Page 97 of Never Beguile a Duke
“Retrieving the portrait for Miss Juliette to torment.”
Mouth twitching, Silas leaned back against the coach wall and stretched out his legs. “Perhaps I did that for myself.”
“While I don’t doubt you will participate in the desecration of that painting, I know your motivation was your daughter.” Mansfield took the paper and read over the scrawled address. “We need a plan.”
“We should advise the guests of this unfortunate development.” Silas grimaced. “I’m certain most of them will leave.”
“Be grateful nobody died,” Mansfield replied, glancing up with a snicker. “We would have needed to perform an exorcism at your house as well.”
“Yet,” Silas said, his mouth settling into a grim line. “Nobody died yet.”
As he suspected, when he revealed the truth of Miss Fernsby-Webb’s abduction—with the exception of his friends, their partners, and Doctor Barnes—none of the visitors wished to remain at his house. He couldn’t fault them for seeking the protection of their own residences.
“Before we depart,” Mr. Venning said, stopping in the foyer with his daughter, “would you remind the Duke of Warwick that he is due for dinner next week?”
Dinner? Since when did Warwick willingly accept any social invitation?
“Certainly,” Silas replied, bowing. “I wish this week would have provided a different conclusion.”
“Nonsense.” A smile cracked the old man’s wrinkled face, and he patted his coat pocket. “This has been a most diverting experience, and I’m leaving a few pounds richer.”
Once the guests had dispersed, Silas joined all five dukes, Mrs. and Miss Webb, Mr. and Miss Braddock, and Miss Philbert in the parlor.
Before he could speak, Lennox strode over and held out a sack of coins. “This is everything I brought with me.”
Grisham and Mansfield copied Lennox’s generous action, but with Roxburghe and Silas having spent their money on Mr. Hollingsworth’s freedom and Warwick losing all his funds to Mr. Venning, the total collected was far short of the fifty thousand pounds needed to save Miss Fernsby-Webb.
“It’s not enough,” Miss Webb said, her voice trembling as she recounted the coins. “What do we do? They’re going to kill Winifred!”
“I have an idea.” Warwick rose and hobbled out of the parlor, his cane echoing in the foyer.
A moment later, the front door opened and closed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WINIFRED
Winifred flinched as the knife’s cold steel tip scraped along her jawline.
“Neither option is preferable,” she said, swallowing the bitter bile that filled her mouth.
Mr. Curtis laughed, his quiet chuckle slithering over her body.
“Sixty seconds.” He drew the knife over her chin and down her throat. “Then I decide which piece of you to send to your fiancé.”
“A lock of my hair?” Winifred sucked in a sharp breath as the metal blade slid across her collarbone.
He wove his fingers into her tresses, then tightened his grip and jerked her head backward, exacting a pain-filled yelp from Winifred.
“That wasn’t one of your selections,” Mr. Curtis said, pressing his mouth to her ear. “Your thigh or your forearm, Miss Webb. Think quickly, you have but thirty more seconds.”
“What size?” she asked, her voice cracking.
“Pardon?” The blade slid over her shoulder, catching on the collar of her chemise and pushing the material partway down her arm.
Fighting the urge to shudder, Winifred forced her tongue to form words. “You gave no further details beyond leg or arm. For me to make an informed decision, I must know the size of the injury you intend to inflict upon me.”
Silence followed her statement.
