Page 91 of Never Beguile a Duke
After pulling her legs from the trunk, Winifred dragged the chair closer to the ink set. Foot hovering over the small box, she paused and, heart thudding, glanced at the staircase doorway.
Had something moved in the shadows?
A minute passed before she moved. Returning her attention to the ink set, she gingerly lowered her foot over the quill knife. Her toes closed around the handle, but no matter which angle she tried, she couldn’t lift the knife from the box.
She swore, using the foulest word she knew, one she’d heard screamed in the prison on more than one occasion.
“Quite the language for a lady,” Mr. Curtis’ gravelly voice crawled up the staircase.
Gulping, Winifred kicked the ink set toward the wall. It slid toward the shadows as though she were playing the game of Shove Ha’penny and stopped less than a millimeter from the wall. She would have celebrated were she not concerned with dying the moment Mr. Curtis discovered her on the far side of the chamber without her blindfold.
As his footsteps neared, she scooted away from the chest, pushing herself toward the fallen piece of cloth. She had no way of putting the covering back over her eyes and ducked her head, allowing the loose strands of hair to fall over her face.
“Hell!” Mr. Curtis’ irritation zipped across the floor.
Despite the internal command, she lifted her head, her gaze finding a dark blob rushing forward as Mr. Curtis bore down on her, curses pouring from his mouth. He snatched the cloth from the floor, wound the material around Winifred’s head, and yanked face covering tight, causing Winifred to cry out.
Then, he grabbed the chair’s seat, his fingers sliding beneath her legs, and dragged the chair forward to—she assumed—the center of the room. He released the chair, and a moment later, the chest lid slammed close, causing her to jump.
“Did you find anything useful?” he asked, his mouth touching her ear.
Winifred screamed and jerked her head away, but Mr. Curtis grabbed her face, wrenched it back.
“I asked you a question.” His sour breath washed over her.
She gagged, a shudder rolling through her.
“No,” Winifred replied, her voice cracking.
“I don’t believe you.” The hand pinching her face squeezed.
“If I’d found something, do you think I’d still be sitting here?”
Mr. Curtis threw her head away, strode back to the trunk, and flung open the lid. After several minutes of rustling, he snorted.
“You are quite an unfortunate woman,” he said, dumping the clothing onto her lap. “Nothing but muslin shirts, drawers, and men’s stockings.”
“Your clothing?” Nose wrinkling, she wiggled her legs and dropped the articles onto the floor.
“No,” he scoffed, trailing his fingers over the back of her neck as he walked behind her. “These haven’t been worn for quite some time.”
“Do they belong to someone else you murdered?” Winifred whispered, fighting the shiver that threatened to overtake her body.
Mr. Curtis didn’t answer. Instead, he wound his fingers through her hair and yanked her head backward. An icy, metal object pressed against Winifred’s throat, digging into the skin and cutting off her oxygen as a low chuckle swirled around her.
“If you move,” he said, brushing his fingers over her face, “you’ll die. Now, I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer true. If I think you’ve lied, I will slit your throat. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Winifred squeaked, her lips barely moving.
“Excellent.” The knife moved away from her neck. “Do you know of any reason why the Duke of Roxburghe wouldn’t pay for your release?”
Winifred violently shook her head; Nora would ensure his assistance.
“Interesting.” Mr. Curtis straddled her legs and sat, placing the whole of his bulk on Winifred’s lap. “Can you explain why he hasn’t made any attempt to collect the funds needed?”
“How do you know that?” Winifred asked, her chest constricting.
“Ah-ah, Miss Webb,” he replied, pressing the tip of the knife against the hollow of her neck. “I can’t reveal my secrets.”
