Page 93 of Never Beguile a Duke

Paling, Mrs. Webb sank onto a sofa. “How did you reach that conclusion?”

“Wait here.” Silas exited the parlor, headed to his office, and pushed open the door, his gaze falling to the center of his desk.

Juliette’s drawing.

Snatching up the parchment, he spun and hurried down the corridor, wincing as Miss Sutton sang—and held—an off-key A sharp.

Poor Warwick.

He burst through the parlor doorway and crashed into Roxburghe, who was pacing back and forth. The paper flew out of Silas’ hand, whipped toward a lit candelabra, and fluttered over the flames.

Shoving Roxburghe aside with an automatic apology, Silas dove for the page and grabbed the corner, yanking the paper away from the hungry fire.

He inspected the image for damage, and, finding none, strode to Mrs. Webb and held out the sheet. “Juliette is an exemplary artist. She drew this portrait of Mr. Black, the man she watched kill her mother.”

Grabbing her daughter’s wrist, Mrs. Webb exhaled a deep breath, then she took the drawing with trembling fingers and lifted the page to her eyes.

“Is it him?” Miss Webb whispered, leaning against her stepmother’s arm. “Is that Mr. Curtis?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Webb lifted her gaze to Silas. “He must have written the missive and slipped it under our door, but how did he remove Winifred from the stables without anyone witnessing him?”

“Damn.” Every eye turned to Mansfield when he issued the soft curse. “The peculiar tracks we discovered this morning… they led to the main road.”

“What tracks?” Grisham asked, claiming the wing chair crosswise from Mansfield. “Describe them.”

“Deep channeled indentations, as though something were pulled through the snow.” Grimacing, Mansfield shifted his dark gaze to Silas. “She must have been dragged from the stables.”

“Why didn’t you follow the trail beyond the road?” Grisham leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs.

“The tracks stopped.” Mansfield rolled his head back to Grisham. “We searched the road and the area around the stables but found no further indication of the mysterious animal.”

His voice trailing off, he flushed scarlet. “Please accept my apologies, Mrs. Webb. I didn’t intend to label your daughter an animal.”

“I don’t fault the honesty of your logical mind, Your Grace,” Mrs. Webb replied, waving off his concern. “However, I’m curious about your explanation as to why the tracks would simply stop.”

“A hackney,” Silas said, ignoring the incredulous stares flying in his direction and taking a step toward Mansfield. “You suggested the theory earlier.”

“I was jesting,” Mansfield replied with an eye roll.

“We assumed we were following an animal.” Silas gestured toward the parlor’s large window. “However, if we were following Miss Fernsby-Webb, then a coach waiting on the main road would be a reasonable conclusion.”

“Impossible,” Mansfield replied, shaking his head. “One man couldn’t perform that feat alone. He’d need assistance, someone to hold the horses steady while he lugged Miss Fernsby-Webb’s unconscious form?—”

“Why is she unconscious?” Mrs. Webb asked, her wide eyes zipping between Silas and Mansfield.

Miss Webb placed a hand on her stepmother’s leg and gently squeezed. “Think of Winifred’s spirit. If she was conscious, the tracks would have shown a struggle and possibly some blood.”

“There was none,” Silas replied, answering the unspoken question.

“Did anyone, aside from Miss Juliette,” Mansfield gestured toward the young girl, “witness anything unusual this morning?”

Every person in the room responded in the negative.

Hovering behind the sofa, Roxburghe leaned forward and wrapped his hands around Miss Webb’s shoulders. “We should speak with Mr. Aylett; your servants would have reported a mysterious man creeping about the estate.”

“I’ll retrieve him,” Lennox said, vanishing into the corridor.

He returned several minutes later with Miss Braddock on his arm and Mr. Aylett two steps behind them.