Page 48 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)

“When did you discover the truth?” Lowering himself to the ground, Silas leaned over Mr. Hollingsworth, nearly pressing an ear to the dying man’s lips.

“Before I took her,” said Mr. Hollingsworth, his raspy voice barely reaching Silas. “When she entered the stables instead of her sister. I should have stopped the scheme, but I was angry. She refused me for another man.”

“He’s a better man,” Silas replied, unable to hold his tongue.

“It was you, wasn’t it? The duke she intended to meet?” Mr. Hollingsworth crooked his arm and raised his hand from the floor. “Swear you’ll give her the life I couldn’t.”

Taking Mr. Hollingsworth’s hand, Silas squeezed tight. “I swear.”

“There’s one bullet remaining,” Mr. Hollingsworth said, succumbing to another body-shaking cough. “I didn’t trust Mr. Curtis and kept the rest of his ammunition. It appears my sentiment was correct.”

Mr. Hollingsworth coughed again, his chest rising one final time before he stilled, his open eyes fixated on the ceiling.

Silas laid Mr. Hollingsworth’s arm across his chest, then leaned over the body and added the second arm. Before Silas rose, he brushed his fingers over Mr. Hollingsworth’s eyelids, closing them permanently.

A muffled cry echoed down the main staircase, and Silas raced to the drawing-room doorway.

Prudence winning out—which could be attributed to Mansfield’s constant cautionary advice, although Silas had no intention of revealing that—he paused and peered around the edge, his gaze sliding over the corridor.

Once he was certain that Mr. Curtis remained upstairs with Miss Fernsby-Webb, Silas crept out of the drawing room and snuck up the main staircase, pressing his body against the wall to avoid detection.

Pausing on the second-floor landing, Silas held his breath, listening for Mr. Curtis and Miss Fernsby-Webb. The muffled scrape of shoes moved across the floor above him. A moment later, a soft whimper slipped down the attic stairs.

Silas was halfway up the next staircase before he realized he’d moved.

In the center of the room sat Miss Fernsby-Webb, her arms bound behind her back, her clothing torn, and her bare feet hovering roughly two feet from the ground.

“Kick me again,” Mr. Curtis seethed from outside Silas’ viewpoint, “and I’ll shoot you in the head.”

“You intend to shoot me anyway,” Miss Fernsby-Webb replied, her gaze locked on Mr. Curtis.

“Not until you finish answering my questions.” The left sleeve of Mr. Curtis’ dark gray box coat floated past the doorway.

“And as long as you possess those queries, I will remain alive.”

Arm raised, Mr. Curtis darted forward. Miss Fernsby-Webb’s heel sank into his stomach, and he fell back with a curse.

Silas shifted his position, edging up one riser, and Miss Fernsby-Webb’s gaze flicked to the right. She gasped, her chocolate brown eyes rounding.

“Run,” she mouthed.

He shook his head and crouched down as Mr. Curtis stalked toward the back of the chair.

“No one is coming to rescue you,” Mr. Curtis said, scowling as Miss Fernsby-Webb planted one foot and twisted the chair around, keeping her other leg raised.

“Of course they are.” Smirking, she turned the chair again. “The Duke of Roxburghe possesses resources you could only dream of owning. He’ll find me.”

“When he does, your dead body will greet him.” Mr. Curtis lunged, but Miss Fernsby-Webb reacted faster, twisting the chair around and slamming her foot into his thigh.

She couldn’t hold him off indefinitely, and Silas needed a better weapon against a pistol than a piece of wood. As he slunk down the stairs, he stepped on a riser that let out an ear-splitting creak.

“Mr. Hollingsworth?” Mr. Curtis came to the top of the attic staircase. “Are you still with us?”

Silas darted around the corner, ran to the farthest bedchamber, and opened the door, slipping through the crack. He closed the door with a soft click, then spun around, his gaze sliding over an unmade bed, a worn writing desk, and a faded armoire.

This must be Mrs. Webb’s bedchamber.

When Mr. Curtis’ footsteps pounded down the stairs, Silas hastened across the floor and ducked down on the opposite side of the bed, lying flat on the floor.

“Where did you get off to?” Mr. Curtis asked, his confusion evident as he stopped on the second-floor landing. “Are you hiding downstairs?”

He descended the main staircase, stopping again at the base and calling out for Mr. Hollingsworth.

When Mr. Curtis entered the drawing room, Silas popped up and rushed across the bedchamber to the small writing desk. He ripped open the drawers and shoved his fingers into the recesses, seeking Mrs. Webb’s quill set and the quill knife he hoped to find inside.

However, he found neither the quill set nor an ink pot.

Could he sneak into the next bedchamber and search the room before Mr. Curtis returned?

Silas hastened to the door, cracked it open, leaned into the corridor, and froze as Mr. Curtis’ bewilderment whipped up the staircase.

“That’s impossible,” he said, his words accompanied by the dull thud of Mr. Hollingsworth’s body being flipped onto its stomach. “How could you be upstairs on the staircase and dead in the drawing room at the same moment? Unless…”

Mr. Curtis issued a low curse and rushed from the room.

Pulling back, Silas closed the door and tiptoed across the chamber, retreating to his hiding place as Mr. Curtis’ shoes hammered the main staircase.

When Mr. Curtis reached the second-floor landing, he raced down the corridor, heading for the bedchamber in the opposite direction of Silas. Thirty seconds later, Mr. Curtis emerged from the far chamber and entered the second room, his footsteps beating a small circle on the floorboards.

Only one more room separated them.

Silas squished his bulk against the bed frame, hiding himself beneath the edge of a thin, pale-blue coverlet as the door to the chamber beside his opened.

A moment later, footsteps echoed outside the room in which Silas hid. When the door opened, Mr. Curtis entered, and Silas held his breath, hoping to avoid detection. However, unlike the other chambers, Mr. Curtis didn’t leave after a few seconds.

Peeking out from beneath the coverlet, Silas peered around the bottom of the mattress, finding Mr. Curtis rotating in a slow circle, his dark gaze inspecting every inch of the room. As Mr. Curtis turned, his black eyes dropped to the bed and locked on Silas.