by Sharon Page
“I think you’ve changed,” she whispered. “You have changed for the better, Julian.” There, she called him by his Christian name. She had not dared to use it before now because it touched her heart too much. “I know you have.”
He shook his head. “I’ve learned about regret. But I still could never have married you. I would have ruined you.”
“Ruined me how, if you had married me?”
“You were good, kind, innocent. I would have destroyed you.”
“Why?”
“I would have broken your heart, Portia. I would have made you cynical. I would have gone to brothels and orgies. I would have tried to fight the urges, but they would have beaten me in the end.”
“I don’t believe it. You could have fought—if you really wanted to.”
He inclined his head. “True. But I’m weak, love. And . . . hell, stupid when it comes to sex. But I have to show some intelligence in this, our hunt for a killer. I have to figure out what this bastard wants. I have to try to understand his—or her—motivation for killing, try to figure out who will be attacked next. The fiend leaves no clues—except the one clue of the ribbon that we are supposed to find.”
She stared, wide-eyed. “How can you know who will be next to be attacked? I never dreamed someone would want to murder all the servants at once.”
His brows drew together. “That’s the damnably strange thing about this. Why try to eliminate them all?”
“I don’t know.” Desperately she tried to think of a reason. What would the guests do now without servants? There would have been no meals. No maid. No footman. It eliminated a strong man in the footman—was that the idea? “Maybe it was to make us more vulnerable.”
His brows rose. “What do you mean?”
“The footman was young and strong, so he could have helped capture the killer. Without the cook and the maid, the courtesans and gentlemen would have to fend for themselves.”
“That is a good point. But the attack on the footman looked more driven by rage than by logical plan.”
She shivered. “Who could have thought of doing such a thing to a human being?”
“It’s amazing the ways people can think to torture others. And enjoy it.”
Those words made her blood feel ice-cold. He spoke as if he knew. Then she remembered the things—the shocking things—he’d told her he needed, that he went to brothels to get. “I know there is something you are not telling me. I wish you would trust me.”
He shook his head. “There are things I can’t talk about. That I’ve never told anyone.”
They’d reached the top of the stairs and were walking down the corridor. As they passed the rooms, Portia wanted to speak with Sinclair, but all she could think of was that there were bodies lying on beds behind some of those closed doors.
They passed Willoughby’s door and Sinclair hesitated. “Of any of the guests I would have pegged as a murderer with a sadistic sense of humor, it would have been Willoughby. But he’s dead. Lying on an upstairs bed.”
“With his skull cleaved in. There’s so much of his head missing, we know without a doubt he’s dead,” Saxonby muttered.
“Sax, careful. Portia is tough, but she is too sensitive for blunt talk.”
“I am not,” she said.
“I covered up Georgiana,” Saxonby added gruffly. “She will lie there too in her room.”
Sinclair’s eyes softened. “Hell, I am sorry, Sax.”
Desperation spiked through Portia. She longed to ease Saxonby’s pain, but what could be done? “We must figure out who is behind this,” she cried. “There is the Incognita and the Old Madam. But are they capable of this? Do they have the strength? Of the men, we have two earls left. Both are strong enough, but is one this clever . . . ?”
“And there is Sin and I,” Saxonby muttered.
“I can’t believe it of . . . of either of you.” She gazed at him. “I know you, Sinclair. I knew you ten years ago. I knew you weren’t capable of such things. When you came to London, you seemed so . . . so sweet.”
Saxonby gave a pained grin at that—one that vanished quickly. “Sweet? Yes, you did seem to be a complete innocent when you first came. But Willoughby lured you into destructive vices. Worse than anything the Wicked Dukes had done. Which again makes Willoughby the most likely suspect.”
“You were unlike any gentleman I’d ever encountered,” she went on. “On the very first night I met you, you saved my life from a pimp. And I know you would never hurt anyone else.”
Sinclair shook his head. “That is not entirely true. I wasn’t innocent then. I had hurt people. I had hurt members of my family.” He looked agonized. “I had even been called out in a duel with my own brother. Will didn’t lure me into hell. He just pointed me in the right direction. I craved all those things. I don’t want you to believe I’m something I’m not, Portia.”
“Are you telling me that you are the killer? Because I can’t believe that. I won’t.”
“Not the killer,” Sinclair said. “But I’m not the man you believe me to be. I let you believe things about me that weren’t true. I proposed marriage to you knowing they weren’t true. I’m sorry. I just want you to know I’m not worthy of you.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t want you to think I don’t trust your deductive skills, Sax, but I’d like to see Georgiana’s room for myself. I have an idea—it could be wrong, but there’s something I need to see. . . .”
Portia wished he would share his idea. But she would watch him to see what he did, what he looked at. And she would figure it out.
Why? To protect him, that was why. She was in danger, yes, but Sinclair was speaking about going after this killer by himself. That idea terrified her.
“After that, I should question the guests,” Sinclair said.
“See which ones are left alive,” Saxonby said heavily.
Then she heard Sinclair murmurer quietly to his friend, “You know, I have an idea to flush out the murderer. Portia is right. It doesn’t seem likely to be one of the people left. The madam, the cook, Rutledge, or the other earl. If Will weren’t dead . . . Hell, there’s something I want to know—”
Sinclair sprinted up the stairs. Portia caught up to him. He stood in Willoughby’s room. Walked over and drew down the sheet. Portia stayed in the door, but still gagged at the awful odour. Then he pulled the sheet back up.
Rubbing his chin, he walked back to the door. “Now Georgiana’s room. Sax, would you come with me? I need to ask you . . . uh, something about this morning. And, Portia, I need you to stay in our bedchamber. Where you will be safe.”
She sputtered, but Saxonby said, “Do as he asks, Miss Love. He only wants to protect you.”
So she agreed to wait in the room, but only because it would upset poor Saxonby if she had an argument with Sinclair. The men waited while she locked her door; then she heard their footsteps recede as they went away together to Lady Linley’s room.
What was it Sinclair wanted to do that he did not want her to see? Why had he gone to look at Willoughby again?
She’d thought they were partners in this. So why was he being so secretive?
* * *
Portia had almost worn a hole in the floor from pacing. It had been two hours since Sinclair and Saxonby had gone off. Had something happened to them? Her stomach plunged to her toes; then she heard loud voices outside her door.
“Of the remaining guests, you have the wit and strength to carry this out. You’re the only one capable. I know you have lost women in your life, Sax. You could want revenge. These people could have hurt someone you love.”
Was that Sinclair? Shocked, she hastened to the door and yanked it open.
Saxonby looked stunned. “What in hell are you saying, Sin? We’ve been friends since Eton. You can’t seriously think me responsible for this.”
Both men stood outside the door. Sinclair wore such a ruthless expression, she felt chills.
“It’s the only damn solution,” he said. “
You’re the only one with the brains for this. I don’t know your motive, but I know no one else could be capable of such brilliance.”
“And I’d kill Georgiana?”
“Love can turn to hate easily enough. We both know that. Georgiana had sex with other men here.”
“So what are you planning to do about this mad accusation?”
Portia felt disorientated, as if she’d walked in on the middle of a play. This all felt surreal. These men were friends. What had happened between them? Why did Sinclair think it was Saxonby? What had he discovered? Could he be right?
“I have to stop you, Sax. I challenge you to a duel. Pistols. On the lawn by the terrace.”
“A duel?” Portia heard her voice rise to a screech. “You can’t do this!”
But Sinclair’s dark eyes burned with a wild fury. “You’ve done this, Sax. You’re mad and I am going to stop you.”
17
It wasn’t dawn, but Sin’s thoughts kept going back to the only duels he’d ever had. One had been Willoughby, over the innocent young lady Will had ruined. The duel before that had been when he was sixteen. His brother’s wife, Estella, had revealed to his brother than she’d been sleeping with Sin since he was a boy of twelve. Sin had known it was wrong, but somehow he couldn’t say no to her. Estella used to threaten him to get what she wanted. At fifteen, he’d refused to sleep with her anymore. He found the courage to say no. She told his older brother about the affair out of spite.
And at sixteen, Sin had faced the hellish choice of shooting his own brother on a dueling field or letting himself be killed....
Christ, he had to keep focused.
“Take your position,” he growled to Saxonby. His good friend. They’d been boys together at Eton—boys with dark pasts, with secrets they wanted to keep hidden. They’d met two other boys who also had secrets to hide: Grey, now the Duke of Greybrooke, and Cary, the Duke of Caradon.
Fog wreathed around he and Sax, like ghosts ready to welcome one of them to hell. Cold, damp air clung to the back of his neck, left a film of water on his face.
They had taken a position on the grass beyond the terrace, halfway between the flagstones and the edge of the cliff. It was close enough for them to be seen by people in the house.
He heard Sax puff out a long, harsh breath.
Sin stole a glance at the house—in the cold light he could only see reflections of the iron-gray clouds on the window panes. Was anyone watching them?
The remaining guests had to be.
Sax was a damn good shot. He knew it. But Sin was also an excellent shot. Even as a young man, he’d been good enough to deliberately miss his brother. His brother hadn’t missed him, however....
Focus, damn it.
The terrace door shut with a bang. Through the mist he could see a dress of ivory, thick auburn hair. Portia had come out on the terrace. Damn, he’d told her to keep away from this.
“We’ll count off twenty paces,” he growled. Sax’s shoulders bumped against his as they stood back-to-back. “On the count of three, we fire.”
“On whose count?” Sax demanded.
Before Sin could respond, Sax said, “Wait. It’s Miss Love.”
Portia was running toward them. Her hair was falling out of its pins. Her face was almost ghostly white, and she looked likely as scared as he had been on that morning at Chalk Farm when he was sixteen and knew he was damned—whether he won the duel or not.
Guilt hit him with crippling force, but he shook it off.
Sax turned to Portia. “Miss Love, will you do the honors? Tell us to start walking. Tell us when to fire.”
“This is madness!” she cried. “People are being murdered, and the two of you are being preposterous. Sinclair, please.”
“He’s a madman, Portia,” he barked at her. “Keep out of this.”
“I think you are going mad,” she shouted back.
No doubt that was what she thought. But he had to go through with this.
“I’ll count,” Sax shouted. “Since you’re going to cheat anyway, aren’t you, Sin? You are as mad as a hatter. You think I’m a killer, without any evidence. Without reason. And I fear you plan to shoot first.”
“You can do the count.” Sin didn’t answer the damning accusations.
He began to stride away, counting off twenty paces. His boot soles thudded on the flagstones. He heard Sax’s steps.
Ten . . .
Eleven . . .
He continued to pace. His heartbeat sped up.
Nineteen . . .
* * *
What should she do? Run in between them and try to stop this madness? Run to Sinclair and stop him? But that left him at the risk of being shot.
Portia stood on the cold, stone terrace, frozen to her very soul, while Sinclair and Saxonby marched away from each other across the grass. She heard their voices count off the paces, muffled by fog.
She knew how to end battles between children—she did that in the foundling home. She had even divested angry boys of weapons. But those weapons were rulers used as swords or spoon-catapults fashioned to throw porridge. Nothing like a pistol.
She’d held one—an empty one. But she’d never fired a real one. Though she had an idea how much damage one could do.
“Sinclair, this is not the answer!” she shouted. “Come back here at once, both of you! This behavior will not be tolerated.”
Children had the sense to listen. Men did not.
“Nineteen,” Saxonby called out.
She had to do something. Throw something? Scream and get their attention? Yet she was terrified. What if she tried something and only Sin looked at her, and he got killed?
She had the bravery to rescue children. Now she was standing, frozen.
“Twenty!”
Before her eyes, in glimpses through the mist, she saw Sinclair stop. Saw him turn with his pistol raised. Saw the grim, ruthless look on his face. The wildness of his eyes—her heart shattered.
“No!” she shouted.
“One,” Saxonby yelled, drowning her out.
Before he could call out the number two, Sinclair roared, “You damned murderer.” And he fired.
* * *
His shot went wide. Though the veil of mist, Sin saw Sax flinch as if the shot had come close. He knew it hadn’t.
“You damn, mad bastard,” Saxonby shouted.
Sin heard the roar of the explosion that propelled the round metal shot at him. He jolted back, knowing this was what happened when a man took a pistol ball. He’d taken two in his shoulder in past duels after all. He staggered.
He was falling and he couldn’t stop himself. His back hit the ground hard, he lost all his breath. Gasping to fill his lungs again, Sin put his hand to his heart. Red. His shirt, his waistcoat soaked through, and when he lifted his palm it was slick and red.
Portia. She must be going through hell.
He wanted to talk to her. Kiss her. Say something. But he moved his mouth and dribbled red fluid.
He closed his eyes. Getting shot in the heart didn’t come without a certain amount of pain.
A hand touched him. A soft hand.
He couldn’t open his eyes. His heart felt like ice. It hurt like hell. He was going to lose her. And he couldn’t say anything to her.
He went completely still.
* * *
“What have you done?”
Portia fell to her knees in the grass—squishy and cold from the rain. She leaned over Sinclair. His eyes were closed. His shirt and waistcoat were soaked through red. Was he breathing? With fumbling fingers, she tried to get her hand in under his collar, which was cinched by his wretched cravat.
She could barely see him. She was looking at him through tears, a watery wall of them.
Blood dribbled from his mouth, but she wouldn’t think of what that must mean. “Sinclair! Wake up!”
Come back to me. She couldn’t say that. He had to be still here. He had to be.
Through tears, she s
tared at the red on his chest. Wet, sticky . . .
Vomit tried to climb up her throat. Her heartbeat slammed in her head, sounding as loud as gunshots. She had to regain control.
“God. Christ Jesus. What in Hades have I done?” The Duke of Saxonby dropped down on one knee beside her, beside Sinclair’s body.
The duke pulled her back, away from Sinclair. “He shot me first. I lost my head. I thought—in that moment, I thought he had set this all up to kill me. That he was the killer and had arranged this damned duel to shoot me. I thought he’d killed Georgiana.”
Portia struggled to break free of Saxonby’s grip. “You didn’t have to shoot to kill him. He shot first—his pistol was spent.”
“I lost my head. I panicked and I wasn’t thinking. It’s not so easy to aim to just maim a man with duelling pistols.”
She pulled back so violently she lost her balance and fell on her bottom, sliding on the grass. Saxonby looked at her sadly, then reached over and touched Sinclair’s neck.
She touched his neck too. She couldn’t feel anything. No pulse.
It couldn’t be. It must be her fingers were too cold to feel. Or she hadn’t put them in the right place. He couldn’t be dead.
Someone was sobbing. Salt dribbled into her mouth. She was the one crying, and her whole body seemed to dissolve into tears. She fell against Sinclair’s chest. He was still warm. She held him tight, mumbling his name against his bloodstained shirt. “You have to be alive,” she whispered. “You have to be. I just want you to be alive.”
Saxonby’s hands gripped her. He lifted her to her feet and this time she didn’t have the strength to pull away.
“My God, Miss Love, I’m sorry. But he shot first. We have to face the fact that Sin might have been behind all of this.”
Clumsily, she swept her hands over her face. Fiercely wiping tears away. “What are you talking about?” Anger flooded her voice now. Anger at this man. Even despairing anger at Sinclair.
“Don’t you see?” Saxonby said earnestly. “He pushed us into this duel with illogical, unfounded accusations. Breaking the rules that conduct a gentleman, he shot first. I believe it was his intent to murder me. The duel was a smokescreen for my death. I believe Sinclair may well have been the killer.”