by Sharon Page
She ran toward him.
“You didn’t find him?” she shouted over the sound of the wind. “We must organize a search. If we all look—” All of us who are left, she thought, panic touching her. But she fought it down. “We’ll find him, surely.”
“I did find him. He’s not our killer.”
One look at his face, hard, carved of stone, and Portia knew. “He’s dead. Of course he is.” Then, with an eerie sense of exhaustion, of finality, she asked, “How? How was he killed?”
But then, beyond Sinclair’s tall form, she saw the footman’s body sprawled on the lawn. She ran around Sinclair toward him, but as she grew close, her steps slowed. Her legs felt numb, her heart so filled with pain and horror, she could not comprehend what she was seeing.
His trousers had been torn down. There was darkness. A stretch of naked thighs and a stomach and then . . . blackish redness. Blood. She was looking at blood and—
Sinclair dragged her away. “Don’t look. He’s been cut. Badly.”
“Around his front—his private parts.”
“He’s been gelded.”
“Oh. Oh goodness.” She did not look again. She had seen enough.
She needed to touch Sinclair. Put her hand over his heart. As if to reassure herself he was still alive.
The boastful footman. Now he was gone too. In a horrible way.
“Stay there,” the Duke of Sinclair commanded. “Where I can keep watch over you every moment.”
She did, her skirts whipping and snapping around her in the wind. She watched him return to the body. He crouched. Touched the wet earth. Then straightened and carefully and deliberately placed his foot in a muddy spot. The footman lay near the edge of the terrace, where there was a spot of wet mud between the stones and the lawn.
“A man’s footprint,” he called. “Slightly shorter than mine.”
“Could it be the footman’s prints?” she shouted back.
Sinclair shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think he walked out here from over there.”
“So we know it is a gentleman.”
“Or a woman wearing a man’s boots.” He grimaced. “No clue gives us certainty.”
“Would a woman have done that?”
“An angry, jealous, scorned woman might.”
She met his gaze as he straightened and strode toward her. “Perhaps,” she yelled, over the roar of the wind. Portia had never hurt so much she could turn to violence. But maybe some women did. “We are running out of suspects. Soon we’ll know—because there will only be us and . . . and the killer.”
He moved quickly, running to her. Her voice had become panicked. He caught hold of her hands. “No, it isn’t going to be that way, love. No harm is going to come to you.”
“I can’t simply rely on you to do that.”
He looked hurt.
“I have to rely on my wits as well. I have to think a way out of this.” She looked out toward the sea. “Is there any way we could get to shore?”
“No boat. Sax checked that this morning. And I doubt any boats will come out to us. The seas are too high. I would have tried rowing back if there was a boat, but that’s because I’m more desperate than anyone from the mainland coming to us.”
“Are you certain there are no boats?”
He jerked up his head, silky brown hair falling across his brow. “You think Sax lied?”
“If he is the killer, he could have done.”
“Sax is no madman.”
Of course he would think that about his friend. “The hair ribbons. This is about a girl. Whatever our sins are, they are related to a girl or a young woman. Could there be a young woman in Saxonby’s life that he is willing to kill for?”
Her words impacted Sinclair. He stepped back as if they’d struck him with force. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “We’ve been friends since Eton days. My father sent me there, even though our side of the family had been disowned. But I have to admit—I don’t know about every detail of Sax’s life.” He looked to the open kitchen door and she looked too. Framed in the doorway was the pale, wounded cook. “We should go back to the house.”
“Not yet. I can’t go back yet. As mad as it sounds, I feel safer out here. I feel is if someone in the house is waiting, watching us, preparing to strike.”
“Portia.” His arms went around her, comforting her. “That’s what I don’t understand about this,” he said softly. She realized he was leading away from the horribly mutilated body, but not toward the house. They were still out on the open lawn, where surely no one could sneak up and attack.
“What don’t you understand? The whole thing seems a perplexing, horrible mystery to me.”
“I don’t understand why you are here. What sins could you have? You rescue children.”
“Maybe this is about a child I couldn’t rescue.” The idea came to her suddenly. She had been brought here very deliberately. It hadn’t been for an orgy, she knew. It had been to make her a victim.
“What do you mean?”
She met his darkly lashed, stunning brown eyes. “A child who died at the home, perhaps. Sometimes that happens—from illness. Or, when we rescue the child, the poor thing has been so starved or abused, the child can’t recover.”
Those were the worst agonies.
“But that would mean we all have this particular girl in common,” he said. “What girl would we all have in common?”
“I don’t know. Willoughby ruined innocents. The old madam snared young women for brothels. You gave orgies. It could be a girl who went to orgies.”
He stiffened. “I never allowed young girls into my events. I employed dutiful servants to ensure the only women in attendance were of an appropriate age.”
She saw hurt in his eyes, but an indignant one, not a vulnerable hurt. He felt judged. “I mean, I have been rescuing children since I was eighteen. A girl of ten then would be twenty-one now.”
“Sadie,” he muttered.
“Not Sadie. She is already dead.” Portia tapped her chin, staring at the house. “But why? Could she have hurt this girl in some way? I could see the Old Madam or the Incognita killing Sadie out of jealousy. Or could one of them be related to this child. Even the Elegant Widow. She could be the sister to such a girl.”
“Perhaps. We have to question the guests,” he said. “And talk to the cook. She is the only person who has survived an attack. I know you don’t want to go back to the house, but I’d like to talk to her, and I’m not leaving you out here alone.”
“I can go now. With you. I can face it now.”
They went back to the house, back in through the open kitchen door.
But the cook couldn’t add a thing. They already knew she hadn’t seen whoever had come up behind her, but Sinclair asked if she heard anything, or had smelled anything—the hint of a perfume or gentleman’s shaving lotion. But Mrs. Kent had been utterly oblivious to everything that might have given them a clue.
“Who took biscuits up to the room used by Sadie Bradshaw?” Portia asked.
“Biscuits? No one asked me for biscuits, miss.”
“But where are they kept? Who could have found them?”
“They’re kept in a tin in the pantry. Ellie knew where they were.” Tears gathered in the cook’s eyes. For all she’d spoken to Mrs. Kent before, this was the first time Portia noticed the woman’s eyes were large and green. They were quite striking. There was something about cooks—they were usually short-tempered, tough task masters, and always in charge of their kitchens. Often one forgot they were also women. And Mrs. Kent had probably been quite a pretty woman.
Then the woman put her hands on her hips and looked annoyed, as cooks so often did. “And what am I going to do now the other servants are gone? Am I to cook the meals, make the beds, dust and serve table all by myself?”
“We’ll fend for ourselves,” Sinclair said. “We have greater problems than worrying about laying fires and making beds.”
The cook wagged
her finger. “You say that now, Your Grace, but when there’s no fire to ward off the cold sea air and your sheets stink, you’ll think differently. Oh, oh blast—” The woman’s brave anger vanished. Suddenly, Mrs. Kent began to cry, then pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “I want to get away from this godforsaken place.”
“We all do,” Sinclair growled. “But we can’t.”
There were nine guests left, including her and Sinclair and Saxonby. And on top of that, there was the cook. It had to be one of them, didn’t it? There was something nagging at Portia, something that didn’t seem right, but that was foolish—all of this was wrong. “I fear we’ll know when we’re the only ones left,” she said softly. “Except for the murderer.”
“No,” Sinclair growled. “We’ll stop this fiend before then. I am going to stop this damned villain now.”
16
Sin stood in a shadowy corner of the foyer. Once he and Portia had come up from the kitchens, she had seen Nellie Upton, who wore a gown of translucent white lace that showed off her exotic, dark-toned skin.
She had gone to ask the girl a few questions. He’d waited, watching, thinking. He remembered his first orgy ten years ago.
He’d spent the whole night fucking as many people as he could before collapsing—he’d gone through a lot of French letters, but he couldn’t remember how many partners he’d had. All the sex had helped him forget his past. Forget how, when he’d been young, his father had abused him, his mother had used him, and his brother’s wife, Estella . . . she had destroyed the very last of his soul.
All his life, Sin had hated himself for letting them use him. For not standing up for himself. He had played their games—
That was what he was doing here, he realized. The killer was always ahead of them, always in command. He and Portia were playing the killer’s game.
He had to get the upper hand. He had to twist things up, take charge, throw the killer off.
That was how he’d finally gotten free when he’d been young. He had stood up to his father. He had told his mother he hated her for what she’d done to him. He’d told Estella that she could not touch him anymore. He’d finally stood up for himself.
It had set off a chain reaction of disaster that left his father and mother dead, but he had been free. Finally. He still felt so much guilt for being such a coward before. But he had only saved himself when he had stopped playing their games.
He had to do that now.
But how did he throw the killer off guard. How did he take control of this?
An idea occurred to him. A way to confuse the killer. But he would need help for his plan. He couldn’t reveal it to Portia. But he could trust Sax—
“Sin. Sin, I’ve got to talk to you.”
It was Sax, who looked like he’d seen a ghost. Sin came out of the shadows, just as Portia left Nellie. They both hurried toward Sax, and somehow Sin knew, before his friend even said a word, what had happened.
He could see it in Sax’s eyes. He knew that look—he’d worn it years ago, when he was young.
It was lost hopelessness.
* * *
Saxonby came toward them and Portia hurried forward, laying her hand on the forearm of Sinclair’s friend. She’d never seen a man look in so much pain as Saxonby. “What has happened?”
Sinclair was right behind her. In a raw voice, he asked, “Sax, what in hell is it?”
In the gray daylight falling into the corridor, Saxonby looked as if his heart had been torn out by vicious hands. “It’s Georgiana. She has been killed. Poisoned, I think.”
Portia felt her knees weaken. Four murders in mere hours—or mere minutes, really. How was it possible?
A spasm of pain passed over Sinclair’s face. “I’m sorry. Damned sorry.” Then, in a low growl, “How did it happen?”
“She had a decanter of sherry in her room. Took a drink even though I’d warned her not to touch anything. I found her lying on the bed, neatly arranged. With a damn pink ribbon lying on her breast.”
The Duke of Saxonby was lifting a glass to his lips. Portia gasped, and said, “Don’t touch that,” but Sinclair had already knocked it out of his friend’s hands.
“What the—? This was a fresh bottle placed in my room. I opened the seal, Sin. You didn’t need to break my damn glass. I need a drink. I can’t believe this happened to Georgiana. God, she was lovely. I was already half in love with her and falling fast the rest of the way. I could have happily married her—if I could marry, she would have been the girl for me.”
If he could marry? Portia noted those words, but saw nothing in Saxonby’s grieving expression of what he meant by those words. And what did it matter now, when he had lost the woman he loved?
“What do you mean the sealed bottle was placed in your room, Sax?” Sinclair asked, frowning.
“There was one left in my bedchamber this morning. A bottle, with the original seal in place, and a note that stated this was a fresh bottle, that it would be ungentlemanly to poison a man’s brandy when he would soon need it. At the time, I had no idea what the note meant. It was signed by Genvere.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking it. Hell, Sax, it was likely tampered with.”
“After I found Georgiana’s body, I didn’t give a damn if the stuff was poisoned. Since I’m still alive, I assume it was not. Or it will kill me later. But I guess that was Genvere’s idea. He knew I would need a drink once I learned about Georgiana. I intend to drink the whole blasted bottle and either end up plastered or dead.”
“We can’t get drunk, Sax. We have to keep our wits to survive.” Sinclair rested his hand on his friend’s broad shoulder. “The butler, maid, and footman have also been murdered. But I’m so sorry for your loss, Sax. I know how much this must hurt you.”
“Do you? I’m in damned agony. There was a letter with that fucking ribbon.”
Portia flinched at his language.
“A fucking letter that claimed she’d paid for her sins. God, I want to find this bastard and throttle the life out of him. I want to rip him limb from limb, then tear out his heart. I want him to die in the most painful way possible.”
“You won’t have to do that. I will,” Sinclair said gruffly. “I don’t have much to live for, Sax. You have your life ahead of you. I’ll get vengeance. Don’t worry.”
“What do you mean that you don’t have much to live for?” Portia breathed. She didn’t understand.
But Saxonby broke in, “I’ll get my own fucking revenge.”
“No, you’re my friend. You’ve been one of the best friends I ever had. You were there for me at Eton when . . . suffice to say you know more about me than anyone. I never could explain it to you, Sax, but you helped me in ways you don’t even know about. You saved my life. If it weren’t for you . . . I would have been dead before I was fifteen years of age. You indeed my wretched bloody life. I was the one who fucked it up years later, but I still owe you.”
Portia gaped at him, mystified.
“Have you been drinking, Sin? I don’t know what in blazes you’re talking about,” Saxonby said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Sinclair muttered. “What matters is that this has to end. Por—Miss Love was almost killed by a trap. Georgiana, who meant so much to you, is—is gone. I’m tired of being a step behind this fiend. I have an idea—a plan.” He leveled his intense gaze at his friend. “There is a clue here, an important clue, and I think I’ve finally seen it.”
Portia felt as if she’d been buffeted to and fro by the hurricane-like sea winds. Dizzy and knocked about and unsure what was going on. “What clue?” she cried, then realized she shouldn’t be shouting such things.
But Sinclair, infuriatingly, only shook his head. “I can’t reveal my plans yet.”
Those words made her freeze. “Why can’t you? I thought we were working together,” she said, much more quietly.
“My duty is to protect you. I am not going to let anything happen to you.”
“As I f
ailed Georgiana?” Saxonby asked grimly.
“Not your fault. You didn’t know what was to happen. And you warned her—” He broke off. “I wonder if she heeded your words. I suspect she didn’t drink willingly, but was forced to consume it.”
Saxonby jerked his head up, his eyes empty. “Forced?”
But how could the killer have done that, when the killer was in the kitchens?
Portia was about to ask, when Sinclair said, “I need an idea of when she was killed, Sax. I know it’s hard to think of this, but I need to know. When did you see her in the morning? When did you discover her body upstairs?”
“She went to her room an hour ago, to rest. I found her about five minutes ago.”
“An hour ago,” Portia echoed. “The murderer could have forced poor Lady Linley to drink the sherry before going down to the kitchens. But that . . . that is horrible.”
Sinclair gave a curt nod of his head. At the same moment, Saxonby made an agonizing, keening cry. “I’m going to find this bas—”
Sinclair grabbed his friend’s arm. “I don’t want you to do something stupid, Sax. Something that would see you hanged. I believe I can catch this bastard. But first, if I may, I would like to see Georgiana.”
They walked up the stairs, Portia at Sinclair’s side. Saxonby marched grimly up ahead of them, still drinking.
Sinclair had tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, then rested his hand over hers. As if making sure she was definitely at his side. The tender gesture made her feel breathtakingly close to him. The words he’d said made her feel a thousand miles apart.
“What did you mean that Sax—Saxonby, I mean—saved your life when you were at school?”
“I was lost, depressed, hurting. Saxonby helped me. I don’t think he even understands how much he did for me.”
She sensed that was all he was going to tell her. Curiosity ate at her, but it wasn’t proper to pry.
“Why did you say you don’t have much to live for?”
He met her gaze, his eyes filled with such longing, it twisted her heart.
“I lost the only person who made my life worth anything. That was you, angel. I can never have you now.”