Page 50 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)

“If you want to convince the Duke of Beaufort,” Winifred replied, rubbing the soles of her feet together to warm them, “and my sister, of this message’s merit, the missive should be written in my hand.”

Frowning, Mr. Curtis glanced between one line scrawled on the paper and Winifred. “You don’t think a bloody handprint will suffice?”

“Considering Mr. Hollingsworth’s first error in abducting the wrong woman,”—Winifred made certain to lay the blame solely on Mr. Hollingsworth—“a letter in my handwriting would prevent any delay due to the question of authenticity.”

“Again, Miss Fernsby-Webb, I’m surprised by your intellect.” Mr. Curtis clucked his tongue, deposited the quill in the ink pot, removed the quill knife from the box, and rose from the floor. “It’s a pity we were introduced under these circumstances; I think we could have become quite a team.”

She tried to force the sentence through her lips, but her tongue refused to form the words that would offer herself to Mr. Curtis as a future partner and lover.

Mr. Curtis moved behind her, set the pistol on the floor, and yanked the rope restraining her wrists toward himself.

“If you run,” he said, slicing the knife through the thick binding, “I will shoot you. Missive or no, I have no patience for your continued nonsense. Do you understand?”

Winifred nodded.

When the rope dropped from her arms, she brought her hands to her lap and, with a grateful moan, gently rubbed the raw skin where the binding had grated her wrists.

“No delaying,” Mr. Curtis said as he picked up the gun and gestured with the barrel. “I prefer to be free of this city by the morrow.”

“You must give the Duke of Beaufort some time to collect the funds,” Winifred replied, sliding from the chair and crawling toward the paper.

“Why? The Duke of Roxburghe managed to meet my schedule.” Mr. Curtis sank onto the chair and stabbed the quill knife into a floorboard nearest the seat’s front leg.

“How do you think he secured that sum so quickly?” Winifred glanced back at Mr. Curtis. “His friends donated the amount.”

“Then, they can do so again,” Mr. Curtis replied, setting his ankle atop his opposite leg and training the pistol on Winifred. “Pick up the quill.”

Winifred complied, wiping the tip on the side of the ink pot before positioning her hand over the parchment. “Is there anything specific you want written?”

“Write exactly what you suggested. And remember,” Mr. Curtis’ foot dropped to the floor, and he leaned forward, “if I read anything in that missive that appears to be a hint regarding your location?—”

“You’ll kill me,” Winifred said, rolling her eyes as she twisted back to paper.

“Have I become that predictable?” Mr. Curtis chuckled as the quill scratched across the parchment.

“It does seem to be your favorite threat.” She dipped the quill in the ink pot again.

“It’s the most effective.”

Winifred didn’t reply. She swore something moved in the attic staircase shadows, but when she forced her eyes to focus on the darkness, no discernible shapes appeared.

“At what are you staring?” Shoving the chair back as he rose, Mr. Curtis stomped across the floor, his heel crushing a portion of the parchment as the paper curled toward Winifred.

If she admitted to seeing someone, Mr. Curtis would scour the house top to bottom, and if the Duke of Beaufort managed to convey her location by now, she’d ruin her final chance for rescue. However, if she said nothing, he’d think she was hiding information.

“I didn’t know my mother took in a cat,” said Winifred, lifting her head. “It was shocking to see two little yellow eyes staring back at me.”

“A cat?” Mr. Curtis dragged out the words as though repeating them would help him determine if Winifred was telling the truth.

“A little black one,” she said, selecting a color she knew couldn’t be seen in the dark.

He stroked his chin, his eyes sweeping the steps. “I suppose that would explain why I heard something earlier but didn’t discover anyone in the residence.”

Mr. Curtis hadn’t found the Duke of Beaufort. Winifred’s heart leaped. She just had to survive a few more hours.

“Have you finished?” Mr. Curtis stepped over the paper as he returned to the chair.

“Where do you want to exchange the greatcoats?” Sitting back on her legs, Winifred returned the quill to the ink pot and peered over her shoulder at Mr. Curtis. “The location needs to be a highly populous place, where the coats won’t accidentally, or purposefully, be taken by someone else.”

“The gentlemen’s club that the Duke of Roxburghe frequents will suffice for this exercise.”

“Are you certain?” Winifred asked, her hand stopping short of the quill. “There’s only one entrance. The Duke of Beaufort could trap you inside, capture you, and send you to prison to hang.”

Mr. Curtis’ face paled. “And how would you know about the building’s structure?”

“Nora snuck into the club several months ago.” Winifred shrugged.

Bending at the waist, Mr. Curtis erupted in riotous laughter.

When he finally drew in a breath, he sat back and wiped his eyes. “Your family is quite scandalous.”

Winifred ignored his jab. “May I offer a different suggestion?”

“Certainly.” Setting the gun on his lap, Mr. Curtis folded his hands on top of the weapon. “Where do you think I should meet the Duke of Beaufort?”

“At the far end of the park, nearest the pond.” Winifred retrieved the quill and scrawled the location beneath her first sentence. “It’ll be busiest during the afternoon when those who enjoy skating brave the cold weather for a few turns. Shall I set the time for tomorrow?”

“Midday,” Mr. Curtis replied, leaning over and yanking the knife from the floor. “Add your mark at the bottom.”

Winifred signed the parchment, then leaned back, expecting Mr. Curtis to collect the letter. However, instead of retrieving the paper, he stopped directly behind her and placed the pistol to the back of her head.

“Since you’ve proven yourself adept at escape, I doubt you’ll be waiting here when I return from sending that missive.

” Keeping the muzzle against her scalp, he took one step backward.

“And since evidence of your life isn’t required for the exchange, this is the moment we part from each other’s company. ”

Mr. Curtis pulled the trigger. The pistol clicked, but nothing exploded from the chamber.

He must have neglected to reload the first barrel after killing Mr. Hollingsworth… Winifred’s heart leaped. The gun was empty.

“Devil take it!” Mr. Curtis flung the pistol across the chamber, then shifted the quill knife to his dominant hand.

However, before he slashed his arm downward, the attic steps creaked, and he lifted his head with a frown, his gaze searching the shadows.

With Mr. Curtis distracted, Winifred launched herself from the floor and smashed her shoulder into Mr. Curtis’ chest. He fell backward with a groan, pulling Winifred with him as the quill knife skittered out of reach.

Scrambling off Mr. Curtis, Winifred crawled toward the knife and stretched out her arm, the tips of her fingers brushing against the knife’s cool metal.

Mr. Curtis reacted more quickly than she anticipated. He seized her ankle and ripped her away from the weapon, dragging her halfway across the floor. Then, he flipped her onto her back and knelt, pinning her legs to the floor.

His hands encircled her neck and squeezed.

She clawed at his fingers, gouging the skin with her nails, but Mr. Curtis’ iron grip refused to release her throat. As darkness crawled into her vision, his maniacal laughter surrounded her.

Strength seeping from her body, her hands released their grip, her arms dropped to her sides, and her head rolled to the right, her gaze landing on a murky blob hovering in the doorway.

Before her oxygen-starved brain could determine the shadow’s outline, the specter hurled itself toward Mr. Curtis, knocking him off of Winifred as she succumbed to unconsciousness.