Page 95 of Never Beguile a Duke
“You should stay here,” Mansfield replied, rising from the table. “Beaufort needs intimidation with a level head, and your temper tends to lead to physical altercations.”
“That was one ball,” Roxburghe said, swiping his arm toward Lennox. “And I’m not the one who keeps getting punched.”
Lifting Miss Braddock’s hand to his mouth, Lennox kissed her fingers and shrugged. “I usually deserve it.”
“Father.” Juliette tugged at Silas’ hand. “May I accompany you to the Hills’ residence?”
Silas glanced down, uncertain if he should grant her request. “Did you leave something behind when Mrs. Upton packed your trunk?”
Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, Juliette shook her head.
Silas dropped to his knees and lifted her chin. “Then why would you like to go?”
“I want to spit on Mrs. Hill’s favorite floral-print sofa,” she said, holding his gaze.
An audible gasp ricocheted around the parlor.
He should have chastised Juliette for her wicked statement—that’s what a typical parent would have done—but he rather liked her creative mind and loathed to stifle it with restrictions.
“While I appreciate your desire for revenge, we cannot both abandon our guests.” He tilted his head. “Swear to tend to our visitors while I’m away, and we shall schedule that activity for a later date.”
“You cannot be serious,” Mansfield murmured as he passed behind Silas.
“Why?” Silas asked as he stood. “The Hills allowed Mr. Curtis unfettered access to Juliette’s mother, which resulted in her untimely and quite horrific death, by Juliette’s description. We should spit on more things.”
“Of all of us,” Mansfield replied, gesturing at the parlor, “why are you the one who received the responsibility of raising children first?”
“Are you envious?” Silas teased, elbowing Mansfield as they exited the parlor. “I never suspected fatherhood was a desire of yours.”
Mansfield didn’t speak to him for the whole of the journey to the Hill’s residence.
“No books,” Mansfield murmured after they were seated in Mr. Hill’s small office.
Silas’ gaze slid across the faded, mottled-green wallpaper. “Their library is only half-stocked.”
“How do you know?”
“His father and mine had a business arrangement that spoiled shortly after my tenth birthday.” Silas nodded toward a portrait of Mr. Hill’s father, which hung over the fireplace. “Our families never associated with each other after that.”
Mansfield leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Meaning that today’s visit…”
“Is very much a surprise.” He fell silent as the office door creaked open.
“I’ll not have her back,” Mr. Hill said as he entered. “Mrs. Upton advised me that you took full responsibility for that falsehood fabricating little demon.”
Silas didn’t realize he was standing until the chair crashed to the floor.
“My daughter,” he seethed, “is not a demon.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Deflating, Mr. Hill bowed, his dark brown hair flopping over his face. “I misspoke.”
He scurried around Silas, took a seat, and folded his hands, setting them atop the desk. “How may I assist you this evening?”
Silas righted his chair but didn’t sit. “I’m seeking information on a previous guest of yours. An artist.”
“Ah!” Mr. Hill snapped his fingers. “You must be referring to Mr. Curtis.”
“Are you close acquaintances with the man?” Silas exchanged a glance with Mansfield.
