Page 36 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
Mansfield’s quick dismissal drew a frown to Silas’ mouth. “How has Mr. Braddock managed to offend you with such a short time of introduction?”
“I lost a wager to him and had to fill in as chaperone for Miss Braddock for the whole of yesterday.” Mansfield snatched his fork from the table and stabbed a bite of egg.
Silas swallowed his laughter. “Grisham and Lennox are not suitable companions for you either, then.”
“Neither is Roxburghe.” Mansfield speared another egg.
“Unless you know of another visitor who hasn’t arrived, you’ve discounted your choices to me,” Silas said, lifting his mug and blowing on the hot liquid. “And I am not foolish enough to think myself a great hunter.”
“I don’t need you to shoot the birds.” Mansfield daubed his mouth with a linen napkin. “I just need you to scare them out of the thicket.”
“I’m to act as a dog?” Silas asked, glowering at Mansfield over the rim of the cup.
Mansfield chortled, picked up his coffee, and saluted Silas.
An hour later, wagers set, the men gathered at the front of the house and then dispersed, each duo heading in a different direction. Despite Mansfield’s misgivings, he agreed to begin their search near the grove of trees behind Silas’ residence.
“What a peculiar set of tracks.” Mansfield knelt in the snow and studied an elongated indentation, roughly three meters from the stables. “It appears as though something was dragged across the grounds.”
“A wolf, perhaps.” Silas crouched beside Mansfield. “Although I haven’t seen any for several weeks.”
“These marks are too deep to have been caused by something as slight as a wolf.” Standing, Mansfield shifted his rifle into his dominant hand. “We should follow the imprint. If the animal is wounded, we will end its suffering.”
Nodding, Silas rose and fell into step with Mansfield, the two of them trudging silently toward the main thoroughfare. However, when they reached the road, the trail vanished.
“Did it fly away?” Silas asked, his head swiveling back and forth.
“Either that or it waved down a hackney.” A deep line carved its way across Mansfield’s forehead. “The tracks began by your stables. Perhaps the creature sought the warmth of the structure.”
They slogged back across the icy tundra. In the distance, gunshots rang out.
“Damn,” Mansfield muttered, glancing to his right.
“Sound doesn’t indicate a kill,” Silas replied as two more bangs echoed across the grounds; even he didn’t believe himself.
The origin of the marks revealed no further information, and after searching the area for another hour, they gave up their quest and returned to the house without firing one bullet.
Lennox met them in the foyer. “It appears your luck was as terrible as ours.”
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.”
“Who is?” Miss Webb’s soft voice came from the doorway.
Roxburghe spun around, wrapped his arms around her, and crushed Miss Webb to his chest.
“Hi,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Has the performance concluded?”
“Miss Sutton just sat down at the pianoforte,” Miss Webb said, raising her eyes to his. “However, I decided to forego the experience because my fiancé is hiding something from me.”
“It’s nothing to concern yourself over,” he replied, cupping her face and rubbing his thumb over her lower lip. “Have I told you how lovely you look this afternoon?”
“I’ll not allow you to distract me.” She pulled free of his arms. “Who were you confirming was in the drawing room?”
Sighing, Roxburghe took her hands. “You.”
“Me?” Her eyebrows floated to her hairline. “Why would you be concerned about my whereabouts?”
“I’m always thinking about you.” He grinned and drew her closer.
“Nora, there you are.” Mrs. Webb hovered in the doorway, a shawl wrapped tightly around her torso. “Have you seen your sister?”
“Not since last night,” Miss Webb replied, a tiny crinkle appearing between her eyes. “I thought she was resting.”
“She’s not in the chamber.” Mrs. Webb’s gaze landed on Silas. “Your Grace, perhaps you know her location?”
“Why would I know?” Silas asked, striding forward. “I’ve been hunting most of the day.”
Mrs. Webb paled. “You didn’t request her to meet you at the stables this morning?”
“No...” Silas’ head whipped toward the fireplace, his gaze finding the burning missive.
Diving toward the fireplace, he yanked the cover away from the opening, snatched the paper from the flames, and dropped the page on the hearth. He stamped out the flames, but the missive disintegrated when he lifted the sheet from the floor.
“What did it say?” Silas flew across the room, grabbed Roxburghe’s lapels, and backed him against a wall. “Tell me!”
Roxburghe’s gaze shifted to Miss Webb, who moved beside Silas, blocking Roxburghe’s escape, and then back to Silas. “Fifty thousand pounds by midday tomorrow or Miss Webb dies.”
“They took Winifred instead of me!” Miss Webb shrieked, flinging herself at Roxburghe and beating her fists on his chest. “You must rescue her.”
“I would, except…” Roxburghe swallowed, his usual swagger draining from his face.
“Except?” pressed Miss Webb.
“I don’t recall the location to deliver the money.”