Page 59 of It's All About the Duke
Chapter 15
He could be a rake if he fails to take a lady at her word that a situation is serious.
MISSHONORATRUTH’SWORDS OFWISDOMANDWARNINGABOUTRAKES, SCOUNDRELS, ROGUES, ANDLIBERTINES
No rain fell and the gray skies didn’t appear threatening as Rath stepped down from his carriage. He was proceeding with his plan to pay a call on Mr. Portington as arranged with Marlena. If something had happened and Marlena hadn’t been able to leave with Miss Everard, maybe she wouldn’t faint if she knew her brother-in-law was there to protect her. And if she fainted again, maybe Portington could shed some light on why.
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 ashe 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.”
