Page 7 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
SILAS MORTON, DUKE OF BEAUFORT
“Y our Grace?” Mrs. Upton’s hesitant voice stopped Silas as he turned away from her coach. “There’s something I must share with you about Miss Juliette, and I pray it doesn’t sway your decision to keep her.”
“Have you introduced a thief into my home?” he growled, pushing the driver aside and glowering into the cabin. “Take her away this instant!”
Mrs. Upton paled and shrank into the coach’s corner, her eyes rounding. “It’s nothing of the sort, Your Grace. Miss Juliette is an exceptional child. If she were anything else, I’d have taken her straight to the workhouse.”
“Then, what is your concern?” Silas softened his tone.
“She screams.” Mrs. Upton scooted forward on the bench and gestured to the seat across from her.
That wasn’t what he expected.
“All the time?” he asked, climbing into the coach.
“Solely at night.” Glancing toward the house, Mrs. Upton twisted her fingers together, clenching them until they turned white. “As you were not aware of Miss Juliette, I’m certain you’re also not aware of the details of her mother’s death.”
Silas shook his head.
“Miss Juliette was with her mother when she passed.” A shudder rolled through Mrs. Upton. “The scream still haunts me.”
“Was the death traumatic?”
“She fell ill and simply stopped breathing, Your Grace.” Mrs. Upton shrugged. “However, Miss Juliette claims something much more sinister occurred that evening. She blamed her mother’s death on a man named Mr. Black.”
“Black?” Silas sifted through years of introductions. “I don’t recall the name.”
“Nor did I,” Mrs. Upton sighed, adding a tiny shake of her head. “However, no matter how many times we pressed, Miss Juliette replied in kind.”
“Did you ask for a description?”
Mrs. Upton choked. “From a nine-year-old?”
“She was the only witness.” Silas tilted his head, mildly amused by the woman’s obvious struggle to hold her opinion in the presence of a duke.
“Dark hair. Dark eyes. Deep voice.”
“That could be any number of men,” he exploded, flinging his arms up. “That could be the Duke of Mansfield!”
The corner of Mrs. Upton’s mouth twitched. “As I said, Your Grace, Miss Juliette is a child, given to fanciful notions. The physician suggested, in time, she’d overcome these false memories.”
“Until then, she’ll scream?” His gaze slid to the house, framed by the coach’s open doorway.
How does one explain the sudden appearance of a troubled child?
“Not every night.”
“Pardon?” He shifted his attention back to Mrs. Upton.
“We couldn’t determine what triggered Miss Juliette’s episodes. Some nights would be peaceful, others…” Mrs. Upton swiped her fingers under her eyes and cleared her throat. “Even with this defect, will you keep her, Your Grace?”
“I will.” Silas nodded once, surprised by the overpowering desire to shelter the tiny girl. “I ask one favor in return.”
“Anything, Your Grace.” Mrs. Upton’s stern features lit with joy.
“Do not repeat what we’ve discussed regarding my daughter’s delicate condition.” Silas leveled a hard gaze at Mrs. Upton. “She’ll heal quicker if others are not aware of the difficulty.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Upton replied, glancing at the driver pacing impatiently outside the coach.
Silas climbed from the cabin and strode toward the house. He didn’t turn around as Mrs. Upton’s carriage departed.
Had Juliette spoken the truth? If a Mr. Black murdered her mother and that man learned Juliette witnessed the crime, then she was in grave danger… and so was every other guest in attendance.
He opened the door and headed for his office, his sole focus to interrogate— did one do that to a child —Juliette. Ignoring the riotous laughter pouring from the parlor, Silas entered his office and swore.
The room was empty.
Turning in a slow circle, his gaze inspected every potential hiding place in the office, but there was no hint of his daughter. When his attention landed on his desk, he swore again... the letter regarding Juliette’s paternity had also vanished.
Where could she have gone?
A second bout of laughter rolled down the hallway, drawing Silas from his office. He hurried toward the sound, skidded to a stop in front of the closed door, and burst into the parlor, Juliette’s name hovering on his tongue.
Four pairs of eyes locked on him.
Lennox lowered the compress he’d pressed to his face. “Something troubling you, Beaufort?”
“Aside from that bruise?” Silas retorted, causing Lennox to scowl as he flung a card toward the center of the table.
“Your Grace,” Miss Venning’s soft voice chided, “you must keep the aloe concoction on your face for at least thirty minutes more.”
“There seems to be some type of ill fortune attached to this cloth,” Lennox grumbled, raising the compress to his eye. “I haven’t won a single hand during this game.”
“Perhaps,” Warwick said, disturbing his cane as he threw a higher card on top of Lennox’s, “it is you who is unlucky.”
“Unhappily, Your Graces,” Mr. Venning chuckled and added his own card to the pile, “or rather, happily, neither of you possesses enough good fortune today to best me.”
“I nominate Beaufort,”—Lennox gestured to Silas with the compress—“to take my seat before I lose all my funds to Mr. Venning.”
“I regret that I cannot be your champion tonight, Lennox.” Silas nodded toward a dark-haired man hiding behind a book in the corner of the room. “Have you considered asking Mansfield for assistance? I’m certain he’s read about the subject.”
“I have.” Mansfield’s deep growl rumbled across the floor. “However, I have no desire to impart that wisdom to Lennox.”
Cupping his hand around his mouth, Lennox leaned over and loudly hissed, “Mansfield is sore because my coach arrived before his.”
“Your driver cheated!” Mansfield snapped the book shut and rose.
“Impossible!” Standing, Lennox bumped the table with his thighs, disturbing the tumblers that rested atop and sloshing Mr. Venning’s drink onto the tablecloth. “There were no specified rules for our race.”
“Your Graces,” Mr. Venning said, snatching his glass before more liquid spilled, “while I do enjoy a spirited conversation, the Duke of Beaufort has provided a fine whiskey for the festivities, and I loathe to waste it. Pray, what is the disagreement?”
“Lennox’s driver,”—striding toward the table, Mansfield slashed his arm at Lennox—“drove his coach into my driver’s path and sent us careening off the road.”
His face expressionless, Mr. Venning’s gaze slid to Lennox. “Was this by your direction?”
“I merely instructed Mr. Spencer not to lose.” Lennox grinned, then retook his seat. “Perhaps Mansfield should employ a more skillful driver.”
“Mr. Elford is a fine coachman.” Fire blazed in Mansfield’s dark eyes. “If winning wasn’t your sole focus?—”
“My ten-thousand-pound loss to you proves otherwise.” Gathering the cards into a stack, Lennox lifted his hard gaze and glowered at Mansfield. “As does the bruise adorning my face.”
“Your loss isn’t just to me,” Mansfield said, indicating Warwick and Silas in turn. “There are three of us splitting the prize.”
“Currently,” Silas said, his mouth curving into a grin. “However, I expect that to change soon.”
“Why?” Warwick tilted his head, his gaze sliding over Silas. “Have you come to announce your engagement as well?”
“And who would you attach to me?” Silas gestured toward the only lady in the room. “Surely, Miss Venning would prefer someone more…”
“Sensible, Your Grace,” Miss Venning said as she laid a coin in the center of the table.
Her father gasped, and Silas’ friends—although he doubted that they currently deserved the moniker—shook with laughter.
Biting back the curse word he longed to fling at them, Silas turned and stalked from the parlor. He still needed to find Juliette.
“Beaufort!” Lennox chased him across the foyer.
Exhaling a deep breath, Silas stopped and waited at the base of the staircase.
“Something you need?” he asked when Lennox reached the bottom step.
“Have you sorted things out?” A slight furrow in his brow, Lennox tipped his head toward Silas’ office.
“Not quite.” Grimacing, Silas glanced at the parlor doorway and lowered his voice. “I’ve lost my daughter.”
“That didn’t take much time.” Lennox chuckled.
Silas’ eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall raising children as an activity in which you have much practice.”
“I know not to lose one.”
“I am not amused!” Silas slammed his hand on the banister post.
The jesting attitude melted from Lennox’s face. “I’ll search the downstairs. You can inspect the chambers upstairs under the guise of greeting your guests. We’ll reconvene in your office in thirty minutes.”
Heart pumping, Silas took the steps two at a time, racing up the staircase. When he reached the second-floor landing, his chest tightened as his gaze slid along roughly ten closed chamber doors.
Juliette could be hiding in any one of them…
A tendril of mirth crept into the corridor, drawing Silas’ curiosity. He stole down the hallway, froze outside of the chamber, his body hidden by the doorframe, and peered into the room.
Crouched on the floor between Miss Webb and Miss Fernsby-Webb, Juliette sorted through a colorful mess of ribbons.
She held up two different hues. “I don’t know which to choose.”
“Take them both,” Miss Fernsby-Webb replied, leaning over and picking out two matching ribbons. “Nora and I have too many between us.”
Stepping into the chamber, Silas cleared his throat.
Three heads turned.
“Your Grace,” Miss Fernsby-Webb said, rising to her feet and adding a curtsey. “We’ve just met… your daughter.”
Silas inclined his head, acknowledging the truth of the statement. “And I thank you for keeping Juliette entertained while I searched for her.”
Lip quivering, Juliette dropped the ribbons and stood, tucking her hands behind her back as she lowered her head. “I shouldn’t have left your office, Your Grace.”
“Father,” Silas replied, the word sticking in his throat. “Or Papa, if you prefer.”