Page 17 of Never Beguile a Duke
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.
