Page 46 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
Snarling, Mr. Curtis threw her against the wall. She crashed into the partition, her head rebounding off the wallpaper, and staggered backward, dazed. Before she regained her bearings, Mr. Curtis grabbed her again and tossed her down the hallway toward the staircase.
She stumbled and fell.
“Either you climb those stairs yourself or I will drag you up them,” he said, striding toward her.
“You’ll have to drag me,” she retorted, scrambling backward.
“With pleasure.” He leaped, catching her legs and pinning her to the ground with his knees. “Shall I make this as painful as possible?”
A bulging sack of coins landed next to Winifred’s head and tipped, spilling some of the contents on the floor.
“Release Miss Webb,” Mr. Hollingsworth said from behind Mr. Curtis, “and you can have the portion I earned as well.”
“Are you paying for her freedom?” Disbelief colored Mr. Curtis’ question.
“I am.” The hammer of a pistol cocked. “Get up. Slowly.”
Loosening his grip on Winifred, Mr. Curtis rose and, raising his arms, turned around. “You realize by making this choice, you’re placing a hangman’s noose around your neck?”
“I do.” Gesturing with the gun, Mr. Hollingsworth backed Mr. Curtis away from Winifred. “However, my conscience will no longer torment me.”
Holding out his arm, Mr. Hollingsworth helped Winifred to her feet, then positioned her body behind his.
“We’re going to take our leave now.” He squeezed Winifred’s hand. “You are not to take one step away from that wall until we are clear of the property. After which, you may disappear, and I hope to never see you again.”
“Intriguing,” Mr. Curtis said as they backed toward the front door.
“What is?” asked Mr. Hollingsworth, the pistol still trained on Mr. Curtis’ chest.
“Two days ago, you possessed no issues with killing Miss Webb.” Splaying his hands, Mr. Curtis took a step toward them. “Today, not only do you refuse to follow through with the scheme, but you renounce your share and impose a death sentence upon yourself.”
“A man can change his mind.” Mr. Hollingsworth shuffled backward, pushing Winifred toward the exit.
“Not without cause.” Mr. Curtis took another step forward, angling his body so that his next movement corralled them in the drawing room.
“Don’t come any closer.” Straightening his arm, Mr. Hollingsworth aimed the muzzle at Mr. Curtis’ heart.
“I’ve known you for some time,” said Mr. Curtis, edging forward. “And I know, you don’t possess the courage to shoot that pistol.”
“Should we set a wager on that?” Mr. Hollingsworth asked, his voice hard.
Mr. Curtis chuckled. “What collateral do you intend to use to support your reckless claim? Your life?”
“If need be.”
“I can accept those terms.” Moving with the speed of a striking snake, Mr. Curtis lunged and smacked the gun out of Mr. Hollingsworth’s hand.
The pistol slid across the floor and stopped halfway between Mr. Curtis and Mr. Hollingsworth. They leaped at the same moment, both diving for the gun. The weapon clutched in their hands, they rolled across the room, cursing and gnashing their teeth at each other.
Winifred, torn between escaping and ensuring Mr. Hollingsworth survived the struggle, hovered on the outskirts of the drawing room, her head oscillating between the doorway and the two men.
She shouldn’t have hesitated.
A moment later, the pistol fired, and both men froze. Then, moving in slow motion, Mr. Hollingsworth’s eyes rolled backward in his head, his hand dropped from the gun, and he crumpled to the floor, a scarlet pool of blood forming beneath his still body.
Swallowing her terror, Winifred darted out of the room, careened around the corner, and raced for the front door. Her fingers closing around the handle, she froze as the pistol clicked behind her.
“Move away from the door.” Mr. Curtis’ low command caused her heart to stutter.
Nodding, she took one step backward.
“Turn around.”
She complied, raising her hands as she spun toward him.
“Bring the money to me,” he said, gesturing for her to pick up the sack from the hallway.
Edging down the corridor, Winifred kept as far away from Mr. Curtis as possible. However, as she passed the drawing-room doorway, her gaze fell on Mr. Hollingsworth, locking on his glassy eyes, and her chest constricted.
How soon would Mr. Curtis exact his punishment?
“Surely, you must have reason more than simple dislike to want to take my life,” she said, bending over and collecting the loose coins. “Two days ago, we were strangers.”
“True,” replied Mr. Curtis, lowering the pistol. “Aside from your incorporative behavior after your abduction, I have no grievance with you.”
“Then, why would you kill me?” Winifred peeked back at him as she dropped the coins one by one into the sack.
“For revenge,” Mr. Curtis snapped and strode closer. “The Duke of Roxburghe wronged me, and now, I’m going to take everything he cares about.”
“He’s never met you!”
“I’m aware.” The muzzle poked the back of her head. “Pick up the sack.”
“How can you hold a grievance against someone who doesn’t know they’ve committed one?” Winifred asked, struggling not to shudder as the pistol dug into her scalp.
“I lost a great deal of work when the Duke of Roxburghe refused a commission.” Mr. Curtis grabbed Winifred’s shoulder and jerked her to her feet. “No one would hire me. I had to offer the Hills a portrait at half-cost just to survive.”
“Considering that you assaulted and murdered their governess during your residency,” Winifred said as Mr. Curtis’ face purpled, “you should have crafted the painting for free.”
Eyes narrowing, Mr. Curtis yanked the sack of coins from her hand. “If the Hills thought me guilty of any crime, I would be in prison. However, there is no evidence that I committed the atrocities of which you’ve accused me.”
Actually, there was, but Winifred had no intention of placing Miss Juliette in danger by revealing her as a witness.
“Upstairs.” He aimed the pistol at Winifred.
“If you’re going to kill me, why do I need to return to the attic?” she asked, trudging around Mr. Curtis and heading toward the staircase.
“Because I don’t intend to shoot you immediately.” He shoved her onto the first step. “I have a few questions for you first.”
“You could ask them of me on this floor.” Grabbing onto the banister, she twisted around. “Wouldn’t you prefer the warmth of the drawing room over the attic?”
“The attic is the furthest point from the exit, Miss Webb,” he replied, gesturing with the gun. “It also contains the only remaining chair in this house.”
“My mother doesn’t manage money well,” Winifred said as she turned.
A soft gasp escaped her lips; she’d erred in her portrayal of Nora. Would Mr. Curtis notice that I didn’t refer to Mother as Amelia?
Mr. Curtis’ hand whipped out and grabbed Winifred’s elbow, yanking her backward against his chest.
His mouth found her ear. “I know your mother is insolvent. Why do you think I chose her daughters to provide restitution?”
“Daughters?” Winifred froze, her heart racing. “Were you going to take Winifred as well?”
“There was some debate between Mr. Hollingsworth and me regarding which daughter’s demise would cause more grief to Mrs. Webb.” Mr. Curtis nuzzled her jawline. “Ultimately, you won due to your death wounding both your mother and your fiancé.”
“Amelia wasn’t aware of your scheme?” Winifred leaned away from his stomach-churning, earthy stench.
A braying laugh burst from Mr. Curtis. “She truly believed Mr. Hollingsworth desired to rekindle his relationship with your sister. She even met with him before your kidnapping to offer advice on how to sway your sister’s mind toward marriage.”
I was correct not to trust Mr. Hollingsworth’s intentions.
However, that realization did nothing to save her from Mr. Curtis.
Straightening, Mr. Curtis tightened his hold and ascended the staircase, dragging Winifred with him. When they reached the second-floor landing, he whipped his arm forward and sent Winifred flying toward the attic stairs.
She flung her arms out, catching the doorframe and preventing herself from crashing into the steps. As she lowered her arms, the pistol jabbed her spine.
“Up you go,” said Mr. Curtis, moving directly behind her.
Winifred ascended the stairs one at a time, pausing on each step to bring her second foot in line with her first. After the fourth delay, he shoved past her, seizing her wrist as he brushed against her torso, and yanked, pulling Winifred up the remaining stairs and into the attic.
“Bring the chair to the center of the chamber.” He tossed her toward the overturned piece of furniture.
Wrapping her hands around the chair back, Winifred righted the chair and dragged the beleaguered piece of furniture to the demanded location. Then, without direction, she sat and folded her hands, setting them in her lap.
“Ask your questions,” she said, lifting her chin and locking eyes with Mr. Curtis.
Mr. Curtis clucked, shaking his head in a slow side-to-side movement. “Arms behind your back.”
As Winifred slid her arms around the chair, Mr. Curtis, eyes narrowed, strode to the chest and knelt, staring at the frayed rope she’d discarded on the floor.
“That will be one of my queries,” he said, rising and yanking at the knot in his cravat.
Once he succeeded in loosening the material, he removed the cravat from his throat and wrapped the soiled cloth around Winifred’s wrists, tightening the material until the edges bit into her skin.
“First question,” he said, as he rounded the chair. “Why would Mr. Hollingsworth forfeit his life for you, Miss Webb? What secret do you share?”
Winifred swallowed, her mind racing through potential explanations.
The cold muzzle of the pistol pressed against her forehead. “Do not lie to me, or the suffering you endure will have you begging for death long before I grant that desire.”