Legacy of the Diamond

by Andrea Kane

  "As you wish, sir." With a bewildered curtsy, the maid hastened off.

  "Slayde?" Courtney searched his face, a tight knot of dread forming in the pit of her stomach. She could both feel and see the tension emanating from him—tension that told her something significant had occurred. "What is it? What's happened?"

  "Come with me." Looping his arm firmly about her waist—whether for physical or emotional support, Courtney wasn't certain—Slayde led her down the marble hallway to where the uniformed gentleman hovered. "Rainer, this is Miss Johnston. The matter on which you've come to Pembourne concerns her as well." Glancing at Courtney, he added, "Mr. Rainer is from Bow Street

  ."

  "Mr. Rainer." Courtney could hear her voice quaver.

  "Miss Johnston." The square-shouldered man scarcely acknowledged her. He was too busy gauging his distance to the front door.

  Icily, Slayde gestured across the hall. "The yellow salon is comfortable and nearby. Let's talk in there."

  Rainer froze, then retreated two steps backward. "That won't be necessary. I've given you the information and the note. There's nothing further—"

  "I beg to differ with you." Slayde's eyes blazed silver sparks. "There's quite a bit yet to discuss, as I'm sure Miss Johnston will agree once she's heard the reason for your visit. Five minutes of your time is all I require." A bitter pause. "Rest assured, the yellow salon is quite safe. In my experience, curses afflict people, not homes. Further, unlike illness, curses are not contagious."

  The Bow Street

  man had the good grace to flush … although he made no move to advance farther into the manor. "My instructions were to deliver the note and return to London at once."

  Slayde's jaw tightened. "To further investigate the matter?"

  A surprised blink. "What matter? The death of a noted scoundrel? Frankly, my lord, we have real crimes to deal with—crimes against the innocent."

  "Like my parents, you mean."

  Rainer sucked in his breath. "That was a terrible tragedy, the earl and countess being killed in their own home. Unfortunately, the thief who committed the murder left no trace of his identity. Bow Street

  did all it could."

  "Of course you did," Slayde mocked. Releasing Courtney, he strode around and flung the front door wide. "Go, then. You've done all you could—once again."

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Rainer nodded, nearly knocking Slayde down in his haste to comply. "Good day, my lord."

  He darted from the manor into his waiting carriage.

  Seconds later, it disappeared around the drive.

  Courtney walked over, watching the play of emotions cross Slayde's face. Gently, she touched his sleeve. "Why was Mr. Rainer here?"

  Slowly, Slayde turned, gazing down at Courtney's hand and blinking as he recalled her presence. "He saved us a journey." With a weary sigh, he took her arm. "Let's sit down. You're weak, and this conversation is going to take some time. Despite Rainer's ludicrous claim to the contrary, the reason for his visit was anything but perfunctory."

  "All right." Courtney bit her lip to keep from blurting out a million questions. But once she was settled on a cushioned settee in the yellow salon, she could no longer contain herself. "Slayde, please. My imagination is reeling. Tell me what's happened. Why was Bow Street

  here and why aren't we going to London?"

  Slayde lowered himself beside her, gripping his knees and meeting her gaze. "Because the pirate we were hoping to unearth is dead."

  "Dead?"

  "Yes. The description Rainer gave me matches yours exactly—right down to the ring on his finger."

  Courtney swallowed, trying to absorb this unexpected development. "Who was he?" she asked woodenly. Abruptly, the questions began spilling forth on their own. "How did he die? Who found him? Where? Did he say anything before he died, give us a clue to the Isobel's fate?"

  "He was Sewell Armon, long known as a privateer. He and his ship, the Fortune, were evidently notorious for seizing vessels all over the world, taking prisoners and booty. His body was found in a deserted alley in Dartmouth, about thirty miles from here—by a group of urchins scrounging for food. He was already dead; he'd been shot in the chest."

  "I see." Courtney rubbed her temples, a twinge of relief instantly supplanted by the horrible realization that with Armon dead, her hopes of learning anything about the fate of the Isobel were extinguished.

  Coming to his feet, Slayde crossed over and poured two goblets of brandy, pressing one into Courtney's hand. "Drink this."

  Feeling oddly dazed, she accepted the glass, taking two healthy swallows. "Now I'll never find Papa," she whispered.

  "Courtney, that bastard hadn't an inkling of what might or might not have happened to your father after he'd been thrown overboard. His only thought was to procure the black diamond."

  "But he did know what happened to our ship, our crew."

  Roughly, Slayde cleared his throat. "From Rainer's description, Armon wasn't known for leaving evidence in his wake."

  "Evidence. Do you mean vessels or people?"

  "Both."

  Courtney's eyes squeezed shut, everything inside her going cold at the image of her home, her friends, being destroyed. "Then it's over." Her lashes lifted, the pain of loss swamping her in great, untamed waves. "No, actually it's not. You were right. It will never be over."

  Placing their glasses on a side table, Slayde gathered her against him, pressing her cheek to his waistcoat and gently stroking her hair. "The grief will dim. It won't consume you forever. Nor will the hatred—not with Armon dead."

  "Retribution is a poor substitute for having my life back. But you knew that already, didn't you?"

  "Only because I spent years forcing myself to remember it, to think rationally. In truth, with or without proof, I hungered to tear down Morland's doors and choke the life out of him. But what good would it have done? I'd be in Newgate, and my parents would still be gone."

  Slayde's explanation prompted a thought. "What about the black diamond?" Courtney demanded, leaning back to scrutinize his face. "Did Bow Street

  recover it when they found Armon's body?"

  Silence.

  Realization struck. "It wasn't there, was it? The stone was gone, seized by whoever killed him." Courtney's racing mind didn't await a reply. "I heard Mr. Rainer mention something about a note. Did they find that note on Armon's person?"

  "Yes."

  "What prompted them to deliver it to Pembourne?"

  "The fact that it was addressed to me." Slayde reached into his pocket, extracting an unsealed envelope marked The Earl of Pembourne, Pembourne Manor, Dawlish, Devonshire. Deftly, he removed the single sheet of paper within, unfolding it and offering it to Courtney.

  She scanned the contents, which read:

  Pembourne:

  The exchange will be made tonight. Eleven P.M. Ten miles due south of Dartmouth—in the open waters of the English Channel. Take a small, unarmed boat. Come alone, accompanied only by the diamond. Heed these instructions or your sister will die.

  "A ransom note," Courtney murmured.

  "Indeed. What puzzles me is that it's identical to the one that brought me to your ship."

  Courtney inclined her head quizzically. "I don't understand."

  "Do you recall my telling you that the week Aurora disappeared, I received several ransom notes?"

  "Yes. You said only two were credible, accompanied by locks of what you assumed to be Aurora's hair, but were, in fact, mine."

  "Exactly. And this message is a replica of the second of those notes."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I committed every word to memory. Yes, I'm sure. Even the hand is the same." He frowned. "The only difference is the date. The one I received was dated one day earlier than this one."

  "That makes no sense." Courtney's brow furrowed as she examined the page again. "Why would this Armon write two identical notes directing you to do the same thing on two different days? For that matter, wh
y did he keep this note at all, rather than send it? Slayde, are you sure the notes are the same? Can we check?"

  "Of course." Slayde rose. "All the threatening letters I received are in my study." He hesitated. "Will you be all right here for a moment?"

  A slow nod. "Actually, I think I need a minute to myself." She attempted a smile. "I'll be fine."

  With a probing look, Slayde complied. "I shan't be long."

  Once alone, Courtney leaned her head back on the sofa cushion, trying to assimilate the day's developments, allowing her rampaging thoughts to unravel at will.

  The pirate who'd taken all she loved was dead. Abruptly, the need to unearth him, to vent her anger and fury until they were spent, was gone. Gone also was her life—at least the one she'd known—together with the comforting semblance of stability it had contained. Her existence was in shambles, as was her emotional well-being. At the same time, physically, she was greatly improved and, thanks to Matilda's excellent care, nearly ready to venture out.

  Out—to where? To what?

  Before she could embark on a future, she had to come to terms with her present, relinquish her past.

  Her father was gone.

  Even as she formed the thought, her heart rejected it. The fact was that acceptance had yet to supplant grief, and each unresolved question—plus her own nagging, unrealistic hope—further complicated the healing process.

  The only way to stop the past from haunting her was to find a truth she could live with. But what truth was that and how in God's name could she find it?

  Mr. Scollard.

  With a surge of hope, Courtney recalled Aurora's enthusiastic depiction of the lighthouse keeper. Perhaps so wise a man could help resolve her doubts as to whether her father lived, advise her on how to proceed from here, guide her toward an answer—be it action or acceptance—so she could move ahead with her life.

  Her next challenge was the present. Pembourne. She was needed here. And not only as Aurora's companion, although she didn't take that commitment lightly and was, in fact, looking forward to befriending Slayde's sister. But Aurora's scars were minimal, worn close to the surface, thereby making them easier to discern and to heal. Slayde's scars were another matter entirely.

  How long had it been since he'd allowed another person to so much as approach his walls of self-protection? Had he never before offered any part of himself other than the cursory, even prior to his parent's horrid demise? Was it possible that she was truly the first to sense, to see the emotional depth he guarded so fiercely, the vulnerability he refused to accept?

  And if so, hadn't she been offered a wondrous opportunity to show him what he'd been missing?

  To show him? Courtney's conscience intruded skeptically. Very well then, was her silent admission, to show us both.

  The truth was undeniable. She wanted to stay close to Slayde, to explore—to rekindle—the extraordinary sensations he evoked inside her. To understand the basis for those feelings and to discover where they might lead.

  A shiver of anticipation ran up her spine. Were these the incredible emotions her parents had experienced when they met? Was this the man destined to need her love, to give her his? Was this miraculous connection between them real or just an ephemeral wisp of magic conjured by mutual pain and understanding?

  Why in the name of heaven was there such an abundance of questions and such a frustrating lack of answers?

  "Courtney?"

  She hadn't heard Slayde return.

  Her head came up, and she blinked, giving him a weak but reassuring smile. "I haven't fainted. I was just thinking."

  "Well, we certainly have something to think about," he replied, his expression grim. "Take a look." Crossing over, he sank down beside her, drawing the table closer and placing the three notes side by side upon it.

  Abandoning her philosophical musings, Courtney peered over Slayde's shoulder and scrutinized the sheets of paper. "You were right. Other than the date, the second note you received and the one just delivered by Bow Street

  are identical."

  "No, you were right. They're not." He pointed at the first ransom note he'd received, then the undelivered one found on Armon's body. "Study these two closely." He waited for her nod. "Now inspect the middle one again. Carefully. Tell me what you see."

  For a long moment, Courtney was quiet, eyes narrowed on each individual page. Then she gasped. "The one in the middle is written in a different hand than the other two."

  "Exactly. It's a near-perfect copy. Someone worked very hard to replicate the handwriting. But the curves of the letters, the angles—they're slightly off, not enough to notice, unless you're examining them together, up close, comparing one to the other, but the difference is there. Someone else wrote this second note."

  "Wait." Courtney shook her head, then frowned as it began to throb. "You're saying that whoever wrote the first and third notes were one and the same person—someone other than whoever wrote the second note."

  "Yes. And stop shaking your head. You'll aggravate whatever's left of the concussion."

  Courtney scarcely heard the admonishment. "If Armon kept the final note, never sending it, I presume he substituted the second note in its stead."

  "And had that substitute delivered to me on the day I sailed out to the Isobel."

  "Then who penned the others?"

  "Whoever orchestrated this scheme. My guess is he gave them to Armon with orders to have the first note delivered just after Aurora left Pembourne, the next on the day before her return."

  "But Slayde,"—Courtney frowned—"that presumes this other person knew of Aurora's plans to travel to London."

  "Indeed it does."

  "How? Who?"

  "We'll have to put that question to Aurora. My immediate response would be that Elinore must have been aware of the upcoming trip; after all, Aurora sought her out as both transport and chaperon. And since Elinore hadn't a clue that the whole excursion was Aurora's little secret, she might have mentioned the forthcoming trip to anyone." Slayde's expression hardened, his eyes glittering dangerously. "Of course, there could be another explanation. The orchestrator of this scheme could have been someone seeking vengeance badly enough to scrutinize Pembourne, not only over the past fortnight, but continuously. Someone who studied Aurora's restless comings and goings and deduced that it was just a matter of time before she performed a foolhardy stunt like dashing off to London with Elinore. And when she did, he jumped on the opportunity, giving Armon the first ransom note and following Elinore's carriage to London. There, he had only to stay close enough to Aurora to learn how long she intended to stay in town, then dispatch the next note to Armon while remaining in London to ensure that Aurora's plans didn't change."

  Courtney's brows arched in response to Slayde's far-fetched explanation. "I needn't ask who you believe that 'someone' is."

  "No. You needn't."

  "'Tis very little fact and much speculation."

  "All of which makes sense."

  "Not completely. Putting aside Morland's involvement—or lack thereof—let's say you're right and Armon penned the second note as a way to subvert the third. Why, then, didn't he destroy the latter? Why was he keeping it?"

  "I suspect he didn't pen the second note himself but had it copied. Probably by a damned good forger who used the third note as a prototype before returning the original to Armon, who then paid him to send the well-crafted replacement to me after the Fortune had gone in pursuit of your ship. Which would explain why the undelivered note was still in Armon's possession."

  "By predating the replacement by a day, Armon managed to seize the stone while his colleague was still in London," Courtney mused aloud. "Giving Armon time to bolt before his actions were discovered."

  "But it didn't work that way. Armon underestimated his partner's intelligence—or perhaps his sobriety. The bastard caught up with him, confiscated the jewel, and killed him."

  "Which brings up another question. Once Armon had the jewel, w
hy did he remain in England? Surely he realized he was a walking target. Why didn't he flee the country?"

  "He probably intended to—after collecting his money. Remember, Courtney, the stone was worth a fortune. I'm sure Armon preferred pound notes to a huge, cumbersome jewel."

  "So he was en route to his monetary connection when he was overtaken—and murdered." She inclined her head. "Underestimated 'his sobriety,' you said. We're back to the Duke of Morland again."

  "He had the motive and the opportunity. Remember, he's no longer in seclusion. These past few months, he's made a miraculous and convenient re-emergence into the business world."