Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(37)

She had promised to dispense advice. At this moment, she had none to give.

* * *

“What do you think of this?”

Portia hurried to Sinclair as soon as he walked in the door, and thrust it into his gloved hand, giving the explanation for it as rapidly as possible. His brown hair was in disarray, tumbling around his face. He was breathing hard. And his eyes held a dark, determined intensity.

He took it, and at once she asked rapidly, “Do you think he could be referring to Sandhurst? If so, how could that be possible?”

“Por—Precious, I just carried a man up a flight of stairs. I need a second.”

Precious. He had almost slipped up on her name but had covered up well.

She watched his deep brown eyes scan the page. He looked up at the butler, who was leaning over as he read, clutching his silver salver.

“Miss—er—Love says you were told to read this in the drawing room.”

“Indeed. That was the written instruction left by Lord Genvere. With the small number of staff and the unfortunate and untimely demise of Lord Sandhurst, I was so occupied I admit I almost neglected the task.” The butler withdrew a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “What do you think of it, Your Grace?” the man asked worriedly.

“It’s a mystery,” Sinclair muttered. He rubbed his jaw. “I doubt Genvere can read the future. The likely explanation is that the note had another meaning. Sandhurst’s death is an unfortunate coincidence.”

“Do you really think that?” Portia asked doubtfully.

“I don’t know. Genvere isn’t here—unless he’s in hiding. It looks like Sandhurst died of a stroke or a failure of his heart—” The duke broke off. “What were the exact instructions you were given? Was something supposed to happen first? Who were you to read it to?”

“The assembled company after dinner, Your Grace. I was simply told to read the letter at half past ten. I was to break the seal and read its contents immediately before that. Miss Lam—”

“Love,” Sin corrected. “Her name is Miss Love.”

“The young lady believed I should bring the guests into the drawing room for brandy.”

“I thought it would take the minds of the guests off the tragedy. They are all stunned.”

Sinclair looked up at her. “That’s a good idea.”

She met his gaze. She’d never seen him look so serious. For the last ten years, he had been painted in the gossip papers as a scandalous rogue who thought only of vice and pleasure. She’d been never sure that was really true. Did he really just want orgies for pleasure, or because, as he’d explained to her, he could not resist them? She had realized the difference, even as she read of his exploits, tried to ignore the pain in her heart, and tried to congratulate herself on a lucky escape. Except she didn’t feel lucky.

“Should I read the note in the drawing room, Your Grace?”

Humphries words jerked Portia out of her thoughts.

Sinclair rubbed his jaw again. “It will upset them, but I would like to see all of their reactions. Yes, read the note as you were instructed.”

The butler bowed. “Of course, Your Grace. I will announce that brandy will be served.”

He did so and the guests filed into the drawing room.

“I don’t like this,” Sinclair growled as they entered the room.

“I highly agree,” she threw back. He had said it before and she understood why. She felt as if someone was walking over her grave. This event was eerie, disturbing.

Sinclair handed her a brandy from Humphries salver.

The Earl of Rutledge approached her in the drawing room. “Why are you masked, Miss Love? Who are you really?”

“I shouldn’t think that of importance,” she said carefully. “Not after the tragedy of poor Sandhurst.”

“But what a way to go,” declared Rutledge, “buried under Sadie’s fabulous tits. Magnificent things. Designed to strain a man’s heart to the limit. Can barely hold one of them with two hands.” And he laughed.

“That is distasteful and you should be ashamed of saying such a thing!” Portia cried. She began to move away from him, offended—just as she remembered she was supposed to question people.

“Wait,” Rutledge said quickly. “I apologize. You’re right. It was tragic. But it reminds us to live for the moment, doesn’t it? To enjoy life’s pleasures while we can.” He moved close. “And sex helps one forget tragedy.”

Those words speared Portia to her soul.

She remembered Julian—Sinclair—coming to her, his face a mask of agony as he told her that he couldn’t marry her.