But as she entered the drawing room, she suddenly remembered that some of these women, or even all of them, might have made love to Sinclair.
She stood in the drawing room, wearing her elegant gown and mask, and she felt tremendously tongue-tied. Did some—or all—of these women know the Duke of Sinclair more intimately than she ever would?
The Incognita wore a day dress of the sort that a royal princess might wear. Elegant and fashionable, it was pale ivory with a delicate stripe of blue, and followed her every curve. But it was cut so low Portia could see the dusky pink of the woman’s nipples.
The Old Madam, Mrs. Barker, paced the room, glaring outside the window through a glittering, bejeweled lorgnette, her skirts swishing around her. She wore a bronze gown, the neckline cut low as well. Her bosom was like two enormous pillows stuffed within. An elaborate turban adorned her head. “What in heaven’s name is taking those gentlemen so long?” she snapped, without looking at the others in the room.
The young and bosomy courtesan Sadie giggled. She wasn’t wearing a day gown. She had on just a thin, silk robe, belted at the waist. She sprawled on the settee, the robe slightly parted to reveal her shapely legs and plump thighs.
The widow stood near the fire, studying it, playing with the pearl choker around her neck.
Portia knew it was time to speak. “They are discussing what happened to Viscount Willoughby.”
“What happened to him?” The Old Madam whipped around and looked at her sharply.
Portia told them, as bluntly as she could. It was tough to do, but she had to see their reaction.
The widow, Lady Linley, turned from the fire and stared. “Killed? Deliberately?” She took a step forward; then her legs crumpled beneath her. She fell to the floor, because no one was close enough to reach her, but she did it as elegantly as a feather fluttering down.
The Incognita rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake. I suppose we must come to her rescue. Miss Love, would you help me lift her and take her to the settee? At least she’s not heavy.”
She helped, though even working together, she and the Incognita had to drag the widow. Portia ensured the widow had a pillow. “Do you think she’s all right?”
“I’m sure she will be fine. I wonder if she even really fainted. She wants to look delicate, fluttering around in front of our two available dukes.” The courtesan’s tone was dry, sarcastic.
“Surely, if she hadn’t fainted, she wouldn’t want to be dragged,” Portia observed. Was the faint a sign of guilt? A woman who easily shocked would hardly beat a man to death, would she?
Portia wondered if she should poke the widow to check if she had really fainted, when the Elegant Incognita touched her arm.
“My dear, I know why you are wearing a mask. You are respectable and innocent, and you don’t want anyone at an orgy to know who you are. I take it you were the woman brought here against your will.”
“Er—” She had to distract the woman and think quickly. “Of course not. I came with Sinclair.”
“No, you did not. I saw him arrive from my window. He came up with the oarsmen who were carrying his trunk. You were not there. Is he the one who had you brought here unwillingly?”
“No!”
“Well, Sinclair always did enjoy strange games. And punishment.”
“Punishment?” Portia echoed.
“Didn’t you know? He came to London at nineteen, looking so sweet. But he loves pain. He’ll give it and he’ll take it. He used to like being cut, liked feeling the blade of a knife part his skin. Of course, he also used to like opium. I am sorry to shock you—I can see you are shocked, even with your mask. But Sin is wild. Wild and impossible to tame. I am surprised he’s been so dedicated to you here. It’s unlike him. He usually has four or five people in his bed with him. Anything else, he finds deadly dull.”
Portia had thought his life was shocking. But nothing like this. He found being cut erotic? She fought the dizzy, buzzing feeling in her head. She said, “Perhaps he’s changed.” But it sounded idiotic, even to her ears.
“Yes, some men do change. As they grow older. Or if they truly find love. But some men never do—they are driven by something that is deep in their souls. Sin is a man like that. Enjoy him while you can, dear. But you’ll lose him in the end.”
“Were you ever his lover? Were you Willoughby’s lover?”
The Incognita smiled. “You are innocent.”
What did that mean? That she was Sin’s lover? “Do you know anything about Lord Willoughby’s murder?”
“Are you asking if I murdered him? I would hardly tell you.”