by Andrea Kane
"He did."
"Then I'll need to see them."
Slowly Camden nodded. "You'll find them in his study. In the top drawer of his desk. That's where Lawrence kept all his important papers." He extracted a key. "This will open it."
Julian stared at the key as if it were a loathsome insect. "Fine. Leave it on the table."
"You're not obligated to fulfill your father's request," Camden reminded him, placing the key on the small end table beside him.
"'Request'?" Julian tossed off his brandy. "That wasn't a request, Henry, it was blackmail."
"Then why are you complying? Certainly not to unearth the stone—you've always expressed utter disdain for the diamond and all who seek it."
"I'm complying for Hugh. I'm complying because everything my father enumerated in that clause is true—about my priorities, about the ramifications of my being the last living Bencroft, about the debt I owe my ancestors." A bitter laugh. "My father might have been a coldhearted bastard but he wasn't stupid. He knew precisely where to find my Achilles' heel. And find it he did." Julian frowned, glancing restlessly about. "Clearly I'll need access to this mausoleum in order to amass his papers. Therefore, we'll have to defer our discussion about selling it—for a few months—until I've fulfilled the terms of my father's so-called legacy."
"You're confident you'll find the stone."
"I don't fail."
"Dozens of others have."
"I'm not others."
The elderly solicitor's lips twitched. "I would agree. In fact, when I compare my understanding of you with the stories passed down to me about your great-grandfather, I'd venture to say the two of you are a great deal alike. According to my family's reports, Geoffrey Bencroft was quite a colorful character."
"So I've heard."
"He never could resist a challenge. Can you?"
Julian arched a sardonic brow. "Evidently not."
"That's precisely what I wanted to hear—more than enough to ensure a decision I made long years ago." So saying, Camden extracted another sealed document from his portfolio, together with a small ornate chest—plainly the cause for the portfolio's weighted bulk—and a corresponding key.
"What is that?" Julian asked, his curiosity instantly roused.
"A strongbox. One whose contents have until now remained a mystery, even to me."
"I don't understand."
"You will." Camden tore open the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper. "This document, witnessed by my father, was carefully locked in our office safe, together with the strongbox, sixty years ago. In order to properly carry out the terms specified herein, I was verbally apprised of what they were, although the document itself has remained unopened until this very day. Once I've read it to you, you'll understand why that is."
"I'm thoroughly intrigued," Julian murmured, his expression intent. "What does this mysterious document say?"
"It reads as follows. 'If you're hearing these words, then George Camden—or whichever of his descendants is currently handling the Bencroft legal matters—has deemed you worthy. I granted the Camdens the right to make this determination because I trust them, and because I realize I will no longer be alive to personally select the right man to inherit my most valuable asset: my heritage. My only son, Chilton, is thoroughly unacceptable. He has no heart, no insight, and no exceptional talents other than ruthlessness. If this document is being read aloud, then my prayers have been answered and the Bencrofts can at long last boast a duke whose adventurous spirit and unwavering commitment—albeit to rules of his own making—match my own. But spirit and commitment are not enough. You must also possess instinct and cunning, both of which are as inborn as spirit. Therefore, I put to you this test. Before you lies a chest whose contents are known only to me. They are the link to your past—worthless to most, not so to one such as yourself. Camden will give you the key. 'Tis your task to open the box. Do so and the gates to your ancestry will open. Fail and they'll remain closed, lying in wait for an adventurer and a duke yet to be'." Camden paused. "The document is signed Geoffrey Bencroft, 6th August, 1758."
"Fascinating." With each passing moment Julian had grown more absorbed. Now, he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the chest. "Why would opening the box prove difficult?"
"Perhaps because there's no visible keyhole." Camden offered Julian both the box and the requisite key. "I studied the chest throughout my entire carriage ride to Morland. If there's a slot to be found, I certainly can't see it."
"Which leaves one of two possibilities. Either whoever crafted the chest chose to keep the slot concealed or the chest must be opened by some means other than a key." Julian examined the heavy box, exploring the domed lid, flat base, and gold plating that embellished the front and sides. "Iron," he deduced, rapping his knuckles along the surface. "Many layers thick." He glanced at the key, eyes narrowed in thought. "The key and the chest match perfectly, right down to their gilded trim. I doubt anyone would go to the trouble of constructing the two together just to render the key useless, especially since, according to my great-grandfather, the contents of this box would be valueless to most. So I'll abandon my latter theory in favor of the former, and assume the key does in fact open the chest. Now for the key. It's short and its notches are slender. The only way it could penetrate the box is if the spot concealing the keyhole were constructed of a thinner iron than that which comprises the remainder of the chest. And since I can't find any discernable thinning of the metal…" He frowned, running his fingers around the edges of the ornate trim.
"Yes?" Camden prompted.
"Then the means by which to open this chest is hidden beneath this decorative plate somewhere, doubtless under a particularly thick section that could hide the thinner iron beneath it." Again Julian assessed the box, his gaze lingering over each segment of trim. "Look at this," he noted aloud. "There are four engraved knobs, one on each corner of the chest. The lower two are definitely more substantial than the uppers. Let's try those." So saying, he gripped first the left then the right knob, exerting gentle pressure on each.
The left knob yielded no results.
The right one, however, seemed to give the tiniest bit, easing ever so slightly to one side.
It was enough to convince Julian he'd found what he sought.
Intensifying the pressure, he urged the knob over, sliding it away until the spot it had concealed was visible.
A slim keyhole met his gaze.
"Splendid," Camden breathed, shaking his head in wonder.
"Not yet," Julian corrected. "Not until we're sure of our success." He fitted the key into its slot and turned, waiting until he heard a click. Then he attempted to lift the strongbox lid.
It rose without protest.
"Now we're sure," Julian proclaimed, anticipation swelling inside him like a great untamed wave.
Abruptly Camden came to his feet.
"Henry?" Julian's head shot up. "Where are you going?"
"Home. Geoffrey's instructions were that the recipient of this box review the contents privately." Another amazed shake of the head. "You are astounding, Julian. Everything your great-grandfather hoped for and more."
Julian stood, his stare still fixed on the strongbox. "I'll contact you soon."
"No hurry." Camden gathered up the portfolio, keeping his gaze carefully averted from the strongbox. "I'll show myself out. Good luck, Julian."
Alone in the library, Julian locked the door, then returned to his seat … and the chest.
There were two items within: a gleaming dagger that boasted an ornately carved handle with the likeness of a fox upon it, and an old worn journal. With but a cursory glance at the dagger, Julian took up the journal and began to read.
An hour later, he lowered the book to the table, his mind racing with all he'd just learned. With newfound respect, he picked up the dagger, examining it at close range, marveling at what it represented.
The implications were staggering.
And they involve
d more than just the Bencrofts.
Leaning his head back against the sofa, Julian considered his options.
The solution came to him in a stunning jolt. And a slow smile spread across his face.
* * *
"Was that Lord Guillford who just left?" Aurora asked as Courtney entered the bedchamber.
Her friend nodded, her face clouded with worry. "Yes."
"Need I ask why he'd come to Pembourne?"
"No."
"Did he say anything … unexpected?"
Courtney met the question head-on. "Only that you'd shocked and shamed him, and that it was probably best you remained unmarried—to anyone—given the circumstances."
"In other words, I've not only been labeled a harlot, but an unfeeling bitch who would blatantly scorn her own brother." With a frustrated sigh, Aurora rose from her rocking chair, wishing she could undo every moment since she'd left Pembourne last night. "Courtney, what can I say to make this easier for Slayde? How can I make him believe I hadn't an inkling the man I asked to ruin me was a Bencroft?"
"He does believe you," Courtney replied. "As for making it easier, I doubt that's possible. He was worried sick when he realized you were gone, especially after the guards found your tracks in the snow and realized you weren't taking an innocent stroll to the lighthouse to see Mr. Scollard, but were headed for the village. Then, reaching the village, running into Lady Altec, who delightedly informed him you were at Dawlish's—that gave Slayde an inkling of your motives."
"He must have been furious."
"Let's just say this is one confrontation I'm glad I missed. From what I could pry out of Slayde when he came home, I'd say he was totally overwrought by the time he burst into your arranged tête-à-tête. And then to find you with Julian Bencroft…" Courtney rolled her eyes. "Suffice it to say that this one, my impulsive friend, is not going to vanish overnight. You know how Slayde views the Bencrofts."
"The same way I do—as the enemy. Hell and damnation," Aurora exploded, "why couldn't that man in the tavern have been anyone but him?"
"I can't answer that. But, according to what you've told me, Lawrence Bencroft's son was as surprised to learn your identity as you were to learn his."
"He was. You should have seen the mortified look on his face when he spoke my name. He uttered it as one would a vicious oath."
Courtney crossed over to the window, glancing shrewdly at her friend as she passed. "You sound disappointed about his reaction. What's more, you look disappointed." Pausing, Courtney turned, leaning back against the sill and folding her arms across her chest as she faced Aurora. "Would you care to tell me about Morland's new duke? I presume you did have a chance to exchange a few words before Lady Altec's arrival inspired you to fling yourself into his arms. Which reminds me, how is it that you heard the dowager's approaching footsteps but not Slayde's? I should think your brother's strides would be louder and far more familiar."
Aurora flushed.
"I repeat," Courtney said, "would you care to describe Julian Bencroft for me?"
"All right, yes, he's handsome," Aurora snapped. "And charming and exciting and worldly. He's also Lawrence Bencroft's son."
"And the embrace Slayde interrupted? Was that as staged as you professed?" Courtney waved away Aurora's stammering protest. "Aurora, this is me you're talking to. I know what a dreadful liar you are. Please—the truth."
Aurora stared at the carpet. "I feel so guilty, especially given how upset Slayde is. But, no, the kiss wasn't entirely feigned. Perhaps it wasn't feigned at all, now that I consider it. But at the time—I didn't think. I just acted. I don't know when the performance ended and the pleasure began. All I know is that I felt as if I were drowning and I had no desire to swim. I never imagined…" She broke off.
"I see." Turning to gaze out the window, Courtney lay her palm on her abdomen, unconsciously caressing her unborn child as she recalled precisely when she'd first experienced the feelings Aurora was describing. "And earlier on—what did the two of you discuss?"
"Adventures. Traveling abroad. Freedom."
"Really?" Courtney's eyes narrowed with interest as she spied the carriage rounding Pembourne's drive, halting before the entranceway steps. "Tell me, Aurora," she continued, watching the single occupant alight. "Is Julian Bencroft tall? Dark-haired? Unconventional in his attire—at least for a nobleman? Very lithe in his movements?"
"Have you met him?" Aurora asked incredulously.
"No." Courtney pivoted, throwing Aurora a speculative look. "But I'm about to."
"What?"
"A carriage bearing what I distinctly recall from our past encounters with the late duke as the Bencroft family crest just rounded the drive. From your description, I suspect the man on his way to our entranceway door is Julian Bencroft."
"My God." Aurora shot over to the window like a bullet, her heart slamming against her ribs as she saw the all-too-familiar build, the black windblown hair, the broad shoulders defined by a white linen shirt—unadorned by a cravat and unbuttoned at the neck. "It is he. Why on earth do you think he's here?"
"I haven't a clue." Courtney pursed her lips, considering the possible reasons for this inconceivable visit. "Let's give him time to state his business to Slayde. Then I'll go down and find out."
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Julian strolled the width of the marble entranceway, hands clasped behind his back as he awaited the return of the Pembourne butler. The servant had been blatantly rude, he reflected with a twinge of amusement. Oh, not at first. Not until Julian had announced himself. But once he'd heard the name Bencroft, the prim fellow had gone rigid, informing Julian that the earl was a very busy man and doubtless would be unable to see an unexpected guest. Then with a frosty glare, he'd stalked off to announce Julian's arrival.
The question was, was the butler's flagrant disapproval based on what he'd doubtless overheard about last night's scandal with Aurora or did it stem from the mere fact that Julian was a Bencroft? More to the point, how heavily steeped in age-old hatred was Pembourne's staff and, most particularly, was its master?
Pensively Julian contemplated that thought. He scarcely knew Slayde Huntley. They'd crossed paths at Oxford and more recently at White's, on those rare occasions when Julian's sporadic journeys back to English soil corresponded with Slayde's equally infrequent trips home. It seemed the two of them were both wanderers, loners plagued by the past's grim echoes.
Echoes that incited them, whether out of an innate sense of unease or a desire to escape all reminders of an unrelenting past, to avoid each other, never sharing more than a cursory nod or a fleeting word.
Except when Hugh died.
Julian could still recall the genuine sorrow on Slayde's face when he'd approached Julian at the university, offered his sympathy—despite, and in full view of, the stunned, prying stares of their fellow classmates, many of whom half believed in the existence of the black diamond's ancient curse and thus entertained the possibility that the Huntleys were responsible for Hugh's death.
Slayde's act had been a courageous one. One that showed character and decency, as well as compassion.
One that Julian would never forget.
But thirteen years had passed since Hugh's death—years laced with unspeakable tragedy. How much had that tragedy transformed Slayde and his outlook?
The answer to that question would dictate the tenor of this meeting, one Julian was becoming increasingly eager to hold.
Veering about, he inclined his head in the direction Pembourne's butler had taken, half-tempted to abandon protocol and simply strike off on his own to search the corridor until he found whichever room Slayde was occupying. But no—he'd wait. For while he was determined to accomplish his goal, that goal would be far easier to attain if he were granted an audience rather than compelled to force his way in.
On the heels of that decision, the butler's returning footsteps sounded, and an instant later the disapproving servant re
appeared. "His Lordship will see you."
It sounded more like a death sentence than an invitation, Julian noted, smiling wryly to himself. "Lead the way."
He followed the manservant down a long corridor and into a mahogany-furnished study.
Slayde Huntley rose slowly from behind his desk. He looked coiled, ready to strike—yet beneath his eyes were shadows of fatigue, and lines of worry tightened his mouth. "I thought Siebert was mistaken when he announced the name of my visitor," he began. "I see I was wrong."
"Thank you for seeing me, Pembourne," Julian replied. "Graciously or not."
"The question is, why am I seeing you? I must be insane."
"Or perhaps only curious."