Page 11 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
SILAS MORTON, DUKE OF BEAUFORT
N o! She couldn’t marry Mr. Hollingsworth, not when I haven’t had the chance to determine my own feelings regarding her.
Freezing outside the chamber when Miss Fernsby-Webb spoke his name, Silas pressed his ear against the crack between the doorframe and the door, struggling to hear their discussion over his hammering heart. He didn’t notice Juliette until she flew past him in a blur of color.
“You can’t!” Her tiny voice echoed through the upstairs.
“Who is this child?” Mrs. Webb said, displaying obvious displeasure at Juliette’s presence.
“My daughter,” Silas replied as he rounded the corner. “And she’s free to express her opinion on any subject.”
Paling, Mrs. Webb shrank against her pillow. “Your Grace, please accept my apologies. I didn’t know you had a daughter.”
“Nor should you,” he said, moving behind Juliette and placing his hands upon her slight shoulders. “A woman of your stature wouldn’t be privy to the intimate details of a duke’s life.”
Mrs. Webb nodded but held her tongue, her gaze sliding to her adult children, who shared a similar expression of confusion as they gaped at Juliette and Silas.
Recovering first, Miss Fernsby-Webb stood and curtsied. “Your Grace, I’m curious to know why my future happiness is of interest to your daughter.”
“Ask her.” He eased Juliette forward one step. “She voiced the concern.”
What possible reason could Juliette possess for opposing Miss Fernsby-Webb’s engagement?
Miss Fernsby-Webb knelt, bringing herself eye level with Juliette. “Why do you wish me to refuse an offer of marriage?”
Swallowing, Juliette blurted out, “If you marry someone else, you won’t have the opportunity to become my new mother.”
Silas choked. His fingers curling into Juliette’s shoulders, he pulled her backward as though the action would somehow reverse her words from being spoken.
“I’m flattered by your fondness, Miss Juliette. However,”—Miss Fernsby-Webb’s brown eyes flicked up, catching Silas’ gaze—“your father should select his future wife, and I’ve heard that he does not intend to complete that task this season.”
He struggled to keep a scowl from materializing on his face.
Roxburghe previously confessed that Miss Webb and her sister were aware of the marriage wager between the dukes…
However, where before Silas had found that revelation amusing, he now found it troubling because even if he was considering Miss Fernsby-Webb—which he wasn’t, especially not at night when he was alone in his bedchamber—she’d already discounted him.
“Father should reconsider,” Juliette said, interrupting his thoughts.
Before he replied, Mrs. Webb moaned, leaned over the side of the bed, and vomited blood. Miss Fernsby-Webb twisted around with a gasp, then leaped from the floor and dove onto the bed, gathering her mother in a tight embrace.
“Fetch Mrs. Aylett,” Silas said, spinning Juliette around to face him. “Explain what occurred and ask her to bring fresh linens and towels. You’ll find her in the kitchen. Do you remember where that is?”
“Yes, Father.” Juliette took two steps and paused as though she wished to turn and speak, then darted through the doorway without uttering another sound.
Low murmurs on the staircase drew his attention. He jerked forward and closed the door, cutting off the sound.
“Thank you.” Miss Fernsby-Webb’s soft voice crawled over his shoulders.
He spun to find her directly behind him, a blood-stained cloth clutched in her hand.
“It’s no trouble,” he replied, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a half-smile. “I came to report that Mr. Curtis was not invited to my house, he did not accompany any lady, and neither myself nor my guests recognize the name.”
“We didn’t either,” Miss Fernsby-Webb said, gesturing to her sister.
“He’s a painter,” Mrs. Webb’s broken voice whispered. “He claimed he created portraits.”
Silas moved around Miss Fernsby-Webb, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “My family and friends have employed many artists over the years, yet that name is still not known. Why did you allow him inside your house?”
With a groan, Mrs. Webb rolled her head toward Silas.
“Mr. Curtis claimed he was hired to paint a portrait. He said it was a gift from my daughters. I didn’t realize his deception until it was too late to protect myself.
He didn’t even have any brushes.” She murmured the last statement to herself as though irritated she’d fallen for such a nonsensical ruse.
“Can you describe him?” Miss Fernsby-Webb glided past Silas, the faint scent of citrus wafting over him. “What color was his hair?”
“Dark—” Mrs. Webb gagged, paled, but did not vomit.
Resuming her position beside her mother, Miss Fernsby-Webb dipped the scarlet stained cloth into a bowl next to the bed, wrung out the square, then dabbed the fabric across her mother’s pale, sweaty forehead.
“Take slow breaths,” she said, combing away a section of gray-brown hair from Mrs. Webb’s face.
Nodding, Mrs. Webb closed her eyes and inhaled as she’d been directed. After a few minutes, the greenish color faded from her skin.
“Dark hair,” she said, opening her eyes and locking them on Silas. “Black eyes, and a voice that could terrorize any woman just by uttering a single word.”
A shudder rolled through Mrs. Webb. She flung herself over the side of the bed, vomited again, then collapsed, immobile and dangling half off the mattress.
Without waiting for the request, Silas hurried across the chamber and hefted Mrs. Webb back into the center of the bed. The blood trickling from her lips sullied his shirt, seeping into the material and chilling his skin.
Macabre thoughts danced in his mind. If Miss Fernsby-Webb had answered the door, would she have survived Mr. Curtis’ vicious assault?
“Your Grace!” Mrs. Aylett’s panic at seeing the scarlet spot spreading across his shirt reverberated through the room.
“It’s not mine,” he said, moving aside and revealing Mrs. Webb’s unconscious form. “Send for a surgeon. Her injuries are far worse than we estimated.”
“Impossible, Your Grace,” Mrs. Aylett replied, her gaze inspecting Mrs. Webb. “The storm’s wrath has increased since this afternoon. We must wait until tomorrow.”
“She may not survive the night,” Silas murmured, approaching Mrs. Aylett.
He didn’t wish to voice his concerns in front of Mrs. Webb’s daughters or Juliette, who hovered directly behind Mrs. Aylett, but he also didn’t want to provide any of them with false hope.
“Do any of your guests possess any medical knowledge?” Mrs. Aylett asked, matching his quiet tone. “Several of them absorb books quite voraciously.”
“I don’t recall any discussions on the subject.” Silas glanced at Miss Fernsby-Webb’s pinched visage. “However, we have a full house this evening; perhaps we’ll find a clandestine student.”
He shifted his attention to Juliette. “If you’d like to return?—”
“No.” She shook her head and stepped out from behind Mrs. Aylett, who gasped when Juliette interrupted Silas. “I want to remain here. I can help.”
“It’s not appropriate for a young girl to witness this type of spectacle,” Silas replied, folding his arms across his chest.
At least, he assumed it wasn’t. He didn’t have much experience when it came to children. His eyes slid to Mrs. Aylett, silently begging for assistance.
A ghost of a smile crossed the older woman’s face. “If she’s careful, Miss Juliette can carry the soiled bandages downstairs, then return with bowls of fresh water.”
“I will be cautious.” Juliette darted forward, scooped up the pile of cloths, and raced out the door.
Mrs. Aylett chuckled, then turned back to Silas. “See to your visitors, Your Grace. Hopefully, one of them possesses the necessary knowledge to aid Mrs. Webb. I’ll send up some hot water with your daughter.”
He swore Mrs. Aylett smiled as she spoke those words, but the expression vanished before he could confirm his suspicion. She exited the chamber, leaving him hovering on the outside of an unfortunate circumstance shared by Mrs. Webb’s daughters.
“Miss…” Silas’ voice caught in his throat.
What possible hope can I offer?
Without finishing his thought, he turned, strode into the corridor, and headed for the drawing room, where he’d requested Mr. Aylett direct the guests after the meal.
The beginning strains of a harpsichord accompanied duet floated into the hallway.
Though he didn’t recognize either lady’s voice, the tune was pleasing, and he paused outside the room, loathing the need to interrupt the skillful performance.
Then, he edged into the drawing room, sliding behind Mr. Venning and his daughter, who swayed—slightly off-beat—to the music.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Mr. Venning whispered, scooting over to allow Silas more room. “Do you intend to favor us with your musical talent?”
Silas shook his head. “There’s a matter of some urgency that must be attended to.”
“That is a shame.” Mr. Venning clucked his tongue. “However, I understand there are many details to be seen for this week to be a success. May I offer my assistance?”
“Not unless you possess some medical training,” Silas replied, his mouth pulling into a grimace.
“My daughter does.” Mr. Venning wrapped an arm around Miss Venning’s waist, drawing her attention. “She’s cared for me on several occasions when I developed grippe.”
Blushing under Silas’ inspection, Miss Venning dropped her unusual violet eyes. “I merely prepared the medicine according to the instructions sent by the Royal Society.”
“It helped immensely,” Mr. Venning said, patting her hand. “Laudanum is too strong for me, so Arabella prepared tea from white willow bark.”
“Blech!” Warwick, standing in front of them, twisted around. “Miss Ollerton attempted to force that concoction into me.”
Silas’ gaze skated to Warwick. “What is your assessment?”
“I sacked her,” Warwick replied, stabbing the floor with his cane.