No, heavens, it was him.
Hot, demanding, his mouth claimed hers. His tongue teased, tangled, thrust, and made her weak in the knees. If his tongue hadn’t been in her mouth she might have . . . might have begged him to take her.
Suddenly he let her go. Moved his mouth, his hands, his body. She almost staggered and fell. Only the wall, that she slapped her hand hard against, saved her.
“I hope that proves you aren’t dull and boring,” he said. “And that it proves I kiss a damn sight better than Sadie.”
She was not going to let him know how he’d made her feel dizzy. And so, so lusty.
“I doubt the Marquis of Crayle would agree about your kissing,” she said evasively as she pushed open the baize servants’ door. A staircase led downward. The walls were stone and only one lamp lit the space—it was placed below, so walking down felt like entering the pits of hell. She spent so much time downstairs at the foundling home, she should not be frightened to enter a basement. Ahead she could smell the warm scents of fires in the stoves, of fresh cooking. And she could smell the salty damp of the sea.
Portia made her way down briskly, with Sinclair behind her. She did feel safer having him with her.
At the bottom of the stairs, in the basement, Sinclair had to duck. He rested his hand on one of the thick wooden beams of the ceiling. “What do you hope to learn from the cook?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she admitted. “I know that if she poisoned Sandhurst, she would hardly admit it. And why kill him and not the rest of us—if she’s mad enough to do such a thing? As for Willoughby, why would a cook attack him?”
They approached the kitchen. Huge, black iron stoves stood along a stone wall. Large fry pans hung from hooks in the ceiling, as did drying herbs. She looked at the frying pan. “I suppose, if she’d wanted to hurt him, she did have weapons.”
“I am astounded you can assess this so coolly.”
“I’ve read a lot of gothic novels. I feel like I’ve fallen into one. All I need is a handsome but tormented earl who wants to ravish me—”
“You already have that. Any man here would want to ravish you.”
She knew she’d blushed. “Not with those other voluptuous, experienced women here.”
“Yes, any one of those men would bed you in a heartbeat. Willing or not.”
“Even Saxonby, your friend?”
“No, Sax wouldn’t. Willoughby would. I saw him looking at you last night. At dinner. I didn’t like the way he was doing it.”
“He smirked at me once.”
“He was looking at you like he wanted you in his bed. Pure lust.”
“What? At me?” she squeaked. “I never noticed.”
“I did.”
Sinclair had seen Willoughby looking at her. Had that made him angry? Had it raised his suspicions?
The worst thought went through her head. Could Sinclair and Willoughby have argued? Fought? Then—
No. It was not possible. Portia pushed those awful thoughts away. “I also wondered about the maid,” she said. “There’s only the one, so she works all over the house. Maybe she saw something. Overheard something—”
She broke off as a low, masculine laugh came from a doorway. So did the smell of smoke. She peeked inside the room.
The young, black-haired footman sat at a wooden table, having a cup of tea. A cheroot rested between his fingers, smoke rising. Grinning, he reached for the pretty housemaid, catching her by her hips. “Come sit on my lap, love.”
The young woman—she must be close to Portia’s age of twenty-nine—pushed his hand away. “I haven’t time for the likes of you. I have to do all the work upstairs. I never would have taken this position if I’d known I would be the only maid for a house party.”
“Orgy, you mean,” the footman sniggered. “Don’t see why they get all the fun. They’re not going to notice if you’re not there. Even that old bugger was going off with two women.”
“Does Lord Genvere have parties like this all the time? What is he like? Is he handsome?” the maid asked.
Portia strained to hear, curious.
“Hopeful?” mocked the footman. “I don’t know what he’s like. I started the day before you came here, love. Never seen Genvere.”
The maid hesitated. “What do you think about that toff being murdered outside, Reggie? The other one—well, Cook figures he must have had a weak heart, for he was so young. But do you think one of them upstairs is a murderer?”
“I don’t know,” Reggie answered slowly. “I took a good look around this island when I first got here. Slipped off in the afternoon. There aren’t any other buildings on the island except this house. There’s no one else on it but us.”