Tall, Dark and Disreputable Read online

  ‘But…Mateo, wait!’ Portia crossed the veranda in a hurry and leaned over in the exact spot he had so recently vacated.

  ‘No. By God, I have no patience for any more today.’ He paused and looked up at her. She recoiled at the annoyance and frustration suddenly visible in the depth of his dark gaze. ‘I do not know how you do it, Portia, but always you poke and stir in just the right spots to send my temper flaring. I leave now, before either of us gets burned.’

  Abruptly silenced, she pursed her lips and watched him stride away.

  Chapter Four

  Better a serpent with two heads than a man with two minds. It was advice that his nona had always delivered earnestly to his female cousins. Mateo had suddenly developed a more perfect understanding of what she had meant.

  He’d been horrified at Portia’s flat refusal to sell him back her portion of Cardea Shipping, and then he’d nearly shouted out his pleasure and relief at her proposal. Of course he had. It was a good solution—one that he would likely have come up with, had he found himself thrust into her unenviable predicament.

  Cardea Shipping would be his again. Soon enough he’d have the freedom of the open sea before him, and the streets of Philadelphia underfoot. And then, at last, the autonomy to steer the business where he believed it needed to go. He clenched his fists. The family’s docks would be a hive of activity again, their warehouses full to bursting. And those who had long scorned his ideas and lately laughed at his misfortune would soon be eating their words. He would prove to the merchant community of Philadelphia at last that they must let go of their past to secure their future.

  His elation would be complete—were it not for the delay. Time was of the essence. Cardea Shipping had been on the brink of their most important venture in years when his father had died, and Mateo was going to have to hurry to salvage what he could of it. He could only hope that this business with Stenbrooke would go quickly.

  And truthfully, something else had him swallowing a bilious rush of anger, even as he left the gloom of the inn and stood blinking in the bright morning sun. In his head he understood and even empathised with Portia’s position, but he could not completely subdue the small, ugly ball of resentment churning in him.

  She didn’t trust him—and, oh, how that stung. The wound of his father’s mistrust still lay open and now she rubbed it raw.

  Purposefully, Mateo breathed deep and brushed such small thoughts aside. Where was his mount? The sooner he set this devil’s bargain in motion, the sooner he’d have his business back on course.

  He turned back and opened the inn door. Impatient, he called for the innkeeper. Abbott, he’d discovered the man’s name to be, an irony which he found to be humorous on several levels.

  ‘Abbot!’ he called. ‘I thought you’d sent word to the stables?’

  The man came from the kitchens, brushing his hands on a stained apron. ‘Yes, sir, I did. It’ll be just a minute, though. We had a late customer come in. He was up early and bespoke my last nag for hire. I’ve sent to the livery in town for another.’

  ‘How long?’ Mateo asked.

  ‘Any minute. Lads could be saddling him up right now, even.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside.’

  Cursing the delay, he stepped back through the door. A rider circled around the building from the direction of the stable. On his mount, no doubt. Mateo watched him pass, a man of roughly his own age, dressed in the universal buff breeches and long brown coat that served as the uniform of a country gentleman. Only his hair, dark and a good deal longer than fashion currently dictated, made him stand out. He tipped his hat and Mateo swore he saw the hint of a smile as he passed. Damned impudence.

  He left the empty courtyard and headed for the stables. Dew lay heavy on the ground this morning, sparkling off the blades of grass and beading like diamonds on tiny spider webs stretched between them. It brought to mind the dazzle of light bouncing off the water of the lake yesterday and the vision of Portia—full of sunshine and mischief—emerging from it.

  Hard to believe, but she’d looked more enticing in the full light of day than in the flattering shadows of the inn, and that was not a claim one woman in a hundred could make. A child of Apollo, that one, with the sun captured in streaks through her tawny hair and golden flecks glimmering from her dark eyes. The sight of her had been a blow low in his gut, stimulating both a stir of desire and another flare of heated anger. His reactions to her were bizarre. He couldn’t explain them to himself, let alone to her.

  So he decided to learn from her example instead. Look at what she’d done with that bridge. She’d pitched in and helped repair it with her own two hands, even knowing that it might shortly belong to some damned farmer with a gambling habit. Surely she’d been full of worry, doubt, and, yes, anger. But she’d set it all aside to attend to what needed to be done.

  Just exactly as he was going to have to do.

  He rounded a corner and came into sight of the stables—and stopped short.

  Of course he would. Right after he finished wringing her neck.

  The reason for his mount’s delay became suddenly apparent—she sat perched on top of a restless bay mare, resplendent in a rich brown habit with golden frogging in a military style. The animal tossed its head, shifting in her eagerness to be away, but Portia controlled her easily, never losing her smile or pausing in her conversation with the inn’s groom who stood dazzled, grinning doltishly up at her, holding in one hand the lead of Mateo’s patient, and apparently forgotten, gelding.

  Irritation blossomed yet again. Hadn’t he told her he would go alone and report back to her? It should be enough of a concession that he had cast himself in the role of lackey. Hell, he’d agreed to her proposal and ignored her overbearing arrogance. He’d let her relegate him to a subordinate, though she had to know that it grated every nerve in his body to do it. And she couldn’t summon enough patience to wait a couple of hours at home?

  He unlocked his knees and started forwards again. ‘What in the name of Triton’s forked tail are you doing here?’

  He’d used his captain’s voice, authoritative and designed to scare the slack out of hardened sailors. It spooked her mare instead. The bay reared and tried to bolt. Though she’d been caught by surprise, Portia reacted smoothly, bending lithe and low over her mount’s neck. Graceful and at every moment in control, she allowed the animal to dance, gradually gathering her in and soothing her to a trembling halt.

  As the mare calmed, Portia straightened. Mateo expected her to snap back, or at least resort to the highhanded manner she’d adopted yesterday, but she only watched him with a clear gaze. ‘I’m going with you,’ she answered simply.

  Mateo drew a deep breath. Her calm helped him to keep his. ‘Why?’

  Her steady gaze did not waver or retreat. ‘Because I need to.’

  An echo of her words rang in his head. I am tired of being let down by the men who are supposed to have my best interests at heart. They were a pair, weren’t they? He—fighting the old, stifling sense of suffocation—and she—battling a well-deserved feeling of helplessness.

  He sighed. ‘You understand that I will do the talking,’ he said.

  The mask of anxiety about her eyes faded away. Mateo watched it disappear and was struck by a sudden thought. In their every encounter he’d wondered what had happened to the old Portia. Now he knew that those lines of worry were the first glimpse he’d got of her. He didn’t like it. He much preferred the bold, confident Portia over the shy, reserved version.

  Frowning, he mounted quickly. ‘Let’s be off, then.’

  They set out, Portia keeping her mare pulled in to his gelding’s shorter stride. Neither spoke and Mateo was just as glad. He did not want to feel any sort of preference for Portia Tofton. It could only be dangerous, given the awkwardness in their past and the volatility of their present. The old ease that they’d felt together was gone. Long ago they had taken comfort in each other’s company, had often ridden out together like this, in
companionable silence. But everything had changed.

  Everything about their current situation rang problematic, but it was more than that. He was acutely aware of her, in a manner he had not expected. Like a man was aware of a pretty, vibrant woman. Or like a man on top of a powder keg warily eyed a burning brand.

  Mateo spurred his mount to a faster pace. He would set aside his emotions, make the necessary transactions and he would be gone. As she said, in this fashion they would both get what they wanted. And then they would move on.

  Horatio Rankin kept them waiting. It had to be a calculated move on his part, for his dour clerk had at first assured them that Mr Rankin was free. When he’d come shuffling back from his master’s office, though, the clerk had sourly informed them that they would have to wait. And wait they had, for nearly an hour.

  Portia was not annoyed in the slightest. She was feeling quite in charity with the world, and most particularly with Mateo Cardea. It seemed nothing had changed between them, and everything had. Out of the pack of her brothers and their friends, he’d always been the one to treat her with consideration, the one who had taken her seriously. It was the reason why she’d pinned her hopes for Stenbrooke on him, and he had lived up to all of her expectations.

  She watched him wander from one corner of the dingy office window to the other and back again, the embodiment of restless motion, and she knew that Mateo had not changed. Worse, she knew that the feelings she’d once harboured for him had.

  She’d been a girl all those years ago, and she’d wanted him with a girl’s vague yearnings for a boy. Now she was a woman, a widow. Her eyes followed him, alive and vibrant with suppressed energy and impatience, the only thing worth watching in this bleak and barren space, and this time she knew just what she yearned for.

  It would not do. There was too much unsaid between them, and in any case she could feel the resentment simmering just under the surface of his calm civility. This situation might not be of her making, but she still stood as the figurehead of all that had befallen him. No. It would be better all the way around if they just finished their business and parted ways.

  He sighed in exasperation and bent low, his hands on the window sill as he stared at the bustling activity outside. A tiny smile played at the corners of Portia’s mouth. In the meantime, she would allow herself to enjoy the view.

  She started as he cursed suddenly and whirled to face the silently scribbling clerk. ‘By all that’s holy, can you not check to see what is delaying the man?’

  The scratching of the man’s pen stopped. The small sound was replaced by his long-suffering sigh. Casting Mateo a look of extreme annoyance, he slid from his high chair and creaked his way down the hall.

  Once he’d gone, Mateo smiled and dropped himself on to the bench next to her. Portia returned his smile. She enjoyed the warm feel of him next to her nearly as much as she’d appreciated his backside view.

  She cocked her head at him. ‘Rankin is a horrid little man,’ she said. ‘He’s likely trying to goad us.’

  ‘Aye, I began to suspect as much,’ said Mateo. ‘But I thought we should discuss the question—why? He cannot know exactly what we wish to discuss, and even if he did, why should he seek to unsettle us? Or perhaps he only hopes we will leave? But again, why?’

  Portia shrugged. ‘I put it down to his ill nature.’

  ‘Surely there is more to it than that? And I give him what he wants, eh? The old one will report that my temper is heated to boiling.’He scrubbed his hands vigorously through his dark curls. ‘So—do I look the part?’

  She laughed. Impulsively, she reached out and loosened his respectable stock. Tilting her head, she ran a considering gaze down the front of him and then reached out and undid the top button of his waistcoat. ‘Now you do.’

  She glanced up and her smile faded. Mateo stared and it was not laughter she saw now in his eyes. His smile had faded, taking those tiny, irresistible lines with it, and leaving something intense and speculative that heated her from the inside.

  She dropped her hands away from him. ‘Thank you for bringing me along.’

  ‘It is nothing.’

  ‘No,’she said firmly. ‘It’s not.’But it would be better if he did not know just how grateful she felt. ‘I know that you wish to do the talking, but I do have some questions I’d like Mr Rankin to answer. I was curious about a few things before, but his treatment of us only sharpens my curiosity.’

  ‘Yes?’ He looked suddenly alert. ‘What questions do you have?’

  Portia breathed deep. ‘I’d like to know exactly when J.T. lost ownership of the house. Why did the new owner not take possession immediately? Or why not after J.T. ’s death, when every other gamester he’d borrowed from or lost to made claims against the estate? He’s been dead for nearly fifteen months. Why wait until now?’

  Mateo shrugged. ‘Perhaps the new owner did not hear of your husband’s death right away.’

  She looked wry. ‘If he was in England, then he would have heard of J.T.’s death,’ she said scornfully.

  He sat straighter. Portia could see the questions in his eyes, but she was in no way prepared to answer them. Not here. Not now. She shook her head. ‘And it does not explain why he did not make his claim immediately upon winning.’

  Mateo sat back and allowed his gaze to return to the dingy window and the unceasing activity on North-brook Street. ‘You are right, I believe. There are too many questions here.’ He stared intently down the hallway where the clerk had gone. ‘Our decrepit friend has been gone a long time.’

  Portia stared as he abruptly rose from his seat.

  ‘Something is not right here,’ he said.

  She jumped to her feet and followed as he strode suddenly down the hall.

  Mateo tried to ignore his sense of foreboding. Likely this Rankin was only passed out from drink, or just the small sort of man who built himself up by irritating and belittling others. He prayed it was some such simple explanation and not a complication that would cause a delay and destroy his company’s best chance for the future.

  An ornate door on the left looked out of place in this dusty corridor. From behind it came the sound of small, frantic movements and the faint sound of cursing. Portia came up behind him as he reached it. He placed his hand on the knob and cast her a faint look of enquiry. At her nod he pushed it open.

  Chaos reigned inside. They stood on the threshold of a small, comfortably appointed office, but comfort was clearly not on the itinerary today. Papers and files were strewn everywhere. The elderly clerk knelt on his knees at the bottom of a filing cabinet, searching frantically through its contents. From behind a richly carved desk piled high with scattered documents rang another loud curse.

  ‘Damn it all, but it must be here! Where the hell else would it be?’

  Mateo cleared his throat.

  The clerk jerked about. Up over the desk rose a set of sandy eyebrows and a pair of small, narrowed blue eyes.

  ‘Well, well, Mrs Tofton,’ Mateo mused. ‘It does appear that we have come at an inopportune time.’

  The piggish eyes were joined by the rest of the man. Mateo caught the scent of alcohol, noted the red, bloated face and ample belly and was reminded strongly of his sea-cook’s stories about Davy’s drunken sow.

  ‘Yes, yes—a most inconvenient time.’ He waved a dismissive hand and attempted an apologetic expression. ‘So sorry, but you’ll have to come back another day.’

  Mateo narrowed his gaze. ‘Oh, I do not think it will be so easy, Mr Rankin.’

  Just like that the solicitor’s barely conciliatory air disappeared. He whirled on his clerk. ‘Useless old fool!’ he hissed. ‘I told you to get rid of them!’

  ‘Ah, but you cannot blame your assistant.’ Mateo glanced askance at Portia. ‘Anyone will tell you that I’m a most inconvenient fellow.’

  She nodded in pleasant agreement. Rankin merely sputtered.

  ‘We are here about Stenbrooke.’He let his gaze roam over the mess.
‘We’d meant to discuss a sale of the estate, but I have a feeling there might be some difficulty with that.’

  Mr Rankin not only looked like old Davy’s sow, he apparently shared her stubborn characteristics. ‘I’m not prepared to discuss the business today, sir, with you or anyone else. You’ll have to leave.’

  Mateo merely leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. ‘Mrs Tofton, something tells me that there is no need for you to start packing.’

  Rankin actually grunted. ‘She’s to be out by Michaelmas.’ He turned his narrow little gaze on Portia. ‘That’s four short weeks,’ he said nastily. ‘If you haven’t started packing, you’d best hop to it.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that, Mrs Tofton. It would appear that Mr Rankin has misplaced something.’ Mateo arched a brow in Portia’s direction. ‘Would you care to make a wager on it? I’m betting he’s lost the deed of conveyance to Stenbrooke.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d care to take that bet,’ said Portia casually.

  A snarl of frustration ripped across Rankin’s face. ‘Perhaps I have mislaid the document. But that doesn’t change the fact that the place no longer belongs to her.’

  Mateo stood straight. ‘Do you know, I think your brothers would have some colourful cant phrase to describe what Mr Rankin is trying to sell us—a bag of moonlight, would they label it?’

  He hid a smile as she considered. ‘A bag of moonshine, I believe. Or they might say that Mr Rankin is trying to bamboozle us.’ She cocked her head at the solicitor. ‘And I do believe that they would be right.’

  Musing, Mateo glanced at Portia again. ‘Two women alone might have appeared to be an easy target. Perhaps the document never existed.’

  Portia pursed her lips. ‘He did have the deed last month.’