Page 117 of Never Beguile a Duke
She wasn’t. What she was certain of was Nora’s tenacity.
“How would you propose we convince the Duke of Beaufort of the necessity of a second payment?” Mr. Curtis walked behind the chair, trailing his fingers over Winifred’s shoulders.
“Send another missive.” She struggled not to shudder as he wove his hand into her hair. “Thank the Duke of Roxburghe for his payment and advise him that his fiancée is already in his care. Then, address the Duke of Beaufort and explain that you have discovered something of his in your possession that you would be happy to return for fifty thousand pounds.”
“Interesting suggestion,” said Mr. Curtis, releasing her hair and continuing his circle around the chair. “And where would you propose I meet the Duke of Beaufort?”
“I suppose my mother’s drawing room isn’t a suitable location?”
“Not unless you intend Mr. Hollingsworth’s body to participate.” The corner of Mr. Curtis’ mouth lifted when Winifred gasped. “Have you a different suggestion?”
“A coat exchange.” Winifred chewed on her lower lip. “If you directed the Duke of Beaufort to place the money in a greatcoat and then leave that coat at a specific, public location. You could retrieve the coat without too much suspicion and leave one with the address of my whereabouts.”
An address the Duke of Beaufort and his friends would have prior to the delivery of this third missive, as long as the Duke of Beaufort arrived at his residence before the letter.
Mr. Curtis stroked his chin. “You’ve quite an intelligent mind, Miss Fernsby-Webb. I understand why Mr. Hollingsworth was enamored with you.”
After a long moment, he held out his hand, as though intending to shake Winifred’s, then he giggled and pumped his arm, shaking the empty air. “I’ll accept your proposal and allow you to live a while longer. Would you wait here while I retrieve some parchment and ink from downstairs?”
Laughing, Mr. Curtis descended the attic steps. He stopped on the second-floor landing for a minute, then continued downward, his heavy, plodding footfall fading as he wandered down the corridor toward the rear of the house.
“Silas,” Winifred hissed when she could no longer discern Mr. Curtis’ movements. “Are you still here?”
Heart hammering, Winifred tipped her head toward the doorway, straining to pick up any indication that the Duke of Beaufort was inside the house. She didn’t expect a reply, and yet, with each passing second, another wave of despondency settled in her chest.
Had he chosen the most prudent path and departed in search of reinforcements?
“If you can hear me, I’ve changed my mind.” One tear leaked from her eye and slid down her cheek. “I don’t want to die without marrying the man who loves me… without marrying you.”
Footsteps echoed on the main staircase.
Clamping her mouth shut, Winifred shifted in the chair, feigning as though she’d spent her time occupied with discomfort as Mr. Curtis’ feet pounded up the attic steps.
A moment later, he entered, clutching a piece of parchment and a quill set, similar to the one Winifred discovered in the chest. Squatting near the doorway, Mr. Curtis spread out the parchment, securing the top to the floor with the quill set box and the bottom portion with his knee.
After opening the box, he selected a quill, dipped the tip into the ink, then lifted his dark eyes to Winifred. “Do you think it best to address both dukes together or separately?”
“Separately,” Winifred replied, her mind racing through methods to further delay Mr. Curtis. “However…”
“However?” Lifting the quill from the parchment, Mr. Curtis glowered at her.
“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.
