Page 3 of Never Beguile a Duke
Shining through the window beside the fireplace, the afternoon sunlight crept along the floorboards beneath the mattress and highlighted an edge of the painting’s brass frame. Winifred crawled into the tiny space and stretched out her arm, her fingers brushing against the cool metal.
“Did you find the portrait?” Nora’s muffled question caused Winifred to start, and she struck her head on the underside of the bed.
“No.” She shouldn’t have lied, but she couldn’t think of another solution that would occupy Nora long enough to sneak next door and speak with their mother privately.
After stuffing the tiny painting into her bodice, Winifred inched backward on her elbows. When she emerged, Nora laughed, leaned over, and plucked several large, fluffy pieces of dust from Winifred’s hair.
“Do I look frightful?” Winifred asked, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead.
“Worse than after Amelia locked you on the attic floor for three days.” Nora helped Winifred to her feet.
A shudder rolled down Winifred’s spine. “Without Father’s old clothing to keep me warm, I would have frozen to death long before she released me.”
And yet, I still possess this unexplainable desire to help her.
Winifred moved to the armoire, picked up the edge of the white sheet, and ducked beneath the material, hiding her face from Nora, who could read Winifred’s emotions with a glance.
“Do you believe Mother feels remorse?” Winifred asked, opening the carved wooden door and pretending to search the shelves.
“I do not.” The scrape of the dressing-table drawer accompanied Nora’s response. “She takes no responsibility for her current situation.”
Winifred pulled the sheet aside and peered through the small space between the material and the armoire at her sister’s hunched form. “We didn’t allow her opportunity to state otherwise.”
Shoving the drawer closed with her hip, Nora’s narrowed gaze jumped to Winifred. “And how would you know Amelia’s words were not another fabrication meant to manipulate?”
“Did you notice Mother’s ruined clothing?”
Nora shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time she donned a costume and played the role of actress.”
Grimacing, Winifred withdrew behind the linen.
“Perhaps the portrait is in the library.” The lie burned Winifred’s tongue.
“The library?” Nora’s shoes shuffled across the floor. “How would your father’s painting come to be in that room?”
“The night we transferred our belongings to the Duke of Lennox’s residence, I stopped there to return a book.” Nausea flipped Winifred’s stomach, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, swallowing the bile that accompanied her second falsehood. “I may have set down the portrait miniature when I was shelving the tome.”
“May have?” Nora groaned, the sheet rustling as she searched for an opening.
Winifred popped her head through the gap, startling her sister, who stepped back with a tiny scream. “I’ll investigate the library; you can continue searching this chamber.”
Before Nora protested, Winifred added, “It’s warmer up here, and we’ll cover more area quicker if we separate.”
“Swear,”—Nora shivered, her teeth knocking together—“that we’ll leave the moment we recover your father’s picture.”
“I have no desire to stay longer than we must,” Winifred said, collecting her reticule and backing into the hallway. “Yell if you find the painting.”
She turned and darted down the staircase. However, instead of turning right toward the library, she turned left and crept across the foyer. When she reached the outer door, she glanced over her shoulder, then depressed the handle.
Cringing when the hinges creaked, she slipped through the space and shut the door behind her. A blast of icy wind struck her in the face, blinding her with sleet. She yanked the fur-lined hood over her head, bent into the gust, and slogged through Miss Braddock’s frozen garden, aiming for the break in the iron boundary.
When Winifred reached the fence post, her gaze scanned the pavement for her mother; however, the bundle of rags no longer haunted the sidewalk. Her eyes flicked to the vacant driver’s bench atop their waiting coach.
Perhaps Mr. Dunn had taken pity on Mother and given her some money…
A twitch of the curtains drew Winifred’s attention to the carriage’s icy window, and the Duke of Roxburghe’s driver appeared in the glass. Gasping, she drew back, aligning herself with the brick column and hiding her body.
She counted to ten, edged forward, and craned around the fence post, exhaling a sigh of relief upon discovering Mr. Dunn’s round face had vanished, then darted forward, praying he wouldn’t catch her, and hurried around the horse, trailing her gloved fingers along the mare’s flank. When she reached the driver’s bench, she ducked, zipped past the window, and dashed to the rear of the coach.
