Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(76)

“What are those?”

“The footman’s gloves. He appears to be gone.”

“Gone?” Wild thoughts went through her head. Why was the footman gone? Was he the killer? He was young and strong. A match for the men. And he could have taken all of the servants by surprise.

But why? Why would he do this? Revenge? Anger? Madness?

There had been no ribbon near the cook. If she’d been struck over the head by the killer with the intent to kill her in the same way the butler had been murdered, why was there no clue left behind?

The cook peered at Sinclair. “Gone? What do ye mean gone?”

“He appears to have gone outside.”

“So ’e’s the one?”

Was he? Portia knew, from the stews, that a woman could be a villain. Puzzled, she moved back toward the kitchen. Could it mean the cook was the killer? That the woman had not really been hit and had faked everything?

But she was a large, heavy, middle-aged woman. Could she really have killed Willoughby, who was young and strong? Could she have lifted the marquis and placed him in a noose?

It seemed impossible.

If the cook was supposed to be a victim, like Ellie and the butler, shouldn’t there be a ribbon? The cook was wearing a little scrap of the ribbon on her locket. Was that enough for the killer? Or had the killer intended only to knock out the cook, and kill the cook later?

Portia left the butler’s pantry, returning to the place in the kitchen where they had found Mrs. Kent. Was there any clue there? Any clue that pointed to the footman being the culprit? She simply wouldn’t have thought him clever enough to have killed five people and have done it without detection—

“Oh my heavens.” The cook had come in behind her. Now the woman passed her and pulled something out from beneath a pot. Her fingers caressed it.

Portia saw the flash of pink. “So you did get one.”

“It were under the pot. A bit of ribbon, just like ye said. But why is it there? What is it? It looks like a child’s hair ribbon.”

“Yes,” Portia said. “And these were left for each victim.”

The woman turned white. “But why would I be given this? I’ve no daughter. Not even a younger sister. There’s no one left in my family but me.”

“It’s a clue,” Portia said. “The murderer wants us to understand why he—or she—is doing this. It is something to do with a girl. Perhaps a girl who wore this hair ribbon.”

“But what could all of us have to do with a girl?” Mrs. Kent asked frantically. “Why should we be killed?”

Hinges creaked. A gust of cool air flowed in. There was the smell of dampness, the salt tinge of the sea.

Portia jerked. Sinclair must have gone out again. Gone in pursuit of the footman. A man who might be a fiendish killer. And he’d gone alone.

She rushed out the open door and almost fell over as a gust of sea wind hit her. There was no rain anymore, but the sky was a deep iron gray. Huge, dark clouds still massed around the island, as if trying to swallow it whole. The wind snatched at the door, tearing it from her hand, slamming it shut. Then she saw him. Sinclair returning to her. Alive.

She’d thought her heart would slow down from its frantic pace once she saw him and knew he was all right. But her heart thundered even faster with dizzying relief.

She ran toward him.

“You didn’t find him?” she shouted over the sound of the wind. “We must organize a search. If we all look—” All of us who are left, she thought, panic touching her. But she fought it down. “We’ll find him, surely.”

“I did find him. He’s not our killer.”

One look at his face, hard, carved of stone, and Portia knew. “He’s dead. Of course he is.” Then, with an eerie sense of exhaustion, of finality, she asked, “How? How was he killed?”

But then, beyond Sinclair’s tall form, she saw the footman’s body sprawled on the lawn. She ran around Sinclair toward him, but as she grew close, her steps slowed. Her legs felt numb, her heart so filled with pain and horror, she could not comprehend what she was seeing.

His trousers had been torn down. There was darkness. A stretch of naked thighs and a stomach and then . . . blackish redness. Blood. She was looking at blood and—

Sinclair dragged her away. “Don’t look. He’s been cut. Badly.”

“Around his front—his private parts.”

“He’s been gelded.”

“Oh. Oh goodness.” She did not look again. She had seen enough.

She needed to touch Sinclair. Put her hand over his heart. As if to reassure herself he was still alive.

The boastful footman. Now he was gone too. In a horrible way.