Page 12 of Never Beguile a Duke

“One day,” she said, her gaze scanning the ground, “you’ll meet a gentleman who’ll overlook your history in favor of your heart as well.”

Mouth crooking, Winifred glanced at her sister. “Miss Braddock traveled to a different town to accomplish that feat. Are you suggesting I do the same?”

Nora’s head whipped up. “I didn’t need to.”

“You possess no scandals from which to hide.”

“I bet a duke!”

“A duke who is currently your fiancé.” Winifred held up her hand, stopping Nora’s retort. “Every gentleman residing in this town is aware of my failed relationship with Mr. Hollingsworth and my extended visit to prison.”

“Then we shall introduce you to a newcomer.” Nora passed another portion of Miss Braddock’s ripped bodice to Winifred. “Not every man in England knows of your past.”

It certainly seemed as though they did.

“I do not want any assistance. No meddling, Nora,” Winifred replied, stuffing the second section of cloth into her reticule. “Focus on helping the Duke of Roxburghe find matches for the three remaining dukes participating in his ridiculous wager.”

“If you?—”

“A woman with my past isn’t rewarded with a title.” Winifred brushed away a layer of snow, exposing the cold, hard earth beneath. “Even if I were intrigued by one of his friends?—”

“Who?” A glimmer exploded in Nora’s honey-hued eyes. “What’s his name?”

“I’ve just explained,” Winifred ground the words through clenched teeth, “that I have no intention of wedding a duke.”

“But no objection?”

The muted crunch of snow rolled toward them, and they jerked their heads around, Winifred half-fearing their mother had come to return the missing portrait miniature.

“Miss Webb,” Mr. Dunn called from the edge of the garden, “if we don’t leave soon, the approaching storm will prevent us from journeying to the Duke of Beaufort’s residence today.”

“We’ve lost a small painting,” Nora said, rising. “We were hoping to recover the portrait before we departed. Would you assist us?”

He nodded and glanced down at the base of the fence post, his gaze sliding along the walkway leading toward Miss Braddock’s house. He took one step, bent forward, and shoved his hand into a small mound of snow.

“Is this what you’re seeking?” he asked, holding up the brass-framed oval.

“It is!” Winifred leaped to her feet, rushed across the garden, and snatched the painting from the driver’s extended hand. “How can I repay you for finding such a valuable heirloom?”

His eyes widened, as though he found the prospect of additional compensation to be horrific. “Your gratitude is sufficient, Miss Fernsby-Webb.”

“How,” Nora asked, joining them on the pavement, “did your father’s picture end up over here? You said you dropped the portrait near the stone bench in the garden.”

Winifred shrugged. “I must have been mistaken.”

She strode to the coach, hoping her nonchalant response wouldn’t lead to more questions, took Mr. Dunn’s offered hand, and climbed into the cabin.

Blocking the carriage’s entrance with his body, he leaned forward and retrieved a heavy fur coverlet.

“I apologize,” Mr. Dunn murmured, spreading the blanket over Winifred’s lap, “if I’ve caused you any trouble. Had I known Miss Webb wasn’t aware of your excursion, I’d have claimed I’d found the portrait closer to the house.”

Winifred’s gaze jumped to the space behind him, confirming her sister wasn’t near enough to overhear Mr. Dunn, then returned to his strained face.

“Don’t think on it,” she replied, adding a reassuring smile. “Finding my father’s picture was most important.”

Nora’s faint voice meandered around Mr. Dunn, creeping into the cabin. “How does one confuse a stone bench and a fence post?”

Her sister wasn’t going to drop the issue until she pried the truth from Winifred.