Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke Read online

  He slowed his pace, moving with stealth. The moonless, rain-soaked night made him almost invisible. If he left space behind Sax, maybe he wouldn’t be spotted by the killer. He couldn’t hear his friend’s steps on the stone ahead of him, but in the pounding rain, he likely wouldn’t even hear Sax even if his friend was playing bagpipes.

  There was something ahead . . . something white, that was visible even in the pitch-dark.

  Sin reached it just as Sax picked it up. Sin pulled out matches and lit one, shielding it from the rain with his hand. The flame flickered, the feeble light revealed flat, rain-slicked stone. They had reached the flat landing at the water’s edge.

  “A lace-trimmed handkerchief,” Sax shouted over the rain, unfolding it.

  Words were written inside it. Fooled you, it said.

  “What the hell—?” Sax growled.

  The flame burnt Sin’s fingers and he threw the match away.

  Sax was walking around the flat area cut into the rock. “There’s no one here.”

  Sin tensed, expecting a shot through his heart. A knife in his back. They were targets now, even in the dark.

  But seconds went by—punctuated by his breathing and the thoughts whipping through his brain. Nothing happened.

  “If Kent is trying to kill us,” he muttered, “couldn’t she damn well get on with it?”

  He heard Sax let out a soft sigh. It had been long enough that his friend was starting to relax. High-strung tension couldn’t last forever.

  “Do you think she’s going to show?” Sax said.

  “I don’t know.” Was she lulling them into a sense of ease? Or was she just not damn well here?

  What had been the point of the note to Sax? To get Sax out here—but why? By sneaking out, Sax had passed his room. He hadn’t been sleeping most nights, too keyed up, too on edge. He’d heard Sax leave the house and followed.

  The result was that he and Sax were out of the house. Two strong men were away from the house and Portia was alone in their bedroom—

  “Damn it,” he shouted. “Portia!”

  Blind panic hit him. Sent him running up the stone steps. The intended victim could be anyone—or maybe the plan had been to get Sax out alone and his presence had foiled that plan. Anyway, Portia would not unlock her door. She would be safe—

  But he felt dread like he’d never felt before. Not even on the most hellish moments of his life. When his parents were dead . . . when he faced his brother over pistols . . .

  He tore into the house and raced up the stairs. He banged on his bedroom door. “Portia, open up.”

  No sound of footsteps. Not the call of her voice. Nothing.

  He pounded harder. Tried to turn the knob again, even though he knew it was locked. He rattled the door. Slammed his shoulder against it. “Portia! Portia!”

  If she was in there, she was unable to answer. The crystal-clear thought sent a bolt of crippling fear through his body.

  Sax was on his heels, reaching him as Sin ran hard at the door, driving his shoulder into it. The door arched, pulling against both hinges and lock. He heard cracking, but it didn’t give.

  He went back and just as Sax said, “You’ll break your blasted shoulder,” he charged at the door again. The door resisted for a moment, then yielded with a bang. It flew open and Sin’s momentum carried him wildly into the room.

  No one was in the bedroom. A cold wind hit him at the exact instant he saw the window was open. Everything had been swept off the vanity table. Broken glass, brushes, bottles littered the floor around it.

  “No! No. Fuck, no,” he roared, his language rough and blunt. He ran for the window. When he looked out, all he could see was rain and blackness. No sign of Portia. There was no smell of blood, thank God.

  Sin ripped the room apart in seconds, searching everywhere. He stood, breathing hard, his heart beating so fast he thought it would explode.

  Sax rested a hand on his shoulder. “She’s not here,” Sax said, stating the damned obvious.

  Then the others were there. Rutledge. The Incognita. Blute, the blustering Corinthian.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Why in hell did you smash the door down?”

  “Where’s Saxonby? He wasn’t in his room.”

  They were all here. All the remaining guests. Could one of them have raced back and let himself into the room, making it look like he or she just came out? Or was it Kent all along?

  Clarissa stepped forward. “Portia was taken?”

  God, his throat was tight. Sin felt like he was trying to breathe through water. “It’s the damn cook. It has to be.”

  “The window could be a ruse,” Sax stated. “She could be in the house.”

  “Damn it.” Sin whirled and drove his fist into the wall. Plaster and lathe exploded. Pain stabbed at his hand. He pulled out his fist. Blood oozed from his abraded knuckles.

  Sax grabbed him. “That helps no one.”

  No, damn. He was going to find her. He couldn’t be too late.

  * * *

  Portia stopped walking a few feet from the edge of the cliff. She stood on grass slick with rain. “I’m not going further. I won’t go willingly to my death.”

  She faced the woman who had forced her to walk out here, far from the house. The woman who trained two pistols on her.

  Portia thought of all the times she’d carried an unloaded pistol as a bluff. From the triumph blazing in Mrs. Kent’s eyes, Portia knew these weapons were not a bluff.

  The woman had killed ten other people and intended to kill her.

  When she had come to, she’d discovered she had been brought out of the house. A woman was leaning over her, and had been slapping her face to wake her up. Slapping her so hard that her cheeks stung and her teeth hurt.

  For moments, Portia hadn’t even recognized Mrs. Kent. The cook looked completely different. Her face had been transformed from plump and ruddy to smooth and beautiful, with her eyes artfully made up. Her hair was elegantly styled, piled on her head, the coiffure protected from the rain by the hood of a thick cloak. An elegant jade-green silk dress could be glimpsed through the parting in her cloak.

  Mrs. Kent had forced her to walk out to the edge of the cliff at this point far, far away from the house. Progress had been slow in the dark and pouring rain. Portia had been stumbling from the effect of the wretched drug that had knocked her out.

  Now, she was desperately trying to shake away the woolly-headed feeling. She needed time to regain her wits. “How did you change your appearance?” she asked. “You were so clever. I can’t understand how you did this.” Her brain was beginning to work more swiftly, trying to piece it together.

  “What fools you all were,” Mrs. Kent crowed. “I kept all my lovely clothes hidden in the secret compartments I’d built in the thin mattresses of the cots in my servant bedchamber. I had secret compartments put in the furniture—that was where I hid my poisons, my pistols, the balls and powder, and the stage makeup I used for my disguise.”

  Behind Portia, the sea roared like a greedy dragon that yearned to feed. “But who are you really?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice calm. “I’m sure Kent is not your real name.”

  “No, this was a disguise, of course. Those wretched gentlemen knew me, but they looked at me and did not recognize me. They saw a frumpy, dumpy servant. Once, I was London’s most desired courtesan. I had dukes begging for my favors. My name is Charlotte Lyon. My mother was the most beautiful dancer in Paris, and she captured a duke’s heart. With her encouragement, I became a powerful woman, using my voluptuous figure and beauty to entrance rich men.”

  “And you had a child. That is what this is about. A child—”

  “My daughter!” Charlotte Lyon cried, impassioned anguish flooding her voice. Her right hand jerked on one of the pistols.

  Portia froze with the expectation of being shot. Nothing happened, and relief flooded, making her feel both weightless and too weak to stand. But stand she did. She had to keep
her wits.

  “What happened to her?” she asked. Her voice was full of concern—because deep inside, she did understand why a woman would be in pain over losing someone. “Did you have to give her up?”

  “She was taken from me! I was sixteen. My mother was furious when I became pregnant. I wanted my baby and she took the child away as soon as the babe was born. There was ample wealth to care for her. I could have visited her. I could have seen her grow up. But no, my mother made the infant disappear. For years, I searched for her. I learned what horrible things she suffered.”

  “What happened to her?” Keep the woman talking, Portia thought. Then what? She didn’t know. She dealt with managing children, not murderers.

  What did she do when one child lashed out at another? She found the reason. She talked to the child. She would be firm. She would be in charge. She would be compassionate.

  “She died. My beautiful girl was only nineteen and she took too much laudanum. My wretched mother told me my child was to be condemned forever for taking her own life. There was no place in heaven for my poor little one, who had no one to protect her. My old witch of a mother was smug. But she wasn’t so smug when I drove a knife into her chest. After, I felt I had done something to avenge my poor little girl. As I had searched for her, I had learned about her life. She had been hurt by so many people. I knew I must make it right. I would make them all pay. They were all selfish, arrogant, disgusting. I knew how to lure them to this island. It was so easy. I promised the gentlemen their perverse pleasures, or I pricked their pride. The women were easy—all I had to do was invite them to a party with titled men. For the servants, I bribed them.”

  The woman paused.

  Portia stood close to the edge of the cliff. She feared she might shift her weight and slip off the edge. She managed to take a little step forward as the murderess brushed at tears.

  “I am so sorry you lost your daughter.”

  “Are you? It was your fault! The fault of your awful, holier-than-thou family!”

  Instinct told her to step back as the woman spat at her, but she couldn’t of course. Instead she stepped forward, away from the edge. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t come near me,” Charlotte snapped. She leveled the pistols at Portia’s heart again.

  “What did my family do?” Was she goading the woman into doing something violent? But if she was going to die, she wanted to know why. “When we took in a child, it was with the best of intentions. We never hurt a child.”

  “You believed those children were less! You taught them to believe that!”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Then shut up and listen, Miss High-and-Mighty Lamb. Your mother took my baby into her precious foundling home. And took the money my mother gave for her care. Just agreed it was all for the best, then taught my daughter she should be respectable, she should be good. Taught her she would never be more than a wretched servant and she should be happy to accept that, for that was her place!”

  “My mother meant the best for your daughter,” Portia said. “Mother would have ensured your daughter was educated, and she would have striven to give the girl a respectable future—”

  “Your saintly mother turned my daughter into prey. And all the rest of them here—they were predators.”

  “What did they do to your daughter? She must have left the foundling home, then.”

  “Oh, she did. At sixteen, she went to what you would call a respectable house to work as a governess. The son of the house fell in love with her—you know him now as the Earl of Rutledge. The wicked little bitch of a maid, Ellie, worked to get my precious daughter fired, because she’d been bedding the little prick of a son. The butler found out who she was, so he blackmailed my poor daughter, taking every penny she earned. Then, when she was out on the street, that hag, Harriet Barker, dragged her into a brothel. As for Rutledge—did he do right by her? Oh no, once he got her into his bed, he decided she wasn’t good enough for him! He stood by and let her fall into ruin.”

  Spittle flew from Charlotte Lyon’s mouth. “The marquis, he visited her at that brothel and whipped her. She escaped that horrid place by becoming the mistress of the Earl of Blute. But he tossed her over. Then one night, she believed she’d finally found her rescuer. She still had some money and pretty gowns and jewels. But when she ventured out to a gaming hell in search of another protector, she was attacked. Viscount Sandhurst rescued her from a ruffian on the street. She fell in love with Viscount Sandhurst, but then he broke her heart. Not good enough for him.” The woman gave an evil, reptilian smile. “But you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

  Pain sliced through Portia. Yes, she supposed she was just like Charlotte Lyon’s daughter in that way.

  “Having her heart broken finished her. She fell into opium—she’d been introduced to it by old Barker. She tried to become a courtesan, but witches like Sadie and Clarissa kept her from finding a protector, out of jealousy and spite. Because she couldn’t find anyone, she was forced to sell herself for pennies on the streets. That’s when she met that young little tart, Nellie, who introduced her to her brother, Reggie. He was a footman in a grand house but got my daughter to steal for him. She was almost caught, and she felt like a sinner. A failure and a sinner. From your wicked family, she believed she had condemned her soul. That there was no hope for her.”

  “No! My family would never have taught her that.”

  “Oh no? All those places are alike! So noble, but inside, you’re judgmental and cruel.”

  The woman was mad. They had never done such a thing. They tried to set children on a good path, but they would never condemn one for stumbling.

  “If she’d come back, I would have helped her.”

  “How could she show her face when she felt as if she were worthless? I’ve proven she is not. She is worthy of justice.” She leaned back and threw out a cackling laugh.

  “How did you kill them?” Portia asked. Could she distract the woman and tackle her, taking the pistols? Would anyone find them out here? “Why didn’t you just poison us all at dinner? Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

  The woman smiled, a smile bloated with evil. “I could have, but it wouldn’t have been such fun. Poisoning the viscount was simple. I left a pill for him in his room, with a letter supposedly from Clarissa telling him it would ensure his sexual pleasure. That he must take it with his port after dinner. Of course, he fell for it. I destroyed the letter, of course. Crayle was easy. I’d put a sleeping draught in the brandy in his room. He had a drink, passed out, and I strung him up. Sadie ate the poisoned biscuits and the stupid widow drank poisoned sherry.”

  “What of the three servants?”

  “None of them thought I was anything other than a silly old woman. It is so easy to attack when no one suspects you. Ellie took the tea I gave her. Then I hanged her. She woke up to the terror of a noose around her neck.”

  The delight in the woman’s eyes was sickening. But Portia had managed to move a little closer to the cook while the woman spoke. “The butler—I took care of him by caving in his bald head. And you saw the footman. How terrified he was when I cut him up. I had to stab him to put him out of his agony eventually, but what fun it was to hear him beg that I not cut off his cock. He deserved it. He beat my girl, cut her and whipped her to make her do his bidding.”

  “Did Willoughby hurt her too? How did you kill him? He was a strong young man.”

  “It is all about the element of surprise, Miss Lamb. Look at that smug footman Reggie. He was young and strong, but not as strong as me!”

  No, Charlotte Lyon had a madwoman’s strength.

  “I can see that you hated the others. But what did Sinclair do? And Saxonby?”

  “My daughter went to Sinclair’s orgies, trying to catch his eye. All she wanted was to be safe and dry and well fed. He rejected her, as did Saxonby.”

  “Surely they should not die because of a rejection—”

  “You know not
hing! If you knew what I know—” Charlotte broke off. She muttered under her breath. “Not to tell. Not to tell.”

  The woman was mad, driven by vengeance to do something unthinkable. But while Portia could understand the woman’s grief and hatred, the sudden babbling scared her. “If your daughter was gone, how did you learn about all these sins?” she asked softly.

  “Don’t you understand your part in that? That’s the blessing of what you did for her in that home. You taught her to read and write. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known who to make pay for her death. Now you are going to die. You are going to walk off the cliff.”

  “No!”

  “Do it or I’ll shoot you, then kick you over, Miss Lamb. Lamb to slaughter, that’s what you are.”

  “You’ll have to shoot me, then. I am not going to just walk off a cliff.”

  Charlotte Lyon leveled one pistol at Portia’s heart. “Then I shall. This is for my daughter, my innocent—”

  “What was her name?” Portia asked suddenly. She realized the woman had not used the girl’s name once.

  At the look of anguish on the woman’s face, Portia swiftly understood. “You named her, but that was not the name she used. And no one told you her name. It must have been so hard to find her.”

  The pistol wobbled slightly, and Portia caught her breath. “I called her Madeline,” Charlotte whispered, “but my mother insisted she was to be given away without a name, that the foundling home would give her a name.”

  “And no one told you what it was. For that, I cannot forgive my family,” Portia whispered.

  Charlotte let the pistol drop a bit. Then her face contorted with fury and she cried, “It’s too late. You don’t care. You are trying to fool me. Now you are going to die!”

  A shot exploded in a roar. Portia expected terrible pain and a powerful blow that sent her over the cliff as the shot hit her. But nothing happened. Except Charlotte screeched and gripped her right arm as the pistol fell from her right hand. Her face went ashen. Then she took a deep breath and pointed her remaining pistol at Portia’s chest. “Well, I still have this one—”