Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke Page 24

All of them—the four women, the two earls, the Duke of Saxonby—stared at her in shock.

  She knew what she was doing. She just did not know who the killer was. But that was part of the plan.

  “Who?” cried the cook.

  “How could you know who it is?” shouted the Old Madam.

  “I now know what the killer’s motive is. This is about a child. A young girl. She was sent to a foundling home. Perhaps she is dead now—I don’t know that. But she must have been hurt very badly. All of us have been accused of sins. We are all here because these supposed sins are related to this poor girl. Lord Willoughby was notorious for ravishing innocent women. The handsome Viscount Sandhurst might have been a seducer also, or perhaps he broke the girl’s heart.”

  Portia watched the women as she spoke. The Old Madam and the Incognita were of an age to be the child’s mother. The cook was too, but would Mrs. Kent have moved in these circles? Would a cook have come up with the plan to hold an orgy, invite people one hated to it, and eliminate them one by one?

  The young courtesan, Nellie Upton, was the right age to be the child.

  “The Marquis of Crayle,” she continued, “Perhaps he took advantage of a young girl and carried out his perversions on her. Perhaps he whipped her.”

  She watched for a flinch. A flicker of the eye. A sharp breath.

  Nothing. Each woman—including the cook—stared at her, glanced at each other, and showed nothing at all in their faces except surprise.

  “She could not have been very young,” Portia went on. “A long time must have passed since she went to the foundling home until she was old enough to go to orgies. Perhaps that was why Sinclair was brought here. The girl went to his orgies.”

  She pointed at the Old Madam. “Perhaps you dragged her into one of your brothels?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about! Who is this girl?”

  She looked at Nellie. “Perhaps it is you.”

  “Not I,” the girl said huskily. “I was born on a farm. I know who my mother is—I grew up with her, me dad, four brothers, and two sisters.”

  Which could, of course, be a lie. Portia looked at the Incognita. “You might have introduced her into this world. Maybe that was your sin. Or you worked against her, jealous of her youth, and you forced her to end up on the street.”

  She watched Clarissa’s up-tilted green eyes. Was that a touch of sorrow that she saw?

  “Is this girl alive or dead now?” She walked back and forth, as if thinking. But she was watching. She watched the two earls too. One could have a sister who had been ruined and had fallen into disaster.

  Then she turned to the Incognita, aware of the woman’s look of sadness. “Did you ever have a child? A daughter?”

  “I did.” The woman’s voice was husky. “I had two children. A girl. And then a boy. And both were stillborn. Both of them.”

  “We have only your word for that,” Portia said. She believed the pain in the woman’s eyes. Yet Clarissa did not say she had only two children.

  “You said you know who the killer is,” the Old Madam said sharply. “Get on with it. Who is it. And what of Lord Genvere? What’s his part in this?”

  “Lord Genvere does not exist. I began to suspect it after Lord Crayle died. I began to believe there was no Genvere and that the killer was one of us. Then, I realized that if you take the letters of the name and rearrange them, they spell ‘revenge.’ That is what this is all about. These murders are about vengeance.”

  A few gasps of surprise came from the guests.

  “I will not reveal the name of the killer now,” Portia said. “I need one final piece of evidence. Once I have it, I will be able to prove a case against this person. I will be able to take it to a magistrate, and the killer will hang.”

  “But how will we get off this island?”

  “There must be a boat on the island,” Portia said lightly. “After all, once we were all disposed of, our killer needed a way to leave. The storm has passed and the weather is clearing, so we’ll be able to leave the island. Alive and with evidence to convict the killer.”

  It was all a bluff. Even the bit about the boat.

  What she hoped was this made her a target.

  In her bedchamber, she had found Sinclair’s box for his dueling pistols. Within, he kept more of the small metal pistol balls and powder. She had loaded the pistol. She was carrying it now, tucked in her garter, under her skirt. So for the first time in her life, she was carrying a loaded pistol with her.

  Horrifically, it was the very pistol that had killed Sinclair.

  When would the blow strike? Her shoulders were knotted with tension. Her heart continued to thump so loud an attacker could probably stomp up behind her and she wouldn’t hear.

  She left the kitchen—left the other guests muttering to each other. The Duke of Saxonby accompanied her.

  She stopped by the door that led to the gallery. No one would attack while the strong, silent Duke of Saxonby walked at her side.

  She faced him with, she hoped, an expression of honesty on her face. “I . . . I must have some time alone. I need to think.”

  “My dear, you just put the cat among the pigeons,” Saxonby pointed out.

  “I just wish to walk in the gallery. It’s deserted. The other guests are downstairs. I am sure I will be safe for a short while.”

  “Allow me to watch over you.”

  “No! No, I need some time alone. You must allow me this.” Her voice rose in desperation.

  The duke hesitated. Then nodded. “All right, Miss Love.”

  She left him in the corridor, went into the gallery, and began to walk its length. But first, she lifted her skirts and took out her weapon.

  She moved slowly, hiding the pistol in the folds of her skirt. Her shoes tapped on the dark parquet floor. Weak sunlight was fighting to push between the clouds and filtered in through the tall windows.

  She was sure the killer had followed her. She’d goaded enough.

  Her footsteps echoed in the space, drowning out other sound. She stopped in the middle of the gallery and turned to the window. If Saxonby was the killer, if he came out and attacked her, she would shoot him. He didn’t know she was armed. She had let him believe she would be bait without a weapon.

  She moved closer to the window. One ray of sunlight sliced between clouds and streamed to the terrace.

  Could she shoot a man in cold blood? Even to save herself and the others?

  “So here you are.” The voice shot into the quiet, making her jump. She turned toward the far end of the gallery. A figure stood there. Black mask. Swirling black cloak. A figure holding a gleaming, vicious, medieval ax.

  Was it a woman confronting her? She couldn’t tell. The person looked tall. Well-built and not fat or thin. That ax made her freeze.

  Remember you have a pistol.

  “You’re a daft thing. A stupid fool.” The killer’s voice . . . rough, raspy, slightly high-pitched, but falsely so. She couldn’t tell if it was a man’s voice or a woman’s.

  The person stepped forward, holding the ax. “These other deaths had been too clean. I intend to make your blood run.” Glee danced through those words.

  Portia lifted her pistol, aiming at the cloaked figure. “Halt right there!” she commanded.

  “You’ll never hit me from there. I can see you shake.”

  The person began to run toward her, ax held high.

  An explosion roared in her ears. She had pulled the trigger. And in her shock, she’d missed.

  Mocking laughter rang through the gallery.

  A second shot exploded. The killer screamed. The ax dropped with a clang and the killer clutched his—or her—right arm. Spinning, the figure ran away from her. Saxonby charged into the gallery from the door at the other end. He sprinted, holding a pistol, and she reclaimed her shocked wits and ran after him. The killer had vanished when they both reached the doorway at the end of the gallery.

  She turned to Saxonby. “You
saved my life. I . . . thank you. I would be dead now if not for you. My foolish shot missed. Your shot actually hurt the fiend.”

  She was relieved. And in agony. Saxonby wasn’t the murderer, obviously. Which meant Sinclair had thrown his life away for nothing.

  “I am no hero, Miss Love,” Saxonby muttered. “I ignored your request and instead took steps to protect you. But I was not the one—I mean, my shot unfortunately did not kill him. Why did you do this foolish thing? Make yourself a target. Do you know who the killer is?”

  She shook her head. Sagged against the wall. “No, I thought I would make the killer come after me, and if I was armed, I would put an end to this. If you had not been there, I would have been dead. I feel Sinclair is dead because of me. He was so determined to protect me that he acted on impulse, in desperation. It was my fault and I wanted to stop this madness.”

  “I won’t tolerate you taking more foolish risks, Miss Love,” Saxonby said. “If Sin knew, he’d kill me. Damn it.” With a sweep of his hand, he pushed back his longish silver-blond hair. “I don’t know what in Hades I should do. I want you to go to your bedchamber. We’ll search it to ensure it’s safe. Then you are to lock yourself in there. I’ll come for you soon. There is something I have to do.”

  * * *

  Sin paced his room, the room in which he was supposed to be lying dead. Using his key, Sax had slipped in to confront him about firing that shot—the one that had saved Portia—and poured two glasses of brandy. Sin tossed back both of them, leaving Sax to pour himself another.

  The brandy seared as it went down, but it didn’t warm his heart.

  Sax eyed him with disapproval. “You took a hell of a risk making that shot, Sin,” he growled. “You could have been caught.”

  He stalked to the brandy decanter. Picked it up, then set it down. To try to warm his frozen heart and soul, he would end up pickling his brain. He needed his wits. But he was so cold with fear. And with something else—something that felt damn close to despair.

  He turned on his friend. “What in hell was I going to do, Sax, stand by when she was in danger?”

  “Obviously not, but—”

  “So I have to tell her the truth. I have to let her know I’m not dead. Portia could have gotten herself killed. This is something I never expected. I’ve never had anyone care about me before.”

  “She cared, when she first agreed to marry you. Why shouldn’t she care now?—you’ve devoted yourself to her safety here.”

  “I didn’t think that was enough to make up for how badly I hurt her.”

  “We also care,” Sax said gruffly. “The Wicked Dukes. We are your friends. That means we watch your back. And we give a goddamn if you get yourself killed. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Grey and Cary are now concerned about whether we’re happy—and believe we should find love, get married, and be happy. And you know I’d watch your back anytime.”

  Sax’s words touched his heart, he had to admit.

  “I know the three of you are my friends,” he said, “but I don’t have any damn clue how you treat someone you care about. I’ve never had the love of parents. I would have appreciated cold-hearted parents, as opposed to ones who sought to use and abuse me. The fact that they had to feed me made them believe I could be used as a whipping boy, an amusement, a—”

  He broke off. Hell, what was he doing? He’d never revealed much about his past. The brandy was affecting him. Making him feel damned empty and lost.

  “You don’t have to talk about it, Sin,” Sax said, running his finger around his cravat, looking awkward.

  As boys they’d all known they were haunted by their pasts, but no one ever talked about it. And once they’d grown up, become men, they definitely had not talked about it.

  Then, in his mind, he heard Portia’s sobs again. Wrenching. Filled with pain. God, he couldn’t stand it. He stalked around the room. Ended up at the fireplace, gripped the mantel with his hands and hung his head.

  Behind him, Sax started to say, “I need to remind you, Sin, why we faked your death—”

  “You don’t,” he cut in. “I did it so I could investigate while the killer believes me already dead. It meant I was no longer a target. It was also my intention to watch over Portia, protecting her without her knowing I’m alive. I just never thought my death would hurt her so much.”

  “Sin, the best way to protect her is to continue with the plan. Think logically.”

  His eyes stung. Guilt whipped him. The time he’d broken off their engagement, she had been so strong. So stoic. Just like she was when dealing with the children she rescued. He used to help her gather the children, and he’d been astounded at her courage. He’d never dreamed Portia was capable of crying like that.

  Had she cried so hard over their broken engagement in private? God, had he made her feel like that? He would feel a hell of a lot better if he talked himself out of believing that. But he couldn’t. He realized she must have cried like that, hurt that much.

  “I can’t let her suffer.”

  Sax’s face twisted as if he was the one in pain. “At least she’s alive and can feel something.”

  Sin turned slowly away from the mantel and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’m so damn sorry, Sax. I feel like I’m letting you down after you lost Georgiana. But I can’t watch Portia grieve.”

  Did he stay with the plan to protect Portia? Reveal the truth? Reveal he wasn’t dead and she’d know he’d lied to her. Betrayed her trust—again.

  Would she forgive him?

  “What are you going to do?” Sax asked, his voice hoarse.

  “I have to confide in Portia. You’re my friend, but I have to do right by her.” He straightened. “Feel free to punch me in the nose if you want. Pound the tar out of me in anger.”

  Sax was staring at him like he was insane, Sin realized. “Why in hell would I want to do that?”

  19

  “There is something Sin wants you to know,” the Duke of Saxonby said quietly. “Will you come with me? And promise you won’t say a word?”

  Portia stared at the duke, utterly lost. “What are you talking about? What could he want me to know . . . now?”

  “Please trust me. It’s important to Sin.”

  “Important? But . . . but he’s gone.”

  “Trust me and come with me. No harm will come to you. And you will learn something that will make you . . . happier, I hope.”

  “You are speaking in riddles. Please be blunt.”

  “Even though we’re alone, Miss Love, I can’t.”

  Portia hesitated. They stood in the foyer. The other guests had gone into the drawing room, leaving her alone with Saxonby. The others were opening a new, sealed bottle of sherry. Would she be a fool to be lured away from the others, even by the man who had stepped forward to save her life?

  She whispered, through a tight, aching throat, “I’ll be quiet. What is it?”

  But he just held his finger to his lips and clasped her hand. Gambling, she went with him. The Duke of Saxonby led her upstairs. They reached the door of the bedroom where they had laid Sinclair’s body on the large bed. If Saxonby was going to try to kill her, she had to be ready. Maybe she could find a weapon in the room. Or maybe her last thought on this earth would be: You are a blooming idiot.

  Very, very lightly, the Duke of Saxonby made three low coughing noises outside the closed, locked door.

  “What are you—?” Portia began softly, but he held his finger to his lips. After waiting for several seconds, he coughed a fourth time.

  She heard the soft click of the lock opening. The doorknob began to turn. Slowly, so it didn’t make a sound.

  Portia stared at it, stunned. Some of the children in the foundling home believed in ghosts. She’d always explained them away firmly, using logic. An old house, fluttering curtains, imagination. . .

  But how was Sinclair’s door opening?

  Saxonby put his hand over the knob and turned it the rest of the way. In
a low voice, but loud enough that someone might hear it if that person was trying to listen, he said, “I know you need to see him again, Miss Love. It’s hard to accept that he’s gone.” He put his arm around her waist and propelled her into the room, using his broad shoulders to block the door from view.

  The door closed behind her and the lock clicked as he turned the key. He stayed by the door, gazing at it, which was strange.

  The bed curtains were drawn, plunging the room into gloomy dark.

  Then something moved in her peripheral vision. A man’s shape and she would have screamed but a large, masculine hand covered her mouth, and a soft voice said, “It’s me, Portia. I’m not dead. Don’t scream. You’ll bring the rest of them running.”

  Sinclair’s voice—husky, deep, and sincere. Just as he used to sound when he had made her melt and fall in love with him when she was nineteen. No trace of jaded wickedness.

  For a moment, she thought it was all a dream—but that hand on her mouth was real. The warm whisper of his breath on her ear was real. He was alive.

  She grasped his wrist, pulled his hand from her mouth and whirled around. She was so close to his tall, strong body that her nose almost bumped his chest. He was there—soft chocolate brown hair, worried dark brown eyes, lashes that went on forever.

  It really was him.

  She surged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, throwing her body hard against him. Her mouth bumped the warm skin. Stubble slightly scratched her lips, making them tingle. She laughed and sobbed, snuggled against him. She didn’t care that Saxonby was a witness, and she realized that was why he was not looking in their direction.

  Sinclair drew her back, lowered his mouth, and kissed her. His mouth caressed hers, teased hers. Then he tipped her back just a little, holding her, and his mouth commanded hers.

  When he set her on her feet, she wobbled.

  She was just a little afraid she was dreaming. “I don’t understand. Saxonby felt for your pulse—he said you were dead. I felt for your pulse and found nothing.”

  He cupped her face tenderly. “I am so sorry, angel. I used some light card I found, colored it with pink-tinted face cream that belonged to Harriet, then shaped it into a curve. I slipped it under my cravat, keeping that tight so anyone who checked my pulse wouldn’t be able to fit their fingers in far and wouldn’t be able to see they were actually touching card. Also, Sax ensured he dragged you away before you’d touched me for long.”