Page 74 of Never Besmirch a Wallflower: Dukes and Wallflowers

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EVELINE/HELENA

“Are you intoxicated?” The Duke of Lennox stormed over to the other sleigh, his boots punishing the snow beneath his feet.

The Duke of Mansfield, wearing a scowl similar to that of the Duke of Lennox, snarled, “We haven’t had a drop.”

“Yet the two of you are the only ones to witness this phenomenon twice.” The Duke of Lennox slammed his fist on the edge of the sled. “Explain that.”

“Mr. Northcutt,” the Duke of Warwick said, his voice tight, “was present this time.”

“Where is Mr. Northcutt now?” The Duke of Lennox glanced at Helena, a deep line carving itself into his forehead.

The Duke of Mansfield flashed a dark grin. “He and Mrs. Grove are taking a temporary respite at Roxburghe’s home.”

“And,” the Duke of Warwick said, climbing back into the sleigh and resuming his seat, “Mansfield swore that I could inform Roxburghe thus.”

Grimacing, the Duke of Lennox shook his head. “I won’t steal your amusement.”

“Lennox.” Placing a hand on the Duke of Lennox’s chest, the Duke of Mansfield stopped him from crossing the street and leaned close. “From a distance, it appeared you might be losing our wager. Are you?”

Helena’s breath caught, and she strained her ears, waiting for the Duke of Lennox’s answer.

“If I were, Roxburghe would ensure an announcement appeared in the morning’s newspaper.” The Duke of Lennox dropped his gaze, glowering at the hand splayed across his chest. “Presently, I’m not certain I trust your eyes.”

His gaze flicked to the Duke of Warwick. “Either of them.”

The Duke of Warwick rose to his feet, banging his cane against the side of the sleigh. “I know what I saw.”

“And what did you see?” the Duke of Lennox asked, his face less than an inch from the Duke of Warwick’s.

“A man, the same as before, with dark hair and a thin face.” The Duke of Warwick lifted his chin. “He came straight toward us.”

“Did he see you?”

The Duke of Warwick exchanged a glance with the Duke of Mansfield. “Not at first…”

“Mr. Northcutt,” the Duke of Mansfield said, taking over when a coughing fit stole the Duke of Warwick’s voice, “discovered us transporting Warwick’s trunk through the foyer and offered to assist. When he relieved Warwick of his side of the trunk, we heard the parlor door creak open.”

After retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket, the Duke of Warwick wiped the cloth across his mouth and then drew in a shaky breath.

“We turned,” he said, his weak voice barely reaching Helena, “and the three of us watched a man exit the parlor. He lifted his head, caught us staring, and floated toward us.”

“What did you do?” the Duke of Lennox asked, sagging against the sled.

“We dropped the trunk and ran.” The Duke of Warwick frowned as though he thought their response should be obvious.

The Duke of Lennox’s head swiveled between the two men. “How did Mrs. Grove escape?”

“She wasn’t present.” The Duke of Mansfield walked to the runners and stepped onto them. “Mr. Northcutt agreed to intercept her at the market and bring her to Roxburghe’s lodgings.”

“Of which,” the Duke of Warwick said, a faint smile tugging his lips, “we’ll inform Roxburghe the moment we find him.”

Chuckling, the Duke of Lennox pointed toward a small hill in the distance. “He’s racing Beaufort…”

As he spoke, a cloud of snow exploded at the base of the hill, followed by an ear-splitting screech.

“Go!” The Duke of Lennox turned and raced back to Helena, his face gray.