Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(67)

“We’ve got to do this floor, then the basements,” Sinclair said. “I want to search this story and the upper one again. I want to check more thoroughly for hidden rooms or passageways. My gut instinct says there are some in a rambling house like this.”

“What if we don’t stumble on the mechanism that opens doors to hidden rooms?” Saxonby asked.

“We measure the rooms,” Sinclair said.

Saxonby groaned. “That will bloody take forever.”

Portia knew how he felt. But—“What else can we do?” she asked. “I’d rather work like a fiend than be killed.”

Sinclair’s hand pressed with gentle firmness against her back and moved a little, in a caress. She almost gasped and her whole body tingled, just having him touch her.

“You will not be hurt,” he growled. “I would never allow it.”

It touched her heart, made it wobble. But he couldn’t promise such a thing.

He moved to the bellpull with a panther’s lithe, muscular grace. But before pulling on it, Sinclair made a lower grumble in the back of his throat, then said, in his deep, melodic voice, “Come in, Humphries.”

Portia whipped toward the door as the butler walked in. The man was blushing—even his balding pate looked pink. Humphries had been skulking outside the door.

Why? To overhear what had been said? Could the thin, aging butler be involved in these crimes?

Sinclair walked away from the group of guests with the butler, close to her. She and Saxonby could overhear their conversation, but none of the others could. Yet the others watched them. In silence, drinking liquor or tea, they watched. And their gazes flicked to each other, narrow with suspicion or wide with fear.

“Any secret rooms or passages in the house, Humphries?” Sinclair asked. “Any priest holes? Or doors that are cleverly hidden in walls?”

The butler’s heavy black eyebrows shot up, as if he’d expected different questions. “I have no idea, Your Grace. I was never told of any such thing. Nor have I discovered any. Now, I must clear tea.” He scuttled away, sideways like a crab, as if he was still trying to hear what they said.

Portia said, “He could be lying.”

Sinclair said it at exactly the same time.

He flashed her a smile. “You are clever, love.”

Then he stalked away, stopped, turned. “Come, angel. You as well, Sax. Time to hunt.”

Determination gleamed in Sinclair’s dark brown eyes. He looked so different—she’d never seen him like this. She’d always thought of him as sweet and naïve. She’d even really thought that was why he had orgies—because he’d been bowled over by freely available sex and adventure.

Now, she saw he was even cleverer than she’d thought. And his mind seemed to race swiftly, assessing, figuring, planning.

She and Saxonby had to race to catch up to him.

Then the work of measuring began.

Portia carried paper and a quill pen. She drew pictures of the rooms, wrote down all the measurements. The three of them added figures to see if there was any place where outside and inside dimensions did not make sense. Sinclair was astoundingly good with figures—he could juggle several numbers in his head and do mathematics almost instantaneously.

Nothing came to light. The measurements showed no discrepancy that could be a hidden space. Not in room after room. They did the attics, the basement and kitchens, where the cook demanded to know what they were doing.

“The Marquis of Crayle was murdered,” Sinclair told the woman bluntly.

The woman clapped a flour-covered hand to her mouth. She slumped back onto a stool. “Blimey? Murdered? Like that one last night?”

“Different,” the duke said. “Crayle was strangled, then hanged.”

“Oh dear heaven.” The cook reached unsteadily for a bottle and slopped a good amount in a glass. It was the cooking sherry, and Mrs. Kent began to knock it back.

After that, Portia went with Sinclair and Saxonby through the bedrooms—easy to search with the other guests downstairs. As they measured and searched, she saw Sinclair swiftly search drawers. “No one can hide in there.”

“Weapons. Poison. I’m searching for those.”

He even searched the marquis’s room. She ignored the body under the sheets. She had to admit—going through the man’s bedchamber taught her rather a lot about gentlemen of the ton. The marquis, cold and arrogant, had feminine lace-trimmed shifts, corsets, knickers, and gossamer-thin silk stockings shoved in a drawer. “For the courtesans?” she wondered.

“Or himself,” Sinclair remarked lightly.

She jerked up her head.

He gave her a wry look that made him unbearably handsome. “Some men have the desire to wear women’s clothing, especially their lacy underclothing.”