Once Upon A Diamond (A sweet Regency Historical Romance)

by Teresa McCarthy

  ONCE UPON A DIAMOND

  Teresa McCarthy

  ONCE UPON A DIAMOND

  Copyright © Teresa McCarthy, 2012

  All rights reserved

  EBook, August 2012, Teresa McCarthy

  Cover Art, LFD Designs For Authors

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, copied, or transmitted without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  England

  The blasted diamond was nothing but trouble. Tristan Charles Fullerton combed a hand through his jet-black hair as he stood in the middle of the grand foyer of Lancewood Hall, a half day’s ride from London. Rain pelted the door beside him as thunder rumbled through the darkened sky. He peeled off his wet cloak, his jaw tightening. The weather was horrid, but it was nothing compared to the storm swirling in his soul.

  A frown marred his brow as he raised a hand to the missive tucked inside his jacket. Indeed, the clandestine orders from the Foreign Office could spawn more trouble than the notion of the Prince Regent and Napoleon sharing a mistress.

  He squinted at the swaying silhouette approaching from the dimly lit hallway. His lips twitched as the hammering rain mingled with the sound of the butler’s shoes clacking unevenly against the marble floor. “Perkins?”

  “Evening, my lord.”

  Tristan lifted a black brow at the pungent smell of spirits drifting his way. “Good evening. Delightful weather we’re having, is it not?”

  “Delightful?” Perkins frowned, his leathery face crinkling with displeasure. The older man stood beside Tristan, shaking the rainwater off his master’s black cloak. A row of silver buttons winked against the light from the chandelier above them. “Would think that Little Corsican himself is knocking at the door.”

  Tristan grinned and slapped the water off his breeches. Devil take it. Perkins was a stubborn old crow. He had told the man to let the younger servants answer the evening calls.

  “Why, if I had a chance at him,” Perkins gave the wet cloak another shake, accidentally sending a silver button clanking to the floor, “He would be mincemeat, my lord.”

  For a second, the old butler stopped his tirade against Napoleon, stooped down to pick up the lost button, and slowly unfolded his body. “Pure mincemeat.”

  Tristan pressed his lips together to suppress a chuckle. “My dear Perkins, I do believe Boney’s somewhere else at the moment. A little place called St. Helena.”

  The butler raised a white brow as if digesting that thought. “Indeed. I would have saved England time and money if they sent him to me. Young people today don’t know a thing about war, you know.” With a proud jerk of his head, Perkins turned and began swerving back down the hall, announcing he would have the valet take care of the button in no time.

  Tristan shook his head as he strode toward the stairs. It was fortunate his business in Town had been a success. The family coffers had been swiftly dwindling due to his father’s quest, and that had put a strain on everyone, including the servants.

  In need of a drink, Tristan started toward the library, favoring his right leg as he climbed the stairs. Hell and spitfire, if it hadn’t been for that American chit years ago, his foot wouldn’t be throbbing like a fat man’s gout.

  Ambling past the thick oak doors, he raised his gaze to the eerie glow of the solitary candle shimmering on top of the marble mantelpiece above the hearth. A deep sigh rumbled in the air, and he froze. His gaze shifted to his younger brother seated in the leather chair. “Edward?”

  Holding his breath, Tristan took a hesitating step forward. The young man’s broad shoulders were slumped over their father’s desk, his head resting near the ink well.

  With a groan, the twenty-two-year-old slowly raised his head, brushing a limp hand through his sandy brown hair, breaking the awkward silence. “Trist, thank heaven you’re here.”

  The strain in Edward’s voice sent a prickle of alarm down Tristan’s spine. “What’s wrong?”

  Frowning, Edward flagged a paper in the air. “He’s dead, Tristan. It’s all right here.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  Edward dropped his head into his hands. The paper fell beside him as he mumbled, “Father. Father’s dead.”

  “Father?” Tristan’s voice exploded in shock as he stalked across the room, his Hessian boots brushing across the Aubusson rug. “The devil he is.”

  Tristan lit another candle and snatched the letter off the desk. His gaze swept over the paper, stopping on an unfamiliar signature. His breath caught in his throat. The letter mentioned the earl had died of an inflammation of the lungs.

  Tristan felt a corner of his heart twist. If only his father had loved him –

  NO! What the deuce was he thinking?

  A few tense seconds passed before he looked up. “Who the blazes is Harold Fletcher? He signed this along with the magistrate?”

  Edward shrugged, his eyes filled with tears. “D-don’t know. Looks like Fletcher was with Father when he died.”

  “On that cursed journey from Italy.” Tristan bit back an oath. Their father, the Earl of Lancewood, may be dead, but it didn’t change the fact the man had been mad - mad enough to mortgage almost all they had, nearly everything but the entailed estates. The foolish search for the diamond had killed the earl, not some inflammation of the lungs.

  Wanting to slam his fist into the wall, Tristan ate up the distance to the rosewood sideboard near the window. He grabbed the brandy decanter, splashed some of the amber liquid into a glass, then poured another drink for his brother.

  His brain burned with the memory of his father’s last words to him. “This diamond is pure, its brilliance magnificent. The gem must be handed down from generation to generation. It is our tradition. I must find it.”

  Tradition? Family? Tristan scowled as the scent of lemon lifted from the sideboard. The smell stirred unbidden memories of a lonely six-year-old boy, a child who had tried to gain his mother’s affection by polishing the mahogany table in her salon. All he had received for his efforts had been a swift slap to the face, then an hour later, a kiss on his forehead.

  His lips thinned as he tightened his hold on his glass. His mother would need to be told.

  He strode toward Edward, offering him the drink, and winced at his brother’s pale face. He hated to see his sibling in such pain. Edward was kind and decent, an honest sort, with his mind in his books and thoughts on farming and crop rotation.

  But now was not the time to tell his brother they could have been driven into debtor’s prison because of their father’s insane search.

  “He’s dead, Edward, and so is his quest.”

  Edward lifted the glass to his trembling lips. “It’s seems like some horrid nightmare.” He sighed, taking a sip. “What about the diamond?”

  “The diamond?” Tristan turned to stare into the storm. Heavy raindrops slid along the panes of glass, distorting his reflection. “It’s best to forget about the cursed gem.”

  Edward finished the drink and rose. “It...it got the best of him, Trist. Sort of took over his mind.” He paused. “But I do know...he loved you.”

  “Love?” Tristan snapped.

  Without warning, a bolt of lightning sliced across the sky, and the panes of glass became a mirror. For a split second their faces were lit, Edward’s in grief, Tristan’s in a
nger.

  Tristan spun around, his back to the window. “Let’s not get duty confused with love.”

  “You’re w-wrong,” Edward said, his voice raw with pain. “You we’re always wrong about that.”

  Tristan set his jaw. A clap of thunder shook the walls as his sibling shuffled toward the door. Rain continued to pound against the windowpanes while the click of heels echoed down the hall. Edward didn’t understand. No one did.

  Tristan clenched his hands. At the age of twenty-seven, he was earl now. He had inherited all that belonged to his father: the debts, the homes, the lands, the money, and worst of all, the horrid quest. It didn’t matter that the earl or the countess had never loved him. Nothing but the diamond mattered now.

  He grabbed the letter from Fletcher and whipped it into the empty fireplace - empty like his heart. With a sense of urgency, he built up the fire, letting the smell of burning paper reach his nostrils.

  Heat filled the room. His lips gave a wry twist as he stared at the shooting flames, dancing like demons in his soul. A precious diamond? Nothing was that precious or that pure.

  He took a step back and slipped a hand into his pocket, pulling out the missive from the Foreign Office. He’d heard different stories about the gem’s origin and had no idea about the truth until today. Lord Castlereagh’s words had come at a most inopportune time indeed.

  He rested a Hessian boot upon the hearth and studied the letter. When the man told him of the diamond’s history and its immediate importance to England, Tristan had been shocked.

  Deuce take it! Even though his father was dead, the mad search for the diamond was to continue.

  A heavy pain centered in his chest when he thought about the earl.

  Tristan clamped his thumb and forefinger over the bridge of his nose. The devil of it was, the earl’s death would only enhance Tristan’s effort and his cover. He was to find the diamond, not for himself, but for England, and only England.

  It only made sense to have him hunt for the gem since his father had been on the quest for years. Working covertly would be easy. While he searched for the diamond, society would believe he was following in his father’s footsteps. How advantageous for everyone but him.

  It was ironic, he thought as he raised his gaze to the howling winds. He’d finally made enough on his investments, and the family debts could be paid. Yet now, he was to be sucked into the nightmare again.

  A bitter smile skimmed his lips. For the past five years, he had worked in British reconnaissance while his father had searched in vain for the elusive diamond, leaving his family and responsibilities behind.

  Well, he laughed sadly, why the devil shouldn’t he be the likely candidate to retrieve the diamond his father loved more than his firstborn?

  Why indeed? Because, hell and thunder, he wanted nothing more than to bury the blasted quest along with his father and be done with it all. The diamond had ruined his father’s life, and if Tristan wasn’t careful, it would do the same to him.

  With an oath, he kicked the hearth, feeling a blinding pain shoot up his wretched leg. “’Tis a blasted quest. But confound it, for the good of England, I’ll find that diamond, and then I can live in peace.”

  Massachusetts

  Matthew Wilcox clenched a hand around his mug and frowned at Mr. Bartholomew Travis, his father’s friend and lawyer. “What proof have you that my father’s death was a murder and not an accident?”

  Mr. Travis scanned the smoke-filled room with eagle-like eyes and took a swig of his ale, returning an unwavering gaze back to Matthew. They were nestled at a corner table in the Red Lion Pub, a Boston favorite to sailors and tradesmen, conveniently located next door to the offices of the Wilcox Shipping Line, the family business, which after Robert Wilcox’s death was now owned by Matthew and his sister.

  “I can only tell you what the old sailor told me,” Mr. Travis replied, his voice filled with sympathy. “Hobson saw your father thrown overboard, but it was raining so hard, he couldn’t see who did the deed. Frankly, I believe him. Robert Wilcox was too good a seaman to have an accident like that, even in a hellish storm.”

  “But why didn’t Hobson come to me?” Matthew snapped. “The man was working for us. It was his duty to tell me what happened.”

  Mr. Travis leaned forward. “His duty could get him killed. He must have had a feeling someone was watching him. Maybe even the murderer. After he told me his story, the man ran out of my office as fast as lightning. I doubt I could find him now if I tried.”

  Matthew gritted his teeth. “Perhaps, if I –” He ducked, yanking the older man to the floor.

  Mr. Travis’s eyes widened in shock as a knife plunged into the wall. “W-what in the blue blazes!”

  Matthew jerked his gaze toward the knife, then flicked a glance across the crowd. “I believe someone just tried to kill one of us.”

  The boisterous group hadn’t noticed anything amiss. They were still drinking and singing to their heart’s content. Mr. Travis was speechless, his face as white as his cravat.

  Matthew pulled out his pistol, and with a curse, wrenched the knife from the wall, handing the weapon to the older man. Pushing his father’s friend toward the bar, Matthew surveyed the room with a critical gaze. “Stay here.”

  Mr. Travis licked his lips and slouched against a stool while Matthew moved through the crowd, searching for the coward.

  Mr. Travis, temples sweating, was tipping a newly opened bottle of whiskey to his lips when Matthew returned to the bar. The pub owner, a shocked observer to the event, apologized profusely and offered to make a formal complaint to the authorities. Not wanting to make his trouble known, Matthew politely refused, knowing he would take care of the matters himself.

  “Whoever threw that knife, Mr. Travis, wanted you dead.”

  “Or you, Matthew.”

  “Yes, or me. The cook saw a man hurry out the back door. He didn’t recognize him.”

  Matthew glanced at the knife Mr. Travis held. “And that belonged to our runaway.”

  Mr. Travis’s brows puckered as he stared at the weapon. “Thunderation and curses. Someone is desperate enough to murder again. First your father and now this.” The pudgy man looked up, worried. “If that’s the case, what about your sister? Do you think she’s safe? If this involves Robert’s death, nothing can be left to chance.”

  “If anyone lays a hand on her…I’ll kill him.”

  “You can’t take any chances. You have to get her away from here. The farther, the better. Send her to England. To that duke of yours.”

  “My uncle? My sister hasn’t taken a foot outside Wilcox Manor in over two weeks. Not since she heard the news about our father. Confound it, I can’t send her to England now.”

  “What else can you do?” Mr. Travis challenged. “Someone wants one of us dead. Maybe we know something we shouldn’t. Take a good look at this knife, my boy. Do you want her to be next?”

  “No!” Matthew slammed a fist against the counter, his eyes still searching the pub. “Since they couldn’t find my father’s body, she won’t admit he’s dead. You of all people know how she is. That female’s more stubborn than the British in that stupid war we finally ended.”

  Mr. Travis frowned. “She’s a beautiful girl, Matthew. You need to protect her. Robert would want it.”

  Matthew glared at the chair he knocked over while diving for cover, then turned a chilling gaze back to Mr. Travis. “I want you to go over my father’s papers. See if anything’s amiss. I’ll be busy trying to get Kate away from here as soon as possible.”

  Shaken, Mr. Travis wiped the sweat from his forehead. “If you don’t move her quickly, she’ll stick her nose into something she shouldn’t. I don’t like this. Don’t like it at all.”

  Matthew’s steely blue eyes bore into the crowd. “I’ll send a letter to my uncle tomorrow. She won’t like going to England above half, and heaven help me if I have to force the issue.”

  “Commanding your sister to leave home is
not a job for the faint at heart, my boy.”

  Matthew let out a strangled laugh, then swore. “Faint at heart? We were almost killed a few minutes ago. I don’t like the odds we were given today. However, one thing’s for certain, I’m going keep Kate out of it.” His brows dipped in concern. “But what about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me, my boy. My stepson Jake is a colonel. He’s in intelligence, you know. Been thinking these last few minutes. Going to stay with him for a while, take him into our confidence. Do my own investigating. But as for you, it’s not going to be easy to have your sister do your bidding.”

  Matthew grimaced. “Getting her to England will be easy compared to finding her a husband.”

  The older gentleman choked on his whiskey. “A husband?” he squeaked.

  Matthew’s lips fell into a harsh line. “You heard me. A husband.”

  Mr. Travis shoved the whiskey bottle in Matthew’s direction. “To dampen the pain, my boy. With your father’s death and now your sister, well, I don’t envy you. A husband, by gad.” The man stared at the knife he held between two fat fingers and let it clatter to the counter. “No. Don’t envy you at all.”

  Twenty-year-old Katherine Josephine Wilcox sat on her father’s wing chair, wringing her hands on her skirt and staring blankly at the plush rug beneath her. Wisps of cornsilk hair strayed from the loosely piled tresses on top of her head. A huge knot of grief formed in her throat as she shifted her gaze to the fireplace. The host of rising flames did nothing to warm the iciness that claimed her heart.

  “Kate, I know these past few weeks have been hard on you...”

  She looked up, barely listening to Matthew who was pacing across the study floor. Tears stung the back of her doe brown eyes, and her bottom lip began to tremble. Why was her brother talking about journeying to the Mediterranean now? Leaving Boston was out of the question.

  It had been two weeks since she’d heard news of her father’s death at sea. Two weeks since she agreed to her brother’s plan. If Father does not return in one year, we shall assume he’s dead. Is that to your satisfaction?