Page 47 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)

SILAS MORTON, DUKE OF BEAUFORT

S ilas’ chest squeezed as he rattled the locked door. How many minutes had passed since the faint gunshot echoed from inside the house?

He glanced over his shoulder at the snowy walk leading to the street. If he sought assistance, he’d be leaving Miss Fernsby-Webb—he refused to believe her dead—to Mr. Curtis’ cruel whims.

Abandoning the doorstep, Silas headed to his right, slogging through calf-deep snow as he approached the frosted drawing-room windows.

He stopped, rubbed the glass with his sleeve, and pressed his face to the smudged window, hoping to find Miss Fernsby-Webb.

However, his obstructed view revealed nothing but dark blobs.

There must be a solution.

Not too long ago, Miss Braddock found herself needing to enter her residence through a library window, and though Miss Braddock was considerably smaller than Silas, the idea seemed a possibility.

His fingers slid along the wooden frame, seeking the gap between the window and the sill. When he found the break, he dug his fingernails into the crevice and lifted, but the pane refused to slide.

Undeterred, he methodically moved along the drawing-room wall, checking each window in the hopes that one of them hadn’t been securely fastened prior to Mrs. Webb’s desperate departure for his residence. Each attempt brought renewed disappointment.

Moving to the library windows, Silas repeated the process, first wiping the glass and peering into the room to confirm the lack of inhabitants, then wedging his fingers beneath the pane and struggling to force the window open.

Each failure intensified the desperation coursing through his veins. If he didn’t discover a route into the house soon, he’d be returning with Miss Fernsby-Webb’s body.

“Perhaps I can break one,” he said, tapping on the glass pane with his knuckles.

He shifted his attention toward the front of the house. The long, tall drawing-room windows would provide the most space for him to slide through, as long as all the glass fell from the frame and neither Mr. Hollingsworth nor Mr. Curtis came to investigate the crash.

Scouring the ground for a rock large enough to shatter the glass, Silas trudged back along the same path, placing his shoes in the same footprints he’d created a few minutes earlier. His gaze fell on a dark stone, partially buried, near the corner of the residence.

He hurried toward the rock and dropped to his knees, digging his fingers into the snow. As he unearthed the rock, the top of a small sash window appeared at the base of the house. Eyes widening, he left off rescuing the stone and dove for the pane, shoving upward.

The window released a soft screech, complaining about its usage after innumerable months of neglect.

Lowering his head to the opening, Silas stuck his head through the space and listened for any whisper of movement inside the house. Silence greeted him.

The small gap left little room for Silas’s body.

He retracted his head, pushed the window up as far as the frame would allow, then removed his greatcoat and jacket, leaving the articles piled beside the corner.

After which, he ducked his head under the frame and leaned forward, allowing his weight to drag his torso into the chamber.

He hung suspended for a moment, his upper half inside the house and his lower half scrambling to join, then he tilted toward the floor and wiggled through the hole, landing in a graceless heap beside a bare mattress.

The only light in the chamber emanated from the window, and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim room.

It appeared to be a servant’s chamber, although the layer of dust coating the mattress suggested the room hadn’t been used in quite some time. Aside from the bed, no other furniture remained.

Crouching beside the mattress, he brushed his fingers over the shapeless rectangle, hoping to discover a piece of metal or anything that could be used as a weapon, but the bed only contained stalks of moldy straw.

He cursed under his breath and left off the search, fearing that every second he wasted before reaching Miss Fernsby-Webb increased the odds of her demise.

Lifting the latch, he opened the door an inch and peered through the tiny crack at the shadowy corridor. Finding the hallway empty, he slipped through the small space, leaving the door ajar to illuminate the corridor with the faint light streaming in through the window.

To his left, a dark doorway yawned, and the weak sunbeam slinking out of the bedchamber highlighted a portion of the bottom riser of a servants’ staircase. To his right, the dim corridor faded into thick shadows.

Though it seemed unlikely Miss Fernsby-Webb would be held on the basement floor, making that assumption could cost both of them their lives.

He pushed the bedchamber door open as wide as the rusting hinges would allow and inched down the hallway, keeping to the center so as not to crash into any undetected furniture. Stopping at the next doorway, he peered into the dark, windowless chamber.

His shoes scraped on the stone floor as he edged forward, the toe of his boot knocking into an empty glass bottle, which rolled away, crashed into a nearby wall, and shattered with a soft tinkle.

“Miss Fernsby-Webb?” The whispered question ricocheted around the small room. “Are you in here?”

No reply came.

Methodically checking every chamber, Silas completed the loop of the basement without uncovering any hint of Miss Fernsby-Webb or her captors.

Although after discovering the severe lack of physical possessions remaining on the floor, he did have serious misgivings about Mrs. Webb’s ability to manage her finances and increased concern for the safety of her daughters.

Setting his foot on the first riser of the servants’ staircase, Silas cringed as a raspy squeak echoed through the basement floor.

If either Mr. Curtis or Mr. Hollingsworth were near the top of the steps, Silas would lose the advantage of surprise, and lacking a weapon, he’d most likely find himself in a similar position as Miss Fernsby-Webb.

Seconds crawled by, and his mind filled with horrific images of Miss Fernsby-Webb’s lifeless body.

Forcing his legs up the staircase, his body tensing each time a step protested his weight, Silas reached the landing and smacked into a wall. A fraction of light crawled under a one-inch space beneath the wall.

His tongue trapped between his teeth, he ran his fingers over the wall, seeking a lever or handle. His hand brushed across cold metal, and he seized the lever, lifting it and pushing the partition outward.

The hidden door opened to reveal the first-floor corridor. Peering through the opening, Silas glanced to his right and left. Then, he slipped into the hallway and pushed the wall closed behind him.

Before investigating the rooms on the floor, Silas hastened toward the front door, picking his way through broken vase pieces, hyacinth petals, and shards of the entryway table.

He unlocked the latch, opened the door, and stepped onto the doorstep, hoping to see Roxburghe’s or Grisham’s coach on the street, but only unrecognizable vehicles greeted him.

He couldn’t wait for assistance to arrive—if they even knew which direction he’d run off when he chased Mr. Hollingsworth. Therefore, Silas closed the door, his gaze sliding across the entryway for any type of usable weapon.

None of the table fragments appeared large enough to cause any damage… unless he flung them at Mr. Hollingsworth and Mr. Curtis. However, Silas selected the largest piece anyway, knowing some type of armament would be better than none.

As he straightened, half of a table leg in his hand, a low moan crawled out of the chamber to the right of the foyer.

He crept over to the doorway and peered into what he assumed was the drawing room, although it, too, was bereft of furniture, containing only a worn, light blue and white floral rug.

On the corner of the rug, the center of his shirt stained crimson, an immobile Mr. Hollingsworth lay face up in a pool of blood.

Relief, and a small dosage of guilt, rushed through Silas’ veins at the realization that the gunshot he’d heard had been Mr. Curtis shooting Mr. Hollingsworth, not Miss Fernsby-Webb.

Mr. Hollingsworth moaned again, drawing Silas across the floor.

Silas knelt. However, before he could speak, Mr. Hollingsworth coughed, spraying a fine mist of blood into the air, and rolled his head toward Silas.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Hollingsworth managed before another coughing fit took him.

“Where is she?” Silas retrieved a handkerchief and wiped the blood from Mr. Hollingsworth’s mouth.

“The attic…” He coughed again and twisted away from Silas.

“There are no angels where I’m heading,” Mr. Hollingsworth said, his hand whipping up, grabbing Silas’ shirt, and dragging him closer. “Please forgive me, Your Grace. I’m a weak man.”

“It’s not my forgiveness that you should request, it’s Miss Fernsby-Webb’s… and Miss Webb’s.” Silas added the second name, uncertain if Mr. Hollingsworth knew he’d abducted the wrong sister.

“And their mother’s.” Mr. Hollingsworth coughed, released Silas, and fell back, his eyes rolling.

“Mrs. Webb wasn’t aware of this scheme?”

When he didn’t respond, Silas grabbed Mr. Hollingsworth and shook him. “Did Mrs. Webb know?”

“No,” Mr. Hollingsworth groaned, swatting at Silas’ hands. “She thought my appearance at your residence was merely to convince her stepdaughter that my second marriage proposal was sincere.”

Another coughing fit wracked his body, and his limbs went limp, his head drooping to the side. As Silas rose, Mr. Hollingsworth grabbed onto the cuff of Silas’ trouser leg.

“You must rescue Miss Fernsby-Webb,” Mr. Hollingsworth said, his eyes opening. “Mr. Curtis will kill her.”

“You know her true identity?” Silas’ stomach clenched. “Does Mr. Curtis?”

Mr. Hollingsworth drew in a shallow breath and murmured, “I didn’t inform him of the error.”