It's All About the Duke--The Rakes of St. James

by Amelia Grey

  Not much puzzled Rath. Miss Everard did. She was an odd young lady. He wanted to know if she was truly frightened of him. If her fainting had only happened once, maybe he could rationalize it with the knowledge that she’d never met a duke before. But not three times now. He could just ask her, but she would probably faint before she got her answer out.

  Rath thought back over the two times he’d seen her as he entered Portington’s gate and headed up the stone steps to the man’s front door. She had carried something written by Miss Honora Truth both times. Was that the problem? Obviously Miss Everard knew Miss Truth constantly wrote about Rath and had written about his friends before they married. Had she been so embarrassed she was carrying such rubbish authored by the gossipmonger that the thought of him knowing made her faint? That seemed plausible to him.

  Rath had glanced at the scandal sheet when he’d picked it up off the ground where it had fallen beside Miss Everard the last time she’d curled her toes and collapsed. The words seemed familiar when he’d read them. Probably because the woman wrote that Marlena was now his ward. And he was most definitely kissing Marlena. Maybe she was right and that was enough to make Miss Everard faint again.

  He didn’t know why people kept reading the gossip sheet. Why he did. The Rakes of St. James were never punished according to Miss Truth. Fine. He could live with her, and the rest of London, thinking that guilt wasn’t a fitting punishment. He was also fairly certain Miss Truth wouldn’t have started her war on the rakes if it hadn’t been for the man who suggested the chickens should come home to roost for the rakes and perhaps someone should make mischief for Griffin’s twin sisters during their debut Season.

  Rath would love to get his hands on that man or all the men who’d been in on that, he thought as he lifted the door knocker and rapped the iron a couple of times. There had been many times, more than he could count, when Rath hadn’t been a gentleman where a lady was concerned, especially not up to his father’s standards, but he’d never threaten to harm a lady’s reputation, or willingly do so.

  Thankfully, nothing of serious consequence had happened to either of Griffin’s sisters, and Lady Vera had more than proven she could hold her own against someone out to ruin her reputation. And now Miss Truth had suggested in her last column that Lady Vera and Marlena might be at risk during the upcoming Season.

  The thought that some man might want to put his hands on either lady or in some way ruin their reputation for the Season gnawed at him. He didn’t even want to imagine Marlena dancing and twirling about the dance floor with other men, their arms gliding down hers, squeezing her fingertips and caressing her back as they moved through the steps. He had accused her of being jealous, but maybe he was the one whose heart was stricken.

  The door opened and Rath looked upon a reasonably tall, solidly built gentleman who in no way looked as if he could be the neighbor Marlena had described. Rath was expecting a much older looking man. His light-brown hair showed no signs of gray and his face was clean-shaven. Both were unusual for a man past forty. In fact, the man appeared to be in excellent shape. He wasn’t balding or stooped in the shoulders, and there were no spectacles sitting across the bridge of his nose. There weren’t even any stains on his neckcloth or waistcoat.

  “Mr. Portington?” Rath asked.

  “Yes,” he answered, staring at Rath in a quizzical manner.

  “I am the Duke of Rathburne. May I come inside?”

  “Your Grace.” He bowed. “If you’re sure it’s my door you’re looking for.” He patted his pockets and looked around as if he’d lost something.

  “I am certain,” Rath assured him.

  “You are?” he said, clearly flustered. “Then please come in. It’s my pleasure.”

  “Thank you.”

  Portington stepped back and Rath walked into what he thought would be the vestibule of the house. All he could see was a dimly lit, narrow path. The walls of the walkway were lined with crates that had been stacked floor-to-ceiling. Rath moved aside and allowed Portington to lead the way through the tunnel until they came to a small room where a settee and two chairs were placed in front of a fireplace.

  Behind the living space were more crates stacked high and an abundance of urns, statuary, armor with and without pikes, shields, bones, tusks, and carpets. Littered among all the things shoved against one another on the floor and shelving was a varying mishmash of stuffed birds and animals. There were several statues of cherubs, busts, and figurines that had been carved and fashioned out of marble, agate, bronze, and more stones than he could identify.

  Marlena wasn’t kidding when she said the man had fossils and relics in his house of everything anyone could imagine—and then more. Rath had never seen anything like it. Where could the man have purchased such a large assortment?

  “I apologize there’s so little room for entertaining, Your Grace,” the man said without any embarrassment. “But my work takes up a great deal of space.”

  To say the least.

  “May I—may I take your cloak and hat and offer you a seat? I have port. It’s been open awhile, a month or two. Maybe longer. I don’t drink it often, but it should still have a bit of taste to it.”

  Rath couldn’t remember a time he’d drunk stale port, but he’d promised Marlena he’d handle this and so he would. Even if it meant downing every drop of the fortified wine whether or not it tasted like vinegar.

  “Yes. I’d like to have a drink with you.”

  Portington smiled, lifted his shoulders, and started looking around the room. He touched the pockets of his coat as if he thought the port might be in them. “It must be in another room. The kitchen probably. Would you give me a minute?”

  “No hurry,” Rath said, as he removed his cloak and laid it across the back of his chair. “Is it all right if I look around?”

  “Please do,” he answered. “Most of the fossils are crated, you understand. They can be fragile, and I have to keep them safe. I’ll be right back.”

  Scanning the area around him, Rath realized he was looking at an unorganized warehouse, filled with priceless rare antiquities as well as possibly fake items from all over the world. There were shelves of china, figurines, clocks, and books stacked to the heavens. Rocks—large and small. He saw piles of white, dried-out bones. Some large enough to have come from an elephant or maybe a giraffe. In some of the open crates he saw insects and small animals forever cast in stone and now nestled in beds of straw. One of the fossils etched in a gray slab was hauntingly intriguing. A lizard had caught the head of a butterfly in its mouth. Both of them had become the prey of time.

  Rath couldn’t say he knew much about the authenticity of the man’s collection, but Portington had so many items, some of them had to be valuable. He could now comprehend what Marlena was talking about when she said the man had an obsession. That was an understatement. And he could also empathize with Portington’s wife—to have to live with the man who had such a penchant.

  The problem was going to be getting Portington to part with some of his possessions.

  “Here we go, Your Grace.” He handed the small glass to Rath and pointed to the crowded seating area.

  Rath took the glass and the chair. He held up the drink to his host and said, “Cheers, Portington. You have many fascinating artifacts in your possession.”

  “Quite proud of it all.” His host smiled and then sipped his drink. “Mrs. Portington frequently complains about it, but I don’t know why. I do my best to keep her comfortable. Everything I purchase is of great value. Sometimes not so much as what I pay for it, but it’s value to our culture and the history of mankind.”

  “That’s understandable. It’s why I’m here.”

  Portington made himself comfortable in a chair. “You’re a collector, too, I gather.”

  “Not yet. Right now, I’m only looking into the possibility of becoming one. I was hoping you could help me get started.”

  “Ah, now I understand the reason for your visit.” He
smiled at Rath. “There are several gentlemen I work with to procure the things that interest me. I’d be happy to put you in touch with any of them. For instance Mr. Layton trades in potteries and Mr. Hillsburg trades only in statuary.”

  “Good. I believe Mr. Herbert Wentfield is one.”

  “Oh, you know him?”

  “No.” He took a sip of the port and almost winced as he swallowed. He’d have to remember to send the man over a new bottle. “I’ve heard his name and about some of the fossils he has.”

  “Yes.” Portington nodded. “I’ve sent him two letters in the past few days with no response. Usually he’s quick with an answer. I took myself over to his house yesterday and it was empty—everything cleaned out as if he’d never been there. I don’t know where the man’s gone. None of the neighbors seemed to know, either. There must have been an emergency. Perhaps with a family member. I feel sure he’ll write and let me know where he is.”

  The information about Wentfield, if that was indeed the man’s name, didn’t surprise Rath.

  “Do you happen to know where he is?” Portington asked.

  “No. I was hoping you could tell me. Do let me know if you hear from him, and I’ll do the same.”

  He nodded. “Now that I know of your interest in starting a collection, I will.”

  “I’ve seen many artifacts here in your house that could help me start accumulating some treasure of my own. If you’d be interested in selling any of them.”

  Portington chuckled. “That’s kind of you to offer, and I’m honored you think so highly of my collection, but I really couldn’t part with any of it. You see, I only purchase things that speak to me. And I must have them when they do. I have cataloged everything as to what it is, its value to history, where it came from, how much I paid for it, and the date I bought it. And I couldn’t willingly sell or give up any of it.”

  That was not the answer Rath wanted to hear. “So you have all of this listed in a ledger?”

  “My notes fill several ledgers. It’s quite extensive, and takes time to keep up with. I can show you one of them if you’d like. And I’d happily show you the rest of the things I have.”

  “You have more than what is in the front of the house and in this room?”

  “My, yes. I’ve been collecting since I was a young boy, but only on rare occasions back then, of course. My father sealed my interest when he obtained one of the first marbles from the Parthenon. Of course, that was long before Lord Elgin raided the stones in Athens and caused such a stir that no one can get near them now. And rightfully so.”

  Rath took another sip of the port and looked at the man so innocently admitting he had something of such a great value and rarity in a private home—and yet he’d also bought things that Rath considered as worthless as Megalosaurus eggs.

  “Where is the marble?” Rath asked.

  “Not in this room, and not where I could easily get to it, or I’d show you. It has to be kept crated and wrapped so it won’t get broken, you understand. I keep most of my fossils crated, too.”

  “Yes, you’re wise to do so.”

  “Would you like to see what I have in the other rooms of the house?”

  “Yes,” Rath said honestly. “I find all these possessions fascinating. I’d like to see more.”

  Half an hour later, Portington walked Rath back to the sitting room.

  “Your knowledge about all you have is astounding, Mr. Portington.”

  The man bowed. “I thank you for being so kind with your words, Your Grace. It humbles me.”

  “Are you sure I can’t tempt you to help me get my collection started? I’d be most generous.”

  Portington patted his pockets again. “Not with anything I have, but I’ll be happy to guide you on whatever you decide to purchase. It’s as much the seeking out the rare items as it is obtaining them.”

  “Yes, I can see that it is for you.”

  “I’ll send you a list of the traders, if you’d like?”

  “I would.” Rath swung his cloak over his shoulders and picked up his hat and gloves. He reached for Mr. Portington’s hand when he heard the front door open and ladies’ voices.

  Hellfire! Had he been at the man’s house that long? He’d been trying to hurry but the man had so many relics to look at it was impossible to rush through them.

  Mr. Portington shook his hand as Marlena, Miss Everard, and another lady, whom he assumed was Mrs. Portington, walked into the small space. He was fairly sure he’d seen her at a party or ball before, but certain he’d never had a reason to be introduced to her. She looked almost as pale-faced and frightened to see him as her sister.

  Without thinking, Rath said, “Don’t faint, Miss Everard.”

  “Faint?” Portington laughed and let go of Rath’s hand. “Eugenia’s never fainted in her life. Strong as they come, that one. It’s her sister who’s delicate. If you don’t mind, Your Grace, may I present my wife, Mrs. Veronica Portington.”

  The ladies quietly acknowledged him with a curtsy and he nodded to them. Rath didn’t know how Portington could say Miss Everard had never fainted. She looked very much on the verge of it again, and so did her sister. They huddled close to each other. Rath assumed the man was as oblivious to his wife’s and sister-in-law’s dismay as he was to the massive collection of artifacts surrounding him like an ancient tomb.

  But what caused Miss Everard—and now her sister—to be so disturbed by him was a mystery Rath had yet to solve. Was he such an ogre? Had Miss Truth’s weekly writings made him such a villain in London that young ladies were now becoming fearful of him?

  “Fog came in and we had to cut our picnic short,” Marlena offered on a rushed breath of air. “We’ll have to go back another day.”

  “That’s disappointing,” Mr. Portington said. “Days in the park are good for Veronica. She always enjoys the outings.”

  The ladies remained silent, watching him. Rath thought it best for him to excuse himself and make a hasty exit. “I was just leaving.” He nodded to them again. “Mr. Portington, thank you for your help.” He turned to Marlena and reached for the basket she held. “Miss Fast, I’m on my way out. I’ll walk you home.”

  “All right. Yes, thank you, but I’ll leave the refreshments. Mrs. Doddle made the sweet cakes and cinnamon butter especially for them. I can get the basket later.”

  After Marlena said her good-byes, they stepped out of the house and into fog so dense, Rath could barely see the rooftops of the neighboring houses. It was best the ladies had come home while they could still see to cross the streets. The blinding fog was moving in fast.

  Marlena started down the stone pathway that led to the front gate, but Rath touched her arm. She stopped and looked up at him. Though the vapor enclosed them, he had no problem seeing her. She wore a black bonnet with a short brim that allowed him to see all her face. Her cheeks were damp from the heavy mist. Her beautiful eyes were sparkling like emeralds though there wasn’t a spot of light anywhere around them. Even surrounded by a gray, thick haze, she was beautiful.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “Not so much. We had a brisk walk from the park.”

  “Just in case,” he said. Reaching over, he lifted the small collar of her wool cape and tucked it securely around her throat. His hand skimmed across the top of her shoulders and drifted down her arms. Emotions he didn’t want to think about were stirring inside him. “I don’t want you getting moisture down your neck. You might get chilled.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s take the side entrance,” he said, moving his head to the left. “The one you and Miss Everard use.”

  “How did you—never mind. I remember.” She turned away and started walking again.

  Rath fell in step beside her. “Did you hear Portington say Miss Everard never fainted in her life? That she was strong.”

  “Yes, I’ve said as much,” she answered, glancing over at him. “What did Mr. Portington have to say about his collection and t
he possibility of parting with some of it?”

  It was bothersome how easily Marlena could dismiss Miss Everard’s reaction to Rath, but he decided to let it go for the time being and discuss what was on Marlena’s mind.

  “First, everything you said about Portington is true. He doesn’t have the look of someone extremely eccentric, but he is. I’m not an expert but I believe many of the artifacts he has are valuable, though some aren’t.”

  “That’s my thought as well.”

  Rath opened the gate for her and she walked through, stopping while he secured the latch behind them.

  “Second, I don’t believe there is a Mr. Wentfield.”

  “What? There has to be. I don’t think Mr. Portington would make up a story about those eggs.”

  “I believe there is a real man, but he’s not using his real name. When I asked about Mr. Wentfield, Portington told me the man has moved and no one knows where he is. It’s not unusual for such men to prey on people like Portington who are devoted to their passion, taking them for a large sum of money and then skipping to another town with another name and another worthless artifact to sell.”

  “So you don’t believe the eggs are real?”

  “I am not an expert in such things.”

  Marlena stopped near the steps of the back door. “It’s disturbing to hear you believe he was taken advantage of in that way. And with Eugenia’s money. I just find it hard to believe he’d be so foolish with what was left to her. It wasn’t his money to lose.”

  “I know,” he said softly and lifted her chin with the tips of his fingers. Moisture was forming on her black bonnet and her face. “Why don’t we move under the eave of the house? It will shield us a little from the fog, and I’ll tell you more of what he said.”

  “All right,” she agreed and, as soon as she’d stepped under the protection of the extended roof, said, “Will he allow you to purchase anything from him so you can help Eugenia?”