“You said you know who the killer is,” the Old Madam said sharply. “Get on with it. Who is it. And what of Lord Genvere? What’s his part in this?”
“Lord Genvere does not exist. I began to suspect it after Lord Crayle died. I began to believe there was no Genvere and that the killer was one of us. Then, I realized that if you take the letters of the name and rearrange them, they spell ‘revenge.’ That is what this is all about. These murders are about vengeance.”
A few gasps of surprise came from the guests.
“I will not reveal the name of the killer now,” Portia said. “I need one final piece of evidence. Once I have it, I will be able to prove a case against this person. I will be able to take it to a magistrate, and the killer will hang.”
“But how will we get off this island?”
“There must be a boat on the island,” Portia said lightly. “After all, once we were all disposed of, our killer needed a way to leave. The storm has passed and the weather is clearing, so we’ll be able to leave the island. Alive and with evidence to convict the killer.”
It was all a bluff. Even the bit about the boat.
What she hoped was this made her a target.
In her bedchamber, she had found Sinclair’s box for his dueling pistols. Within, he kept more of the small metal pistol balls and powder. She had loaded the pistol. She was carrying it now, tucked in her garter, under her skirt. So for the first time in her life, she was carrying a loaded pistol with her.
Horrifically, it was the very pistol that had killed Sinclair.
When would the blow strike? Her shoulders were knotted with tension. Her heart continued to thump so loud an attacker could probably stomp up behind her and she wouldn’t hear.
She left the kitchen—left the other guests muttering to each other. The Duke of Saxonby accompanied her.
She stopped by the door that led to the gallery. No one would attack while the strong, silent Duke of Saxonby walked at her side.
She faced him with, she hoped, an expression of honesty on her face. “I . . . I must have some time alone. I need to think.”
“My dear, you just put the cat among the pigeons,” Saxonby pointed out.
“I just wish to walk in the gallery. It’s deserted. The other guests are downstairs. I am sure I will be safe for a short while.”
“Allow me to watch over you.”
“No! No, I need some time alone. You must allow me this.” Her voice rose in desperation.
The duke hesitated. Then nodded. “All right, Miss Love.”
She left him in the corridor, went into the gallery, and began to walk its length. But first, she lifted her skirts and took out her weapon.
She moved slowly, hiding the pistol in the folds of her skirt. Her shoes tapped on the dark parquet floor. Weak sunlight was fighting to push between the clouds and filtered in through the tall windows.
She was sure the killer had followed her. She’d goaded enough.
Her footsteps echoed in the space, drowning out other sound. She stopped in the middle of the gallery and turned to the window. If Saxonby was the killer, if he came out and attacked her, she would shoot him. He didn’t know she was armed. She had let him believe she would be bait without a weapon.
She moved closer to the window. One ray of sunlight sliced between clouds and streamed to the terrace.
Could she shoot a man in cold blood? Even to save herself and the others?
“So here you are.” The voice shot into the quiet, making her jump. She turned toward the far end of the gallery. A figure stood there. Black mask. Swirling black cloak. A figure holding a gleaming, vicious, medieval ax.
Was it a woman confronting her? She couldn’t tell. The person looked tall. Well-built and not fat or thin. That ax made her freeze.
Remember you have a pistol.
“You’re a daft thing. A stupid fool.” The killer’s voice . . . rough, raspy, slightly high-pitched, but falsely so. She couldn’t tell if it was a man’s voice or a woman’s.
The person stepped forward, holding the ax. “These other deaths had been too clean. I intend to make your blood run.” Glee danced through those words.
Portia lifted her pistol, aiming at the cloaked figure. “Halt right there!” she commanded.
“You’ll never hit me from there. I can see you shake.”
The person began to run toward her, ax held high.
An explosion roared in her ears. She had pulled the trigger. And in her shock, she’d missed.
Mocking laughter rang through the gallery.
A second shot exploded. The killer screamed. The ax dropped with a clang and the killer clutched his—or her—right arm. Spinning, the figure ran away from her. Saxonby charged into the gallery from the door at the other end. He sprinted, holding a pistol, and she reclaimed her shocked wits and ran after him. The killer had vanished when they both reached the doorway at the end of the gallery.