Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(80)

“It doesn’t matter,” Sinclair muttered. “What matters is that this has to end. Por—Miss Love was almost killed by a trap. Georgiana, who meant so much to you, is—is gone. I’m tired of being a step behind this fiend. I have an idea—a plan.” He leveled his intense gaze at his friend. “There is a clue here, an important clue, and I think I’ve finally seen it.”

Portia felt as if she’d been buffeted to and fro by the hurricane-like sea winds. Dizzy and knocked about and unsure what was going on. “What clue?” she cried, then realized she shouldn’t be shouting such things.

But Sinclair, infuriatingly, only shook his head. “I can’t reveal my plans yet.”

Those words made her freeze. “Why can’t you? I thought we were working together,” she said, much more quietly.

“My duty is to protect you. I am not going to let anything happen to you.”

“As I failed Georgiana?” Saxonby asked grimly.

“Not your fault. You didn’t know what was to happen. And you warned her—” He broke off. “I wonder if she heeded your words. I suspect she didn’t drink willingly, but was forced to consume it.”

Saxonby jerked his head up, his eyes empty. “Forced?”

But how could the killer have done that, when the killer was in the kitchens?

Portia was about to ask, when Sinclair said, “I need an idea of when she was killed, Sax. I know it’s hard to think of this, but I need to know. When did you see her in the morning? When did you discover her body upstairs?”

“She went to her room an hour ago, to rest. I found her about five minutes ago.”

“An hour ago,” Portia echoed. “The murderer could have forced poor Lady Linley to drink the sherry before going down to the kitchens. But that . . . that is horrible.”

Sinclair gave a curt nod of his head. At the same moment, Saxonby made an agonizing, keening cry. “I’m going to find this bas—”

Sinclair grabbed his friend’s arm. “I don’t want you to do something stupid, Sax. Something that would see you hanged. I believe I can catch this bastard. But first, if I may, I would like to see Georgiana.”

They walked up the stairs, Portia at Sinclair’s side. Saxonby marched grimly up ahead of them, still drinking.

Sinclair had tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, then rested his hand over hers. As if making sure she was definitely at his side. The tender gesture made her feel breathtakingly close to him. The words he’d said made her feel a thousand miles apart.

“What did you mean that Sax—Saxonby, I mean—saved your life when you were at school?”

“I was lost, depressed, hurting. Saxonby helped me. I don’t think he even understands how much he did for me.”

She sensed that was all he was going to tell her. Curiosity ate at her, but it wasn’t proper to pry.

“Why did you say you don’t have much to live for?”

He met her gaze, his eyes filled with such longing, it twisted her heart.

“I lost the only person who made my life worth anything. That was you, angel. I can never have you now.”

“I think you’ve changed,” she whispered. “You have changed for the better, Julian.” There, she called him by his Christian name. She had not dared to use it before now because it touched her heart too much. “I know you have.”

He shook his head. “I’ve learned about regret. But I still could never have married you. I would have ruined you.”

“Ruined me how, if you had married me?”

“You were good, kind, innocent. I would have destroyed you.”

“Why?”

“I would have broken your heart, Portia. I would have made you cynical. I would have gone to brothels and orgies. I would have tried to fight the urges, but they would have beaten me in the end.”

“I don’t believe it. You could have fought—if you really wanted to.”

He inclined his head. “True. But I’m weak, love. And . . . hell, stupid when it comes to sex. But I have to show some intelligence in this, our hunt for a killer. I have to figure out what this bastard wants. I have to try to understand his—or her—motivation for killing, try to figure out who will be attacked next. The fiend leaves no clues—except the one clue of the ribbon that we are supposed to find.”

She stared, wide-eyed. “How can you know who will be next to be attacked? I never dreamed someone would want to murder all the servants at once.”

His brows drew together. “That’s the damnably strange thing about this. Why try to eliminate them all?”

“I don’t know.” Desperately she tried to think of a reason. What would the guests do now without servants? There would have been no meals. No maid. No footman. It eliminated a strong man in the footman—was that the idea? “Maybe it was to make us more vulnerable.”