Page 44 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
“And your sister,” Lennox said, tilting his head toward the parlor’s exit, “would discourage the scheme.”
“My sister faced Mr. Drummond without my protection,” Mr. Braddock said, his voice hitching. “Allow me to express my gratitude for the assistance she received from all of you.”
“You could stop punching me,” Lennox muttered, rubbing the side of his face as though attempting to speed the disappearance of several fading bruises.
“That will be my gift on your wedding day.”
Every man erupted into laughter.
“Despite your argument,” Mansfield said once their amusement died, “one of us should accompany you to the gaming hall. If Roxburghe needs a chaperone, you most certainly do.”
“Which of us is unrecognizable?” Silas asked, his eyes flicking to each man in turn. “Our titles make clandestine activities difficult.”
“Warwick would be the best solution,” Mansfield replied with a grimace. “However, he’s currently unavailable.”
“I’ll go.” Grisham’s soft voice drew their attention. “With my engagement early in the season, the death of Miss Philbert’s brother, and the arrest of her sister, we’ve been avoiding most social functions.”
“I have one request,” Mr. Braddock said, addressing Mansfield. “As my absence will prevent me from protecting my sister from her fiancé’s nefarious designs, would you act in my stead?”
“May I strike him as well?” Mansfield asked, his dark gaze jumping to Lennox.
A smile twitched across Mr. Braddock’s cherubic face. “I would expect nothing less, Your Grace.”
“I agree to your terms.” Mansfield held out his arm and pumped Mr. Braddock’s hand once.
Mr. Braddock and Grisham departed without giving warning to either Miss Braddock or Miss Philbert, knowing if they shared their precarious plan, one—or both—of the ladies would strongly object.
Grabbing the coin sack, Mansfield upended the bag, dumped the contents onto a small table, and strode toward the parlor’s exit.
“Lennox,” he said, over his shoulder, “come outside with me.”
“Why?” Lennox grumbled, his eyes shifting to the blanket of light snow collecting on the window ledge.
“Because we need to collect pebbles, and I’ve sworn not to allow you from my sight while Mr. Braddock is away.”
“You swore to protect Miss Braddock’s innocence.” Lennox trudged after Mansfield.
“A feat made much simpler by keeping you with me,” Mansfield replied as he opened the front door.
“I’m not sleeping in your chamber.”
The door slammed, cutting off Mansfield’s retort.
“Father?” Juliette’s soft voice came from Silas’ right.
When he turned, she held out the missing letter from her mother.
“Mother wrote that you were her savior.” Juliette paused, her mouth working. “She also stated that if something should happen to her, she expected you to find a suitable mother to replace her.”
Silas took the missive, unfolded the page, and scanned the words, his throat constricting as memories overwhelmed him. After several minutes, he lifted his gaze, finding Juliette.
“I cannot guarantee your choice of mother,” he said, his hollow voice lacking any optimism.
“Who does she want?” Roxburghe asked, appearing on the other side of Silas.
“Miss Fernsby-Webb.”
Roxburghe snorted. “Convenient.”
“Complicated.” Silas widened his eyes, attempting to silently convey his concerns.
“Only if you allow the situation to become so,” Roxburghe replied, winking at Juliette.
“Father,”—Juliette clasped her hands together and lifted her eyes, pushing her lower lip into a slight pout—“if you fail to convince Miss Fernsby-Webb to stay, I’ll never speak to you again. But I will follow you everywhere, to simply stand and stare… as though I am a phantom haunting you.”
Silas growled. He should throttle Roxburghe, for he was the only one of them who’d find it amusing to share the story of Mr. Philbert’s ghost and the attempted exorcism at Lennox’s residence with Juliette.
“Miss Fernsby-Webb,” Silas ground the words in his teeth, “has stated, on more than one occasion, that she’s not interested in marriage.”
“Neither were you,” Roxburghe said, a soft crunch of snow pulling his attention to the parlor window. “Warwick’s coach has returned.”
“With an explanation, I hope.” Silas exited the room with Roxburghe and Juliette on his heels.
They met Warwick at the front door.
“An escort to your parlor is unnecessary,” he said as he shed his greatcoat and hung it on the coatrack. “I’m quite capable of finding my way.”
“Where did you go?” Silas asked, yanking his shoe out of the path of Warwick’s cane.
“To my residence,” he replied as he limped across the foyer.
Roxburghe hastened around Warwick and stopped, blocking Warwick’s progress. “For what purpose?”
“Money.” Warwick frowned, his gaze sliding between Silas and Roxburghe, and shoved his hand into his coat pocket, extracting a mid-size sack. “Did you think I would abandon Miss Fernsby-Webb to Mr. Curtis’ whims?”
“It was suggested?—”
“By whom?” Warwick growled.
“Mrs. Webb.” Roxburghe took the sack, opened it, and issued a low whistle. “Where did you find this amount in such a short time?”
“It’s the purse for our wager.” Warwick edged around Roxburghe, hobbled into the parlor, and took a seat beside the fireplace.
Silas sent Juliette back upstairs, then entered the room, took a seat across from Warwick, and said, “We received a second missive from Mr. Curtis with the location of the meeting. Mr. Braddock suggested stationing himself at the gaming hall this evening to give us an advantage tomorrow. Grisham went with him.”
Warwick nodded, confirming his agreement with the scheme. “Are Lennox and Mansfield also headed into town?”
“Actually,” Silas said with a chuckle, “they’re outside searching for pebbles with which to fill the coin sack.”
“I’m offended none of you thought I would return.” Warwick shifted in his chair and groaned. “Should we inform them that their task is no longer essential?”
“Eventually.” Silas grinned. “In the meantime, may I offer you a drink?”
“Is that wise?” Warwick stretched out his leg, rubbing his thigh. “Shouldn’t a clear head be your aim?”
“Sleep is,” Silas replied with a heavy sigh, “but I fear that is a goal I won’t achieve this evening.”
“Nor I,” Roxburghe said, setting the sack of coins on the cushion beside him as he collapsed on the sofa.
None of them slept.
The next morning, Silas—legs curled into his stomach—lay on the dirty floor of Roxburghe’s coach as they bounced across the frozen landscape.
“Can you see me?” he asked, rolling his head toward Roxburghe.
“Yes. However, this should fix that issue.” Roxburghe leaned forward and lifted a thick fur from the opposite bench. “Wait for the count of ten, then remove the covering and follow me into the gaming hall.”
“We still don’t know who Mr. Curtis’ accomplice is,” Silas replied as Roxburghe shook out the fur. “We cannot assume it was Mr. Hollingsworth.”
“I’m hoping the scoundrel exposes himself as well.” Roxburghe spread the cover over Silas. “They’ll think me outnumbered, and that will be our advantage.”
As the coach turned onto the main road leading into Wiltshire, Roxburghe fell silent. His steady breathing was the only indication of his presence. The wheels rolled to a stop, the coach door opened, and Roxburghe stepped down from the cabin.
After the door slammed shut, Silas diligently counted to ten, then pulled the fur from his face. He uncurled and rolled onto his knees. Twitching the window curtain aside, he peered through the glass, seeking Roxburghe’s brown head among the patrons entering the building.
A cloaked man appeared beside Roxburghe and grabbed his arm, pulling him away from the entrance. Silas caught the flash of a pistol as the man rammed the muzzle into Roxburghe’s side.
Nodding slowly, Roxburghe reached into his borrowed greatcoat and removed the sack of coins, which he passed to the man. As the man’s fingers closed around the bag, he swung his other arm and struck Roxburghe in the head with the gun.
Roxburghe crumpled into a heap on the snow-covered ground, and the man leaped over Roxburghe’s body and raced down the street, bypassing the gaming hall and whipping around the corner.
“Mr. Dunn,” Silas yelled, exploding from the coach and capturing the driver’s attention. “See to your master!”
Racing past Roxburghe’s unconscious form, Silas chased after the cloaked man. When Silas turned the corner, his gaze scoured the nearly empty street, seeking the black cloak. However, none of the people visible wore the article.
His gaze slid back across the road. At the far end, moving at a speed greater than walking would allow, a dark blob hastened to the left, disappearing onto the next street.
Where was the man heading? This wasn’t the location of Mr. Curtis’ last residence. In truth, the area felt quite familiar…
Silas’ heart dropped. They were heading toward Mrs. Webb’s residence.
When he rounded the next corner, an empty street greeted him. He issued a soft curse, then slogged toward the Webb house, hoping his suspicion regarding the unknown accomplice’s hiding place was correct.
It seemed a logical connection; Mr. Curtis would know the Webbs were currently staying at Silas’ residence, and without any servants, the house would be vacant.
Silas crept through the break in the iron fence surrounding the property and into the garden, keeping his body low as he moved across the grounds. Inching toward the residence, his breath caught as a dull thudding reverberated toward him, and he dropped flat, burying himself in the snow.
“Open the door!” the cloaked man yelled, beating his fist upon the wood.
Terror coursed through Silas’ veins. He recognized the voice’s owner… It was Mr. Hollingsworth.
If he’d participated in Miss Fernsby-Webb’s kidnapping, had her mother assisted as well?