Page 102 of Never Beguile a Duke

Mrs. Webb twisted around, her gaze landing on the large parlor window as Warwick, framed by the drapes, climbed into his coach. “His Grace’s scheme was to abandon my daughter?”

“He wouldn’t forsake us,” Silas replied, and hurried from the room, intending to catch Warwick and demand an explanation before his coach departed.

Silas raced across the foyer, yanked open the door, and crashed into a messenger, knocking the slight man off balance and causing him to fall backward into a small snowbank with a yell. The missive the courier clutched flew out of his hand and sailed upward toward the night’s first visible stars.

Flipping onto his stomach, the messenger scrambled to his feet, then dove for the letter as the paper fluttered toward the icy ground. He snatched the folded parchment out of the air and landed hard on his side with a grunt.

“Are you the Duke of Roxburghe?” he asked, clutching the missive to his chest and rolling onto his back.

“I am not,” Silas replied, but as distress spread across the courier’s face, Silas added, “he’s inside the residence. I can give him the message for you.”

Slowly rising, the courier brushed the snow from his clothing, then shook his head. “Thank you for the kindness. However, I’ve been given instruction to hand this missive directly to His Grace and no other man.”

Silas glanced down the road at the rear of Warwick’s coach. Even if I run, I won’t catch him.

Whatever the destination, Silas prayed Warwick’s solution would expedite the rescue of Miss Fernsby-Webb before the unimaginable occurred. If Mr. Curtis could callously beat an older woman such as Mrs. Webb, what would he do to her daughter?

Silas’ chest squeezed, crushing the oxygen from his lungs. They would recover Miss Fernsby-Webb—they had to—and he would spend the remainder of his life apologizing for his stubborn, foolish behavior… if she would have him.

“Come.” He crooked his finger. “I’ll take you to the Duke of Roxburghe.”

The courier nodded, tightened his grip on the missive, and followed Silas into the house. When they reached the parlor, Silas peeked his head into the room and gestured for Roxburghe to join him in the corridor.

Roxburghe slipped into the hallway and closed the door. “Should I be concerned that you couldn’t reach Warwick’s coach before it departed? Did you get lost?”

“I was delayed.” Silas stepped aside and swiped his arm at the messenger. “He won’t give the missive to anyone but you.”

The teasing grin dropped from Roxburghe’s mouth.

He stepped forward, adopting the regal nature due his title, and said, “I am the Duke of Roxburghe. How may I assist you?”

Holding out the letter with both hands, the courier bowed low, hiding his head between his arms. “I’ve been instructed to give this missive to you.”

“From whom?” asked Roxburghe, but the messenger did not reply, merely waved the paper.

The moment Roxburghe took the letter, the man whipped around and scurried toward the exit. Before either of them could stop him, he seized the handle, yanked open the door, and vanished into the plummeting evening temperatures.

Frowning, Roxburghe glanced down at the missive, then back at the door.

“I’ve never known you to be a terrifying man, Beaufort,” he said, the line on his forehead deepening. “However, someone frightened that messenger.”

“Mr. Curtis?”

“That would be my assumption.” Roxburghe slid his finger beneath the seal.

Tearing open the letter, he swore and turned away from Silas.

“What did he write?” asked Silas, attempting to peer over Roxburghe’s shoulder.

“Instructions.” Roxburghe’s hollow reply caused Silas’ stomach to twist into a knot.

“Let me read them.”

“I advise against that,” Roxburghe said, glancing over with a pained expression.

“There’s nothing that could be written that will upset me.” Silas held out his hand. “We’re going to waste a lot of time if I have to convince you to show me every piece of evidence.”

Sighing, Roxburghe held out the missive. “Neither Miss Webb nor her mother is to learn what is contained inside.”