Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(46)
He hesitated, then shook his head. “I have no idea what’s going on. Or what the notes mean. In truth, Willoughby was the man I suspected of orchestrating your kidnapping. Now, I don’t know. Someone did that to Willoughby.” He shook his head. “You should go to bed.”
“I can’t sleep. And I won’t leave you down here alone—not when the person who did that could be lying in wait.”
The fist stopped grinding. He snapped his head around to look at her. “What do you intend to do, Portia?”
“First, I am going to do this—” She stalked to the unlit fireplace and grabbed the poker. Made of heavy brass, it was a cold weight in her hand.
“You’re going to protect yourself with a fireplace poker?”
“I don’t see why that won’t work. Now I am going to help you. I’m going to help you tend to Willoughby. Then find out the truth.”
“Tend to him?”
“Do stop repeating everything I say as if it’s shocking. I don’t think I’m shocking you.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said.
“Well, we—we can’t just leave Lord Willoughby there.”
Sinclair scrubbed his jaw. “I’ll get the butler to help me move the body.”
Another flash of lightning made her almost leap out of her skin. Instinctively she swung the poker. Sinclair stepped back abruptly. “Careful with that thing, love.”
Love. That name had irritated her before. Now it made her think again of what he’d said. That he regretted what he’d done.
Bother. He could call her “love” all he wanted. She was not going to let it affect her.
The silver-blue burst of lightning had stolen her ability to see in the dark. Now she couldn’t see anything outside the windows. Just her reflection in the glass.
She swallowed. “Do you think there are other people on this island? That someone came up to the house, found him outside, and robbed him?”
“I don’t know, Portia. I don’t know why anyone would have gone out to the terrace tonight, in a storm, without good reason.”
“Maybe he went out for a breath of air after the . . . the things he was doing.”
Sinclair shook his head. “I don’t believe that’s likely.”
“We should lock the terrace door.”
“Agreed,” he said. He crossed over and did that. She felt safer once he tried the handle and checked it was locked.
But then, Viscount Sandhurst had died in the house. And Sinclair had believed he was poisoned.
Could that really be true? Or was it an attack of his heart?
But the author of the letters had foreseen it. And knew almost exactly when the young viscount was going to die.
That had to be murder, didn’t it?
Was it Sadie and she had actually smothered a grown man with her bosom? And was lying to cover up her deliberate crime . . . ?
Portia almost let out a desperate, nervous giggle. That was madness. Sadie, a criminal who had engineered the viscount’s death? Why even would she do it? She seemed desperate to snare a man’s attention, not murder him so he would be unable to give her money and gifts.
Portia looked up. Sinclair had gone back to the body. He’d lifted the coat and looked at the face again. By the light of the lamp, she saw him grimace.
He dropped the coat.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Willoughby had worked to break up their engagement, but he hadn’t deserved such a horrible death.
“Sorry about what, love?” Sinclair looked up.
“I did not hold him in high regard,” she said softly, “but I know he was your very good friend.”
He frowned. “He was once. Our friendship ended when we faced each other over dueling pistols. I shot wide. He didn’t.”
“Good heavens, he shot you?”
“Obviously not fatally.” He smiled, a small upturn of his lips that disappeared quickly.
“That is not the point. What on earth did you fight about?”
His broad shoulders shrugged. “He’s dead now. It’s of no consequence.”
“Was it over a woman?”
He didn’t answer, but she saw it in his dark brown eyes. It was. She felt it again—the agonizing twist of jealousy.
“Was it a courtesan?” she asked softly. “Who was she?”
What woman had he risked his life over? When he had so easily left her, who was the woman who had been worth his life in a duel?
Slowly, Sinclair walked back to her. He moved with grace, as always, but his expression was stark.
He came to her until they were only inches away. Until she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. He was so close she could see droplets of water that still dripped from his hair.