“Sadie,” he muttered.
“Not Sadie. She is already dead.” Portia tapped her chin, staring at the house. “But why? Could she have hurt this girl in some way? I could see the Old Madam or the Incognita killing Sadie out of jealousy. Or could one of them be related to this child. Even the Elegant Widow. She could be the sister to such a girl.”
“Perhaps. We have to question the guests,” he said. “And talk to the cook. She is the only person who has survived an attack. I know you don’t want to go back to the house, but I’d like to talk to her, and I’m not leaving you out here alone.”
“I can go now. With you. I can face it now.”
They went back to the house, back in through the open kitchen door.
But the cook couldn’t add a thing. They already knew she hadn’t seen whoever had come up behind her, but Sinclair asked if she heard anything, or had smelled anything—the hint of a perfume or gentleman’s shaving lotion. But Mrs. Kent had been utterly oblivious to everything that might have given them a clue.
“Who took biscuits up to the room used by Sadie Bradshaw?” Portia asked.
“Biscuits? No one asked me for biscuits, miss.”
“But where are they kept? Who could have found them?”
“They’re kept in a tin in the pantry. Ellie knew where they were.” Tears gathered in the cook’s eyes. For all she’d spoken to Mrs. Kent before, this was the first time Portia noticed the woman’s eyes were large and green. They were quite striking. There was something about cooks—they were usually short-tempered, tough task masters, and always in charge of their kitchens. Often one forgot they were also women. And Mrs. Kent had probably been quite a pretty woman.
Then the woman put her hands on her hips and looked annoyed, as cooks so often did. “And what am I going to do now the other servants are gone? Am I to cook the meals, make the beds, dust and serve table all by myself?”
“We’ll fend for ourselves,” Sinclair said. “We have greater problems than worrying about laying fires and making beds.”
The cook wagged her finger. “You say that now, Your Grace, but when there’s no fire to ward off the cold sea air and your sheets stink, you’ll think differently. Oh, oh blast—” The woman’s brave anger vanished. Suddenly, Mrs. Kent began to cry, then pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “I want to get away from this godforsaken place.”
“We all do,” Sinclair growled. “But we can’t.”
There were nine guests left, including her and Sinclair and Saxonby. And on top of that, there was the cook. It had to be one of them, didn’t it? There was something nagging at Portia, something that didn’t seem right, but that was foolish—all of this was wrong. “I fear we’ll know when we’re the only ones left,” she said softly. “Except for the murderer.”
“No,” Sinclair growled. “We’ll stop this fiend before then. I am going to stop this damned villain now.”
16
Sin stood in a shadowy corner of the foyer. Once he and Portia had come up from the kitchens, she had seen Nellie Upton, who wore a gown of translucent white lace that showed off her exotic, dark-toned skin.
She had gone to ask the girl a few questions. He’d waited, watching, thinking. He remembered his first orgy ten years ago.
He’d spent the whole night fucking as many people as he could before collapsing—he’d gone through a lot of French letters, but he couldn’t remember how many partners he’d had. All the sex had helped him forget his past. Forget how, when he’d been young, his father had abused him, his mother had used him, and his brother’s wife, Estella . . . she had destroyed the very last of his soul.
All his life, Sin had hated himself for letting them use him. For not standing up for himself. He had played their games—
That was what he was doing here, he realized. The killer was always ahead of them, always in command. He and Portia were playing the killer’s game.
He had to get the upper hand. He had to twist things up, take charge, throw the killer off.
That was how he’d finally gotten free when he’d been young. He had stood up to his father. He had told his mother he hated her for what she’d done to him. He’d told Estella that she could not touch him anymore. He’d finally stood up for himself.
It had set off a chain reaction of disaster that left his father and mother dead, but he had been free. Finally. He still felt so much guilt for being such a coward before. But he had only saved himself when he had stopped playing their games.
He had to do that now.