Page 38 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
The unfinished room resembled that of an attic, and considering she hadn’t frozen to death without her shoes and stockings, discovering herself inside a structure didn’t seem a surprise. However, many buildings had attics, and without any further hints, she couldn’t determine her location.
Her gaze swept over the undistinguishable chamber. The only other item, aside from the broken wooden chair Mr. Curtis flung at the wall, was a dust-covered chest, hidden in the shadows of the far corner, and most likely unseen by her captor.
Did the trunk contain anything she could use to free herself?
Glancing at the doorway again, Winifred waited a beat, listening for Mr. Curtis’ footfall. Then she scooted the chair to her right, wincing as the legs scraped against the floorboards. She paused again, hoping Mr. Curtis wouldn’t reappear and catch her.
She continued in this manner, sliding and waiting, until the side of her leg bumped into the metal-bound wooden chest. Praying the lid wasn’t locked, she rubbed her calf against the top of the trunk.
The lid lifted two inches, but she couldn’t maneuver her leg higher. A creak reverberated from the floor beneath her. Breath catching in her throat, she gently lowered the top back into place and waited for the wrath that would certainly accompany Mr. Curtis’ discovery of her current location.
Seconds crawled by, but he didn’t appear.
Exhaling the breath, Winifred rotated the chair one-quarter turn, then placed both feet on the trunk’s lid. She pushed up, using her toes to shove the top open. It flew backward with more force than she intended.
She kicked her leg out, inserting the appendage between the lid and the wall.
The wooden cover smashed into her ankle, and she bit down on her tongue to prevent a scream from slipping out.
Gently resting the lid against the wall, she lowered her leg, ignoring the discoloration spreading toward her foot, and leaned forward, peering into the half-filled chest.
In the dim lighting, she couldn’t discern anything more than dark shapes.
Having no other option to search, Winifred dragged the chair flush against the chest and, praying nothing stabbed her, hooked her leg over the side.
Her foot sank into the chest’s contents, and squishy material closed around her toes, caressing her skin.
“Clothing,” she murmured, rooting her foot deeper into the chest.
Her toes brushed against the sharp corner of a small box buried beneath the apparel. Shoving the container against the side of the chest, she worked the box up to the lip. The container caught on the metal trim, refusing to budge.
Wincing, she added her injured leg to the chest and, using both feet, flipped the box up and out of the trunk. The small container hit the floor with a thud and popped open, revealing an ink set with an ink well, several quills, and a quill knife.
Winifred’s heart leaped.
She just needed to determine how to get the knife from the ink set into her hands. Then, she could cut herself free and escape Mr. Curtis.
I won’t get far without shoes.
Her eyes dropped to the chest.
“Knife first,” she said, forcing her gaze back to the small box. “Then address the footwear issue.”
After pulling her legs from the trunk, Winifred dragged the chair closer to the ink set. Foot hovering over the small box, she paused and, heart thudding, glanced at the staircase doorway.
Had something moved in the shadows?
A minute passed before she moved. Returning her attention to the ink set, she gingerly lowered her foot over the quill knife. Her toes closed around the handle, but no matter which angle she tried, she couldn’t lift the knife from the box.
She swore, using the foulest word she knew, one she’d heard screamed in the prison on more than one occasion.
“Quite the language for a lady,” Mr. Curtis’ gravelly voice crawled up the staircase.
Gulping, Winifred kicked the ink set toward the wall.
It slid toward the shadows as though she were playing the game of Shove Ha’penny and stopped less than a millimeter from the wall.
She would have celebrated were she not concerned with dying the moment Mr. Curtis discovered her on the far side of the chamber without her blindfold.
As his footsteps neared, she scooted away from the chest, pushing herself toward the fallen piece of cloth. She had no way of putting the covering back over her eyes and ducked her head, allowing the loose strands of hair to fall over her face.
“Hell!” Mr. Curtis’ irritation zipped across the floor.
Despite the internal command, she lifted her head, her gaze finding a dark blob rushing forward as Mr. Curtis bore down on her, curses pouring from his mouth.
He snatched the cloth from the floor, wound the material around Winifred’s head, and yanked face covering tight, causing Winifred to cry out.
Then, he grabbed the chair’s seat, his fingers sliding beneath her legs, and dragged the chair forward to—she assumed—the center of the room. He released the chair, and a moment later, the chest lid slammed close, causing her to jump.
“Did you find anything useful?” he asked, his mouth touching her ear.
Winifred screamed and jerked her head away, but Mr. Curtis grabbed her face, wrenched it back.
“I asked you a question.” His sour breath washed over her.
She gagged, a shudder rolling through her.
“No,” Winifred replied, her voice cracking.
“I don’t believe you.” The hand pinching her face squeezed.
“If I’d found something, do you think I’d still be sitting here?”
Mr. Curtis threw her head away, strode back to the trunk, and flung open the lid. After several minutes of rustling, he snorted.
“You are quite an unfortunate woman,” he said, dumping the clothing onto her lap. “Nothing but muslin shirts, drawers, and men’s stockings.”
“Your clothing?” Nose wrinkling, she wiggled her legs and dropped the articles onto the floor.
“No,” he scoffed, trailing his fingers over the back of her neck as he walked behind her. “These haven’t been worn for quite some time.”
“Do they belong to someone else you murdered?” Winifred whispered, fighting the shiver that threatened to overtake her body.
Mr. Curtis didn’t answer. Instead, he wound his fingers through her hair and yanked her head backward. An icy, metal object pressed against Winifred’s throat, digging into the skin and cutting off her oxygen as a low chuckle swirled around her.
“If you move,” he said, brushing his fingers over her face, “you’ll die. Now, I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer true. If I think you’ve lied, I will slit your throat. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Winifred squeaked, her lips barely moving.
“Excellent.” The knife moved away from her neck. “Do you know of any reason why the Duke of Roxburghe wouldn’t pay for your release?”
Winifred violently shook her head; Nora would ensure his assistance.
“Interesting.” Mr. Curtis straddled her legs and sat, placing the whole of his bulk on Winifred’s lap. “Can you explain why he hasn’t made any attempt to collect the funds needed?”
“How do you know that?” Winifred asked, her chest constricting.
“Ah-ah, Miss Webb,” he replied, pressing the tip of the knife against the hollow of her neck. “I can’t reveal my secrets.”
“You couldn’t know that unless you were working with someone,” she said, leaning back in the chair as far as possible; the knife followed.
“That wasn’t an answer.” Mr. Curtis slid his hand behind Winifred’s head and grasped her skull.
“Perhaps, his friends possessed the sum between them,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Perhaps, I should remind him of the cost of not following through with my instructions.” The knife moved down her throat.
Grasping her bodice, Mr. Curtis sliced the knife through the delicate material. “What shall I send him?”
“A piece of my dress should be sufficient,” Winifred said, trembling as Mr. Curtis ripped the garment off her shoulders.
He shoved his hand into her corset, his fingers brushing inappropriately against the swell of her breast. “Come now, Miss Webb, you can be more creative than that.”
The corset ripped, slashed open by Mr. Curtis’ sharp blade, and fell from her body.
Only the chemise remained.
“I’ll give you a choice,” he said, nuzzling his face against her neck. “Would you prefer I sent your fiancé a part of your arm or your leg?”