Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(65)

She wrapped her arms around her body. “You mean you think that in the time we were away from the room, someone murdered him.”

It sounded mad, but he said, “That’s exactly what I am saying.”

“I think you are right.” Her voice was just a whisper. She pointed shakily to the bed, which was stripped and covered in a white sheet.

In the center of the bed lay a piece of pink ribbon.





14

The mysterious death of the Cruel Marquis—and Sinclair’s announcement to the guests that it was murder, not suicide—changed everything.

Outside, rain pounded, running down the glass and turning the outside world into a blur of darkness.

Inside, the guests huddled in the drawing room. The butler had built up the fire into a grand blaze, but Portia couldn’t feel warm. From the way they shivered, the other women also looked ice-cold and frightened.

Even the gentlemen were white faced. Rutledge and Blute held drinks, but did so with shaky hands. Saxonby was pale as a ghost.

Curled in Portia’s hand was the piece of pink ribbon she had found on the bed. In the room that hadn’t been used by anyone.

She stroked it—it was just a tiny scrap with ragged edges and her thumb ruffled them. Had it fallen on that bed? Had it dropped from the marquis? By why would he have been on top of the unmade bed?

She had shown the ribbon to Sinclair, but he’d been in a hurry to go downstairs and tell the other guests what had happened. He had ordered Humphries and the footman to find them all and have them assemble in the drawing room. She knew he’d wanted to see if guilt could be read in one of the guests’ faces.

Heaven only knew what carnal activities had been interrupted.

While Sinclair had told the guests, Portia had studied each person: Blute, Rutledge, Saxonby, the women. They had all looked equally shocked.

Was one as good as Edmund Kean at acting? Or was it one of the servants who had done this? The butler, the footman, the maid, or the cook?

But why?

The blond Wanton Widow was pale, curled up on the settee. Saxonby was tending to her, fussing over her. He had brought her a thick velvet wrap, and now he fetched glasses of sherry. Portia wondered if he would mind knowing the widow had just been made love to by two men.

The Old Madam, the Peacock Girl, and the Elegant Incognita sat on a settee. The Old Madam was dabbing at tears with her handkerchief. “I can’t imagine why you are crying,” drawled the Incognita softly. “He was a horrible man. He lived violently and I, for one, am not surprised he died that way.”

“What an awful thing to say, Clarissa!”

“You didn’t care for the man either,” Clarissa said. “But you did have an eye on his money. I can’t imagine why. The wretched man thought any woman over twenty-one was too long in the tooth for him. He wanted the youngest, the prettiest, and he believed he could own us body and soul. So I shouldn’t waste my tears on him if I were you. He would never have made you his mistress.”

“Cat,” spat the Old Madam.

“Realist,” Clarissa returned.

“Let’s not fight over him now,” grumbled Nellie, the Peacock Girl.

The Old Madam got up and stalked over to the sofa where Rutledge was sitting. She put her hand on his knee. He moved her hand. She replaced it.

Sadie was not there—she was fast asleep upstairs. She didn’t even know the marquis was dead. She had collapsed after her wounds had been cleaned. Portia had put her to bed.

“We’re running out of gentlemen awfully quickly,” piped up the Peacock Girl. Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “What kind of orgy is thish?” Her words slurred, and she tossed back the last drops of her sherry.

“Shut up,” Clarissa snapped, not emulating a lady at that moment.

Portia shuddered. The girl was right. Of the thirteen guests at the beginning—seven men and six women—there were now only ten. Within the space of a day, three guests had died. Three men.

Good heavens—had someone killed the men so there would be more women each? No, that would surely be madness.

At that instant, the Old Madam murmured, “Are you certain he did not take his own life?”

“That old sadist would never feel an iota of guilt,” Clarissa muttered.

“Remember what Sinclair told us.” Saxonby stood up and walked over from where the widow was seated. His eyes were alert with interest. “The point about the chair is a good one.”

The old madam asked, her voice quavering, “But that would mean someone lifted him up and put him in the noose. Wouldn’t he have struggled?”

“He could have been knocked unconscious,” Sinclair said, his voice low and quiet, but filling the drawing room because everyone went silent when he spoke. “Or he could have been strangled with a cord or a wire, then put up in the noose to hide the evidence of strangulation.”