Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(88)

“Oh . . . er . . . the truth is, I’m afraid to be upstairs on my own. I’m afraid to go up the servants’ stairs alone. Could I use one of these empty bedrooms? I know it’s not what is usually done, but I don’t think people are usually murdered in great houses.”

Portia had to carry out her idea. “Mrs. Kent, I will arrange for you to have a bedroom. But will you come down to the kitchen with me?”

“Oh, miss, I can’t make any breakfast. I can’t face going down there.”

Portia held out her hand reassuringly. “Well, we cannot starve. And there is safety in numbers. We shall go together—”

But Mrs. Kent made a small cry. And dug her heels in the soft carpet of the corridor. “But, miss, how can I know you will not kill me?”

Portia let out a huff of frustration. Yet it was true. How could any of them trust any other? The only person she trusted was Sin—now he was gone.

“Then we should all go,” she said firmly. “All of the innocent people should be able to overpower one guilty one. And if we all eat the same food, in front of each other, then we will know the food is not poisoned. The killer won’t want to eat, if it is.”

That was what they did. Portia cooked porridge in front of all the others. They all held their bowls to their mouths, shoveling in food. They looked like rats, holding their plates close to their chests, with eyes shifting rapidly and fearfully about, watching each other.

Then Portia set down her bowl. She took a deep breath. “May I have your attention?” she said firmly. “Listen to me, please! I know who the killer is.”

All of them—the four women, the two earls, the Duke of Saxonby—stared at her in shock.

She knew what she was doing. She just did not know who the killer was. But that was part of the plan.

“Who?” cried the cook.

“How could you know who it is?” shouted the Old Madam.

“I now know what the killer’s motive is. This is about a child. A young girl. She was sent to a foundling home. Perhaps she is dead now—I don’t know that. But she must have been hurt very badly. All of us have been accused of sins. We are all here because these supposed sins are related to this poor girl. Lord Willoughby was notorious for ravishing innocent women. The handsome Viscount Sandhurst might have been a seducer also, or perhaps he broke the girl’s heart.”

Portia watched the women as she spoke. The Old Madam and the Incognita were of an age to be the child’s mother. The cook was too, but would Mrs. Kent have moved in these circles? Would a cook have come up with the plan to hold an orgy, invite people one hated to it, and eliminate them one by one?

The young courtesan, Nellie Upton, was the right age to be the child.

“The Marquis of Crayle,” she continued, “Perhaps he took advantage of a young girl and carried out his perversions on her. Perhaps he whipped her.”

She watched for a flinch. A flicker of the eye. A sharp breath.

Nothing. Each woman—including the cook—stared at her, glanced at each other, and showed nothing at all in their faces except surprise.

“She could not have been very young,” Portia went on. “A long time must have passed since she went to the foundling home until she was old enough to go to orgies. Perhaps that was why Sinclair was brought here. The girl went to his orgies.”

She pointed at the Old Madam. “Perhaps you dragged her into one of your brothels?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about! Who is this girl?”

She looked at Nellie. “Perhaps it is you.”

“Not I,” the girl said huskily. “I was born on a farm. I know who my mother is—I grew up with her, me dad, four brothers, and two sisters.”

Which could, of course, be a lie. Portia looked at the Incognita. “You might have introduced her into this world. Maybe that was your sin. Or you worked against her, jealous of her youth, and you forced her to end up on the street.”

She watched Clarissa’s up-tilted green eyes. Was that a touch of sorrow that she saw?

“Is this girl alive or dead now?” She walked back and forth, as if thinking. But she was watching. She watched the two earls too. One could have a sister who had been ruined and had fallen into disaster.

Then she turned to the Incognita, aware of the woman’s look of sadness. “Did you ever have a child? A daughter?”

“I did.” The woman’s voice was husky. “I had two children. A girl. And then a boy. And both were stillborn. Both of them.”

“We have only your word for that,” Portia said. She believed the pain in the woman’s eyes. Yet Clarissa did not say she had only two children.