Tall, Dark and Disreputable (10 page)

With all alacrity he handed her in. Just as he closed the carriage door behind her she held his gaze and met it with a slow wink.

For the first time Mateo began to fear he was outmatched. As quickly as possible, he made sure the luggage was loaded and saw them all off.

Fortune smiled upon them. The weather held fair, the roads were wide and well kept, and the horses were fresh. They covered the first half of their journey in good time. They made Hungerford, the halfway point, by mid-morning. His mood much improved, Mateo called a halt at the Bear Inn.

All lay quiet at this time of day, which meant there was no shortage of ostlers and grooms to come to their assistance. ‘Ladies, I confess,’ Mateo said as they emerged from the coach, ‘despite the beauty of the day, the dust of the road has me longing for the clear wind and clean deck of my brig.’ He raised an enquiring brow. ‘Since that’s not to be had, I’ll presume to propose a substitute. I dare say you won’t mind a short break?’

If anything, Portia’s mood appeared to have worsened. She did not answer, but climbed wearily down, her face set and wan.

‘That would be lovely, Mr Cardea,’ Miss Tofton
answered apologetically. ‘I fear neither of us is as seasoned a traveller as you. I, for one, would appreciate a chance to stretch my legs. Thank you.’

‘Come, Peeve, look lively!’ Mateo had never known her to object to travelling. ‘We’ve made dashed good time. Stenbrooke will be back in your hands all the sooner because of it.’

‘Let’s hope Mr Riggs will be as co-operative as the weather,’ she agreed. Mateo stared at her. Her eyes were closed, her shoulders drooped. It came as something of a shock. Listlessness was not something he’d ever heard or seen out of her.

‘Having doubts?’ he teased. ‘We’ll just have to hope he has a high regard for his mama.’

She didn’t respond to his sally, and he could see the strain in her expression as she looked about. ‘There’s the innkeeper.’ She pointed. ‘Shall I go and bespeak us a private parlour?’ she asked.

At his nod she hurried off. Mateo watched her go, then turned his questioning gaze on her companion.

Miss Tofton didn’t pretend to misunderstand his look. ‘It’s my fault, I fear,’ she fretted. ‘I should have considered that an enclosed carriage…I just didn’t think…’ She let her words die away.

‘It’s not motion sickness?’ Mateo could not suppress a sailor’s disgust for such a notion.

‘No.’ Her mouth twitched at his dismay. She glanced about at the flurry of men seeing to the horses and carriage. Stepping away, she raised her brows. ‘Hungerford is such a pretty little town, is it not?’

Curious, Mateo followed her. ‘Yes,’ he said for the benefit of their audience. ‘The thatching on all the cottages is particularly charming.’

‘It is,’ she agreed. ‘Do you know, I’ve stayed at the Bear once before. If I recall correctly, there is a lovely little stream just behind the inn.’ She cocked her head. ‘Would you mind escorting me?’

‘Not at all,’ he said promptly. He offered her his arm and they strolled around the building.

There was indeed a stream in the back, and it was a pretty spot. The water was shallow, but moved steadily, echoing musically over a tumble of rocks. Sunlight fought through the canopy of overhanging trees and sparkled off the surface.

Miss Tofton was apparently enamoured of the sight. He quelled the urge to prompt her. Better to keep quiet and wait.

The question, when it came, surprised him.

‘Mr Cardea, will you tell me how Portia came by that nickname you call her?’

‘What? Peeve?’ he asked, startled.

Lips pressed together, she nodded.

He thought back. ‘It started with J.T., I suppose. My family was at Hempshaw the summer that he and his family moved nearby. All of Portia’s brothers were enamoured of the initials he used then instead of his full name, and they began to do the same.’

She smiled. ‘And I suppose Portia wanted to follow their example? It sounds like her.’

‘She did. She told us all to call her P. V. for Portia
Varnsworth. Her brothers immediately warped it to Peeve, and Peeve she’s been ever since.’

Miss Tofton regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Until you arrived, I’ve never heard anyone call her by that name, except for her husband, my cousin.’ She hesitated. ‘It never sounded like an endearment, Mr Cardea, but rather, more of an…insult.’

‘Ah. I see.’ He did, too. It sounded exactly like something J.T. would do.

‘Did you know James Talbot well?’ she asked eventually.

Surprised, Mateo nodded. ‘I did. We saw a lot of him, both at that first visit when he’d moved to the area, and later too.’

She was quiet a moment. ‘I gather, then, that you will understand when I say he was a difficult person.’

Her caution irritated him and unnerved him a little too. She acted as if she were afraid J. T. Tofton was going to jump out and berate her for daring to mention him. Mateo folded his arms. ‘He was a whiny snot of a boy,’ he said bluntly. ‘Never content with his own lot and perpetually jealous of someone else’s. I’m sorry, I know you don’t like to speak ill of the dead, Miss Tofton, but there’s no covering the stink of rotten fish.’

‘Of course, you are right.’ She sighed. ‘Suffice it to say, he did not improve with age.’

Mateo curbed his impatience. ‘Well, I admit I was damned shocked to hear that Portia had married him. Forgive my continued bluntness, but I believe that was the first time my regard for her significantly fell.’ In fact,
he’d congratulated himself on making a lucky escape, for he’d told himself that any woman who had willingly chosen J. T. Tofton would never have suited him.

‘Her reasons are her own, and I’m sure I can’t speak to that.’

‘Then I wish you would just say what you brought me back here to say.’

She gnawed at her lip and regarded him anxiously. ‘Will you promise not to reveal what I tell you?’

He hesitated. ‘If you wish.’

‘Portia has never mentioned it to me. Vickers, her butler, did.’

‘Told you what, Miss Tofton?’ he asked with exaggerated patience.

‘James Talbot hated Stenbrooke,’ she blurted out. ‘He hated the hard work it required, and resented the money spent on it. After it became profitable, he thought that the income should go into his pocket and not back into the estate. But Portia did what she could, and her father had seen to it that she had her own money to spend.’

She paused, but it was clear that she was just beginning. He waited.

‘James Talbot was not…a kind husband.’

Mateo’s fists clenched.

‘In fact…’ her voice lowered yet again ‘…some would say he was quite the opposite.’ She looked away, over the stream. ‘He locked her up once, in the tack room of an ancient barn that used to stand at the far boundary of Stenbrooke. Portia thought it wasn’t safe,
she wanted it torn down. She’d stopped in there to be sure that all of the equipment had been removed. James Talbot did not want to waste money tearing down a building that was falling in on its own. He found her there that day. They argued.’

‘How long?’ Mateo asked past a tightened jaw.

‘He came back to the house, packed a bag and left,’ she whispered.

‘How long?’ he repeated.

‘Three days.’ Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. ‘The servants looked, but when she was not to be found, they concluded that she must have gone away with him.’ She swallowed. ‘He laughed when he came home and found her still there. He said it had only been a prank.’

Mateo wished then that J.T. would jump out at them, returned from the dead—so he would have the pleasure of sending him back to hell.

‘The next week Portia had the barn torn down. She also wrote and invited me to live at Stenbrooke.’

‘I see,’ he said. And he did.

‘It was a long time before I noticed that she avoids tight spaces, and I never considered that a carriage…’

‘I’ll take care of it, Miss Tofton,’ Mateo interrupted her. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ He retrieved her hand and they started back.

‘There’s another reason I’ve told you this, Mr Cardea.’

He’d already seen that, too.

‘I care for Portia deeply. She means as much to me as a sister.’ She gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Lord knows, she’s been kinder to me than my real sister.’ Her voice
firmed. ‘She’s been hurt enough. I would not see her hurt again. By anyone.’

‘Nor would I, Miss Tofton.’ And he meant it. ‘Nor would I.’

P
ortia shifted the cold ham on her plate to a new position. Her adverse reaction to being in the carriage had caught her by surprise. Had she been in a coach since…Well, just since? No, she normally rode everywhere, and hadn’t had occasion for a longer trip. And truthfully, she hadn’t stopped to consider that she might be affected. Foolishly, most of her resources had been focused on Mateo, while the rest were absorbed with her plans to get Stenbrooke back.

And just perhaps, without those two evils, she might never have been affected at all. But the gloom and sense of confinement in the carriage had merely echoed her larger situation. She was effectively trapped by her dependence on Mateo Cardea. His word and his willingness to help her were all that stood between her and homelessness.

Well, not homelessness. She could have a home with Anthony, or perhaps eventually with one of her other
brothers. But when she thought of returning to that life, to feeling extraneous and beholden, to existing at the mercy and whim of her family and expected to feel grateful for it, that’s when she truly started to feel sick. The air in the coach had grown thick and her throat had begun to close. She’d struggled to hide her distress from Dorinda, but truthfully, if he had not stopped here at Hungerford, she might just have hung out of the carriage door and broadcast her anxiety all along the Bath road.

She cast another look towards the parlour door. ‘Where do you suppose Mateo has taken himself off to?’ she asked. She was torn between dreading a return to the coach and wishing to get the day’s travel over with.

No, she reconsidered wearily, she wanted it
all
over with. She wanted to be back home, with Stenbrooke safely hers, and Mateo Cardea gone from her life again. Then, and only then, would she be not only independent, but she’d also be safe. And if that was a contradiction or didn’t make sense, then she didn’t much care.

‘He said something about needing to speak to the stable master,’ Dorrie answered. ‘Would you pass me the plate of scones? They are quite good.’

Portia did, keeping her eyes averted. Dorrie’s appetite was in no way diminished by the trip. In fact, her companion appeared unusually cheerful since she’d come in from her short walk around the inn.

They both jumped as the door banged open.

‘Are you finished, ladies?’ Mateo asked with flair. ‘Are we ready to get back to the road?’

‘We’ve finished, Mr Cardea,’ Dorrie assured him. ‘But come, we’ll keep you company while you eat.’

‘No need! The landlady has packed me something for the road. If you please…’ He beckoned. ‘We have to make some changes and I wish to be sure they are acceptable.’

Portia shrugged in reply to Dorrie’s mystified glance. Together they rose and followed him outside.

‘What is it, Mateo?’ she asked, sweeping the yard for a clue. There were no vehicles in sight save for some other traveller’s open landau.

‘As we drove in, I spied a wobble in the back end of the coach,’ he explained. ‘The wheelwright’s been to look at it and he says there’s a problem with the axle.’ He frowned. ‘We can’t take a chance on it; he says it could go at any time.’ He waved towards the landau. ‘This is the only replacement available.’

He looked with concern at Dorinda. ‘Miss Tofton, I worried that you would prefer an enclosed carriage, but will you mind the change terribly?’

Dorrie practically beamed up at him. ‘Not at all! We’ll be all right, won’t we, Portia?’

Portia regarded them both with suspicion. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps she had not concealed her distress so successfully.

‘We could perhaps find a local carriage we could hire, but I’m not sure how long it would take, or if we would be successful at all.’

‘I think it will be all right, don’t you, Portia?’ Dorrie repeated. ‘I did bring along my parasol, just in case something untoward should happen.’

Portia opened her mouth. Whether she meant to probe or to protest, she wasn’t sure. She sensed a conspiracy. But abruptly, she shut it again, determined to let it go. The prospect of travelling in the open, with the wind in her face, was too delicious to pass up.

‘Good,’ Mateo said with satisfaction. ‘Let’s be on our way, then, ladies.’

The remainder of the trip passed quickly. Mateo still rode, but several times he brought his mount close by the open landau, so that conversation was possible. Other times Portia felt the weight of his gaze upon her, but she was too happy with the sun and the breeze to let it bother her. And when her own gaze wandered over to linger on him, well, she decided not to let that bother her, either. He looked magnificent with the sun lining the sharp angles of his face and the wind playing with his dark curls.

She loved to watch him ride; he had such a comfortable and natural seat—and as often happened, her mind spun away, creating the image of him striding easily across a heaving deck, masterful and in command of all he surveyed.

It was an exceedingly pleasant way to pass the time—but apparently not an acceptable one. Dorrie reached over and wrapped her on the wrist with her parasol.

‘Dorrie!’ Portia objected.

Dorrie merely raised her eyebrows. Then she relented. ‘What was he like as a boy?’ she asked with an understanding smile.

Portia tilted her head, considering. ‘A great deal of fun,’ she answered quietly after a second’s thought. ‘Busy, I would say. Never still, always on the go. Up to every rig and row my brothers could get into, but he always had time—and a kind word—for the girls too.’

Dorrie’s brows went back up. ‘Generous indeed.’

‘He was, truly,’ she mused. ‘It was rare for a boy to be so accepting of others, at least in my experience.’ She smiled in remembrance. ‘When he was happy, you could feel it inside of you—and you could scarcely feel any other way.’

‘It’s a shame we haven’t seen him really happy.’

‘Yes, it is. Perhaps it is because of his heritage, but he feels things deeply.’

‘Sounds familiar,’ Dorrie said with a grin. She leaned forwards. ‘And what sort of girl were you, Portia?’

The infatuated sort
. But she didn’t say it. She gave a little smile instead. ‘Perhaps you will not credit it, but I was a fun sort, as well, if not in the same rowdy way as my brothers.’

Dorrie did not get a chance to reply, as Mateo drew his mount close in. ‘Marlborough is just ahead,’ he called.

They swept into the great wide main street of the town and Dorrie exclaimed at the crowds of people. A vendor gave them directions and within minutes they were on their way north.

It was not too long before it became clear that they had reached Longvale land. First the road narrowed to a track and Mateo was forced to ride ahead of the landau. Then the land opened up and they found themselves
surrounded alternately by well-tended fields of grains and odd little plots, different from anything Portia had seen before. One was filled with large mounds of soil, out of which stretched a massive tangle of ground-creeping plants. Another had been ringed with young trees, to which a criss-cross system of rope had been strung. Immature vines climbed the rope and spread out, creating an oddly beautiful, floating green surface. Portia’s curiosity was piqued long before they reached the house, and then it flared to even higher heights.

None of the attention so carefully shown on the land had been extended here. Weeds choked the gravel drive, shutters hung askew, and slate tiles sagged from the roof. Portia shared a bemused glance with her two companions as the landau rolled to a stop.

No groom came running. No one emerged from the house. An ancient post listed at one side of the drive. Mateo tied his hired hack to it and directed the driver of the landau to circle around and search out the stables.

Dorinda bit her lip as the carriage rattled away. Portia smiled encouragingly and took her hand as they followed Mateo across cracked stones to the door.

No knocker had been hung. Mateo pounded a fist upon the door and when there was no answer, he pounded again, long and hard. He’d just raised his fist a third time when the door opened a crack.

A young woman’s face peered out at them, timid and puzzled, as if she’d never seen a visitor at the front door. ‘Yes?’ she asked.

‘I am Mr Cardea,’ Mateo said gently. ‘My companions and I are here to see Mr Riggs.’ He ended by flashing the maidservant his most charming smile. Portia had to bite back a grin when the girl blinked, flushed and then adjusted her cap.

‘You’re wanting to see Mr Riggs?’ she repeated. Again her brow creased as if this was a completely new idea.

‘Indeed we are.’ Mateo tried the smile again. ‘May we come in?’

She thought about it. Portia could not determine if she was generally a slowtop or if she had been dazzled by Mateo’s charm. The latter, likely, for she straightened suddenly and opened the door. ‘Yes, do come in,’ she invited, dipping a quick curtsy.

The three of them advanced into a dark, panelled hall in sore want of a cleaning. Dorinda huddled close.

‘Wait right there,’ the maid said, pointing to a gloomy corner. ‘I’ll see what’s to be done with you.’

‘What’s to be done with us?’ Dorrie repeated in a whisper. She leaned against a wall as if to steady herself. ‘The offer of a seat, perhaps? Or a drink to clear the dust of the roads? I’m exhausted. All I wish to do is lay my head back for a moment’s rest.’ A look of horror crossed her face. ‘But I wouldn’t dare! What sort of man is this Mr Riggs, to keep such a house?’

‘I’m beginning to have an idea,’ Portia answered. Suddenly some of the observations she’d heard from the man’s mother began to make sense.

‘I don’t care how old he is,’ Dorrie said suddenly. ‘I
don’t care if he is as handsome as sin and rich as Croesus—you are not to even
consider
marrying him! The thought of you living in all this disorder would drive me mad.’

Mateo smiled, while Portia regarded her with a grin. ‘This disorder only drives you mad because you’ve no prospects of setting it to rights. Give you a free hand to wage war against it and you’d be as happy as a pig in swill.’

Her companion looked momentarily diverted by the thought, but she had no chance to respond before heavy footsteps echoed from the back of the house.

‘Visitors,’ declared the stout woman who emerged from the shadowed hall. She looked them over with disapproval. ‘Ain’t dressed for it, neither.’

Even Mateo’s legendary charm had become strained. ‘Indeed,’ he answered non-committally. ‘And you are?’

‘Mrs Pickens. Housekeeper.’

‘Very good,’ he said with a nod. ‘Would you be so kind as to inform Mr Riggs we are here? And perhaps find a comfortable spot for the ladies to wait?’

‘No use waiting. There’s a problem in one of the fields. He won’t be back ’til nightfall.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s if he don’t decide to sleep in the barn.’ She halfturned away. ‘Best bet’s to come back near daybreak. You might catch him in for breakfast then.’

Portia stepped forwards. ‘We really must speak to him today. We have an urgent matter of business to discuss. Can he be summoned from the fields?’

‘Aye, but he won’t come,’ the housekeeper said dourly. ‘Most folks know not to come to the house. If
you want to speak to the master, you’ll have to go out to the fields.’ She wrinkled her nose and ran an assessing eye over the three of them. ‘I got boots of all sizes. Some of them will likely fit the ladies, but there ain’t nothing I can do ’bout your hems.’

Beside her, Dorinda uttered a long, stuttering sigh.

‘Boots for me, please,’ Portia agreed. ‘But please, cannot you find my companion a quiet spot to rest and wait?’

‘No decent place to be had,’ cept for the master’s study.’ She studied Dorinda. ‘Come back to the kitchens with us,’ she invited. ‘More comfortable, and I just put on a pot o’ meadowsweet tea. Good for the joints,’ she explained.

‘It sounds lovely, thank you,’ Dorrie accepted with relief. But she cast an anxious glance at Portia. ‘Will you be all right without me?’

‘Perfectly,’ Portia assured her. ‘Now, I’ll take those boots.’ She shot a look at Mateo. ‘And a pair for Mr Cardea, should he feel the need to change.’

‘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.