffe, she snapped, “I have no intention of prosecuting him. He’s merely a child. I won’t let him be locked up with hardened criminals.”

  “Shall I release him, then, so he can rob someone else?”

  “Yes … no. Well, he won’t turn to stealing if he has funds of his own.” She reached into her reticule, intending to give Bane enough to purchase a hot meal. A month’s worth of hot meals, if he were prudent.

  Ratcliffe stopped her. “Thieves don’t deserve handouts. He should work for his pay.”

  This elicited another futile struggle from Bane. “Oi ain’t goin’ t’ no work’ouse!”

  “Not the workhouse.” Ratcliffe produced a coin which he waved in front of Bane. The boy’s eyes followed it avidly. “Guard my mount while the lady and I conduct our business. If you—and the horse—are still here when we return, you’ll have earned your wages.”

  He released his hold on the boy. Rubbing the back of his neck, Bane gazed askance at Ratcliffe, then at the ancient brown horse that was cropping a skimpy patch of grass. For a moment, Bane looked as if he might take off running. Then he edged toward the horse and stationed himself by the wooden post where the reins were tied, looking small and defenseless beside the great beast.

  Ratcliffe took hold of Portia’s arm, steering her toward the shipping office. She bit her lip, glancing over her shoulder. “Is your mount very spirited? Will he kick or bite?”

  “She is as placid as a lamb.”

  “Humph. Was it truly necessary to frighten Bane so badly?”

  “If he’s ever to better himself, then he needs to learn the value of hard work.”

  She blinked at Ratcliffe in surprise. It was odd to hear such sensible talk from a dissolute like him. Her mind shifted back to Bane. It broke her heart to imagine the child all alone in the world. “What will happen to him when we leave? He’s too young to survive on his own.”

  “Children do it all the time in London. In India, too.”

  Portia often had seen street children in Bombay as well as here, and to her shame she’d seldom spared a thought for their welfare beyond giving them a few coins. “I can’t leave him to his own devices. Where is this workhouse you mentioned? Perhaps he should go there.”

  “Certainly, if you’d like him to subsist on gruel and beatings. You might as well put him in prison.”

  How did Ratcliffe know so much when she herself had never even heard of such a place? “Then we should take him to an orphanage.”

  “We will do no such thing,” Ratcliffe said as they reached the door. “Now, enough talk of that pint-sized pickpocket. Isn’t it time you told me why we’re here?”

  The memory of her purpose came rushing back. Heaven help her, she didn’t want Ratcliffe discovering where she picked up her letters from Arun. The rogue might abscond with them as he’d absconded with the miniature.

  She dug in her heels. “As you said, there is no we. I have business to conduct. You will wait right out here. Or better yet, mount your horse and go away.”

  “No. You’ve
already proven yourself vulnerable to attack. I’m not leaving your side until you’re safely home.”

  He meant every word, Portia realized in dismay. His implacable features showed no willingness to negotiate. The moment she went inside, he intended to follow her to Mr. Brindley’s office. Ratcliffe was bound to find out the truth, so she might as well tell him now rather than risk a quarrel in front of the shipping agent.

  “You leave me little choice, then,” she said stiffly. “But first I’ll have your promise that you won’t interfere in any way.”

  Those green eyes studied her consideringly. “With one exception. If you’re planning to purchase a ticket back to India, I will not let you do it.”

  Was that what he thought? And what gave him the right to dictate how she lived her life, anyway? “You mistake my purpose. I’m merely checking to see if any letters have arrived from India.”

  She reached for the door handle, but Ratcliffe put out his arm to block her. “Letters. You mean from your beloved Arun. I’d wondered how you were managing to correspond with him.”

  Portia resented the disapproval in his tone. She raised her chin and coolly met his gaze. His nearness stirred erotic memories that she fought to control. “Yes. He is my beloved. He’s good and honorable in ways you could never understand.”

  “Tell me this: if he’s so gallant, why hasn’t he come to England? Why has he made no attempt to reunite the two of you?”

  The question startled her. “Because … he can’t. The maharajah—his father—has forbidden Arun to marry me. Just as my parents have done to me.”

  Ratcliffe moved so swiftly, she had no time to react. He trapped her against the hard brick of the building, his arms like prison bars on either side of her. The intoxicating scent of him threatened to make her swoon.

  He bent his head close so that his warm breath fanned her face. “Let me tell you very plainly, Portia. If you and I were separated by an ocean, I’d move heaven and earth to be with you again. I wouldn’t let the devil himself stop me from claiming you as mine. And I’d kill any man who dared to touch you.”

  On that thrilling declaration, he kissed her. The pressure of his mouth was hard and forceful, a feast to her starved senses, and she craved every morsel of it. All the reasons he was wrong for her faded to nothing, for Ratcliffe tasted too delicious to resist. The feel of his hard body consumed her with passion. With a moan, she succumbed to the temptation to wind her arms around him and return his kiss. It seemed impossible that something so wonderful could be a sin, impossible for their closeness to be anything short of perfection.

  All too soon, he drew back. She opened her eyes to see him breathing hard, his gaze intent on her. He tenderly ran his thumb over her lips. “Stubborn little minx. I’m the right man for you, not Arun. Give me half a chance and I’ll prove it to you.”

  A tempest of emotions swirled inside her. Ratcliffe had done it again. He had used his charm to bedazzle her, and she had fallen for his ploy. Worse, the gossamer chains of his spell still held her captive. She loved the pressure of his body against hers, the way his touch caused a melting warmth in her depths.

  She struggled to understand the powerful desire he could stir in her with one caress, one look, one kiss. It mattered little to her that they were standing outside where passersby might see them. Her inexplicable infatuation with him could have no basis in trust and friendship, yet its influence over her seemed boundless.

  Baffled and frustrated, she gave Ratcliffe a shove. “I despise you,” she said fiercely. “Please, just stay away from me.”

  He backed off, letting her grasp the handle and swing open the door. Fueled by the need to escape from him, she went marching down the dimly lit corridor. On either side lay rooms where clerks labored over small wooden desks, recording the inventories of ships’ cargoes.

  Ratcliffe’s heavy footsteps sounded right behind her, but Portia decided to pretend he wasn’t there. She would regard him as nothing more than a pesky fly. In a few moments, she’d return to the hackney cab and hopefully never see the scoundrel again.

  She rapped on a closed door at the rear of the building. A moment later, a short man swung open the wooden panel. With his luxurious moustache, abundant brown hair, and dark beady eyes, he brought to mind a bushy squirrel.

  “Good morning, Mr. Brindley. I hope you can spare a moment of your time.”

  He peered over the gold-rimmed spectacles that rested on the tip of his nose. “Miss Crompton? Oh, fiddle, this is a surprise, indeed.” Snatching his nut-brown coat from a hook on the wall, he threw it on, all the while staring curiously over her shoulder at her companion.

  “This is Ratcliffe,” she ground out, purposely leaving off his title to keep the introductions as short as possible. “Ratcliffe, Mr. Brindley.”

  “I’m her fiancé,” Ratcliffe added.

  Portia’s jaw dropped at the blatant lie. Then she clamped her teeth shut to hold back a furious denial. If she protested the statement, it would only raise questions in Mr. Brindley’s mind as to why she was out unchaperoned with a man who was unrelated to her. Mr. Brindley might then refuse to collect her mail on the grounds that she was an unchaste woman.

  The shipping agent gave Ratcliffe’s proffered hand a hearty shake. “A pleasure, sir, truly a pleasure. I’m afraid my office is in a bit of a whirl today, what with all the ships that have arrived this week. Will you sit down?” He indicated two straight-backed chairs in front of his paper-strewn desk.

  “Gladly,” Ratcliffe said.

  He put his hand on Portia’s elbow as if to guide her to a chair, but she impatiently stepped away while keeping her gaze on the agent. “I’m sorry, we can’t stay more than a moment. I wondered if you might have collected any mail for me.”

  “Mail. Hmm.” Mr. Brindley went to a wall of cubbyholes. Adjusting his spectacles, he bent down to read the names inscribed on each compartment. Many of the boxes were stuffed with letters. He stopped before an empty one, stuck his hand inside it and felt around, then straightened up to face her. “I’m afraid there’s nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?” Distressed, Portia glanced at the blizzard of papers on his desk. “Are you quite certain? Perhaps my letters haven’t yet been filed.”

  Mr. Brindley shook his head emphatically. “Oh, no, miss, I have strict methods when dealing with the post, indeed I do. The very moment it arrives, I file it away in its proper place.” An arrested look crossed his squirrelly features. “Er, wasn’t it India that you receive your letters from? Bombay to be precise?”

  “Yes. Are you expecting a ship anytime soon?”

  Mr. Brindley frowned in reply, then turned to Ratcliffe. “If I may have a word with you in private, sir?”

  “Certainly. We can talk in the corridor.”

  Portia watched in disbelief as the two men walked past her. As if she didn’t exist.

  She rushed into the doorway to block their exit. Incensed that Mr. Brindley would defer to Ratcliffe over her, she snapped, “Excuse me. If there is anything to be said, you will say it directly to me.”

  Mr. Brindley shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He slid a glance at Ratcliffe, who gave him a crisp nod. “Go ahead,” Ratcliffe said. “Else my darling betrothed will pester you into giving up all your secrets.”

  “Er, hmm. Yes, well, it is just that … I’ve heard reports from several ship captains about certain troubles in Bombay.”

  “Troubles?” Pricked by foreboding, Portia took a step closer to him. “What do you mean?”

  The agent gave her a grim, apologetic look. “Pray forgive me for being the bearer of bad tidings, miss. But I’m afraid there’s been a cholera epidemic. It’s wiped out more than half the population of the city.”

  * * *

  Water drenched Colin as he kept Bane confined in the tin bathtub by the hearth in the kitchen. The little fiend howled and thrashed and squirmed. Hannah was as wet as Colin. Kneeling on the other side of the tub, she attempted to scrub away the a
ccumulated grime, lathering her hands with soap and rubbing his skinny limbs.

  “Ow! ’Elp, somebody! Oi’m dyin’!”

  “Stop the melodrama,” Colin growled, turning his head to the side to avoid another splash of dirty bathwater. “If you’re to live in my house, you’ll follow my rules of cleanliness.”

  It had taken considerable persuasion to convince Bane to accompany Colin home. The boy had seen little reason in his sorry life to trust adults. But in the end, the promise of a hot meat pie every day and a warm corner in which to sleep had won him over. Now, however, he appeared to have changed his mind.

  Colin held on to Bane in grim determination. As irksome as the task was, he welcomed the distraction. It kept him from brooding about that scene with Portia.

  For as long as he lived, he would never forget the paleness of her face, the disbelief, then her horror over Arun’s likely fate. She had been frozen, unable to move until Colin had slipped an arm around her and escorted her outside. Only then had tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks. He’d held her close, dabbed her face with his handkerchief, while murmuring any nonsense that might make her feel better.

  “You can’t know for certain that he’s gone,” he’d said. “Perhaps he survived.”

  “He must be dead,” she’d whispered. “That explains why I haven’t received a letter from him in nearly two months. It all makes sense now.”

  “Maybe he was only taken ill. He might need time to recover.”

  His words of succor failed to penetrate the vastness of her grief. She seemed almost unaware of his presence until he helped her into the hackney cab. Then she turned those shimmery blue eyes on him and asked, “Now will you give me back his miniature?”

  Her mournful request made him feel lower than a worm. Under the circumstances, his deceit seemed more cruel than clever. “You have it in your possession already,” he’d admitted gruffly. “It’s right beneath the painting of me. I never removed it from the frame.”