Page 41 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)

WINIFRED

W inifred flinched as the knife’s cold steel tip scraped along her jawline.

“Neither option is preferable,” she said, swallowing the bitter bile that filled her mouth.

Mr. Curtis laughed, his quiet chuckle slithering over her body.

“Sixty seconds.” He drew the knife over her chin and down her throat. “Then I decide which piece of you to send to your fiancé.”

“A lock of my hair?” Winifred sucked in a sharp breath as the metal blade slid across her collarbone.

He wove his fingers into her tresses, then tightened his grip and jerked her head backward, exacting a pain-filled yelp from Winifred.

“That wasn’t one of your selections,” Mr. Curtis said, pressing his mouth to her ear. “Your thigh or your forearm, Miss Webb. Think quickly, you have but thirty more seconds.”

“What size?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Pardon?” The blade slid over her shoulder, catching on the collar of her chemise and pushing the material partway down her arm.

Fighting the urge to shudder, Winifred forced her tongue to form words. “You gave no further details beyond leg or arm. For me to make an informed decision, I must know the size of the injury you intend to inflict upon me.”

Silence followed her statement.

“The length of my finger.” Mr. Curtis moved behind the chair, circling Winifred as though she were prey. “The width will depend upon my temperament and how much you struggle. Now, where am I cutting?”

Heart hammering, she licked her lips. “I can’t bring myself to ask you to harm me.”

“Then I shall decide…” The knife tip scraped over the exposed skin of her shoulder. “And I select your leg.”

He knelt and grabbed the hem of her skirt. Before she could react, he sliced the blade through the delicate linen and her petticoat in one swipe. Then, he set the knife on the floor and ripped the material from the hem to her waist, exposing her leg.

Winifred screamed as the room’s chilled air caressed her bare skin.

“Please let me go,” she begged, tears leaking from behind the blindfold.

“If your fiancé pays for your life, then you have nothing to fear.” Mr. Curtis pushed the ruined dress aside, and his fingers closed around her thigh, pinching the flesh. “This may hurt a bit.”

The blade pressed against her leg.

Muscles tensing, she sank her teeth into her lower lip and waited for the agony that would certainly accompany the removal of a section of skin. However, before Mr. Curtis gouged the knife into her body, a muted thudding echoed through the lower floor.

He paused.

The muffled pounding came again, followed by a low yell.

“Bloody fool!” Mr. Curtis muttered, releasing Winifred’s leg. “If he keeps up that racket, he’ll draw attention to our location.”

“You are working with someone!” Winifred gasped, her chest squeezing.

“Someone had to think of the scheme.” Mr. Curtis stomped toward the staircase as the banging intensified. “Although, at this moment, I’m regretting allowing him to live.”

“Who?” Winifred asked, but Mr. Curtis didn’t respond, his heavy footfall on the staircase indicating his descent.

The front door slammed, and an indistinguishable male voice drifted up the staircase.

Her breath caught between her teeth, Winifred inched forward, wincing each time the chair legs scratched the floor. When her toes crashed into the doorframe, she stopped, uncertain where the stairs began, and strained her ears.

“Why are you here,” Mr. Curtis asked, “and not stationed outside the Duke of Beaufort’s residence?”

“It’s nightfall,” the second man said, a slight whine in his reply. “If I spend the whole evening outside the house, I’d freeze to death.”

She couldn’t place the voice’s owner, but the unusual twang was like a bee sting, pricking at her mind.

Where would I have been introduced to this man?

Mr. Curtis flung something heavy at the wall, and the item exploded, ripping a scream from Winifred’s lips.

Feet poised to shove the chair backward, she held her breath, her blood crashing through her ears, and prayed neither man would investigate the shriek.

“The purpose,” Mr. Curtis said after a long moment, his shoes grinding the broken pieces into the floor, “of your presence was to ensure the Duke of Roxburghe didn’t come searching for his fiancée prior to tomorrow’s meeting.”

The second man moved toward the staircase. “And how would I communicate that information if I were deceased?”

“I suppose,” Mr. Curtis replied, grinding his teeth together, “that the Duke of Roxburghe won’t risk the weather tonight either. However, you may not reside here.”

“Where do you expect me to stay? I have no funds.”

A sickening crunch, accompanied by an anguished howl, reverberated through the downstairs.

Mr. Curtis strode across the floor, his voice fading. “I will secure a chamber for the night at the gaming hall where the Duke of Roxburghe is scheduled to meet you tomorrow. But whatever debt you accumulate is your responsibility. Understood?”

The second man moaned his consent.

“Do not leave this house until I return,” Mr. Curtis said, an unspoken threat hovering in the air.

Did he say house? A tendril of hope curled through Winifred’s chest. Were they near enough to another residence that someone would hear her yell for help?

The front door slammed, and, remembering her precarious position at the top of the staircase, Winifred edged the chair backward.

With the blindfold still covering her face, she couldn’t determine the halfway point of the room and stopped where she estimated that place would be, hoping that when Mr. Curtis returned, he wouldn’t realize she’d moved.

The staircase issued a soft groan, indicating the second man had risen to his feet and was attempting to climb toward Winifred. He ascended the steps at a glacial pace, pausing on each stair to exhale a labored breath before moving to the next level.

He must know I’m up here; otherwise, he wouldn’t pursue such an obviously painful activity.

At this pace, it was likely Mr. Curtis would return before the man reached her. However, without her sight, she couldn’t determine if this man was less dangerous than Mr. Curtis or more, so she gambled.

“Hello?” The word came out as a squeak.

Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Hello?”

The man didn’t answer, nor did he stop his slow ascent.

“I know you’re there,” she said, scooting the chair backward an inch. “I can hear you.”

The footsteps stopped on the landing.

A bitter, musky scent permeated the blindfold, assailing her nostrils and coating her tongue with a sour film, retriggering the memory of her arrival at the prison.

It couldn’t be!

“Mr. Hollingsworth?”

“I wondered if you would deduce my identity.” Mr. Hollingsworth shuffled into the room. “However, since you determined my identity during the blindfold waltz, I suspected you’d have no issue figuring out my name.”

“I didn’t dance with you last night,” she said, her forehead wrinkling.

Mr. Hollingsworth limped closer, leaned down, and yanked off the blindfold. “Yes, Winifred, you did.”

She gasped, her eyes locking on his brown ones. “You know who I am?”

“I do.” Sighing, he turned away and dragged a hand through his unkempt golden-brown hair. “However, you cannot let that information slip to Mr. Curtis. He’ll dispose of you without any regard and then abduct your sister.”

A multitude of questions swarmed Winifred’s mind; she forced the most persistent through her lips. “When did you deduce that I wasn’t Nora?”

“After I struck you.” He twisted back around but wouldn’t lift his gaze to her face. “When I turned your unconscious body over, I realized that you had intercepted the missive and came to the stables instead of your sister.”

He raised his head, his eyes probing hers.

“Whom did you intend to meet?” he asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Winifred licked her lips, uncertain if revealing the information would help or hinder her situation. “A duke.”

Mr. Hollingsworth’s eyebrows raised. “Is he aware of your past?”

“He’s aware of my particular circumstances,” she snapped, shifting on the chair and drawing Mr. Hollingsworth’s attention to her exposed thigh.

“Has Mr. Curtis taken any liberties with you?” Mr. Hollingsworth growled, peeling off his thin coat and draping the article over Winifred’s lap.

She shook her head, then dropped her gaze to her leg. “However…”

“However?” Mr. Hollingsworth squatted beside her.

“Before you arrived, Mr. Curtis decided to remove a section of skin from my leg and send the piece to the Duke of Roxburghe.” Winifred shuddered. “I fear Mr. Curtis will follow through with his intention upon his return.”

“I’ll speak with him,” Mr. Hollingsworth replied, a noticeable tremor in his voice.

Was he frightened of Mr. Curtis as well?

“You could untie me,” Winifred said, twisting her wrists against the rope binding them behind her back.

“I cannot.” Rising, Mr. Hollingsworth retrieved the blindfold and shook it out. “I owe a great deal of money to Mr. Curtis, and when he learned I’d been released from prison, he tracked me down and threatened to take my life.”

Mr. Hollingsworth fixed his brown eyes upon her as though silently pleading for forgiveness. “This scheme will repay the debt.”

“If you knew I wasn’t Nora, why did you abduct me?”

“Anger.” Mr. Hollingsworth hung his head. “Your presence in the stables indicated you nurtured an attachment for another, and I reacted without considering the consequences. I’ve placed you in unimaginable danger because of my pride, and for that, I apologize.”

He lifted the blindfold to her face and, despite her protests, wrapped the cloth around her head and secured the ends with a tight knot.

“As long as Mr. Curtis thinks the Duke of Roxburghe will pay the ransom, it doesn’t matter if you are yourself or your sister.” Mr. Hollingsworth said, moving toward the doorway. “And I’m quite certain your sister will force him to do just that.”