Page 111 of Never Beguile a Duke

“If you’re going to kill me, why do I need to return to the attic?” she asked, trudging around Mr. Curtis and heading toward the staircase.

“Because I don’t intend to shoot you immediately.” He shoved her onto the first step. “I have a few questions for you first.”

“You could ask them of me on this floor.” Grabbing onto the banister, she twisted around. “Wouldn’t you prefer the warmth of the drawing room over the attic?”

“The attic is the furthest point from the exit, Miss Webb,” he replied, gesturing with the gun. “It also contains the only remaining chair in this house.”

“My mother doesn’t manage money well,” Winifred said as she turned.

A soft gasp escaped her lips; she’d erred in her portrayal of Nora. Would Mr. Curtis notice that I didn’t refer to Mother as Amelia?

Mr. Curtis’ hand whipped out and grabbed Winifred’s elbow, yanking her backward against his chest.

His mouth found her ear. “I know your mother is insolvent. Why do you think I chose her daughters to provide restitution?”

“Daughters?” Winifred froze, her heart racing. “Were you going to take Winifred as well?”

“There was some debate between Mr. Hollingsworth and me regarding which daughter’s demise would cause more grief to Mrs. Webb.” Mr. Curtis nuzzled her jawline. “Ultimately, you won due to your death wounding both your mother and your fiancé.”

“Amelia wasn’t aware of your scheme?” Winifred leaned away from his stomach-churning, earthy stench.

A braying laugh burst from Mr. Curtis. “She truly believed Mr. Hollingsworth desired to rekindle his relationship with your sister. She even met with him before your kidnapping to offer advice on how to sway your sister’s mind toward marriage.”

I was correct not to trust Mr. Hollingsworth’s intentions.

However, that realization did nothing to save her from Mr. Curtis.

Straightening, Mr. Curtis tightened his hold and ascended the staircase, dragging Winifred with him. When they reached the second-floor landing, he whipped his arm forward and sent Winifred flying toward the attic stairs.

She flung her arms out, catching the doorframe and preventing herself from crashing into the steps. As she lowered her arms, the pistol jabbed her spine.

“Up you go,” said Mr. Curtis, moving directly behind her.

Winifred ascended the stairs one at a time, pausing on each step to bring her second foot in line with her first. After the fourth delay, he shoved past her, seizing her wrist as he brushed against her torso, and yanked, pulling Winifred up the remaining stairs and into the attic.

“Bring the chair to the center of the chamber.” He tossed her toward the overturned piece of furniture.

Wrapping her hands around the chair back, Winifred righted the chair and dragged the beleaguered piece of furniture to the demanded location. Then, without direction, she sat and folded her hands, setting them in her lap.

“Ask your questions,” she said, lifting her chin and locking eyes with Mr. Curtis.

Mr. Curtis clucked, shaking his head in a slow side-to-side movement. “Arms behind your back.”

As Winifred slid her arms around the chair, Mr. Curtis, eyes narrowed, strode to the chest and knelt, staring at the frayed rope she’d discarded on the floor.

“That will be one of my queries,” he said, rising and yanking at the knot in his cravat.

Once he succeeded in loosening the material, he removed the cravat from his throat and wrapped the soiled cloth around Winifred’s wrists, tightening the material until the edges bit into her skin.

“First question,” he said, as he rounded the chair. “Why would Mr. Hollingsworth forfeit his life for you, Miss Webb? What secret do you share?”

Winifred swallowed, her mind racing through potential explanations.

The cold muzzle of the pistol pressed against her forehead. “Do not lie to me, or the suffering you endure will have you begging for death long before I grant that desire.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

SILAS MORTON, DUKE OF BEAUFORT