Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke Read online

  It was as if she were standing on an island made of fog and it just dissolved beneath her. Portia’s stomach dropped sickeningly. “I don’t believe that. I’ll never believe that.”

  “If he’s not, we’re still in danger. I vow I will protect you with my life.”

  “You killed Sin. I don’t want you near me. Stay away from me.”

  She took a step back. She didn’t want to leave Sinclair’s body, but fear was clutching at her.

  “If he hadn’t shot first, I wouldn’t have killed him,” Saxonby muttered. “I would have known he was still . . . Sinclair. The honorable man I knew.”

  Saxonby bent and lifted the—the body. He staggered as he did, but he was strong enough to do it. She wanted to be sick, but she also had to be strong. She had to be composed. For that was what she did—she did not fall to pieces.

  Yet she wanted to.

  Saxonby let Sinclair’s lifeless form fall over his shoulder and she felt almost as lifeless. “I’ll take him up to his room, like the others—” He broke off. “No, not his room. That is your bedchamber as well. I’ll take him to one of the empty rooms.”

  Numb, she followed Saxonby. Carrying Sinclair’s empty pistol. She didn’t know why she’d picked it up. She was cradling it against her chest, holding it with two hands.

  He couldn’t be dead.

  This had to be a nightmare.

  She pinched herself. It hurt, so this was real, but she couldn’t even squeak at the sharp pain. She was too empty. She trailed behind Saxonby, who was still carrying Sinclair’s body over his shoulder, straining because Sinclair was strong and powerfully built.

  Through the terrace doors. Into the hallway and to the stairs, past frightened faces. And frantic whispers.

  “He killed the Duke of Sinclair!”

  “Sinclair shot first. So who is the killer? Could it have been Sin? Or Sax?”

  “I say, Saxonby, halt where you are!”

  That was the Corinthian Earl. He barked, “You’ve just killed a man.”

  “And what in hell are you going to do about it?” Saxonby demanded. “It was a duel—a duel and Sin damn well cheated. I am not the lunatic who has murdered people on this island. But this insanity has just caused me to take the life of my good friend. Now, leave me the hell alone, and let me take Sin’s body upstairs.”

  At Saxonby’s angry bark, the earl glowered.

  “Let him go,” Portia said.

  “You could be the madwoman behind these killings, Miss Love,” the brawny earl snapped. “No one can be trusted. I trust only myself.”

  He lunged toward her pistol.

  She gasped and jumped back, holding the pistol away from his reach. “It’s empty! Don’t be daft. We must keep our heads.” That was what Sinclair had not done. Now he was gone....

  Pain almost made her fall to her knees.

  “For all I know, you’re going to reload that blasted thing and shoot the rest of us,” the Earl of Blute spat.

  “This is utterly insane,” she said firmly. “You suspect me when I would never hurt a living soul. I suspect you and I know nothing about you except you are arrogant and strong. We’re all fearful of each other. We can’t attack each other, for heaven’s sake. Let’s not do the killer’s work for him. Or her.”

  She couldn’t say any more. Not around the swelling of her throat. Grief gripped her heart like desperate, clutching hands. Tears spilled over and rolled down her cheeks once more.

  “Leave her,” the Elegant Incognita warned. “Leave her alone. She has lost someone.”

  “She could be the killer,” Blute insisted.

  “Then be careful and watch your back, my lord.” Clarissa gave him a wry look. “The mysterious Lord Genvere doesn’t even exist, I’m sure. So the genius behind this sadistic madness could even be me.”

  “I doubt that,” the Earl of Rutledge snorted.

  “Do you?” snapped Clarissa. “Never underestimate a woman, Rutledge.”

  Everyone glared at the Incognita, then at Portia. She had never been stared at so intensely and with such cold, hate-filled eyes since she’d gone into gaming hells and taverns to rescue young women from prostitution. Yet she had done nothing. It was just mad, dangerous suspicion. It was like an infection, spreading and turning foul.

  Saxonby made his way up the stairs with Rutledge, both of them now carrying Sinclair. She followed. She never dreamed it would be so hard to lift her feet. She felt so heavy.

  He was gone. Julian was gone.

  He was Julian again to her for that moment—the beautiful, beautiful man she had fallen in love with.

  Rutledge and Saxonby puffed and grunted to the end of the corridor, to the empty bedrooms. In moments, Julian’s body was laid on the bed. A stripped bed with a white sheet.

  She flinched at the sight of the blood on his waistcoat and shirt. “I should bathe him. Clean him.”

  “No.” Saxonby gripped her shoulder and pushed her out of the room. “You are in shock. You need to recover, and seeing his wounds is not going to help you.”

  He closed the door. Shooed her away. She turned, intending to argue, but he turned the key in the lock, then pocketed it.

  “I would like to be able to see him.”

  “That will only bring you pain, Miss Love.” Saxonby steered her away from the room. “I should have some food brought to you—”

  “Brought by whom, Saxonby? The servants are gone. They’ve been killed. And cooked by whom? The cook has said she won’t return downstairs, because she’s too afraid. Besides, would anyone trust any food brought to them anymore?”

  Strangely, thinking of this took some of the awful pain away—it distracted her. People needed to eat. Managing meals at the foundling home was one of her largest tasks.

  Food was needed for survival. The innocents amongst these people needed her. “I need to think of what we must do for dinner.”

  Saxonby stared at her, stunned. “You’ve just lost Sin, but you are thinking of dinner.”

  “I’ve spent my life managing a foundling home,” she said quietly. “I know that, even in grief, such things have to be dealt with.”

  “You didn’t care about him. You couldn’t have done—not and be so calm now.”

  Something snapped inside her. She physically felt it, within her soul.

  Suddenly, she lunged at Saxonby. It seemed to happen without thought. Her hand was raised, her palm flying toward his face. Portia stopped it before she slapped him.

  Once, she’d been to Brighton and she’d played in the sea with her father and a large wave had knocked her down. Grief and pain and a pit of shock and sadness swallowed her up, just like that wave had done.

  “He’s gone. I’m never going to see him again. Never hear him laugh. Never get exasperated by him. Never—never kiss him.”

  It felt like she was freezing inside. Her whole body was turning to ice.

  “I’m sorry,” the Duke of Saxonby muttered. “I had no right to say that. It’s obvious you are in pain—”

  “Leave me alone!” she cried. She rushed into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her. The key was in the lock on the inside, and she turned it. Though her hands felt frozen and it was hard to make her fingers move.

  Portia stood in the bedchamber, shaking. She’d lost children from the home. She’d lost her father. Her mother was ill and often completely forgot who she was.

  She’d always found strength to endure.

  Hollowly, she looked at the bed. Heavens, she could picture Julian’s grin—wicked, bracketed by deep, seductive lines. She would never forget how he looked with his long body stretched out on the bed. Or how delicious it had felt—all tumbling nerves and awareness—when he’d helped her with her dress for the first time. When she’d almost melted at the touch of his fingers.

  Oh . . . oh goodness.

  She didn’t just love him. She loved him even more than she had when she’d thought he was a sweet and innocent nineteen-year-old lad.

 
; She fell to her knees by the bed. Buried her face into the counterpane. She remembered the warmth of his body against hers as he’d held her. The delectable male way he smelled. She remembered touching him, wanting to savor those moments.

  She sobbed and sobbed. And when there wasn’t anything left in her anymore, no more tears, she stayed utterly still, as the light faded from the sky.

  18

  Hell, he couldn’t do this.

  Sin leaned back against the stone wall, whipped by the howling wind, dressed in his black trousers, with a black coat over his red-soaked shirt. Unbeknownst to Portia, he watched her through the glass panes of the bedroom’s balcony doors. Also unknown to her, he was alive.

  Dumbfounded, he’d watched for more than an hour. All the while, she’d cried. She would raise her head for a few moments, as if gasping in air, then her shoulders would shake and she would bury her lovely face into the bedspread again.

  After a while, she stopped shaking and she was motionless, with her cheek pressed against a soaking wet bedcover.

  Watching her cry was like having his heart yanked out of his chest.

  He moved to the window, lifted his hand to tap—

  “Damn it, what in hell are you doing?”

  The harsh half whisper, half bark came from below. Sin leaned over and saw Sax standing there, arms folded over his chest, a glower on his face. His friend scanned the grounds, watching in case someone saw them.

  He had to make Sax understand. Heavy with guilt, Sin clambered over the railing of the balcony. He grabbed the thick stalk of ivy that he’d climbed up, set his boot against the cut stone wall, and climbed down the wall.

  He and Sax retreated into the swift-growing evening shadows, hidden by a clump of straggly bushes near the house’s wall.

  “What in blazes were you doing up there?” Sax demanded. “What if she saw you? What if someone else saw you? Our insane killer, for example?”

  “She was sobbing her heart out. Over me.”

  “What did you think she would do, once she thought you dead?”

  “I don’t know. I never thought she’d be heartbroken like that.”

  Saxonby rolled his eyes to the sky. “She said yes to your proposal ten years ago. Didn’t you know then that she was in love with you?”

  “I never knew for certain that she was really in love with me.”

  “What kind of stupidity is that?” Sax demanded.

  “I never dreamed she would care about me now. Besides, this doesn’t mean she loves me. It means I’ve hurt her. I can’t do this. I’ve got to tell her the truth—”

  “No,” Sax broke in. “You can’t do it yet. Her reaction will assure the killer you are actually dead. You shouldn’t have even left your damn bedroom yet. What if our lunatic goes to check on you? To see if there is actually a body in the room?”

  “You locked the door earlier. I presume you took the key and didn’t leave it in the door. I came out through the window and climbed down the wall. I kept away from other windows. Dressed in black, I think I’m well disguised.”

  This had been his plan. Fake his own death and, with the killer thinking he was out of the way, watch from the shadows. “I’m going to watch Portia from the balcony tonight,” he said defiantly.

  “What if you have to force your way in?”

  “I carried a fireplace poker up there, to break in through the door.”

  He saw the doubt in Sax’s expression. “Don’t try to stop me, Sax. I’m afraid this fiend will try to attack her tonight.” His heart thudded. If Sax tried to stop him, prevent him from protecting Portia—

  Hell, what would he do? Fight Sax? Knock him out? Duel with him for real? He gripped his friend’s shoulder. “Now that I’m out of the way, why would he wait?”

  Sax frowned. “Even with you supposedly dead, it might not be his or her plan to attack Portia. She will likely be perfectly safe and you risk exposing the plan on the first night.”

  “I refuse to risk her safety.” He glowered.

  Sax groaned. “I wish I could have protected Georgiana. How can I ask you to let Portia be at risk?”

  He rubbed Sax’s shoulder. “Sax, hell, I’m sorry Georgiana is gone.”

  “I will look after Portia, Sin, but I understand what you need to do.”

  “Thank you. Would you take her down to the kitchens so she can get some food from the stores you locked up? Then bring her back up to her room and make sure she locks herself in.”

  Sax nodded. They parted and Sin climbed back up the wall again.

  * * *

  She must end this. End it before everyone went mad and attacked each other.

  It was the only thought Portia would let herself have. Anything else spiralled into thinking about Sinclair and the pain—the pain would swallow her alive.

  With shaking fingers, Portia fumbled with her dress fastenings. She moved as if she were a hundred years old. Horrible dress—it was a nightmare to remove. She’d needed Sinclair to help her fasten it and she couldn’t manage it herself.

  Oh heavens, she remembered when he’d helped her that very first time. When his lips had brushed her neck. Tears fell and she was just about to sink on the bed and have another crying jag when there came a sharp rap on the door.

  “Miss Love? I thought you need help getting undressed.” The voice was a woman’s. Cultured.

  It could be a ruse, but she just didn’t have the energy to care. Portia opened the door, staring into the Elegant Incognita’s lovely face.

  “I assume you do not trust me to allow me in, so I can unfasten the dress here.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. Perhaps she would turn her back and the Incognita would slit her throat. But she found it hard to care. She just felt so empty.

  But Clarissa didn’t murder her. The woman simply helped by undoing the fastenings she couldn’t reach. “I’m so sorry,” Clarissa murmured. “You should get some sleep.” And she closed the door.

  Portia locked it. Then she pushed the dress down and stepped out of it. It should be hung up properly and she tried, but tears came before she did, and the dressed ended up draped over a chair along with her simple stays, designed so she could do them herself.

  She tried to brush her hair. Two halfhearted passes with the brush before she let it fall to the vanity top. The mirror reflected her face—the pale white face of a woman who looked as if she were staring into hell.

  Her whole body felt heavy as she slid into bed wearing her shift. She pulled up the counterpane.

  She rescued people—it was what she’d always tried to do. There were innocent people here who deserved rescue.

  There must be a way to figure out who was responsible for these horrible murders.

  In London, there were Bow Street Runners who pursued criminals. How they caught lawbreakers, she had no idea. If a crime was committed in the stews, Portia would know people who would know the identity of the perpetrator. Sometimes she did endeavor to find out, if a child required protection. She knew who to ask to find out which madams were snatching children into brothels. Or who to stop if young children were being recruited to be pickpockets.

  What did she do when she had to rescue a child in the stews—when a child’s future, or even life, hung in the balance?

  She bluffed.

  She had faced terrifying men with only an unloaded pistol. But holding an unloaded pistol on the guests wouldn’t help her now.

  And then—

  The idea came.

  She closed her eyes. Swollen, terribly puffy, her eyelids ached. But even with her eyes shut, even dizzy with exhaustion, she felt her wits work. She had an idea, a tiny inkling. Fear slithered over her as if snakes crawled on the bedsheets. But she had to fight fear and find the courage she used when she rescued children....

  Goodness, she must have fallen asleep after all. Portia opened her eyes and saw gray light glimmering at the edge of the curtains. It was morning.

  Purpose gave her strength. She pushed back th
e bedcovers. Threw on her gown. Pushed open the door and stepped into the hushed, elegant corridor.

  There, ahead of her was the bulky form of the cook. The woman stood at the top of the stairs, clad in a gray shapeless gown. Mrs. Kent gasped as Portia emerged, clapping her hand to her mouth.

  “Oh, miss. You startled me,” she muttered as she dropped her hand.

  Portia didn’t know grand houses, but she knew enough to know the cook didn’t come onto the level of the guests’ bedrooms. Servants’ rooms were upstairs. “Where are you going?”

  “Oh . . . er . . . the truth is, I’m afraid to be upstairs on my own. I’m afraid to go up the servants’ stairs alone. Could I use one of these empty bedrooms? I know it’s not what is usually done, but I don’t think people are usually murdered in great houses.”

  Portia had to carry out her idea. “Mrs. Kent, I will arrange for you to have a bedroom. But will you come down to the kitchen with me?”

  “Oh, miss, I can’t make any breakfast. I can’t face going down there.”

  Portia held out her hand reassuringly. “Well, we cannot starve. And there is safety in numbers. We shall go together—”

  But Mrs. Kent made a small cry. And dug her heels in the soft carpet of the corridor. “But, miss, how can I know you will not kill me?”

  Portia let out a huff of frustration. Yet it was true. How could any of them trust any other? The only person she trusted was Sin—now he was gone.

  “Then we should all go,” she said firmly. “All of the innocent people should be able to overpower one guilty one. And if we all eat the same food, in front of each other, then we will know the food is not poisoned. The killer won’t want to eat, if it is.”

  That was what they did. Portia cooked porridge in front of all the others. They all held their bowls to their mouths, shoveling in food. They looked like rats, holding their plates close to their chests, with eyes shifting rapidly and fearfully about, watching each other.

  Then Portia set down her bowl. She took a deep breath. “May I have your attention?” she said firmly. “Listen to me, please! I know who the killer is.”