“Innocent, just as I thought. Why are you here, darling?”
“Because someone kidnapped me in London and brought me here,” Portia said. Her heart still pounded from the things the Incognita had said. But she had had enough. “Were you responsible for that? Someone was. Have you ever met our host, Lord Genvere?”
“You were kidnapped. What are you—a virgin dragged off the streets?” Clarissa’s dark brows shot up. “You are!”
“I am not—oh, er, I don’t know.” Did she admit to innocence here?
The Incognita tapped her lip. “And Sin came to your rescue? He can be dreadfully noble when he wants to be. He’s more fun when he’s naughty.”
“I am going to find out who is responsible for kidnapping me.” Portia watched the woman’s green eyes.
“So you should. If I can help you, I will.”
“You will?”
“I do not believe women should be subject to such danger. I was innocent once. Dragged off the street, as well, only I was sold to a brothel. Sold, like a slave. The money was handed over to the man who had no rights over me. In those first days, I wanted to die. Then I wanted revenge—and to get revenge, I needed money, power, and my freedom. I achieved all three.”
“Did you get revenge?” Portia asked. The woman’s story had her under its spell.
“I did.”
“You had him arrested.”
“Arrest would do no good. He is dead now.”
“You killed him—”
“Oh, my darling, I would never admit to that. Suffice to say his greed and brutality were his downfall in the end.”
Portia stared. The Incognita was smiling. Humming, actually. She looked utterly proud of herself.
She was astoundingly ruthless. Portia opened her mouth to speak—
The doors leading to the terrace opened. Drapes tangled in the wind, and the air blowing in was cold and wet.
The Duke of Saxonby came in first, holding his hat to his silver hair. The Cruel Marquis followed, muttering, “Damned waste of time.”
White-faced, the butler entered, along with the handsome dark-haired footman who had a few grass stains on his breeches. The Earl of Rutledge came in, followed by the Earl of Blute, then Sin.
Sinclair, she meant.
“Bollocks,” barked the marquis. “Have no idea who attacked Willoughby, but I came for an orgy, and I’m damn well having one. Willoughby would. He wouldn’t sit about, mourning. He’d be buried deep inside some lass, pumping as if his life depended on it. Carpe diem. Seize the tarts and rut all day, I say. I’ll be more than generous with the woman who satisfies me.”
Sadie launched up. “I will,” she simpered. She slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow, and with that, the marquis and Sadie left the room.
The Earl of Rutledge growled. “The old bugger is right. Come, Clarissa. Come and please me. I’ve got some fun games in mind with your pussy, my cock, and a dildo.”
Blute grabbed Nellie’s bottom—apparently that amounted to a seductive invitation in his mind, for he then hauled her to him and began kissing her neck with loud suction.
Despite her previous experience, Portia actually wished she had more sherry. She needed that bold courage she’d felt before.
Someone was going to notice how shocked and awkward she looked. She’d been curious about the orgy, but now knew this wasn’t for her.
She should talk to the servants. In a household, servants knew everything. The maid could know something—could have seen her be brought here. And there was the cook. Portia couldn’t see how the cook could poison Sandhurst without killing everyone else, or why she would want to poison him, but—
It was an escape.
Portia slipped out of the drawing room, heading for the baize servants’ door.
Just as she reached it, someone put his hand out behind her and prevented her from opening it. “Understand this,” growled Sinclair. “You are not going anywhere in this house alone. If you think you can escape me, you are mistaken.”
“I wasn’t escaping you. I was escaping . . . what was about to happen in the drawing room.”
“I thought you wanted to watch,” Sinclair said coolly.
It was embarrassing to admit, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie. Sighing, she shook her head. “You were right and I was not. I don’t belong in this world. I’m not right for it at all. I’m dull and proper and boring. Working like a maid in a home is what I was meant to do.”
“Damn it—” He grabbed her.
His hands clamped to her bottom and he dragged her right against him. Something huge pressed against her tummy. It couldn’t be him, could it? They must have got the fireplace poker stuck between them somehow. . . .