Page 119 of Never Beguile a Duke

“Midday,” Mr. Curtis replied, leaning over and yanking the knife from the floor. “Add your mark at the bottom.”

Winifred signed the parchment, then leaned back, expecting Mr. Curtis to collect the letter. However, instead of retrieving the paper, he stopped directly behind her and placed the pistol to the back of her head.

“Since you’ve proven yourself adept at escape, I doubt you’ll be waiting here when I return from sending that missive.” Keeping the muzzle against her scalp, he took one step backward. “And since evidence of your life isn’t required for the exchange, this is the moment we part from each other’s company.”

Mr. Curtis pulled the trigger. The pistol clicked, but nothing exploded from the chamber.

He must have neglected to reload the first barrel after killing Mr. Hollingsworth… Winifred’s heart leaped. The gun was empty.

“Devil take it!” Mr. Curtis flung the pistol across the chamber, then shifted the quill knife to his dominant hand.

However, before he slashed his arm downward, the attic steps creaked, and he lifted his head with a frown, his gaze searching the shadows.

With Mr. Curtis distracted, Winifred launched herself from the floor and smashed her shoulder into Mr. Curtis’ chest. He fell backward with a groan, pulling Winifred with him as the quill knife skittered out of reach.

Scrambling off Mr. Curtis, Winifred crawled toward the knife and stretched out her arm, the tips of her fingers brushing against the knife’s cool metal.

Mr. Curtis reacted more quickly than she anticipated. He seized her ankle and ripped her away from the weapon, dragging her halfway across the floor. Then, he flipped her onto her back and knelt, pinning her legs to the floor.

His hands encircled her neck and squeezed.

She clawed at his fingers, gouging the skin with her nails, but Mr. Curtis’ iron grip refused to release her throat. As darkness crawled into her vision, his maniacal laughter surrounded her.

Strength seeping from her body, her hands released their grip, her arms dropped to her sides, and her head rolled to the right, her gaze landing on a murky blob hovering in the doorway. Before her oxygen-starved brain could determine the shadow’s outline, the specter hurled itself toward Mr. Curtis, knocking him off of Winifred as she succumbed to unconsciousness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

SILAS MORTON, DUKE OF BEAUFORT

I’m too late.

Rolling across the floor, Mr. Curtis locked in an inescapable grip, Silas’ heart screamed. Miss Fernsby-Webb’s body lay several feet away, motionless and pale.

His hesitation had cost Miss Fernsby-Webb her life, and since he hadn’t informed anyone else of his destination, the decision to attack Mr. Curtis could very well cause Silas to lose his as well.

And that would leave Juliette without a mother or a father; both parents taken from her by the same man.

Though he was quite certain Miss Webb and Roxburghe would step forward as guardians, Silas preferred that he remained in control of Juliette’s future. Which meant that he was going to have to fight, not just grapple, with Mr. Curtis.

If Mansfield or Roxburghe were to take on the blaggard, Silas had no doubt that either friend would win. Even Lennox possessed some skill, having used his talents—and his face—to protect Miss Braddock from a violent connection, but Silas never needed force… until this moment.

The only advice Mansfield provided, after an exceptionally short sparring session, was that Silas should rely on his wits and his smooth tongue instead of his fists.

He was quite certain pretty words wouldn’t convince Mr. Curtis to renounce his criminal actions.

Flipping Mr. Curtis onto his back, Silas pushed up and swung his arm, connecting with Mr. Curtis’ face in a sickening crunch.

Instead of groaning, Mr. Curtis grinned, his foul breath wrapping around Silas. “My mother hit me harder when I was a boy.”

Silas struck him again, landing two blows in quick succession. However, before he punched Mr. Curtis a fourth time, Mr. Curtis shoved Silas off, rolled away, and scrambled to his feet. The breath knocked from his lungs, Silas struggled to stand and stumbled toward the doorway, placing himself between Mr. Curtis and the exit.

“Who are you?” Mr. Curtis asked, his gaze flicking to the staircase beyond Silas.

“Silas Morton, Duke of Beaufort.” Silas inclined his head once.

“Ah, Your Grace.” Mr. Curtis bowed low. “Miss Fernsby-Webb mentioned that her fiancé would be interested in her whereabouts.”

Her fiancé? What had Miss Fernsby-Webb told Mr. Curtis?