Sax frowned. “Even with you supposedly dead, it might not be his or her plan to attack Portia. She will likely be perfectly safe and you risk exposing the plan on the first night.”
“I refuse to risk her safety.” He glowered.
Sax groaned. “I wish I could have protected Georgiana. How can I ask you to let Portia be at risk?”
He rubbed Sax’s shoulder. “Sax, hell, I’m sorry Georgiana is gone.”
“I will look after Portia, Sin, but I understand what you need to do.”
“Thank you. Would you take her down to the kitchens so she can get some food from the stores you locked up? Then bring her back up to her room and make sure she locks herself in.”
Sax nodded. They parted and Sin climbed back up the wall again.
* * *
She must end this. End it before everyone went mad and attacked each other.
It was the only thought Portia would let herself have. Anything else spiralled into thinking about Sinclair and the pain—the pain would swallow her alive.
With shaking fingers, Portia fumbled with her dress fastenings. She moved as if she were a hundred years old. Horrible dress—it was a nightmare to remove. She’d needed Sinclair to help her fasten it and she couldn’t manage it herself.
Oh heavens, she remembered when he’d helped her that very first time. When his lips had brushed her neck. Tears fell and she was just about to sink on the bed and have another crying jag when there came a sharp rap on the door.
“Miss Love? I thought you need help getting undressed.” The voice was a woman’s. Cultured.
It could be a ruse, but she just didn’t have the energy to care. Portia opened the door, staring into the Elegant Incognita’s lovely face.
“I assume you do not trust me to allow me in, so I can unfasten the dress here.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Perhaps she would turn her back and the Incognita would slit her throat. But she found it hard to care. She just felt so empty.
But Clarissa didn’t murder her. The woman simply helped by undoing the fastenings she couldn’t reach. “I’m so sorry,” Clarissa murmured. “You should get some sleep.” And she closed the door.
Portia locked it. Then she pushed the dress down and stepped out of it. It should be hung up properly and she tried, but tears came before she did, and the dressed ended up draped over a chair along with her simple stays, designed so she could do them herself.
She tried to brush her hair. Two halfhearted passes with the brush before she let it fall to the vanity top. The mirror reflected her face—the pale white face of a woman who looked as if she were staring into hell.
Her whole body felt heavy as she slid into bed wearing her shift. She pulled up the counterpane.
She rescued people—it was what she’d always tried to do. There were innocent people here who deserved rescue.
There must be a way to figure out who was responsible for these horrible murders.
In London, there were Bow Street Runners who pursued criminals. How they caught lawbreakers, she had no idea. If a crime was committed in the stews, Portia would know people who would know the identity of the perpetrator. Sometimes she did endeavor to find out, if a child required protection. She knew who to ask to find out which madams were snatching children into brothels. Or who to stop if young children were being recruited to be pickpockets.
What did she do when she had to rescue a child in the stews—when a child’s future, or even life, hung in the balance?
She bluffed.
She had faced terrifying men with only an unloaded pistol. But holding an unloaded pistol on the guests wouldn’t help her now.
And then—
The idea came.
She closed her eyes. Swollen, terribly puffy, her eyelids ached. But even with her eyes shut, even dizzy with exhaustion, she felt her wits work. She had an idea, a tiny inkling. Fear slithered over her as if snakes crawled on the bedsheets. But she had to fight fear and find the courage she used when she rescued children....
Goodness, she must have fallen asleep after all. Portia opened her eyes and saw gray light glimmering at the edge of the curtains. It was morning.
Purpose gave her strength. She pushed back the bedcovers. Threw on her gown. Pushed open the door and stepped into the hushed, elegant corridor.
There, ahead of her was the bulky form of the cook. The woman stood at the top of the stairs, clad in a gray shapeless gown. Mrs. Kent gasped as Portia emerged, clapping her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, miss. You startled me,” she muttered as she dropped her hand.
Portia didn’t know grand houses, but she knew enough to know the cook didn’t come onto the level of the guests’ bedrooms. Servants’ rooms were upstairs. “Where are you going?”