Page 86 of Never Beguile a Duke

After handing his rifle to Mr. Aylett, Silas peeled off his greatcoat and hung the damp article on the coat rack. “You and Roxburghe were unsuccessful as well?”

“Roxburghe blamed his ill fortune on having to borrow a coat—since his vanished—and demanded that we return so he could search for the article.” Lennox held up an empty snifter. “Can I tempt either of you with a drink?”

“Where’s Warwick?” asked Mansfield, striding across the floor.

“He and Mr. Venning were coerced into becoming an audience for an impromptu concert.” Lennox grinned and pointed toward the drawing room, from which a muffled melody crept. “If you’d like to join them, I’m certain they would appreciate the addition of your company.”

“Unfortunately, I’m quite parched,” Mansfield replied and tilted his head toward the parlor. “Beaufort, will you join us?”

“I must see to something first.” Silas edged toward the main staircase, his mind already upstairs with Miss Fernsby-Webb.

The corner of Lennox’s mouth pulled into a half-smile. “Give my regards to Miss Fernsby-Webb.”

“Her chamber is not my destination,” Silas ground out and trudged toward the concert.

However, when Lennox and Mansfield disappeared into the parlor, Silas bypassed the drawing room, raced down the corridor, and climbed the servants’ staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

The deserted second-floor hallway bolstered his hopes, and he crept toward Miss Fernsby-Webb’s chamber, his gaze locking on her door. When he reached the threshold, he froze, fist in the air, and leaned toward the door, listening intently. Though he could claim his appearance was merely to ascertain the health of a guest, he much preferred avoiding any conversation with Mrs. Webb entirely.

He heard nothing, not a soft snore or the scrap of slippers pacing across the floor. Tightening his fist, he rapped three times on the door.

No answer.

He repeated the knock, waited to the count of twenty, then cracked open the door and peeked inside the bedchamber.

It was empty.

Edging forward, he inhaled, catching a hint of Miss Fernsby-Webb’s citrus-like scent wafting from the nearest unoccupied bed.

She must have felt well enough to join the ladies in the drawing room.

Silas issued a heavy sigh, exited the room, and trudged toward the main staircase, his desire to see Miss Fernsby-Webb warring with his need to avoid hearing the Sutton sisters violate another beautiful piece of music.

“Ah! Beaufort.” Grisham held up four deceased pheasants when Silas entered the foyer.

“You shot four birds?” Silas asked as Mr. Aylett appeared and took Grisham’s rifle and the pheasants.

“Three.” Grisham hung his greatcoat on the rack. “Mr. Braddock hit the last one before I could find the shot.”

“Does Mansfield know?”

Laughing, Grisham clapped an arm around Silas’ shoulders. “I allowed Mr. Braddock that delight.”

When they entered the parlor, they discovered Mansfield had exiled himself to a corner of the room, his large body folded into a wing chair. Scowling at them, he sipped his drink.

Mr. Aylett cleared his throat. “Your Grace?”

Mouth twitching, Silas turned around. “Which Grace are you addressing?”

“The Duke of Roxburghe.” Mr. Aylett bowed and held out a missive.

Roxburghe rose, set down his glass, and strode across the parlor. He took the letter, flipped it over to see the addressor, and frowned. After ripping open the seal, Roxburghe read the short note, his face darkening with each word.

Wordlessly, he marched past Mr. Aylett, headed down the corridor, and interrupted the concert. Two minutes later, he returned, the letter crumbled in his fist.

“Are you going to explain?” Silas asked as Roxburghe dropped the crushed paper into the fireplace.

“It was a ransom note for Miss Webb,” Roxburghe growled, his hands clenching. “And she’s currently sitting in your drawing room.”