Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(74)

“Reason for you to leave this alone, Portia. I demand that you do. Upstairs for you now. I will deal with this.”

“I’m just supposed to meekly let you order me about.”

“Yes.”

“No, I won’t. I have had to be in charge of my own life for years. I’ve had ten years to realize I will be alone for my life. Surrounded by children and people in the home, but alone. And to be alone means you must have courage to protect yourself.”

“You are not alone, Portia. I will deliver you from this hell. No matter what it takes.” Ruthlessness touched his expression. His eyes went cold.

She shivered. “What do you mean?”

But he didn’t answer. He lifted his head. “Did you hear that?”

A soft groan murmured through the silence.

“There’s someone else down here,” she whispered.

“Ooh, me head,” complained a female voice.

“The cook,” Portia gasped. She ran into the kitchen, even though Sinclair barked, “Portia, wait!”

Within, the cook was pushing up from the floor weakly. Dipping to her knees, Portia helped the woman, who gazed at her with rueful eyes and touched her head. “It ’urts something fierce.”

Sinclair’s polished boots moved beside the injured cook, and he lifted the woman to her feet. His gloved hand came down, Portia clasped it, and he lifted her as if she were weightless.

“You should sit,” Sinclair instructed to Mrs. Kent. He helped the woman to a stool. “What happened to you?”

Her white frilled cap was askew and Portia helped her right it. The woman looked at her gratefully, then turned to Sinclair. “I . . . I don’t know exactly, Your Grace. I . . . I blacked out. No . . . no, something hit me. That’s all I remember. A sharp pain, then the whole world went black right before my eyes.”

“You were attacked,” Portia said. “And Ellie—”

“What’s happened to her?” The cook cried, her eyes wide with shock. “Oh my heavens, was she hurt too?”

Portia opened her mouth, but the duke said, “I will explain it, Miss Love. It’s not for you to speak of such gruesome things.”

He wanted to spare her. In all this horror, he was thinking of her.

“It was just as with the Marquis of Crayle,” he said gruffly. “Ellie has been hanged, but there was no stool or chair in sight.”

Portia saw how intently he watched the cook. But the woman went white and sagged on the stool. He had to grasp her arm so she didn’t slide off. The cook didn’t faint, but it looked like a near thing.

“I’m sorry to be so blunt. Now, do you know what you were struck with?”

“I don’t know. It slammed on me ’ead like a ton of bricks. A pan? A rolling pin?”

Together with Sinclair, Portia looked around. Nothing lay on the floor. The wooden worktable was clear. “There’s no sign of the weapon.”

Something else was missing. “And no ribbon,” Portia breathed. “I don’t see any pink ribbon.”

“Ribbon?” Mrs. Kent repeated slowly. She touched her locket. “There was this. Do you mean this ribbon? It was left in my room. I meant no harm in taking it.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Portia assured the woman, who looked blank and confused. “As Mrs. Kent said, a piece of ribbon was left in her room before. But there wasn’t any now. What could that mean?”

“Possibly that the intent was not to kill Mrs. Kent.” A frown pulled Sinclair’s brows together. He gave a half shake of his head. “Or the killer felt it was sufficient she had a piece of the ribbon tied to her locket. Whatever this madman is trying to say, I can’t fathom it,” he growled. He turned to the cook, addressing her gently. “Was there anyone else down here with you?”

“There was. That footman. And the butler. I overheard that footman flirting with Ellie. Said he’d received a letter threatening to reveal his sins. Ellie admitted she’d gotten one too.”

“Did you get a letter like that?” he asked.

Mrs. Kent shook her head—then winced and stopped. “There is no point in lying, is there? Aye, I got one. What sins could a woman like me ’ave committed? I work from dawn until evening. I’ve no time for sins. I’ve never even made a soul sick with my cooking. Never poisoned anyone, if ye’re thinking that’s my sin!”

The woman had a bruise on her head and she looked white as a sheet, swaying slightly on her feet. She looked like a woman who had been attacked. But so far, the murderer had used bludgeoning only once. And when the killer had struck Willoughby, it had been with excessive force. Vicious force. The killer had certainly ensured Lord Willoughby was dead.