by Sharon Page
No. Portia realized several of the gentlemen were staring at the enormous breasts that jiggled to and fro, up and down. Even the butler, Humphries, stood with his jaw dropped and his salver tilting off his fingers.
But Sinclair was not looking at the breasts. Or at Sadie. He had gone to the eerily still body of the young viscount.
Someone had to take charge of Sadie. No one seemed to care the poor young woman was in a terrified panic. Portia went to her and put her arm around Sadie’s slim shoulders. “You must calm down. And you must stop making this racket. Come with me and sit down.”
Sadie stared at her in confusion. “I can’t! I can’t!”
Saxonby, the duke with the striking silver and black hair, tore his gaze from a barely dressed Sadie. He hurried over to join Sinclair.
To Portia’s surprise, Sinclair dropped on one knee and tore off his leather glove. She expected him to search for a pulse, but it was obviously hopeless. The young man’s eyes were wide open and blank. But Sinclair studied Sandhurst’s face, leaned close to the viscount’s mouth.
Checking for breathing, she assumed.
“He is dead, isn’t he?” Sadie whimpered.
“Yes, he is,” Sinclair said matter-of-factly.
That set Sadie shrieking again. Oh heavens. Portia put her arms around the girl. Suddenly Sadie, bare breasts and all, was plastered against her.
She heard a man making a groaning sound. The white-haired marquis stared at their embrace with bright eyes.
“Really,” Portia said, appalled. She propelled the young courtesan away and hoisted up Sadie’s gown once more, then pressed the girl’s hands to the fabric to keep it up. “Calm yourself. Now come with me. You . . . you need something for shock.”
“But I’ll ’ang, won’t I?” Sadie squealed. “For I killed ’im. Smothering ’im with these!” She slapped her hand over her chest. “I didn’t mean to do it! It was an accident! But, oh bloomin’ ’eck, ’e’s a viscount. I don’t want to ’ang!”
Sadie’s accent had gotten much rougher in her panic.
Portia put her arm around the girl’s shoulders once more. “It was an accident. And I don’t see how you could have . . . uh, smothered him. Wouldn’t he let you know that he was in distress? Did he try to . . . to free himself from under your bosom? What exactly were you doing to him?”
She’d asked that without thinking.
Sadie looked up. “I were just riding him. He didn’t even know a woman could go on top, the poor sweet thing.”
Oh dear, she really had not wanted to know.
“I doubt he would’ve stopped her,” the old marquis barked. “Once his prick began to do the thinking, the daft lad could’ve died without realizing it.”
“I do not believe that,” Portia said, primly. “I am sure a lack of air would have been uppermost on his mind.”
“Doubt it.” The marquis glared at her. “Are you implying this young woman murdered the man by holding her massive rack of tits over his mouth and nose, even as he struggled?”
That set Sadie wailing. “Of course not,” Portia declared, loud enough to be heard over the crying. She then dragged Sadie to a small brocade chair by the wall and forced her to sit.
“I doubt he was smothered.” Sinclair’s cool voice cut through the wailing. And everyone appeared to accept his word on the matter.
Portia waved at the butler, but he was staring at the body and did not notice. Sandhurst had been so alive, so handsome—she hated death. Sometimes, in their care, children got ill and they couldn’t save them all. That was horrible. So horrible. She couldn’t bear the pain afterward. And the anger. She would throw herself into work at the foundling home, so she didn’t have to face the loss.
She felt just as sorrowful at Sandhurst’s untimely death. He seemed far too young. But she really had to deal with Sadie.
“Will one of you noble gentlemen please fetch her some brandy?” she asked loudly.
No one even appeared to hear her. They were either gaping at Sadie’s breasts as she sobbed into her hands or at poor Sandhurst. Portia was rather fed up with noble gentlemen—and even with the ladies.
But Sinclair lifted his head. “Yes, fetch something to calm the girl down.”
The butler jerked. “Of course, Your Grace. In one moment.” He scurried away.
Portia grabbed a small throw of tasseled silk from one of the wing chairs. She draped it around the courtesan’s shoulders. “This will warm you up.” And make you more decent, she thought. “You must calm yourself. I assume he met his end in another way. An apoplexy. An explosion of a blood vessel in his brain. He must have had some kind of weakness.”
Sadie wiped at tears. “Really?”
Bending, the butler presented a silver salver with a snifter of brandy atop it. Portia handed it to the young woman. And gave some hard-earned advice. “Don’t drink it too quickly.”
“Listen to her. She is a bit of an expert on that matter.” The deep voice with the lightly teasing note belonged to Sinclair.
His expression did not match that wry tone. Lines furrowed his brow and his mouth was held in a tense line.
He straightened away from Sandhurst’s supine form. Portia had intended some kind of rejoinder, but his expression stole her words. The way he looked as he elegantly rose to his feet, like a lion stretching, robbed her of breath.
His long strides brought him to Sadie. Saxonby followed and asked the butler for more brandy as Sinclair squatted in front of the courtesan, to bring himself level with the girl’s huge blue eyes. Portia heard Sadie catch her breath and let the throw slip open a little.
But the Duke of Sinclair didn’t look down at Sadie’s breasts. He didn’t take his eyes from the young woman’s face.
It was something Portia didn’t understand. Given why he’d broken their engagement—addicted to carnal games, he’d said—she was surprised. He was not acting as though he was attracted to Sadie in any way. “Tell us exactly what happened,” he said softly.
“I’ll tell you. You’ve always been so kind to me, Sin,” Sadie purred. She batted lashes, having transformed from terrified to temptress because she had a duke in front of her.
Always been kind? Goodness, had Sadie gone to his orgies? Probably she had. Had he touched this woman’s body when she was naked? Played with the large breasts? Made love to her?
“I’d feel so much safer in your arms,” Sadie cooed. “I could sit upon your lap. I know you do like that. Especially when I am—”
“That’s enough,” he said abruptly. “This is not the time or place.”
Well, she had her answer. Sadie and Sinclair had shared intimacy of some sort. She rather wished she’d asked for brandy too.
Sadie gazed at him adoringly. “I only invited Viscount Sandhurst to play to make you jealous. And ’e’s rather sweet. And terribly ’andsome. I mean ’e was—” Her large blue eyes filled with tears. “I was riding on top of ’im, and ’e looked as ’appy as a clam. Then suddenly, ’e jerked beneath me. I thought ’e’d come. But ’e made an ’orrible sound. Then didn’t move at all. So I got off him. And ’e was staring upward with those blank eyes. And blue lips.”
Sinclair nodded thoughtfully. “I believe Sadie is correct. He had a sudden seizure.”
“So likely his heart,” said Saxonby. “Or a blood vessel bursting in his head.”
“So it wasn’t not my fault?”
“Not your fault,” Sinclair said gently.
“That is what I conjectured,” snapped the old marquis. “I don’t see why we’re wasting all this time. The lad is dead.”
“But what do we do with poor Sandhurst, Your Grace?” asked the Elegant Incognita.
Sinclair exchanged glances with his friend, Saxonby. “I think we should take him upstairs. Wait for the boat to arrive tomorrow, then take him back to the mainland. What do you think, Humphries?”
“Your suggestion is most excellent, Your Grace. A most intelligent solution.”
“Are there ot
her footmen to help?”
The butler shook his head. “There is only one footman, myself, a maid, and the cook in the house.”
“No other servants?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Strange.” Sinclair frowned. “Genvere expects four servants to tend a houseful of guests.”
“We are extremely capable, Your Grace. In fact, I believe the four of us can move the unfortunately deceased Viscount Sandhurst.”
“Probably you could. But Saxonby and I will carry him.”
Willoughby stepped forward. “I offer my services.”
“Fine. You take one leg, with Sax. I’ll get his shoulders.”
They took their positions, crouched, then lifted poor young Sandhurst. Willoughby puffed as he helped carry one leg. Saxonby looked barely encumbered, but what amazed Portia was Sinclair. He carried the young lad as if he were weightless. They moved Sandhurst to the stairs and Portia felt tears on her cheeks. Sandhurst had been like a naughty boy, but he was young and handsome and he hadn’t meant any harm. This seemed a tragedy.
She stared blankly at the place Sandhurst had laid. Something incongruous caught her eye. A dash of pink on the carpet. Portia bent and picked it up, the satin of it sliding smoothly over her fingers.
A small piece of ribbon. Probably torn from Sadie’s dress.
Portia frowned. But Sadie’s dress was scarlet. This pink would clash garishly. Perhaps it came from Sadie’s undergarments—
“Madam ?”
She whirled around.
The butler hovered behind her, salver balanced on thumb and fingers. “I do not know who to ask, madam . . . should I summon the guests into the drawing room for coffee or a restorative brandy?”
She looked around at the remaining guests, who looked pale and shaken. “That is an excellent idea. They will all need something to take their mind off the shock.”
The butler looked around. “When Their Graces return, there is something I must tell them.”
“What is it?”
“No, madam, I could not trouble you with this. It is something I was given and I am concerned about it. Gravely concerned.”
“If you would tell me what it is, no doubt I could help lift some of this concern with helpful advice.” She almost pointed out that she was quite used to managing things but stopped herself just in time.
Humphries was perspiring. His face was an odd color—pale but mildly green. She did not like the look of him.
Firmly, she led him to a seat and told him to sit.
“Madam, this is quite improper.”
“I don’t care. You look very ill. And unless you tell me what the problem is, I shall help by keeping you in this chair.”
He looked around, but no else was paying any attention. The remaining guests were engaged in conversation, speculating on what had happened. He sighed. “All right, madam. It is this. I wished an opinion from one of the gentlemen, as Lord Genvere is not here. I was given this to read after dinner. I looked at it several minutes ago. I found it shocking.”
“Is it rude?”
He jerked. “Rude? It seems in bad taste. And it is odd. And also—I don’t know how Lord Genvere could have known what was to happen tonight—”
“Can I see this note?”
Humphries hesitated. But she had learned how to have children obey her. She behaved the same with the nervous butler and he handed her the note.
She read: He has paid for his sins.
“Who has paid for his sins?”
“I thought perhaps Lord Sandhurst was indicated. But now, of course, I see I leapt to a conclusion. It could mean anyone.”
“It could. But if it does mean Sandhurst, you are correct: How could Lord Genvere have known?” She looked around, uneasy. Heart thumping. “Could Lord Genvere be here, and we simply don’t know it?”
“There are no other buildings on the island, madam. And I was given the letter in the packet I received when I arrived on Serenity Island. That was four days ago.”
She had promised to dispense advice. At this moment, she had none to give.
* * *
“What do you think of this?”
Portia hurried to Sinclair as soon as he walked in the door, and thrust it into his gloved hand, giving the explanation for it as rapidly as possible. His brown hair was in disarray, tumbling around his face. He was breathing hard. And his eyes held a dark, determined intensity.
He took it, and at once she asked rapidly, “Do you think he could be referring to Sandhurst? If so, how could that be possible?”
“Por—Precious, I just carried a man up a flight of stairs. I need a second.”
Precious. He had almost slipped up on her name but had covered up well.
She watched his deep brown eyes scan the page. He looked up at the butler, who was leaning over as he read, clutching his silver salver.
“Miss—er—Love says you were told to read this in the drawing room.”
“Indeed. That was the written instruction left by Lord Genvere. With the small number of staff and the unfortunate and untimely demise of Lord Sandhurst, I was so occupied I admit I almost neglected the task.” The butler withdrew a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “What do you think of it, Your Grace?” the man asked worriedly.
“It’s a mystery,” Sinclair muttered. He rubbed his jaw. “I doubt Genvere can read the future. The likely explanation is that the note had another meaning. Sandhurst’s death is an unfortunate coincidence.”
“Do you really think that?” Portia asked doubtfully.
“I don’t know. Genvere isn’t here—unless he’s in hiding. It looks like Sandhurst died of a stroke or a failure of his heart—” The duke broke off. “What were the exact instructions you were given? Was something supposed to happen first? Who were you to read it to?”
“The assembled company after dinner, Your Grace. I was simply told to read the letter at half past ten. I was to break the seal and read its contents immediately before that. Miss Lam—”
“Love,” Sin corrected. “Her name is Miss Love.”
“The young lady believed I should bring the guests into the drawing room for brandy.”
“I thought it would take the minds of the guests off the tragedy. They are all stunned.”
Sinclair looked up at her. “That’s a good idea.”
She met his gaze. She’d never seen him look so serious. For the last ten years, he had been painted in the gossip papers as a scandalous rogue who thought only of vice and pleasure. She’d been never sure that was really true. Did he really just want orgies for pleasure, or because, as he’d explained to her, he could not resist them? She had realized the difference, even as she read of his exploits, tried to ignore the pain in her heart, and tried to congratulate herself on a lucky escape. Except she didn’t feel lucky.
“Should I read the note in the drawing room, Your Grace?”
Humphries words jerked Portia out of her thoughts.
Sinclair rubbed his jaw again. “It will upset them, but I would like to see all of their reactions. Yes, read the note as you were instructed.”
The butler bowed. “Of course, Your Grace. I will announce that brandy will be served.”
He did so and the guests filed into the drawing room.
“I don’t like this,” Sinclair growled as they entered the room.
“I highly agree,” she threw back. He had said it before and she understood why. She felt as if someone was walking over her grave. This event was eerie, disturbing.
Sinclair handed her a brandy from Humphries salver.
The Earl of Rutledge approached her in the drawing room. “Why are you masked, Miss Love? Who are you really?”
“I shouldn’t think that of importance,” she said carefully. “Not after the tragedy of poor Sandhurst.”
“But what a way to go,” declared Rutledge, “buried under Sadie’s fabulous tits. Magnificent things. Designed to strain a man’s heart to the limit. Can barely hold one of them w
ith two hands.” And he laughed.
“That is distasteful and you should be ashamed of saying such a thing!” Portia cried. She began to move away from him, offended—just as she remembered she was supposed to question people.
“Wait,” Rutledge said quickly. “I apologize. You’re right. It was tragic. But it reminds us to live for the moment, doesn’t it? To enjoy life’s pleasures while we can.” He moved close. “And sex helps one forget tragedy.”
Those words speared Portia to her soul.
She remembered Julian—Sinclair—coming to her, his face a mask of agony as he told her that he couldn’t marry her.
Had the reason Sinclair couldn’t resist London’s sexual vices been because he was using them to escape memories? Was that why he had orgies? Was he trying to bury the pain of a tragedy?
She felt a spurt of pain around her heart. But it wasn’t one of anger. She could picture Sinclair, naked and beautiful, surrounded by naked bodies, but distant and hurting. A tragic hero looking over naked, heaving bosoms toward a distant horizon . . .
Heavens, how could she be feeling sympathy? Inventing a past filled with tragedy for him. She knew his cousin, the duchess hadn’t approved of him, hadn’t liked the fact he’d become duke, but that was hardly a tragedy. Yet the foolish thing was she wished he had a tragic past, and she would have an excuse to forgive him—
Suddenly she saw Rutledge’s hand lift toward her face. Toward her mask!
She quickly took two steps back. “Leave the mask. I . . . uh, like to be mysterious,” she said evasively.
“I’d like to see you.”
“No, you wouldn’t! I’m always masked. I have scars. I was in a . . . a fire. And I have scars on the side of my face and I always wear a mask to cover them. So I mustn’t take it off. They are not awfully disfiguring, but I am ashamed of them. And Sinclair allows me to keep them covered.”
“Of course you must.” Rutledge grimaced. “What a shame. With that mask on, you looked like you had so much promise.”
Of course he found her distasteful now. She felt very indignant. Men with scars could still be adored by ladies. But if a woman had any flaw in her looks, she was cast aside. Usually into homelessness and poverty.
