by Sharon Page
But he’d never known the pure agony of wanting a woman he couldn’t have except with Portia. He’d never wanted any other woman like he wanted her.
Focusing on the baize door, he almost crashed into a figure who emerged from a bedroom. His chest almost collided with a protruding bosom and he caught himself just in time.
It was the Old Madam. Mrs. Barker, who he now thought of by Portia’s nickname.
“What is it? Where are you running off to, Your Grace?” she cried.
“There was another murder. Sadie. Strangled,” he bit out. He tried to sprint around the older woman, but she clutched his arm. With a grip like an iron hook driving into his flesh.
“One of the women? Oh! Oh! We’re all to be killed! One by one. For our sins.” Her eyes goggled, bulging out and looking like billiard balls. “But who hasn’t had to commit a sin or two in life? I did nothing wrong.... I had to remove those girls. They were suffering. Sick. Wounded. What else could I do? If I’d sent them to hospitals, they would have talked and powerful gentlemen would have been destroyed. I had no choice, Sinclair. No choice! I protected those men. Those lords. Why am I paying the price? Why aren’t they?”
The Old Madam was screeching at him.
He actually longed to smack her face to stop her wailing in his face in a high-pitched, panicked scream that almost shattered his eardrums. But her words . . . Hell, he understood what she meant by “removed.” “You killed women. Girls you dragged into your bordellos?”
“I had no choice. When they were whipped badly, I couldn’t let anyone see the wounds. I simply gave them something to make them sleep and not wake up. I found new girls. Strong, new, pretty virgins.”
He wanted to vomit listening to this. He wanted to belt the woman. “Go lock yourself in your room and pray you’re not dead in the morning,” he said harshly.
He had to find this killer. Not to protect women like the madam, but to keep Portia safe.
The victims were all sinners. But Portia wasn’t. She should not be in danger, but she’d received a note. That made no sense to him.
It also hit him cold—the murderer considered him as immoral and sick as the Old Madam, who had killed young women hurt by her clients.
In the eyes of the murderer, he was as bad.
But for which sins? The sin of holding orgies? Or for the old sins from his past?
A crazy idea leapt into his head. He’d sinned against Portia. Broken her heart.
Was that his sin?
He couldn’t hear Portia’s footsteps ahead of him on the stairs. This drove him to run down the steps, three at a time. He reached the kitchen floor, stepping onto the flagstones.
Then he saw her.
Dangling feet, swaying as the suspended rope twirled.
Oh God, Portia.
* * *
Suddenly, she was pulled back and all she could see was Sin’s white shirt. He’d pulled her to his chest, blocking her view of the body that hung right in front of her, just as he’d done before. But Portia pushed away. She recognized the plain skirts. She didn’t even have to look up.
It was Ellie the maid.
“Don’t look.” His chest rumbled with his husky voice.
“I have to. I can’t cower in fear. I’ve been far too afraid.”
“No, you haven’t. You’ve been remarkably brave.” He looked at her with admiration.
This was once what she’d dreamed of. Having the Duke of Sinclair realize he’d made a terrible mistake.
But now—it didn’t matter. They were surrounded by horror and that was what mattered.
She forced her gaze to go up. The girl hung from a noose attached to one of the thick, large beams.
Suddenly, she couldn’t stop speaking. Speaking made it so that her mind would not take in what she was seeing.
“I noticed the crumbs on the floor in Sadie’s room when I went to her bed and stepped on them with my slipper. You see, they weren’t there earlier. They couldn’t have been, or else I would have walked on them then. Someone brought food up to Sadie. It could have been the maid—and perhaps she saw someone. Perhaps she saw the killer. And that’s why she was killed.”
Wait . . .
“No, that’s not right,” she said, her voice hoarse. “She received a letter warning her about sins. But how could she have sins? What could she have done? Stolen something from an employer? Ruined herself with a man? How could anything be worth—” Words failed. Her throat hurt too much to speak.
Sinclair’s arms went around her again. “Don’t talk. You are in shock.”
She shook her head. “I can’t be in shock anymore. I’ve been through this five times now. I don’t think I have any capacity left to feel shock.”
“Yes, you do,” he said firmly.
She was sure he was going to march her back to the room. He was already turning her. She couldn’t see Ellie’s dangling form anymore.
But no, she had to have strength.
“I must talk to the cook. Especially now!” Portia cried. “Perhaps one of the guests came down and asked for biscuits, offering to help Sadie. If it was one of the men, surely it must mean he was a murderer, for what man would worry about such a thing? If it was a woman . . . well, it could mean she was the killer, or was being solicitous. Though, would any of these women be worrying about Sadie? Ellie would be the obvious person to take the biscuits upstairs, wouldn’t she? And now she’s dead. I think she is dead because she knew who the killer is—”
“Reason for you to leave this alone, Portia. I demand that you do. Upstairs for you now. I will deal with this.”
“I’m just supposed to meekly let you order me about.”
“Yes.”
“No, I won’t. I have had to be in charge of my own life for years. I’ve had ten years to realize I will be alone for my life. Surrounded by children and people in the home, but alone. And to be alone means you must have courage to protect yourself.”
“You are not alone, Portia. I will deliver you from this hell. No matter what it takes.” Ruthlessness touched his expression. His eyes went cold.
She shivered. “What do you mean?”
But he didn’t answer. He lifted his head. “Did you hear that?”
A soft groan murmured through the silence.
“There’s someone else down here,” she whispered.
“Ooh, me head,” complained a female voice.
“The cook,” Portia gasped. She ran into the kitchen, even though Sinclair barked, “Portia, wait!”
Within, the cook was pushing up from the floor weakly. Dipping to her knees, Portia helped the woman, who gazed at her with rueful eyes and touched her head. “It ’urts something fierce.”
Sinclair’s polished boots moved beside the injured cook, and he lifted the woman to her feet. His gloved hand came down, Portia clasped it, and he lifted her as if she were weightless.
“You should sit,” Sinclair instructed to Mrs. Kent. He helped the woman to a stool. “What happened to you?”
Her white frilled cap was askew and Portia helped her right it. The woman looked at her gratefully, then turned to Sinclair. “I . . . I don’t know exactly, Your Grace. I . . . I blacked out. No . . . no, something hit me. That’s all I remember. A sharp pain, then the whole world went black right before my eyes.”
“You were attacked,” Portia said. “And Ellie—”
“What’s happened to her?” The cook cried, her eyes wide with shock. “Oh my heavens, was she hurt too?”
Portia opened her mouth, but the duke said, “I will explain it, Miss Love. It’s not for you to speak of such gruesome things.”
He wanted to spare her. In all this horror, he was thinking of her.
“It was just as with the Marquis of Crayle,” he said gruffly. “Ellie has been hanged, but there was no stool or chair in sight.”
Portia saw how intently he watched the cook. But the woman went white and sagged on the stool. He had to grasp her arm so she didn’t slide off. The cook d
idn’t faint, but it looked like a near thing.
“I’m sorry to be so blunt. Now, do you know what you were struck with?”
“I don’t know. It slammed on me ’ead like a ton of bricks. A pan? A rolling pin?”
Together with Sinclair, Portia looked around. Nothing lay on the floor. The wooden worktable was clear. “There’s no sign of the weapon.”
Something else was missing. “And no ribbon,” Portia breathed. “I don’t see any pink ribbon.”
“Ribbon?” Mrs. Kent repeated slowly. She touched her locket. “There was this. Do you mean this ribbon? It was left in my room. I meant no harm in taking it.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Portia assured the woman, who looked blank and confused. “As Mrs. Kent said, a piece of ribbon was left in her room before. But there wasn’t any now. What could that mean?”
“Possibly that the intent was not to kill Mrs. Kent.” A frown pulled Sinclair’s brows together. He gave a half shake of his head. “Or the killer felt it was sufficient she had a piece of the ribbon tied to her locket. Whatever this madman is trying to say, I can’t fathom it,” he growled. He turned to the cook, addressing her gently. “Was there anyone else down here with you?”
“There was. That footman. And the butler. I overheard that footman flirting with Ellie. Said he’d received a letter threatening to reveal his sins. Ellie admitted she’d gotten one too.”
“Did you get a letter like that?” he asked.
Mrs. Kent shook her head—then winced and stopped. “There is no point in lying, is there? Aye, I got one. What sins could a woman like me ’ave committed? I work from dawn until evening. I’ve no time for sins. I’ve never even made a soul sick with my cooking. Never poisoned anyone, if ye’re thinking that’s my sin!”
The woman had a bruise on her head and she looked white as a sheet, swaying slightly on her feet. She looked like a woman who had been attacked. But so far, the murderer had used bludgeoning only once. And when the killer had struck Willoughby, it had been with excessive force. Vicious force. The killer had certainly ensured Lord Willoughby was dead.
“Strange that the murderer left you alive,” Sinclair said, and Portia jumped, startled he was thinking the exact thing as her. “That the killer did not ensure the attack was successful.”
The cook sucked in a deep, desperate breath. Suddenly she made a loud, keening wail. She got up off the stool, rushed blindly toward the door, crashing into the silver-laded table.
Portia rushed after her and got her to halt. She put her hands on the woman’s shoulders to soothe her. “Please calm down. That didn’t happen, thank heaven. You are perfectly safe now.”
“With a killer on the loose? I’m about as safe as a lobster dangled over a boiling pot,” the cook cried.
“We intend to keep you safer than that,” Sinclair said. But he was still frowning and he shook his head. “Our villain has been damned clever up until now. Why has he made a mistake?”
The poor cook looked ready to swoon. Portia held on to the woman, to keep her from slumping to the floor. The woman stared wildly at Portia, and cried, “Perhaps the fiend intended to strike again, but ran off. Or thought ’e’d done the job when I fell. Or Ellie saw ’im and ’e went after ’er instead. ’E must ’ave thought ’e’d done me in. Oh—oh my Lord, if ’e ’ad checked, I’d be dead.”
“Your ideas could be right,” the duke said thoughtfully. Portia wished he was not doing this in front of the cook. It was frightening the woman. “Perhaps Ellie did walk in and the killer had to attend to her. The murderer could have assumed one strong blow to Mrs. Kent’s head was enough to kill her.”
The woman made a helpless scream of fear.
Portia wished he would realize he was frightening the woman.
“Well, you are not dead, thank heaven,” Portia said firmly. “And that is what matters. There’s no point in dwelling on this. She’s told us what she knows.”
But Sinclair bent to be eye level with Mrs. Kent. “Why do you say ‘he’?” he asked softly. “You said you did not see anything. What makes you think it was a man?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I don’t know who it was. I just thought it must be a man. Who else would be so vicious and evil?” The cook peered at him, looking up from the stool. “Ye think it’s me, don’t ye? Ye think I did these ’orrible things? Why would I? I’m innocent! What about ’umphries, always creeping about! If there’s anyone mad, it’s ’im! Or that Reggie. ’E’s a strong one.”
“And both men were down here. So why haven’t they come out now, to find out what all this noise is about?”
The cook clamped her hand to her mouth.
“Stay here,” Sinclair instructed. “Wait for my return.”
The cook moved her hand. “I’m not staying ’ere with a lunatic on the loose!”
“Bring her with us, P—Miss Love. Let me go first. If there’s anyone waiting to attack, I’d rather be the one he—or she—strikes.”
Portia helped the cook to her feet and put her arm around the woman’s waist to help her walk. “Do you think someone is waiting?” She glanced around.
“It’s too damn quiet,” he muttered.
Five minutes later, they found the butler. Sprawled on the floor of his pantry. He’d been struck over the head by a silver candlestick.
“One blow,” Sinclair muttered. “One blow killed him. The killer’s strong. Knows what he—or she—is doing.”
The cook gave out a cry of horror. She clutched the table on which lay all the silver, half-gleaming, freshly polished. “’Im too! I could’ve been dead. It was just by luck that I survived. That footman was down ’ere with us. ’E’s strong. He must be mad. Utterly mad.”
Then she spotted it. A swash of color. Sinclair saw it too and he bent and picked it up off the floor.
“The little ribbon clue,” Portia said softly. “But there had been no ribbon near you,” she said to Mrs. Kent.
Portia realized Sinclair had left the room. Hard footsteps on the flags made Portia jump. Someone was coming and she and the cook were alone. She grasped a heavy silver serving dish with two hands. She wielded it over her shoulder, ready to protect Mrs. Kent and herself—
Sinclair came back in. “The rear door that leads out to the kitchen gardens was open.”
“You didn’t go out, did you? It could have been a trap!”
“I was careful, love. I saw a fresh-looking footprint in the earth. Then spotted a set of white gloves tossed to the ground at the base of a shrub. White and stained with rust-red blood.” These he tossed onto the butler’s table.
“What are those?”
“The footman’s gloves. He appears to be gone.”
“Gone?” Wild thoughts went through her head. Why was the footman gone? Was he the killer? He was young and strong. A match for the men. And he could have taken all of the servants by surprise.
But why? Why would he do this? Revenge? Anger? Madness?
There had been no ribbon near the cook. If she’d been struck over the head by the killer with the intent to kill her in the same way the butler had been murdered, why was there no clue left behind?
The cook peered at Sinclair. “Gone? What do ye mean gone?”
“He appears to have gone outside.”
“So ’e’s the one?”
Was he? Portia knew, from the stews, that a woman could be a villain. Puzzled, she moved back toward the kitchen. Could it mean the cook was the killer? That the woman had not really been hit and had faked everything?
But she was a large, heavy, middle-aged woman. Could she really have killed Willoughby, who was young and strong? Could she have lifted the marquis and placed him in a noose?
It seemed impossible.
If the cook was supposed to be a victim, like Ellie and the butler, shouldn’t there be a ribbon? The cook was wearing a little scrap of the ribbon on her locket. Was that enough for the killer? Or had the killer intended only to knock out the cook, and kill the cook later?
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Portia left the butler’s pantry, returning to the place in the kitchen where they had found Mrs. Kent. Was there any clue there? Any clue that pointed to the footman being the culprit? She simply wouldn’t have thought him clever enough to have killed five people and have done it without detection—
“Oh my heavens.” The cook had come in behind her. Now the woman passed her and pulled something out from beneath a pot. Her fingers caressed it.
Portia saw the flash of pink. “So you did get one.”
“It were under the pot. A bit of ribbon, just like ye said. But why is it there? What is it? It looks like a child’s hair ribbon.”
“Yes,” Portia said. “And these were left for each victim.”
The woman turned white. “But why would I be given this? I’ve no daughter. Not even a younger sister. There’s no one left in my family but me.”
“It’s a clue,” Portia said. “The murderer wants us to understand why he—or she—is doing this. It is something to do with a girl. Perhaps a girl who wore this hair ribbon.”
“But what could all of us have to do with a girl?” Mrs. Kent asked frantically. “Why should we be killed?”
Hinges creaked. A gust of cool air flowed in. There was the smell of dampness, the salt tinge of the sea.
Portia jerked. Sinclair must have gone out again. Gone in pursuit of the footman. A man who might be a fiendish killer. And he’d gone alone.
She rushed out the open door and almost fell over as a gust of sea wind hit her. There was no rain anymore, but the sky was a deep iron gray. Huge, dark clouds still massed around the island, as if trying to swallow it whole. The wind snatched at the door, tearing it from her hand, slamming it shut. Then she saw him. Sinclair returning to her. Alive.
She’d thought her heart would slow down from its frantic pace once she saw him and knew he was all right. But her heart thundered even faster with dizzying relief.