Page 40 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)

Mansfield twisted around, the smile on his face stretching into an evil grin. “How intriguing…”

“This solves nothing.” Silas folded his arms. “Unless you have a helpful suggestion, stop antagonizing Roxburghe and me.”

“First,”—Mansfield raised one long finger—“we’re going to visit this subject again once we rescue Miss Fernsby-Webb.

And second, I suggest speaking with the Hills.

As the only other people to have associated with Mr. Curtis, aside from Mrs. Webb, they may be able to provide a hint regarding his current lodgings. ”

“I’ll go with you, Beaufort.” Roxburghe cracked his knuckles. “I wager you regret preventing me from trouncing Mr. Hollingsworth earlier this morning.”

“You should stay here,” Mansfield replied, rising from the table. “Beaufort needs intimidation with a level head, and your temper tends to lead to physical altercations.”

“That was one ball,” Roxburghe said, swiping his arm toward Lennox. “And I’m not the one who keeps getting punched.”

Lifting Miss Braddock’s hand to his mouth, Lennox kissed her fingers and shrugged. “I usually deserve it.”

“Father.” Juliette tugged at Silas’ hand. “May I accompany you to the Hills’ residence?”

Silas glanced down, uncertain if he should grant her request. “Did you leave something behind when Mrs. Upton packed your trunk?”

Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, Juliette shook her head.

Silas dropped to his knees and lifted her chin. “Then why would you like to go?”

“I want to spit on Mrs. Hill’s favorite floral-print sofa,” she said, holding his gaze.

An audible gasp ricocheted around the parlor.

He should have chastised Juliette for her wicked statement—that’s what a typical parent would have done—but he rather liked her creative mind and loathed to stifle it with restrictions.

“While I appreciate your desire for revenge, we cannot both abandon our guests.” He tilted his head. “Swear to tend to our visitors while I’m away, and we shall schedule that activity for a later date.”

“You cannot be serious,” Mansfield murmured as he passed behind Silas.

“Why?” Silas asked as he stood. “The Hills allowed Mr. Curtis unfettered access to Juliette’s mother, which resulted in her untimely and quite horrific death, by Juliette’s description. We should spit on more things.”

“Of all of us,” Mansfield replied, gesturing at the parlor, “why are you the one who received the responsibility of raising children first?”

“Are you envious?” Silas teased, elbowing Mansfield as they exited the parlor. “I never suspected fatherhood was a desire of yours.”

Mansfield didn’t speak to him for the whole of the journey to the Hill’s residence.

“No books,” Mansfield murmured after they were seated in Mr. Hill’s small office.

Silas’ gaze slid across the faded, mottled-green wallpaper. “Their library is only half-stocked.”

“How do you know?”

“His father and mine had a business arrangement that spoiled shortly after my tenth birthday.” Silas nodded toward a portrait of Mr. Hill’s father, which hung over the fireplace. “Our families never associated with each other after that.”

Mansfield leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Meaning that today’s visit…”

“Is very much a surprise.” He fell silent as the office door creaked open.

“I’ll not have her back,” Mr. Hill said as he entered. “Mrs. Upton advised me that you took full responsibility for that falsehood fabricating little demon.”

Silas didn’t realize he was standing until the chair crashed to the floor.

“My daughter,” he seethed, “is not a demon.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Deflating, Mr. Hill bowed, his dark brown hair flopping over his face. “I misspoke.”

He scurried around Silas, took a seat, and folded his hands, setting them atop the desk. “How may I assist you this evening?”

Silas righted his chair but didn’t sit. “I’m seeking information on a previous guest of yours. An artist.”

“Ah!” Mr. Hill snapped his fingers. “You must be referring to Mr. Curtis.”

“Are you close acquaintances with the man?” Silas exchanged a glance with Mansfield.

“He stayed with us for a few weeks while painting a portrait of Mrs. Hill and myself and again several months later when he created the picture of my sons.” Mr. Hill rose and strode out the door.

Silas and Mansfield, after a moment of indecision, stood and exited the chamber, finding Mr. Hill waiting for them at the end of a corridor decorated with the same dull wallpaper.

Puffing out his chest, Mr. Hill gestured toward a large image of himself and—Silas assumed—his wife, locked in an eternal embrace of a waltz.

“You can almost hear the music,” Mr. Hill said, swaying to an inaudible melody.

“His work is impressive.” Mansfield moved closer to the canvas and reached out but stopped short of touching the paint. “It’s such a pity.”

“What is?” Frowning, Mr. Hill spun around. “Did Mr. Curtis die?”

“Worse.” Silas fixed Mr. Hill with a hard stare. “Mr. Curtis is a murderer.”

Mr. Hill clasped his chest and stumbled backward, crashing into the wall. “He resided with us for over a month on his last visit!”

Lip curling, Silas cornered Mr. Hill. “And he committed the crime in this very house.”

“Wh-Who?” Mr. Hill’s eyes whipped between Silas and Mansfield. “Who did he kill?”

“Miss Phoebe Ridlington.” Silas’ fists clenched. “The mother of my daughter!”

Mansfield’s hand slammed into Silas’ chest, and Mansfield shook his head in a slow side-to-side movement.

“Take a moment,” he murmured, pushing Silas away.

“Miss Ridlington?—”

“Do not speak her name!” Silas lunged at Mr. Hill, forcing Mansfield to slide between the two men.

“You’re solving nothing,” Mansfield hissed through clenched teeth. “I will send you to the coach.”

Clamping his mouth shut, Silas bowed low, scraping the floor with his hand, then took one large step backward.

Mansfield inclined his head, then turned back to Mr. Hill and said, “While Mr. Curtis was a guest at your residence, he attacked and impregnated Miss Ridlington. When he learned of her condition upon his return, he choked the life from her while Miss Juliette watched from a hidden location. And to hide the crime, you dismissed her child to a workhouse.”

Mr. Hill’s mouth popped open, but he produced no words in defense of his actions.

His eyes flicked to Silas. “Your Grace, had we known…”

“You did know,” Silas said, taking a menacing step toward Mr. Hill. “Juliette informed you.”

“She’s a child.” Mr. Hill’s pitiful face turned toward Mansfield. “Who believes the fanciful imaginations of a child?”

“I do.” Silas grabbed Mr. Hill’s shirt, crushing the delicate material in his fist. “And I will ensure the ton is aware of your cruel behavior toward the daughter of your murdered governess. My daughter.”

“Please.” Mr. Hill clutched Silas’ wrist with both hands. “We’ll be ostracized. There must be some arrangement we can reach. I can provide the location of Mr. Curtis’ residence.”

“I’ll hold my tongue on one condition,” Silas replied, releasing Mr. Hill. “In addition to Mr. Curtis’ address, you give me that portrait.”

“Why?” asked Mr. Hill, his head whipping toward the canvas.

“Yes, why?” Mansfield lowered his voice and leaned toward Silas.

“It’s not Mrs. Hill’s sofa, but it’s a suitable replacement,” Silas replied softly, struggling to keep his face neutral, then he returned his attention to Mr. Hill. “Do we have an agreement?”

“Your terms are acceptable.” Expelling a heavy sigh, Mr. Hill’s shoulders slumped forward. “I’ll have my driver deliver the painting in two days.”

As they climbed into the coach, Silas clutching a parchment with the location of Mr. Curtis’ residence, Mansfield said, “I retract my earlier statement regarding your ability to act as a father.”

“What changed your mind?” Silas asked, settling onto a bench.

“Retrieving the portrait for Miss Juliette to torment.”

Mouth twitching, Silas leaned back against the coach wall and stretched out his legs. “Perhaps I did that for myself.”

“While I don’t doubt you will participate in the desecration of that painting, I know your motivation was your daughter.” Mansfield took the paper and read over the scrawled address. “We need a plan.”

“We should advise the guests of this unfortunate development.” Silas grimaced. “I’m certain most of them will leave.”

“Be grateful nobody died,” Mansfield replied, glancing up with a snicker. “We would have needed to perform an exorcism at your house as well.”

“Yet,” Silas said, his mouth settling into a grim line. “Nobody died yet.”

As he suspected, when he revealed the truth of Miss Fernsby-Webb’s abduction—with the exception of his friends, their partners, and Doctor Barnes—none of the visitors wished to remain at his house. He couldn’t fault them for seeking the protection of their own residences.

“Before we depart,” Mr. Venning said, stopping in the foyer with his daughter, “would you remind the Duke of Warwick that he is due for dinner next week?”

Dinner? Since when did Warwick willingly accept any social invitation?

“Certainly,” Silas replied, bowing. “I wish this week would have provided a different conclusion.”

“Nonsense.” A smile cracked the old man’s wrinkled face, and he patted his coat pocket. “This has been a most diverting experience, and I’m leaving a few pounds richer.”

Once the guests had dispersed, Silas joined all five dukes, Mrs. and Miss Webb, Mr. and Miss Braddock, and Miss Philbert in the parlor.

Before he could speak, Lennox strode over and held out a sack of coins. “This is everything I brought with me.”

Grisham and Mansfield copied Lennox’s generous action, but with Roxburghe and Silas having spent their money on Mr. Hollingsworth’s freedom and Warwick losing all his funds to Mr. Venning, the total collected was far short of the fifty thousand pounds needed to save Miss Fernsby-Webb.

“It’s not enough,” Miss Webb said, her voice trembling as she recounted the coins. “What do we do? They’re going to kill Winifred!”

“I have an idea.” Warwick rose and hobbled out of the parlor, his cane echoing in the foyer.

A moment later, the front door opened and closed.