Page 43 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
SILAS MORTON, DUKE OF BEAUFORT
M rs. Webb twisted around, her gaze landing on the large parlor window as Warwick, framed by the drapes, climbed into his coach. “His Grace’s scheme was to abandon my daughter?”
“He wouldn’t forsake us,” Silas replied, and hurried from the room, intending to catch Warwick and demand an explanation before his coach departed.
Silas raced across the foyer, yanked open the door, and crashed into a messenger, knocking the slight man off balance and causing him to fall backward into a small snowbank with a yell. The missive the courier clutched flew out of his hand and sailed upward toward the night’s first visible stars.
Flipping onto his stomach, the messenger scrambled to his feet, then dove for the letter as the paper fluttered toward the icy ground. He snatched the folded parchment out of the air and landed hard on his side with a grunt.
“Are you the Duke of Roxburghe?” he asked, clutching the missive to his chest and rolling onto his back.
“I am not,” Silas replied, but as distress spread across the courier’s face, Silas added, “he’s inside the residence. I can give him the message for you.”
Slowly rising, the courier brushed the snow from his clothing, then shook his head. “Thank you for the kindness. However, I’ve been given instruction to hand this missive directly to His Grace and no other man.”
Silas glanced down the road at the rear of Warwick’s coach. Even if I run, I won’t catch him .
Whatever the destination, Silas prayed Warwick’s solution would expedite the rescue of Miss Fernsby-Webb before the unimaginable occurred. If Mr. Curtis could callously beat an older woman such as Mrs. Webb, what would he do to her daughter?
Silas’ chest squeezed, crushing the oxygen from his lungs. They would recover Miss Fernsby-Webb—they had to—and he would spend the remainder of his life apologizing for his stubborn, foolish behavior… if she would have him.
“Come.” He crooked his finger. “I’ll take you to the Duke of Roxburghe.”
The courier nodded, tightened his grip on the missive, and followed Silas into the house. When they reached the parlor, Silas peeked his head into the room and gestured for Roxburghe to join him in the corridor.
Roxburghe slipped into the hallway and closed the door. “Should I be concerned that you couldn’t reach Warwick’s coach before it departed? Did you get lost?”
“I was delayed.” Silas stepped aside and swiped his arm at the messenger. “He won’t give the missive to anyone but you.”
The teasing grin dropped from Roxburghe’s mouth.
He stepped forward, adopting the regal nature due his title, and said, “I am the Duke of Roxburghe. How may I assist you?”
Holding out the letter with both hands, the courier bowed low, hiding his head between his arms. “I’ve been instructed to give this missive to you.”
“From whom?” asked Roxburghe, but the messenger did not reply, merely waved the paper.
The moment Roxburghe took the letter, the man whipped around and scurried toward the exit. Before either of them could stop him, he seized the handle, yanked open the door, and vanished into the plummeting evening temperatures.
Frowning, Roxburghe glanced down at the missive, then back at the door.
“I’ve never known you to be a terrifying man, Beaufort,” he said, the line on his forehead deepening. “However, someone frightened that messenger.”
“Mr. Curtis?”
“That would be my assumption.” Roxburghe slid his finger beneath the seal.
Tearing open the letter, he swore and turned away from Silas.
“What did he write?” asked Silas, attempting to peer over Roxburghe’s shoulder.
“Instructions.” Roxburghe’s hollow reply caused Silas’ stomach to twist into a knot.
“Let me read them.”
“I advise against that,” Roxburghe said, glancing over with a pained expression.
“There’s nothing that could be written that will upset me.” Silas held out his hand. “We’re going to waste a lot of time if I have to convince you to show me every piece of evidence.”
Sighing, Roxburghe held out the missive. “Neither Miss Webb nor her mother is to learn what is contained inside.”
“If that is your desire,” Silas replied, taking the parchment.
His fingers closed around a wet portion of the paper. He glanced down, assuming he’d inadvertently touched an ink spot, and sucked in a sharp breath. A crimson stain, resembling that of a partial handprint, covered the lower section of the missive.
“Is it Miss Fernsby-Webb’s blood?” Silas whispered, raising his eyes to Roxburghe.
Roxburghe’s mouth folded into a thin line. “That would be a fair assumption.”
“You don’t think that he…” Silas couldn’t finish the question, believing, somehow, if he didn’t utter the phrase, Miss Fernsby-Webb would survive until they rescued her.
“Quite unlikely.” Roxburghe gestured toward the deep red handprint. “Mr. Curtis needs Miss Fernsby-Webb alive to make the exchange.”
Silas scanned the words scrawled above the blood. “Do you think she’s being kept at this meeting location?”
“There are too many witnesses at that gaming hall.” Roxburghe's gaze shifted to the parlor door as it cracked open.
Miss Webb peeked into the corridor. “Have you any news about Winifred?”
Roxburghe shot Silas a silencing glare, stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around Miss Webb. “I know where we are to meet Mr. Curtis tomorrow.”
“You’ve remembered?” The worry creasing Miss Webb’s brow vanished. “Let’s go retrieve her.”
Roxburghe shook his head. “We don’t think she’s currently at the meeting place. Mr. Curtis is too intelligent to hold her at the same location.”
The parlor door opened a second time, revealing Mansfield’s dark features. “Grisham has an idea for how to deal with the money shortage. However, the scheme is risky.”
“What did he suggest?” Silas stepped forward.
“I’ll allow him to explain the particulars.” Bowing, Mansfield moved aside.
Roxburghe escorted Miss Webb into the parlor, sat her beside her mother on the sofa, then slipped behind the furniture, resuming his protective position.
Silas followed, pausing long enough beside Mansfield to pass him the alarming missive and gesture that he hold his tongue after reading the note. Then Silas crossed the room and stopped next to his daughter, who had claimed Mansfield’s chair in his absence.
Shifting his attention to Grisham, Silas said, “Mansfield stated you had a plan.”
Grisham fixed his light brown eyes on Silas.
“I’m gambling on the notion that Mr. Curtis won’t verify the coins in the sack.
He’ll want to depart from the location as quickly as possible so as not to be captured.
Therefore, we should line the base of the bag with pebbles—roughly the size of a pound—to give the impression Roxburghe possesses the full amount. ”
“If you’re wrong,” Silas replied, his voice barely audible over the popping fire, “Miss Fernsby-Webb will lose her life.”
“I’m aware of the risk,” Grisham said, his gaze flicking to Roxburghe. “As this choice doesn’t place my fiancée’s sister in greater danger, I’ll defer the decision.”
Roxburghe tugged at his cravat. “That’s not a ruling I feel confident making.”
“Do it,” Miss Webb said, her voice eerily calm.
“Are you certain?” Roxburghe rounded the sofa and knelt, grasping Miss Webb’s hands.
“Not in the slightest.” She gestured toward the partially filled sack. “But there is no other solution, and if you don’t meet with Mr. Curtis, Winifred will surely die.”
Her mother leaned over and murmured, “The Duke of Roxburghe could lose his life tomorrow as well.”
Eyes flashing, Miss Webb twisted. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Because he’s traveling to the meeting place alone.” Mrs. Webb shifted her gaze to Mansfield. “And you determined that Mr. Curtis acted with assistance.”
Silas strode around Juliette’s chair. “I’m riding with you tomorrow, Roxburghe.”
“And how,” Roxburghe asked, rising from his crouched position, “do you intend to prevent Mr. Curtis from discovering you?”
“I’ll lie on the floor of the coach.” Silas shrugged. “Once you enter the gaming hall, I’ll sneak out and slip into the building undetected.”
“Is that prudent?” Mrs. Webb wrapped a comforting arm around her trembling daughter. “If Mr. Curtis’ accomplice catches you, Winifred will be killed.”
“In all likelihood,” Mansfield said, stepping forward, “she’s going to die, anyway.”
A blood-curdling shriek exploded from Miss Webb, and she leaped up from the sofa and fled the parlor.
“Was that necessary?” Roxburghe asked as Mrs. Webb hurried after her daughter.
Mansfield’s eyebrows raised. “You want me to lie?”
“You could have found a kinder way to state your grim expectancy.” Roxburghe glanced at the section of the staircase, just visible beyond the parlor doorway.
“We’ll see to her,” Miss Braddock said, rising from her sofa and gesturing toward Miss Philbert, who stood as well.
“Your Grace.” Miss Philbert clasped her hands in front of her waist as she addressed Silas. “It’s best that we take Miss Juliette upstairs with us. This type of discussion isn’t suitable for someone of her age.”
Juliette appeared as though she wished to protest, then she nodded, slid from the chair, and crossed the room. After taking Miss Philbert’s hand, Juliette grasped Miss Braddock’s as well and led both ladies from the parlor.
Mr. Braddock slid from his unobtrusive position and crept to the doorway, tracking his sister’s progress up the staircase. When she reached the second-floor landing, he spun around, his blue eyes glowing.
“I have a suggestion that may facilitate our rescue of Miss Fernsby-Webb,” he said, moving to the center of the room.
“Since I’ve only been in town a short time, no one will recognize my face.
I can secure lodging at the gaming hall this evening without raising suspicion and be poised for tomorrow’s meeting. ”
Roxburghe exchanged a glance with Lennox, then said, “The clientele at this particular location can be a bit…unruly.”