Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(59)

“You heard about the other death. Viscount Sandhurst.”

“Aye, the other young peer. You’re not going to tell me he was murdered too!”

“We aren’t sure. We fear he may have been poisoned—”

“Poison? Ye think I caused his death. That my cooking killed him!” Mrs. Kent waved the rolling pin about in her excitement and Portia had to dodge it.

“No, of course not.”

The cook dropped the implement to the table, then reached for her apron ties. “Perhaps I shouldn’t do any more cooking, if ye think I’m killing ye.”

“We don’t think anything of the sort. Please do not take offense. Your cooking is delicious. I’ve never had such lovely dishes.”

“Well, if ye think that . . .” Mrs. Kent fiddled with a locket that hung around her neck. It was gold and a small pink ribbon was tied in a bow on the chain above it. Portia stared it the ribbon, remembering the one she’d found when Sandhurst died.

“What are you staring at?” the cook asked.

“Your ribbon. Is it something special?”

“Just a bit of ribbon I found in the house. Too small to use for sewing. I didn’t think Lord Genvere would mind.”

Had Sandhurst got the ribbon from the house too? But for what reason would he have tucked it in his pocket?

“What is Lord Genvere actually like?”

“I’ve no idea, miss. But surely you know him. I thought his lordship was only inviting friends to his gathering.”

Portia shook his head. “That can’t be so. Many of the guests have never met Lord Genvere. I certainly don’t know him. But then, I wasn’t invited here. I was kidnapped and brought here against my will. Were you told about that? To expect another person for dinner, a person being brought here against her will?”

“Good heavens, miss, what on earth do you mean? Are you saying that Lord Genvere had you kidnapped? Surely not. Perhaps it was just a game? There are courtesans here—” The woman sniffed. “I don’t like serving them. They’re no better than they ought to be. But I need this position. If you’re one of them, perhaps he bought you from your madam.”

“I’m not a courtesan. I’m a respecta—” She broke off. “I don’t have a madam, and no one bought me. I was snatched off the street and brought here. So I want to know everything I can about Lord Genvere.”

Portia half expected what the cook would say and she was right. “I can’t tell you anything,” Mrs. Kent said. “I’ve never seen him. In the time I’ve been on this island—only a few days, I admit—he’s never been here. The butler and I were hired and came here at the same time.”

She tried more questions, but learned nothing more. She thanked the cook and left. Outside the kitchens, Portia sagged against the stone wall. Mrs. Kent seemed so normal—surely she wasn’t poisoning food and killing viscounts. So who was?

She heard low voices and saw Sinclair speaking with the butler—the thin, balding butler must have come downstairs.

Questioning people was exhausting. She’d thought it would not be so difficult—she liked to solve puzzles. She’d always insisted she had as good and clever a mind as her brothers.

But now she realized she had no idea how to lure someone to incriminate themselves.

She knew she should wait for Sinclair—

What on earth was that sound? It sounded like someone struggling to breathe.

It came from a doorway that stood across from the one that led to the kitchen. Portia hurried there, even though she was alone.

Cautiously, hands on the rough stone blocks, she peeked around the door into the small room—it was some kind of pantry.

There was panting. There were naked male bottoms. There was the lovely widow, sandwiched between the muscular, raven-haired Earl of Rutledge and the sinewy, handsome, equally raven-haired footman.





13

“Both men were—were thrusting into her. How on earth can they do that, if there are two of them? Do they take turns? Does one stop to allow the other his chance?”

These seemed perfectly logical questions to Portia. Given Sinclair had spent ten years holding orgies, she thought he would answer. But he caught her elbow and hauled her away from the stunning scene, taking her into shadows under the staircase.

As he did, she could see the sweep on color following his high cheekbones. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are! Are you really shocked?”

“No, damn—I mean, no. You want to know what they are doing?” It came out hoarse and harsh. “They do not take turns.” Sinclair’s finger went around his collar. “One man fucks her in her pussy. The other in her rear.”