Sin shook his head. One quick, curt shake. Then he looked away and walked toward the house, a sprawling edifice with gabled roofs and gray stone walls. It was wide and long, with terrace doors that ran the length of the house, giving a view of the cliff edge and the sea beyond.
Where was Portia? Somewhere in the house? In danger?
Every man here better pray he hadn’t touched Portia. Sin would kill any who had.
His boot soles pounded across the marble tiles. He was in a kind of gallery. The room had French doors that led to the interior of the house.
Someone cleared his throat and Sin whipped around.
A butler had materialized. Tall, cadaverous, with only a few strands of black hair combed over a bald pate. “I hope you had a smooth trip out to Serenity Island, sir. If I might show you your room—?”
“Never mind about the room. I’m looking for a young woman with red hair.”
“I was informed, sir, that such events would not begin until after the first dinner. However, I do believe that several guests have . . . er . . . jumped the gun.”
The butler spoke like a well-trained servant, but he was blushing. Apparently not used to waiting on people who’d come for an orgy.
“I’m not looking for her for those purposes,” Sin said. “She doesn’t belong here.”
The butler didn’t show any surprise at the statement. Merely said, “I have not seen any young lady with red hair, sir.”
“It’s Your Grace. I’m the Duke of Sinclair.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I am Humphries, the butler of Cliffside House. Allow me to show you to your apartments.”
Frustrated, Sin followed. The house was harsh gray stone on the outside, but a tribute to Adams on the inside. Pastel colors and intricate white mouldings were everywhere. The furniture was all white and gilt and covered in pastel blue cushions. Partway up the wide stairs, Sin asked abruptly, “Who is the host of this party? My invitation didn’t specify.”
“My employer is Lord Genvere. An earl. He will be joining the party tomorrow.”
“He’s arriving late for his own orgy?” Sin had to admit that surprised him.
“That is what he indicated to me, Your Grace.”
“I’ve never met him,” Sin said. He thought back over all the peers of England he knew. No Genvere.
“I have not yet had the privilege of meeting him either, Your Grace.”
“You can’t have been here long, then.” The skin along the back of Sin’s neck prickled. Something was wrong. Years of abuse had honed his instincts.
“I have been on the island several days, Your Grace. The house was shut up before that. I did not arrive until the house had been rented, aired out, and put in readiness for occupation.”
Only several days. He’d assumed the butler would be a fixture of the house. Very few gentlemen would hire new staff for a bacchanalia. They would want to ensure the staff was loyal, discreet, trustworthy.
The man stopped in front of a white door. “Your rooms, Your Grace. I hope you will find it satisfactory. I have been instructed to not enter the guests’ bedchambers. And most particularly not your bedchamber. Your trunk will be brought up to your rooms shortly.”
With that, the butler bowed, then moved soundlessly down the hall.
Specifically not his bedchamber? What in hell did the servant mean?
Sin pushed open his door. A huge bed stood in the center of the room.
And a woman lay on that bed.
A slender figure of a woman, dressed in a drab gray gown. He moved closer and saw the bands of scarlet around her wrists at the same moment he recognized her.
The scarlet was rope that bound her spread-eagled on his bed. She was wriggling her wrists desperately and muttering curses, trying to work herself free.
He’d found Portia.
3
10 years earlier
London, 1811
Sin’s cousin, the current Duchess of Sinclair, pushed herself up from her chair in the austere drawing room—one of six such drawing rooms—in Sinclair House on Park Lane. Tall, thin, with pure white hair piled on her head, the duchess leaned on her cane and glared at Sin with ice-cold fury in her pale blue eyes. “You are not going to marry this person,” she snapped. “This girl has no breeding, dowry, or bloodlines. She is a nobody.”
“That doesn’t matter to me,” Sin said. He was a duke—he didn’t need to marry women for their money, as his father had done. A vast fortune was his to command. “I’m in love with her, Duchess.”
“No doubt,” she snapped. “However, that has nothing to do with marriage. When a duke marries, it is a carefully orchestrated social maneuver. You marry to increase wealth and social prestige. If you don’t object to bedding the girl, it is icing on the cake.”