by Andrea Kane
Courtney rose and went to the bed, sitting down beside her friend and hugging her tightly. "Now you listen to me, Aurora Huntley," she commanded fiercely. "There is no curse. 'Tis as fabricated as every other dark tale or legend that spans generations, propagated by thieves whose best interests it serves to do so. Your parents were killed by greedy, monstrous criminals, not by some imaginary curse. That diamond is worth a fortune. Those who traverse the globe in search of it crave that fortune. None of them seems to be deterred by the black legacy attached to it, do they? And wouldn't they be, if they truly believed they'd become the carrion upon whom all others will feed eternally? I should think the answer to that—great wealth or not—would be yes."
Drawing back, Courtney caught Aurora's hands in hers. "Aurora," she continued, her voice quavering as she spoke, "when I needed the strength to resolve Papa's death, you gave it to me. You offered me friendship, support, and a tangible method to achieve my end. Let me do the same for you." She rose, crossing over to pick up the sketch. "If you want to grant your parents peace, this is the way to do it. Let's find and punish the scoundrels who killed them. That will avenge their deaths and ease your heart of its excruciating burden."
Aurora's haunted look vanished, supplanted by her characteristic—and welcome—determination. "You're right." Purposefully, she dashed the moisture from her eyes. "How did I ever survive before you came to Pembourne?" A hint of a smile. "More importantly, how did Slayde survive? Never mind. I know the answer to that: he didn't. The change in him these past weeks… I still can't believe he's my brother. He jokes, laughs—Lord, he even winked at me. And the way he looks at you—" She stopped, studying Courtney's face. "Is it wonderful?"
"More than wonderful," Courtney replied softly. "More than heaven. More than anything I've ever imagined." She arched a knowing brow. "You'll see for yourself when it happens to you."
"I?" Aurora laughed aloud. "Now that's an unlikely notion. First of all, Slayde never lets me out of the house to meet anyone. And second—well, I just can't imagine any man who'd be interesting enough to spend the rest of my life with. If the day ever comes that I'm allowed beyond Pembourne's walls, I want to go everywhere, see everything. I've had more than enough complacency to last a lifetime. And I highly doubt there exists a man who'd tolerate—no, welcome—such a restless bride."
"If you say so."
"I say so." With a definitive nod, Aurora reached for the sketch. "Let's get back to work before Oridge comes in to reclaim this."
For the next hour, they studied the drawing, trying to deduce who could have—would have—penned it. "If only whoever drew this had signed the note, or at the very least, initialed it," Courtney finally muttered. "There's nothing in the wording that's distinctive enough to attribute to any one person."
"It has to be someone who can read and write proper English," Aurora noted. "Surely that must eliminate a portion of the staff."
"Yes, but do we know for a fact who can or cannot do that?" Courtney countered.
"Not without asking them."
"Or testing them." Courtney chewed her lip. "What if we were to invent a plausible reason for instructing each servant to pen his name, or some specific words, or…" She shot up like a bullet. "That's it!"
"What's it?" Aurora sat bolt upright.
"The last ransom note—not the one found in Armon's pocket, but the one Slayde received."
"The one that disreputable fellow Grimes copied."
"Exactly." Courtney's eyes sparkled. "Not only is Grimes a contact for stolen jewels, he's also a skilled forger. He studied the handwriting of that second note, then reproduced it. Other than confessing that—and the fact that he was Armon's contact—to Slayde, he's been of little use to us. But I think all that's about to change." Courtney rubbed her palms together. "As I recall, Mr. Grimes is amenable to business arrangements that consist of his being lavishly compensated while remaining wholly intact. We can offer him that. In fact, we can offer him more than enough to buy his cooperation."
"You want him to study the handwriting on this sketch?"
"Not only study it, but compare it to a host of others. We're going to assemble the staff and ask each and every one of them to pen a few words for us. We'll conjure up a suitable reason, then choose a fragment from the note, something innocuous enough for the culprit to have forgotten he'd written ten years past. That way no one will feign the inability to write so as not to participate. Once the task is done, we'll take all the samples to Grimes."
"Who will then match the culprit's hand with that on this sketch," Aurora jumped in, realization erupting like fireworks.
"Precisely." Courtney's small jaw set. "At which time, dear cohort, we'll have our traitor."
* * *
Chapter 17
« ^ »
"Thayer, tell the duke I'm here," Slayde commanded, looming in Morland's entranceway door like an avenging god. "And don't bother refusing me or telling me he's away. He's here. And I'm going nowhere until I've spoken with him."
The butler flinched at Slayde's formidable presence, the leashed fury in his tone. "To the contrary, Lord Pembourne," he countered, taking two backward steps, "His Grace has been expecting … rather, hoping—" Breaking off, Thayer whipped out a handkerchief, mopped at his brow. "I have instructions to advise him the moment you arrive. Please—wait here while I announce you." He turned, nearly sprinting down the hall.
Not three minutes passed before he reappeared. "The duke will see you at once. Follow me."
Thayer led Slayde down the same corridor he'd just traversed, pausing when he reached the open study door.
"Lord Pembourne," he trumpeted, his voice quavering a bit.
"Huntley—so you finally got my message." Unsteadily, Morland rose from behind his desk, bitterness contorting his features, hatred darkening his red-rimmed stare. "I planned to give you one more day before I descended again on Pembourne."
"To do what?" Slayde demanded. "Harass my staff? Tear apart the manor? Or something more ominous than either?"
From the doorway, Thayer gave a delicate cough. "If there will be nothing else, sir?"
Morland's gaze never left Slayde's. "No, Thayer, you're welcome to bolt. Shut the door behind you. Oh, and you're bound to hear shouts. Ignore them. The earl and I have a great deal of catching up to do."
"Yes, Your Grace. Thank you." The butler fled like a pursued rabbit.
"I could kill you, you filthy bastard," Morland spat the instant he and Slayde were alone.
"I don't doubt it," Slayde shot back. "You have a wealth of experience when it comes to murder." A pause, flashes of Courtney's near-fatality jolting through him. "And attempted murder."
Morland's eyes narrowed. "Attempted murder? Have you a new accusation to add to your demented list of crimes?"
"I have many. Are you sober enough to hear them?"
"I'm as sober as you are."
"As you were the day you burst into Pembourne?"
"No. That day I was drunk. Today I'm livid." Morland gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. "Don't confuse the two. Now, where is it? Where is that blasted diamond?"
"You already know the answer to that, Morland." Slayde's voice was menacingly quiet. "So drop the facade and give me the answers I seek. I'm not leaving here without them. I'll drag them from your lips if I must, employing whatever methods are necessary to get them."
"You dare to threaten me?" Morland roared, picking up an empty goblet and hurling it against the fireplace, where it smashed into a hundred shards. "You, who handed my life over to that pirate along with the black diamond? You had no bloody right. I don't give a damn about your sister's life. That privateer was welcome to her—'twould be one less Huntley to contend with."
Slayde's control snapped. "You miserable…" He crossed the room in a heartbeat, his fist connecting with Morland's jaw.
"Go ahead," Morland taunted, panting as he regained his balance. "Thrash me. Beat me senseless. I'm condemned to a
n eternal hell anyway, thanks to the Huntleys. You're all animals, cursed thieves who have hoisted your curse onto us." He rubbed his jaw, words of enmity spilling forth of their own accord. "Four generations, my family has suffered, died, from your greed and hatred. Did you have the jewel all these years, you wretched scoundrel? Or did you uncover it just in time to relinquish it and damn the Bencrofts to immortal doom?"
Something penetrated Slayde's rage, gave him pause. Perhaps it was Morland's tone, his desperation. Perhaps it was instinct, the new awareness Slayde had only just acquired. In any case, he found himself waiting, deferring his next punch, listening to Morland's ramblings.
"What's wrong with you Huntleys?" he was demanding, raking both hands through his hair. "Don't you want to be rid of that curse? Do you enjoy being haunted by demons? Or is it just the sheer pleasure of tormenting the Bencrofts that stirs your black-hearted souls? You don't need the fortune that diamond would bring. Hell, you've got more money than you know what to do with."
"While you don't," Slayde said at once.
A harsh laugh. "You know damned well I'm in dire financial straits. The Bencrofts have lost countless fortunes thanks to your great-grandfather's piracy. We'll continue to lose countless more."
"So you view the diamond as payment for your suffering."
"Payment and salvation. Moreover, I was on the verge of finding the stone, restoring it to where it belonged so I could at last set things right. Oh, I could never obliterate the past, but I could grant my ancestors peace and myself a measure of security in my old age. I would have succeeded. I'd raised the money to begin my search. And then—this!" Morland snatched up a copy of the Times and flung it to the floor at Slayde's feet.
Slowly, Slayde's gaze traveled to the open newspaper, glancing from the article on page two to the vein pulsing furiously at Morland's temple to the unfeigned enmity—and trepidation—glistening in his eyes.
A deluge of stunned awareness struck, transforming Slayde's rage to shock, to doubt and, ultimately, to realization: Lawrence Bencroft was telling the truth.
Drawing in a slow breath, Slayde assimilated the snatches of information he'd just been given, fit all the pieces together.
"Morland," he somehow managed to reply, "are you suggesting that not only did you not pay Armon to steal the black diamond but that your sudden re-emergence in the business world was an attempt to finance a search for the stone?"
"Are you suggesting you didn't know that?"
"How would I?"
Morland's smile was grim. "Oh, come now, Pembourne. You told me yourself you'd delved into my business affairs. Quite thoroughly, I presume. What did you discover I'd been doing with my funds?"
"Transferring them. Amassing them. Spending an unusual amount of time meeting with your solicitor and banker discussing them." Slayde's eyes narrowed. "Let's put the results of my inquiries aside. If what you claim is true, why didn't you combat my accusations, or Courtney's for that matter, by revealing this convenient detail? She and I both, on separate occasions, appeared on your doorstep, accusing you of orchestrating the plan to pilfer the diamond. You said nothing to prove you weren't involved."
"I have nothing to prove, not to you or that crazed woman you sent here. And since my money was being invested in a search—the onset of which was a thorough investigation of your activities to ensure that you weren't, in reality, harboring the diamond at Pembourne—it hardly seemed prudent to disclose my intentions and alert you to that upcoming investigation. Moreover, since I knew I was innocent of all the allegations you and that insane Johnston girl were hurling at me, I never once doubted that, like your accusations, your claim to have relinquished the diamond was entirely fabricated. Until I read that contemptible submission of yours. Had I but known—" Morland leveled an icy stare at Slayde. "I'd have thrashed you before I let you hand over that diamond. But now it's too late. Some other greedy bastard has the stone, and it will take me months to track it down."
"You're not lying." Slayde said the words aloud, almost as if he needed to hear them to believe they were true. "Hell and damnation, you're actually telling the truth." Additional implications sank in. "Are you also going to deny taking a shot at Courtney last week? The night we were in Somerset?"
"What?" Morland countered. "Took a shot at … is that the attempted murder you were referring to?" Furiously, he shook his head. "The last I saw of that chit, she was tearing out of my home, presumably heading back to Pembourne. I never saw her again. I never knew you and she went to Somerset. And I damned well never tried to kill her." Morland's hands balled into fists. "Pembourne, not only are you a heartless thief, you're also a lunatic. For months after your parents died, you hammered me with accusations—that I was a murderer, that my father was a murderer. Now, ten years later, you've decided to rekindle the ashes of those accusations—inspired by some sick purpose that evades me. Moreover, you're also charging me with shooting a woman I met for but a few minutes and couldn't give a damn about one way or the other. Well, I have no intentions of allowing you to reopen old wounds or create new ones. Your claims were demented and unfounded then; they're demented and unfounded now. So are those of that sea captain's daughter. The two of you can threaten me with exposure 'til the end of time. Unless you've manufactured nonexistent evidence to incriminate me, I have nothing to fear. Not only didn't I try to kill her, but, for the hundredth time, I did not kill your parents." A lethal glare. "Don't misunderstand; I loathe the Huntleys. Murdering one of them would purge my soul and lighten my heart. But the particular one I'd have in mind would be your great-grandfather. I'd choke the location of the diamond out of him, then kill him without a shred of guilt. Unfortunately, he's already dead. And murdering the rest of you would serve no purpose other than to vent my rage and condemn me to Newgate. Frankly, you're just not worth it."
Slayde was reeling, too overcome by what he'd just learned to address Morland's venomous comments. Besides, they suddenly ceased to matter. Suddenly, everything ceased to matter.
Everything but Courtney.
With a gripping sensation, Slayde confronted the single most impending horror indicated by Morland's revelations: somewhere out there was the culprit who'd truly attempted to shoot Courtney. And that culprit was waiting, plotting.
Mr. Scollard's voice resounded through Slayde's head.
Ruthlessness hovers at your portals … heartlessness and obsession haunt your doorstep… Danger stalks Courtney like a predator. After today, there will be no protection. You alone can prevent the danger from seizing her… Resolution is in your hands—as is Courtney's life. Return to Pembourne … return to Pembourne…
Everything inside Slayde went cold. God help him, he had to get to Courtney.
* * *
The phaeton couldn't reach Pembourne quickly enough. For the dozenth time, Slayde urged the horses to go faster, nearly jostling Rayburn from his seat in the process. "Sorry," Slayde muttered.
"Quite all right, sir." Rayburn resituated himself. "I understand. And if it's any consolation to you, you did the right thing by relieving me of my post. I can do you more good hunting down the real culprit than I can scrutinizing the duke's estate. It's quite obvious Morland isn't involved."
"You're sure he never left the manor?"
"Other than yesterday morning when he descended upon Pembourne, no—not from the instant I resumed my post six days past, having delivered Lady Aurora and Miss Johnston to Pembourne. In fact, not only has the duke gone nowhere, but no one has visited him—not his solicitor, not his banker, no one. The only person to arrive at Morland all week was the local delivery boy, who has long since checked out as legitimate."
"Couldn't Morland have left his estate during the time you rode to Pembourne—especially if he followed you, Courtney and Aurora to my home?"
"Of course. However, I was gone from my post for but a few hours. If the duke had pursued Miss Johnston from Pembourne to Somerset before returning to his estate, I'd definitely have witnessed his return,
if not his departure. No, my lord, the Duke of Morland was not the person who took a shot at Miss Johnston."
"Then who the hell was?" Slayde growled, fingers tightening on the reins.
"Who indeed, sir."
Glancing about, Slayde realized Pembourne was nearly upon them. "Before we arrive, I have another pressing matter to discuss with you."
"Sir?"
"Until new evidence presents itself, there's little point in your blindly trying to hunt down the assailant. Moreover, I have an interim assignment I want you to pursue—a delicate, extraordinarily important assignment. It must be handled quickly, discreetly, and—with the help of God—successfully. I'd originally intended to get a recommendation from Oridge; I trust he'd supply me with the name of someone competent and reliable for the job. But needless to say, I'd much rather engage your services, as I'm already familiar with the high quality of your work."