Page 42 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
“Can you guarantee that once Mr. Curtis receives the sum, he’ll set me free?” Winifred’s soft question drew Mr. Hollingsworth back into the room.
“I swear,” he said, slapping his hand to his chest, “I will ensure Mr. Curtis releases you to the Duke of Roxburghe’s custody when the transaction is completed.”
“Whether you’re alive,” Mr. Curtis’ malice-filled voice slithered from the doorway, “when that happy event occurs tomorrow is entirely dependent upon how much blood you lose after I remove the section of skin.”
“Miss Webb is the fiancée of a duke, a future duchess.” Mr. Hollingsworth’s shoes scraped on the floor as he slid between Mr. Curtis and Winifred. “Even a cruel man such as yourself understands there is a standard with which she must be treated.”
“What would you suggest,” Mr. Curtis approached, backing Mr. Hollingsworth into Winifred’s knees, “to convince the Duke of Roxburghe of my sincerity?”
“A drop of blood.”
A sharp thwack echoed through the room. Moaning, Mr. Hollingsworth crumbled to the floor, collapsing on top of Winifred’s bare feet.
“Where is your imagination, Mr. Hollingsworth?” His thumb and forefinger pinching Winifred’s chin, Mr. Curtis wrenched her head up. “The Duke of Roxburghe must feel incomparable desperation to ensure compliance.”
“He does,” Winifred said, wincing as Mr. Curtis’ grip tightened. “I’m certain he’s been consumed with recovering me since learning that I vanished.”
It was a slight falsehood. In truth, it would be Nora who was consumed with rescuing Winifred, and Nora who would ensure the Duke of Roxburghe paid the ransom.
“Place her hand on the parchment,” Mr. Hollingsworth groaned as he struggled to his feet.
“What will that do?” scoffed Mr. Curtis, releasing Winifred’s chin.
“If you cut her palm, you can leave an image on the paper in her blood.” Mr. Hollingsworth shuffled behind the chair and knelt as though intending to untie the ropes binding her wrists.
“That’s quite intelligent,” Mr. Curtis replied, but before Mr. Hollingsworth could free Winifred, he was yanked away from her hands by Mr. Curtis.
“I’ll handle the missive,” Mr. Curtis said, escorting Mr. Hollingsworth to the staircase. “You prepare for the Duke of Roxburghe’s arrival tomorrow.”
Mr. Hollingsworth descended one step. “I have your word that, once you receive the funds, my debt is cleared?”
“You’ll never hear from me again.”
“And if I don’t return with the money?”
“After I kill Miss Webb,”—Mr. Curtis’ soft voice sent a shiver through Winifred’s body—“I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth.”
“Understood.”
Mr. Hollingsworth’s shoes thudded down the staircase, and he exited the house without another word, leaving Winifred to wonder if he would betray her one last time and disappear with the ransom.
“You surprise me, Miss Webb,” said Mr. Curtis as the front door slammed. “A few moments alone with Mr. Hollingsworth, and suddenly he’s your champion.”
“Do you trust him to return tomorrow with the funds?” Winifred asked, ignoring Mr. Curtis’ implied impropriety.
“For your sake,” Mr. Curtis replied, trailing his fingers over her arm as he moved behind the chair, “pray that he does. That money is the only reason you’re still breathing.”
He seized her wrist, twisted her arms into an excruciating angle, and slashed the knife across her palm. Winifred cried out and jerked her hand away, squeezing her fingers into a tight ball to stave off the blood.
Chuckling, Mr. Curtis crossed the room and disappeared down the staircase. Less than a minute later, he returned, the fluttering of parchment accompanying his footfall. He strode behind Winifred, grabbed her injured hand, and pried her fingers open. Then he pressed her palm to the paper.
The parchment stuck to her skin.
When he peeled away the page, he issued a low noncommittal grunt, which Winifred assumed meant he was pleased with the image.
As he walked around her, he dug his fingers into her hair, closed his fist, and yanked, jerking her head backward and ripping out several strands.
She cried out, twitching in agony and unable to raise her bound hands to the throbbing section of her scalp. Tears dripped down her cheeks from beneath the blindfold.
“For your sake,” Mr. Curtis said, moving toward the exit, “I hope your fiancé complies with my demands. Try to get some sleep, Miss Webb. I’d loathe to deliver you to him tomorrow in such a frightful state.”
He laughed, the cruel chortle sending a tremor rippling through Winifred’s body, and marched down the staircase. A minute later, the front door opened and slammed shut.
The moment he vanished, Winifred shoved her chair backward, pushing against the floorboards with her toes until her hands smashed into the wall behind her. Then she leaned back, pressed the back of her head against the rough wall, and slid down in the chair, dragging the blindfold from her face.
It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room. Her gaze slid across the shadows to her right, seeking the ink set and the quill knife contained within, but she couldn’t locate the box.
Uncertain how much time had passed since Mr. Curtis departed to send the missive to the Duke of Roxburghe, she left off her futile search and scooted her chair toward the chest, praying she would find another useful item buried in the clothing.
However, when she reached the chest and scraped her knee against the side to lift the lid, the chest refused to open.
She didn’t recall Mr. Curtis securing the lock, and, unable to contain her frustration, kicked the chest, issuing several soft curse words when the metal fastening on the corner of the chest sliced open her heel.
Mid-swear, she gasped. Could the broken metal piece cut through the ropes binding my wrists?
Wrenching her body to the left, she twisted the chair around one-quarter turn, then scooted backward until the chair’s legs bumped into the chest. Her gaze locked on the gaping mouth of the doorway leading to the staircase, she blindly rubbed her fingers along the chest’s seam, seeking the damaged portion of the brass fastening.
She sucked in a sharp breath as the piece pierced her fingertip. But as she distorted her limbs, attempting to maneuver her wrists low enough to grate the rope against the metal, she discovered the chair didn’t allow her to adopt a compatible position.
How am I going to reach the chest?
A dangerous idea crashed through her mind.
Winifred rocked forward, planted her feet, and pushed, flinging herself backward against the chair. A scream escaped her lips as the chair lifted off the floor and pitched back, balancing on two legs.
She hung suspended for several seconds, just long enough to regret her foolish action, then fell back, the chair frame crashing into the chest and her hands smashing into the harsh wood.
Stunned, Winifred lay still for several moments. Then, ignoring the pain radiating through her shoulder, she raised her arms, finding the broken fastening again, and sawed her wrists back and forth over the metal piece.
One strand broke, the soft snap causing Winifred’s heart to leap. Her breath catching between her teeth, she pulled her wrists apart as far as the rope would allow and rubbed the binding rapidly over the jagged fastening.
“Break,” she said, gritting her teeth against the growing agony spreading through her upper body.
As if following her command, a second fiber tore.
Before she could celebrate, the chair slipped sideways across the trunk lid, dragging her wrists out of reach of the metal fastener and wedging the chair’s back post between the trunk and the wall.