Page 51 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)

SILAS MORTON, DUKE OF BEAUFORT

I ’m too late.

Rolling across the floor, Mr. Curtis locked in an inescapable grip, Silas’ heart screamed. Miss Fernsby-Webb’s body lay several feet away, motionless and pale.

His hesitation had cost Miss Fernsby-Webb her life, and since he hadn’t informed anyone else of his destination, the decision to attack Mr. Curtis could very well cause Silas to lose his as well.

And that would leave Juliette without a mother or a father; both parents taken from her by the same man.

Though he was quite certain Miss Webb and Roxburghe would step forward as guardians, Silas preferred that he remained in control of Juliette’s future. Which meant that he was going to have to fight, not just grapple, with Mr. Curtis.

If Mansfield or Roxburghe were to take on the blaggard, Silas had no doubt that either friend would win. Even Lennox possessed some skill, having used his talents—and his face—to protect Miss Braddock from a violent connection, but Silas never needed force… until this moment.

The only advice Mansfield provided, after an exceptionally short sparring session, was that Silas should rely on his wits and his smooth tongue instead of his fists.

He was quite certain pretty words wouldn’t convince Mr. Curtis to renounce his criminal actions.

Flipping Mr. Curtis onto his back, Silas pushed up and swung his arm, connecting with Mr. Curtis’ face in a sickening crunch.

Instead of groaning, Mr. Curtis grinned, his foul breath wrapping around Silas. “My mother hit me harder when I was a boy.”

Silas struck him again, landing two blows in quick succession.

However, before he punched Mr. Curtis a fourth time, Mr. Curtis shoved Silas off, rolled away, and scrambled to his feet.

The breath knocked from his lungs, Silas struggled to stand and stumbled toward the doorway, placing himself between Mr. Curtis and the exit.

“Who are you?” Mr. Curtis asked, his gaze flicking to the staircase beyond Silas.

“Silas Morton, Duke of Beaufort.” Silas inclined his head once.

“Ah, Your Grace.” Mr. Curtis bowed low. “Miss Fernsby-Webb mentioned that her fiancé would be interested in her whereabouts.”

Her fiancé? What had Miss Fernsby-Webb told Mr. Curtis?

“I’m surprised,” Mr. Curtis said, his eyes locked on Silas, “that you discovered us. Pray, how did you come to learn we were hiding in Mrs. Webb’s residence?”

“I followed Mr. Hollingsworth after he attacked Roxburghe outside the gaming hall.”

“Damn fool.” Mr. Curtis shook his head. “I never should have depended upon him.”

“From what I witnessed,” Silas said, keeping his fists raised, “he shouldn’t have trusted you, either.”

“What did he tell you?” Mr. Curtis took a step toward Silas.

“That your pistol only had one shot remaining, and you didn’t know where he’d hidden the bullets.” The corner of Silas’ mouth crooked. “I heard the second gunshot.”

“I don’t need a gun to kill someone.”

“Neither do I.” Silas lifted his chin. “I will see you hanged for the murders of Miss Fernsby-Webb and Miss Ridlington.”

“Miss Ridlington?” A tiny pucker appeared on Mr. Curtis’ forehead. “I don’t recall the name.”

“You should,” Silas growled, stalking forward. “You left her daughter without a mother, and the Hills sent that poor, suffering child to a workhouse.”

A light flashed in Mr. Curtis’ dark eyes. “Are you speaking about that whip of a chit who used to spy on me during my residency at the Hills?”

“My daughter,” Silas said, emphasizing the words, “witnessed the atrocities you committed upon her mother.”

“The fanciful notions of a child?—”

“Who was hiding in the chamber during each attack and sketched her mother’s killer with such accuracy that we were able to provide your likeness to the parish constable.” A bold lie, but Silas doubted Mr. Curtis would verify the accuracy of the statement.

The faint sheen of sweat appeared on Mr. Curtis’ face, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other as though judging his body’s ability to overtake, then outrun Silas. “No magistrate will accept her word as evidence. She’s a bastard.”

“Juliette is the daughter of a duke, and even if her account is dismissed due to age or circumstance, my title holds enough weight to have you accused of and arrested for the crime.” Silas took another step toward Mr. Curtis.

“Do you think the Hills will support your claim when faced with permanent ostracization from society?”

“You’re bluffing.” Mr. Curtis edged away from Silas. “You don’t have that amount of influence over the ton .”

“I do.” Silas’ lip curled. “I possess powerful friends, Mr. Curtis.”

“None of whom appear to support your reckless cause,” Mr. Curtis replied, his gaze sliding to Miss Fernsby-Webb.

He shouldn’t have taken his eyes from Mr. Curtis, but the prospect that Miss Fernsby-Webb might still be alive caused him to shift his attention to her lovely face. Her chest dipped, the slight movement bolstering Silas’ hopes.

If only she would wake.

A heavy weight slammed into Silas’ torso, and he stumbled backward, crashing into the wall. Before he could defend himself, Mr. Curtis swung his arm, his fist striking Silas’ cheek. Silas’ head rebounded off the thin layer of lime plaster coating the attic partition.

Mr. Curtis spun, took two steps toward the doorway.

Silas flung his body between Mr. Curtis and the exit, grabbing Mr. Curtis’ shoulders and throwing him away from the staircase.

Struggling to maintain his balance, Mr. Curtis danced backward, nearly stepping on Miss Fernsby-Webb in his attempt to remain upright.

As Mr. Curtis regained his footing, Silas eliminated the distance between them, snapped his fist, and, with every ounce of hatred pouring through him, whacked Mr. Curtis’s smug chin.

His eyes rolled backward, and Mr. Curtis dropped to the floor without a sound.

Silas stepped over Mr. Curtis’ unconscious body and knelt beside Winifred, lifting her torso from the floor. He brushed several dark brown strands of hair from her face, tucking the pieces behind her ear.

“Please,” he said, his thumb sliding over her lips, “open your eyes, Winifred.”

Only silence answered him.

Leaning over, he touched his mouth to hers. With a gasp, Miss Fernsby-Webb jerked upright into a sitting position. Her head whipped toward him, the terror in her eyes fading.

“You’re late,” she said, a tiny smile cracking her face. “I expected you yesterday.”

“Forgive my tardiness,” he replied, his grin matching hers. “It took a while to determine your exact location.”

“Is the Duke of Roxburghe with you?”

“He’s recovering from an injury caused by Mr. Hollingsworth.

” Silas took her hand and skimmed his lips across her knuckles, relishing the tingles that accompanied the intimate action.

“I’m certain he’ll return to his usual ornery disposition in no time.

However, before I deliver you to your sister’s care, there’s something we need to discuss. ”

“Are you angry with me?” Miss Fernsby-Webb withdrew her hand from his.

“For falling victim to Mr. Curtis’ ruse… certainly not.” Silas retook her hand. “I wish to speak about the rumor that we’re engaged.”

Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, Miss Fernsby-Webb lowered her gaze as a light pink blush exploded across her cheeks. “That was for protection. I needed a distraction to prevent Mr. Curtis from killing me.”

Silas hooked his finger under her chin and lifted her face, his eyes searching hers. “Do you still wish to be engaged to me?”

“You haven’t asked…”

Eyes widening, Miss Fernsby-Webb screamed, and blinding pain exploded in Silas’ shoulder.

Reaching up, Silas’ fingers closed around the quill knife’s hilt. However, before he could pull the blade from his body, Mr. Curtis seized Silas from behind, flung him away from Miss Fernsby-Webb, then pounced on him, landing two quick blows to Silas’ head.

They rolled across the floor, snarling at each other like wild animals. As they completed a rotation, Mr. Curtis grasped the knife handle and yanked the blade from Silas’ shoulder. Silas yelled out, his arm numbing as blood poured from the wound.

Mr. Curtis swung again, his fist colliding with Silas’ right eye. With black spots dancing through Silas’ vision, Mr. Curtis leaned back, raised the knife high in the air, and brought the blade down with lethal force, aiming for Silas’ heart.

Silas’ arms whipped up, and he grabbed Mr. Curtis’ wrists, stopping the knife from slicing through his muslin shirt. The tip pressed into Silas’ chest, threatening to impale him.

Laughing, Mr. Curtis leaned all his weight forward, driving the knife through Silas’ shirt. “I’ve never taken the life of a duke before. I do hope it will be as enjoyable as killing your fiancée.”

As the blade pierced his skin, Miss Fernsby-Webb released an ear-splitting shriek, rushed across the chamber, and leaped onto Mr. Curtis’ back. Weaving her hand through his dark hair, she closed her fist around the strands and yanked.

Mr. Curtis’ head flew backward. He dropped the knife, narrowly missing Silas’ torso, rose, and spun around, attempting to dislodge Miss Fernsby-Webb.

Digging her fingernails into Mr. Curtis’ skin, she tightened her hold on him.

With a yell, Mr. Curtis turned and ran backward into a wall, smashing Miss Fernsby-Webb against the hard surface. His efforts did little to dislodge her, who, taking advantage of her current position, adjusted her grip and locked her legs around his torso by hooking her ankles together.

“One of us is going to die today,” she said, her voice filled with grim determination.

“Agreed.” His eyes glittered with malice, and he danced away from the wall, whipping them around in blurry circles.

As he spun, Miss Fernsby-Webb pummeled his head, cuffing his ears and any other portion of his body within striking distance of her fists.