His brows rose. “What do you mean?”
“The footman was young and strong, so he could have helped capture the killer. Without the cook and the maid, the courtesans and gentlemen would have to fend for themselves.”
“That is a good point. But the attack on the footman looked more driven by rage than by logical plan.”
She shivered. “Who could have thought of doing such a thing to a human being?”
“It’s amazing the ways people can think to torture others. And enjoy it.”
Those words made her blood feel ice-cold. He spoke as if he knew. Then she remembered the things—the shocking things—he’d told her he needed, that he went to brothels to get. “I know there is something you are not telling me. I wish you would trust me.”
He shook his head. “There are things I can’t talk about. That I’ve never told anyone.”
They’d reached the top of the stairs and were walking down the corridor. As they passed the rooms, Portia wanted to speak with Sinclair, but all she could think of was that there were bodies lying on beds behind some of those closed doors.
They passed Willoughby’s door and Sinclair hesitated. “Of any of the guests I would have pegged as a murderer with a sadistic sense of humor, it would have been Willoughby. But he’s dead. Lying on an upstairs bed.”
“With his skull cleaved in. There’s so much of his head missing, we know without a doubt he’s dead,” Saxonby muttered.
“Sax, careful. Portia is tough, but she is too sensitive for blunt talk.”
“I am not,” she said.
“I covered up Georgiana,” Saxonby added gruffly. “She will lie there too in her room.”
Sinclair’s eyes softened. “Hell, I am sorry, Sax.”
Desperation spiked through Portia. She longed to ease Saxonby’s pain, but what could be done? “We must figure out who is behind this,” she cried. “There is the Incognita and the Old Madam. But are they capable of this? Do they have the strength? Of the men, we have two earls left. Both are strong enough, but is one this clever . . . ?”
“And there is Sin and I,” Saxonby muttered.
“I can’t believe it of . . . of either of you.” She gazed at him. “I know you, Sinclair. I knew you ten years ago. I knew you weren’t capable of such things. When you came to London, you seemed so . . . so sweet.”
Saxonby gave a pained grin at that—one that vanished quickly. “Sweet? Yes, you did seem to be a complete innocent when you first came. But Willoughby lured you into destructive vices. Worse than anything the Wicked Dukes had done. Which again makes Willoughby the most likely suspect.”
“You were unlike any gentleman I’d ever encountered,” she went on. “On the very first night I met you, you saved my life from a pimp. And I know you would never hurt anyone else.”
Sinclair shook his head. “That is not entirely true. I wasn’t innocent then. I had hurt people. I had hurt members of my family.” He looked agonized. “I had even been called out in a duel with my own brother. Will didn’t lure me into hell. He just pointed me in the right direction. I craved all those things. I don’t want you to believe I’m something I’m not, Portia.”
“Are you telling me that you are the killer? Because I can’t believe that. I won’t.”
“Not the killer,” Sinclair said. “But I’m not the man you believe me to be. I let you believe things about me that weren’t true. I proposed marriage to you knowing they weren’t true. I’m sorry. I just want you to know I’m not worthy of you.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t want you to think I don’t trust your deductive skills, Sax, but I’d like to see Georgiana’s room for myself. I have an idea—it could be wrong, but there’s something I need to see. . . .”
Portia wished he would share his idea. But she would watch him to see what he did, what he looked at. And she would figure it out.
Why? To protect him, that was why. She was in danger, yes, but Sinclair was speaking about going after this killer by himself. That idea terrified her.
“After that, I should question the guests,” Sinclair said.
“See which ones are left alive,” Saxonby said heavily.
Then she heard Sinclair murmurer quietly to his friend, “You know, I have an idea to flush out the murderer. Portia is right. It doesn’t seem likely to be one of the people left. The madam, the cook, Rutledge, or the other earl. If Will weren’t dead . . . Hell, there’s something I want to know—”
Sinclair sprinted up the stairs. Portia caught up to him. He stood in Willoughby’s room. Walked over and drew down the sheet. Portia stayed in the door, but still gagged at the awful odour. Then he pulled the sheet back up.