Had she cried so hard over their broken engagement in private? God, had he made her feel like that? He would feel a hell of a lot better if he talked himself out of believing that. But he couldn’t. He realized she must have cried like that, hurt that much.
“I can’t let her suffer.”
Sax’s face twisted as if he was the one in pain. “At least she’s alive and can feel something.”
Sin turned slowly away from the mantel and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’m so damn sorry, Sax. I feel like I’m letting you down after you lost Georgiana. But I can’t watch Portia grieve.”
Did he stay with the plan to protect Portia? Reveal the truth? Reveal he wasn’t dead and she’d know he’d lied to her. Betrayed her trust—again.
Would she forgive him?
“What are you going to do?” Sax asked, his voice hoarse.
“I have to confide in Portia. You’re my friend, but I have to do right by her.” He straightened. “Feel free to punch me in the nose if you want. Pound the tar out of me in anger.”
Sax was staring at him like he was insane, Sin realized. “Why in hell would I want to do that?”
19
“There is something Sin wants you to know,” the Duke of Saxonby said quietly. “Will you come with me? And promise you won’t say a word?”
Portia stared at the duke, utterly lost. “What are you talking about? What could he want me to know . . . now?”
“Please trust me. It’s important to Sin.”
“Important? But . . . but he’s gone.”
“Trust me and come with me. No harm will come to you. And you will learn something that will make you . . . happier, I hope.”
“You are speaking in riddles. Please be blunt.”
“Even though we’re alone, Miss Love, I can’t.”
Portia hesitated. They stood in the foyer. The other guests had gone into the drawing room, leaving her alone with Saxonby. The others were opening a new, sealed bottle of sherry. Would she be a fool to be lured away from the others, even by the man who had stepped forward to save her life?
She whispered, through a tight, aching throat, “I’ll be quiet. What is it?”
But he just held his finger to his lips and clasped her hand. Gambling, she went with him. The Duke of Saxonby led her upstairs. They reached the door of the bedroom where they had laid Sinclair’s body on the large bed. If Saxonby was going to try to kill her, she had to be ready. Maybe she could find a weapon in the room. Or maybe her last thought on this earth would be: You are a blooming idiot.
Very, very lightly, the Duke of Saxonby made three low coughing noises outside the closed, locked door.
“What are you—?” Portia began softly, but he held his finger to his lips. After waiting for several seconds, he coughed a fourth time.
She heard the soft click of the lock opening. The doorknob began to turn. Slowly, so it didn’t make a sound.
Portia stared at it, stunned. Some of the children in the foundling home believed in ghosts. She’d always explained them away firmly, using logic. An old house, fluttering curtains, imagination. . .
But how was Sinclair’s door opening?
Saxonby put his hand over the knob and turned it the rest of the way. In a low voice, but loud enough that someone might hear it if that person was trying to listen, he said, “I know you need to see him again, Miss Love. It’s hard to accept that he’s gone.” He put his arm around her waist and propelled her into the room, using his broad shoulders to block the door from view.
The door closed behind her and the lock clicked as he turned the key. He stayed by the door, gazing at it, which was strange.
The bed curtains were drawn, plunging the room into gloomy dark.
Then something moved in her peripheral vision. A man’s shape and she would have screamed but a large, masculine hand covered her mouth, and a soft voice said, “It’s me, Portia. I’m not dead. Don’t scream. You’ll bring the rest of them running.”
Sinclair’s voice—husky, deep, and sincere. Just as he used to sound when he had made her melt and fall in love with him when she was nineteen. No trace of jaded wickedness.
For a moment, she thought it was all a dream—but that hand on her mouth was real. The warm whisper of his breath on her ear was real. He was alive.
She grasped his wrist, pulled his hand from her mouth and whirled around. She was so close to his tall, strong body that her nose almost bumped his chest. He was there—soft chocolate brown hair, worried dark brown eyes, lashes that went on forever.
It really was him.
She surged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, throwing her body hard against him. Her mouth bumped the warm skin. Stubble slightly scratched her lips, making them tingle. She laughed and sobbed, snuggled against him. She didn’t care that Saxonby was a witness, and she realized that was why he was not looking in their direction.