Page 39 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
SILAS MORTON, DUKE OF BEAUFORT
“H e’s here!” Juliette raced into the parlor, loose hair flying behind her, and flung herself at Silas.
“Who’s here?” Silas asked, peeling Juliette from his legs and kneeling.
“Mr. Black!” she said, glancing behind herself as though she expected the man to burst through the doorway.
Silas grabbed Juliette’s slight shoulders. “Where did you see him?”
“This morning, by Miss Fernsby-Webb’s door.” Juliette pointed in the direction of the staircase. “I thought he saw me, but I darted back into my chamber and hid in the armoire.”
Miss Webb gasped and took a step toward the young girl. “You’ve been hiding there all day?”
A grave expression crossing her face, Juliette nodded. “I fell asleep for a bit; I don’t know how long.”
Silas drew her into a tight hug. “You’re very brave to leave your chamber and seek me out. Are you certain it was Mr. Black and not someone else, such as Mansfield?”
Juliette leaned back, her face scrunching. “You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you saw someone this morning,” Silas replied, brushing a mousey-brown piece of hair from the side of her sweaty face.
“I know what the Duke of Mansfield looks like, Father.” She pulled free of Silas, marched across the room, and pointed at the aforementioned man. “This is he.”
“In the early morning hours, two men with the same coloring would look similar,” Silas replied, rising.
“I agree,” Juliette said, clasping her hands behind her back. “However, the Duke of Mansfield’s presence doesn’t induce fear.”
“Thank you,” Mansfield muttered, plunking down his glass.
She turned her hazel eyes to him. “You’re still quite surly, though.”
The entire room laughed.
“Who is Mr. Black?” Mrs. Webb asked as the laughter subsided. “And why was he near our bedchamber?”
Silas shifted his attention to her. “Your daughter and I think Mr. Black is Mr. Curtis, the same man who attacked you several days ago.”
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.
As they entered the parlor, Miss Braddock said, “You should have rescued Ernest from that cacophonous concert as well.”
“Your brother added numerous obstacles to my aim since he discovered our engagement.” Lennox lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her fingers. “Allow me a moment of revenge.”
“If your focus wasn’t seduction, he’d be more agreeable,” she replied as Lennox escorted her to the sofa across from Mrs. Webb and her daughter.
“Untrue,” he replied, releasing Miss Braddock’s hand when she sank onto a cushion. “You are Mr. Braddock’s only remaining, unmarried sister, and he has no other distraction to ease the disquiet of his rampant mind.”
Roxburghe snickered. “Are you weary of the beatings you keep receiving?”
“It’s a delicate situation,” Lennox snapped, whipping around and glowering at Roxburghe. “If I trounce Mr. Braddock, the action will upset my fiancée.”
“Your Grace?” Mr. Aylett, his arms laden with unopened wine bottles, hovered in the doorway. “The Duke of Lennox said you needed my immediate assistance.”
Silas crossed the room, glanced into the hallway, and drew Mr. Aylett into the parlor. “What I’m about to share with you isn’t common knowledge. However, it will be soon enough. Before I reveal this secret, I must ask a question first.”
“Of course.” Mr. Aylett nodded and set the bottles on a nearby table. “What query have you for me?”
“Did you receive notice from any servant that an uninvited visitor was lurking about the grounds,” Silas glanced down at Juliette when she wrapped her fingers around his hand, “or hiding inside the residence?”
Mr. Aylett frowned, and his gaze slid around the room. “Are you concerned about a thief?”
“No,” replied Silas, but he didn’t elaborate for fear of influencing Mr. Aylett’s answer.
“I received a handful of complaints regarding Mr. Hollingsworth’s behavior this morning.” Mr. Aylett’s face pinched, the only indication of his discomfort with speaking ill of a guest. “However, as the man is no longer a visitor, I felt no need to share them with you.”
Mansfield appeared on the other side of Juliette. “Did the staff witness his expulsion?”
“Mr. Hollingsworth’s drunken antics caused quite a scene this morning.” A slight frown crossed Mr. Aylett’s face. “He drew a significant crowd; I’m surprised the incident didn’t wake you.”
“What if that was his purpose?” Mansfield murmured, ambling toward the large window and staring out at the lightly falling snow.
“His purpose?” Silas, with Juliette still attached to his hand, followed. “Mr. Hollingsworth requested the opportunity to propose marriage again to Miss Fernsby-Webb.”
“Knowing that Miss Fernsby-Webb had yet to respond to his written request, why would he press the subject? Would you?” Shifting his gaze, Mansfield fixed Silas with a dark stare and waited as though expecting Silas to comprehend some great realization.
“No,” Silas replied, giving Juliette’s hand a comforting squeeze. “However, I am not Mr. Hollingsworth. Are you accusing him of being a diversion meant to occupy the house while Mr. Curtis crept upstairs and left the missive for Miss Webb? That’s quite imaginative.”
“I’m confused about one thing.” Mansfield sank onto the long, low table separating the two sofas and locked his dark eyes on Mrs. Webb. “If the letter was addressed to Roxburghe’s fiancée, why would Miss Fernsby-Webb think the request was for herself?”
“There was no name on the missive,” Mrs. Webb replied, not quite lifting her eyes to his probing gaze.
“That revelation doesn’t answer my question.”
After a long moment, Roxburghe cleared his throat. “Apparently, Miss Fernsby-Webb and her mother were aware that Miss Webb resided in a different location this morning.”
“Which location?” Mansfield asked, revealing the ghost of a smile as he raised his head.
“That information is unimportant,” Roxburghe growled, a hint of light red crawling into his face. “Wouldn’t you prefer to know who Miss Fernsby-Webb thought herself to be meeting?”
“The Duke of Beaufort,” Mrs. Webb said, nodding toward Silas.