“It is not worth risking your life.”
He touched her chin, tipping it up. “For me, it is.”
She wanted to protest, but the Duke of Saxonby came into Willoughby’s room. “The storm’s eased a little, Sin. But—”
“Good enough. I wanted to wait until the storm ended. But that isn’t occurring. Given what’s happened, I think I need to search now.”
“No,” Portia gasped. He would be putting himself in terrible danger. “No, I won’t allow it.”
“Angel, you have no choice.”
* * *
Dressed in her hooded cloak, which had been left in Sinclair’s bedroom, Portia had also acquired an umbrella from the handsome footman, Reggie. She’d blushed terribly when asking him for one, for she kept picturing him with the widow and Rutledge. Embarrassment had made her forget the word umbrella, so she’d tried to make hand motions, which only made the whole thing worse. Reggie hadn’t been embarrassed at all. He’d winked boldly at her.
Sinclair had warned her that an umbrella would prove useless. Stubbornly, she’d tried. And of course, the wretched brolly whipped inside out and was ripped out of her hands. It tumbled across the terrace and he ran to catch it.
But it was destroyed and he let it go.
“This is madness,” Saxonby stated, as Sinclair came running back. “How can we search the cliffs in weather like this?”
“What choice do we have? Miss Love’s idea is that there is no Genvere. That he doesn’t exist and our killer is one of the guests or the servants. But if there is a Genvere, he has to be a madman who appears able to get into the house without being seen. We’ve searched the damn house and found no sign of an intruder, or anyone hiding in it. So either he doesn’t exist or he’s hiding somewhere else. I want to eliminate all possibilities. If there’s anywhere on this rock where someone can hide, I suspect it’s a cave.”
“You looked before and found nothing.”
“I wasn’t able to search all along the cliffs.”
“If the cave is so well hidden,” Saxonby said. “I don’t see how the murderer gets out of it, up the cliff, and into the house without being observed.”
“True. It makes sense that it’s one of the guests, Sax.” He looked to Portia. “As my clever Miss Love has deduced. But which of them could orchestrate three murders and carry them off seamlessly? Murder is a difficult thing to do. Hard to do without leaving a trace. I talked to Humphries after we searched the rooms. He says all other guests were in the drawing room. Sadie was the only guest alone when Crayle was killed.”
“But Sadie was lying in bed in pain,” Portia protested.
“What of the servants?” Saxonby asked.
“Humphries had gone upstairs after telling off the footman for joining . . . uh, in a threesome. The maid, Ellie, was tidying in the dining room. On her own, so she has no alibi. However, she is a slender female who doesn’t look particularly strong.”
“There is the cook, too,” Portia said suddenly.
“That rotund, middle-aged woman? Unlikely she could string up the marquis either. Or would want to. If she wanted to kill us, she could poison us.”
Portia swallowed hard. “Like Sandhurst.”
“If he was poisoned, the most likely method was to introduce the poison to his drink.”
“So not the cook. She was downstairs. And not the maid either.”
Then she thought of what Sinclair had said. Murder is a difficult thing to do. He hadn’t said it with a speculative tone, the way he’d talked about the guests.
He said it in a matter-of-fact way. As if he knew . . .
Ten years ago, he’d told her a little about his family. His parents had both died suddenly. It had been unexpected. It had been two weeks later he’d learned he was now the duke.
Had his parents been murdered?
Shocked, she looked up at his face. He looked cool, emotionless, determined.
No, she was letting her mind think of mad things.
Sinclair clasped her hand as they walked across the grass, which made her heart leap and places tingle. He walked slightly ahead of her, trying to block the wind and rain. The three of them made their way across the island, struggling against the wind.
“I’ve already searched close to the house,” Sinclair shouted over the wind. “We’ll go out further. There are no buildings on the island other than the house.”
The surface of the island was not large and mostly it was a stretch of rock and grass. They soon reached the edge of the cliff. Only a few trees grew along the edge, leaning out into space. All Portia could hear was the roar of the wind across the exposed island, the pounding and smashing of the waves on rock.