Page 27 of Never Beguile a Duke
“Mr. Curtis claimed he was hired to paint a portrait. He said it was a gift from my daughters. I didn’t realize his deception until it was too late to protect myself. He didn’t even have any brushes.” She murmured the last statement to herself as though irritated she’d fallen for such a nonsensical ruse.
“Can you describe him?” Miss Fernsby-Webb glided past Silas, the faint scent of citrus wafting over him. “What color was his hair?”
“Dark—” Mrs. Webb gagged, paled, but did not vomit.
Resuming her position beside her mother, Miss Fernsby-Webb dipped the scarlet stained cloth into a bowl next to the bed, wrung out the square, then dabbed the fabric across her mother’s pale, sweaty forehead.
“Take slow breaths,” she said, combing away a section of gray-brown hair from Mrs. Webb’s face.
Nodding, Mrs. Webb closed her eyes and inhaled as she’d been directed. After a few minutes, the greenish color faded from her skin.
“Dark hair,” she said, opening her eyes and locking them on Silas. “Black eyes, and a voice that could terrorize any woman just by uttering a single word.”
A shudder rolled through Mrs. Webb. She flung herself over the side of the bed, vomited again, then collapsed, immobile and dangling half off the mattress.
Without waiting for the request, Silas hurried across the chamber and hefted Mrs. Webb back into the center of the bed. The blood trickling from her lips sullied his shirt, seeping into the material and chilling his skin.
Macabre thoughts danced in his mind. If Miss Fernsby-Webb had answered the door, would she have survived Mr. Curtis’ vicious assault?
“Your Grace!” Mrs. Aylett’s panic at seeing the scarlet spot spreading across his shirt reverberated through the room.
“It’s not mine,” he said, moving aside and revealing Mrs. Webb’s unconscious form. “Send for a surgeon. Her injuries are far worse than we estimated.”
“Impossible, Your Grace,” Mrs. Aylett replied, her gaze inspecting Mrs. Webb. “The storm’s wrath has increased since this afternoon. We must wait until tomorrow.”
“She may not survive the night,” Silas murmured, approaching Mrs. Aylett.
He didn’t wish to voice his concerns in front of Mrs. Webb’s daughters or Juliette, who hovered directly behind Mrs. Aylett, but he also didn’t want to provide any of them with false hope.
“Do any of your guests possess any medical knowledge?” Mrs. Aylett asked, matching his quiet tone. “Several of them absorb books quite voraciously.”
“I don’t recall any discussions on the subject.” Silas glanced at Miss Fernsby-Webb’s pinched visage. “However, we have a full house this evening; perhaps we’ll find a clandestine student.”
He shifted his attention to Juliette. “If you’d like to return?—”
“No.” She shook her head and stepped out from behind Mrs. Aylett, who gasped when Juliette interrupted Silas. “I want to remain here. I can help.”
“It’s not appropriate for a young girl to witness this type of spectacle,” Silas replied, folding his arms across his chest.
At least, he assumed it wasn’t. He didn’t have much experience when it came to children. His eyes slid to Mrs. Aylett, silently begging for assistance.
A ghost of a smile crossed the older woman’s face. “If she’s careful, Miss Juliette can carry the soiled bandages downstairs, then return with bowls of fresh water.”
“I will be cautious.” Juliette darted forward, scooped up the pile of cloths, and raced out the door.
Mrs. Aylett chuckled, then turned back to Silas. “See to your visitors, Your Grace. Hopefully, one of them possesses the necessary knowledge to aid Mrs. Webb. I’ll send up some hot water with your daughter.”
He swore Mrs. Aylett smiled as she spoke those words, but the expression vanished before he could confirm his suspicion. She exited the chamber, leaving him hovering on the outside of an unfortunate circumstance shared by Mrs. Webb’s daughters.
“Miss…” Silas’ voice caught in his throat.
What possible hope can I offer?
Without finishing his thought, he turned, strode into the corridor, and headed for the drawing room, where he’d requested Mr. Aylett direct the guests after the meal.
The beginning strains of a harpsichord accompanied duet floated into the hallway. Though he didn’t recognize either lady’s voice, the tune was pleasing, and he paused outside the room, loathing the need to interrupt the skillful performance. Then, he edged into the drawing room, sliding behind Mr. Venning and his daughter, who swayed—slightly off-beat—to the music.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Mr. Venning whispered, scooting over to allow Silas more room. “Do you intend to favor us with your musical talent?”
