Page 122 of Never Beguile a Duke
His eyes scouring the second-floor corridor for any hint of movement, Silas inched toward Miss Fernsby-Webb and knelt. He leaned forward and placed the back of his hand to her mouth without lowering his gaze.
A faint breath caressed his skin, and his heart leaped. Somehow, both she and Mr. Curtis survived the fall down the staircase. But where was Mr. Curtis?
Standing, Silas tightened his grip on the quill knife, strode across the landing, and stopped, his head turning to the left and right. Either Mr. Curtis had concealed himself in one of the bedchambers, or he’d managed to retreat to the first floor.
If I don’t capture him before he escapes, Mr. Curtis’ specter will haunt Juliette and Miss Fernsby-Webb for the remainder of their lives.
He glanced back at Miss Fernsby-Webb, then forced himself to enter the bedchamber directly in front of him. Similar to the servant’s chamber in the basement, this room possessed no furniture and provided no suitable hiding place for Mr. Curtis.
As Silas stood in the doorway, the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he whipped around, expecting to discover Mr. Curtis standing over Miss Fernsby-Webb’s unconscious form. Despite finding no one, Silas couldn’t shake the disturbing sensation that Mr. Curtis was watching.
Edging to his left, Silas kept Miss Fernsby-Webb in his eye line. When he reached the next chamber, he verified her position, then entered the noticeably colder room. He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze sliding over the bare floor.
The only furnishings remaining in this chamber were the partially closed cream-colored drapes, which billowed out toward Silas as though something, or someone, was hidden within the cloth folds. He hesitated, his eyes flicking back to Miss Fernsby-Webb, then he hastened across the floor and slammed his hands against the ballooned material.
The drapes collapsed, and Silas fell forward, a thin pane of glass preventing him from falling out the window. He shoved the thick cloth aside, revealing a hairline crack running the length of the window frame.
That explained the temperature.
Outside the chamber, the floor squeaked. Silas spun, raised the quill knife, and sailed across the floor, bursting from the room with a shout. However, only Miss Fernsby-Webb occupied the corridor, her body immobile save for her shallow breathing.
Glancing to his left and right, Silas hovered in the hallway, hoping to hear the squeak again. Two bedchambers waited for his inspection, each one on opposite ends of the corridor, and both too far from Miss Fernsby-Webb to assist her if Mr. Curtis was hiding in the room Silas didn’t check.
If he couldn’t determine the bedchamber, perhaps he could employ one of Grisham’s hunting techniques and draw Mr. Curtis from his hiding place.
Holding the quill knife against his leg, Silas strode over to Miss Fernsby-Webb and knelt, placing his back to the corridor. He leaned forward, his muscles tensing, and brushed the fingers of his left hand across her forehead.
The squeak echoed down the hallway again, originating from Mrs. Webb’s bedchamber, but Silas feigned ignorance and continued fussing over Miss Fernsby-Webb. His right hand clenched around the quill knife.
Barely perceptible scraping pricked his ears, and it took every ounce of determination for Silas not to turn and verify if Mr. Curtis’ shoes were the source. If Silas timed his attack incorrectly, he’d lose the benefit of surprise.
His heart hammered, his chest tightening around the spasmodic organ.
How close was Mr. Curtis?
Cool air wafted across Silas’ skin, and he spun, twisting around as Mr. Curtis’ fist connected. Pain exploded in Silas’ face, and he toppled sideways, losing his grip on the knife and collapsing beside Miss Fernsby-Webb.
His vision blurred, Silas stretched out his arms, running his hands across the floor and searching for the knife. As his fingertips touched the cold metal, Mr. Curtis leaped. With a yell, Silas yanked the knife from the floor, flipped over, and thrust the blade upward, stabbing the tip into Mr. Curtis’ throat.
Mr. Curtis froze, then his dark eyes widened, disbelief sliding through them. Gagging, his hand flew to his neck. He yanked the quill knife from his neck and discarded the soiled blade as he staggered to his feet. His mouth opening and closing like a fish, he spun, his gaze finding Silas.
“How?” Mr. Curtis choked out through blood-stained lips.
Then, eyes rolling back in his head, he stumbled backward, tumbled down the main staircase, and landed at the bottom of the steps, his limbs twisted into a gruesome heap.
Silas crawled over to Miss Fernsby-Webb and lifted her head. Leaning down, he brushed a soft kiss across her lips.
“Please don’t die,” he murmured against her mouth.
“I don’t intend to,” Miss Fernsby-Webb replied, her faint voice sending vibrations through his lips.
Silas pulled away as she opened her eyes and grinned. “Hello, again, Miss Fernsby-Webb. Did you miss me?”
“Immeasurably,” she groaned, then gasped, jerking in his embrace. “Where is Mr. Curtis?”
“In the foyer.” Silas tilted his head toward the staircase. “He had an accident and fell down those steps as well.”
“Is he dead?” Miss Fernsby-Webb asked as Silas helped her into a sitting position.
