The maid had gone white.
“I’ll watch out for you, Ellie,” the young footman promised, cockily.
“And who will keep me safe from you?” she asked pertly.
So the maid was Ellie, the footman Reggie.
Reggie took something out of a pocket of the coat of his livery. He threw it on the table. “Did you leave this for me?”
Portia stared. It was a folded note on thick white paper, with the red wax seal.
The maid gasped. “Of course not . . . what did yours say?”
“A warning about all my sins.” His grin widened. He leaned back in the chair. Winked. “What are your sins, love?”
“I don’t have any sins. Those notes are silly. I thought . . . I thought the butler might have left them. To frighten us, so we work harder.”
“Why would you be frightened, Ellie, if you have no sins to hide?”
“I . . . oh, never mind.”
The maid headed for the door, so Portia moved back, into the shadows around a corner. She realized she stepped right against Sinclair. The duke really was a tall, well-built man. Ellie passed them without seeing them, hurrying to the stairs.
“I’m going to talk to the cook,” Portia whispered to him. “Can you question the footman? Perhaps he saw something—or he might even be the man who attacked Willoughby.”
“I will question him. I’ll have the butler send him upstairs.”
She frowned. “But he’s right there.”
“And it is customary for me to make a request to a footman through the butler.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s what the footman will expect.”
She sighed in frustration.
“As for the footman, did you recognize him as one of your kidnappers, under the wig and livery?”
“The two men who kidnapped me were quite unappealing in their appearance. And their smell. It couldn’t have been the footman—he’s far too handsome.”
Sinclair did not look pleased at that observation. “I will go with you to question the cook.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“A house like this has to be filled with hiding places. That’s why I’m going to watch over you. Whether you like it or not.”
“I doubt Genvere or someone will leap out at me from a cupboard.”
“That footman might. I’ve seen him watch you with a lusty look on his face.”
He looked so annoyed, so possessive Portia’s anger flared. “Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from taking a group of men and women into your bed. And you can’t do that if you’re following me around.”
She tried to walk away, but his hand caught her waist and he pulled her back. “What are you talking about?”
“I was told you always take groups of people to your bed. Rather like a dinner party under the covers.”
“Actually nothing like a dinner party under covers,” he muttered.
“What you told me—about regret—how can that be true?”
He frowned, looking like an angered lion. “It is true.” Then his expression softened. Slowly, so slowly, his fingertip traced her lip.
“But don’t you want that now? Isn’t that what you would be doing, if I weren’t here? When you’re surrounded by all these beautiful women.”
“Around you, Miss Love, I can’t even see anyone else.”
“I will go,” she whispered. She had to. Before—before any good sense melted away like sugar in rain. She left him, quietly going into the kitchen.
Ahead of her, a full-figured woman leaned over a wooden work table. The woman’s back rose and fell as she vigorously drove a rolling pin over dough, flattening it. Obviously this was the cook.
“Hello?” Portia said tentatively.
The cook jumped, clapping her hand to her heart. She turned, waving the pin. “Keep back or I’ll—” The woman, her voluptuous form covered by a gray striped dress, reared back. “Oh, I’m sorry, miss. I feared it might be this murderer. He killed that poor, handsome viscount. He’s not going to get me. I’ll bash his wits with this rolling pin if he even tries.”
Portia stepped back as the woman waved it menacingly. Then the cook pushed back her glossy black curls, leaving a streak of white flour along her temple.
“I wondered if you had any clue as to who did that horrible crime, Mrs.—?”
“Mrs. Kent, miss. And you are?”
“Miss—uh—Love.”
“I can tell ye I have no idea, Miss Love. I don’t see anything down here. There’s barely any windows. And I’ve got so much work to do, I barely have a minute to think, much less be peering at things that aren’t my business. Murderers are not something a respectable woman concerns herself with. Besides, he was murdered in the night. I were asleep then. I doubt I’ll sleep well ever again. Too afraid I’ll be killed in my own bed.”