by Andrea Kane
"No, Morland, you won't. Because you know damned well why I'm here. And you can't risk tossing me out without first hearing what I have to say—and discerning precisely how much proof I have of your guilt. So cease this heroic display and let's get to the matter at hand. Shall we adjourn to the library? Or do you want me to air my accusations in front of your entire staff? The choice is yours."
Morland drew a harsh breath, his eyes narrowing on Slayde as he mulled over what had been said as well as what had been implied. "You haven't changed a bit, have you Pembourne? Still as callous as ever. Very well. Unlike the members of your family, I'm not a monster. Although I cannot imagine what you're raving about or why you think I know the purpose of your visit." A swift glance at Thayer. "The earl and I will be in the library. No refreshment is necessary. Knock on the door in precisely ten minutes. Bring three or four footmen with you, lest Lord Pembourne prove difficult. Either way, he will be escorted from the manor at that time."
"Very good, sir." Thayer rushed off like a mouse who'd been freed from a trap.
Silently, Morland led the way to the library, shutting the door firmly behind him and removing his timepiece for a quick glance. "Your time is short. So get to the point. What is it you want?" He furnished Slayde with only an icy but unglazed stare.
Slayde perched against the mantel, averting his gaze as he took a minute to calm himself. He hadn't expected the rush of fury that accompanied coming face to face with Lawrence Bencroft after all these years. Suddenly, it was a decade earlier, and he was back at Pembourne, discovering his parents' lifeless bodies on the floor, hearing the droning voices of the authorities as they concluded that it was obviously the work of a burglar. And, most infuriating of all, seeing Morland's cloudy expression when Slayde had stormed into Almack's and publicly accused him—or rather, his now-dead father—of committing the crime. Hands shaking so badly his drink had sloshed onto the polished floor, Morland had slurred out some less-than-convincing, intoxicated denials—denials that, at least for Slayde, had fallen on deaf ears.
The only thing that had kept him from choking the life out of Lawrence was the possibility that the inebriated fool might have been unaware of Chilton's plan.
But now Chilton was dead. Which made this current plot Lawrence's alone.
"Pembourne, did you invade my home just to scrutinize my library shelves?" Morland was demanding.
Slayde's gaze snapped back to his prey. "No," he managed, thrusting the past from his mind, supplanting it with the present. "I've invaded your home to unearth the truth about your blackmail scheme. And I will unearth it, using whatever means are necessary."
The implicit threat hung heavily between them, and Slayde saw a vein begin to throb at Morland's throat. The bastard had deteriorated, he noted abruptly. Time had taken its toll, as had bitterness and alcohol. Morland's hair, once raven black, was now predominantly gray, his broad shoulders stooped, his face lined and puffy. In short, he'd become an old man.
"What blackmail scheme?" Morland questioned warily.
"The one that involved Aurora's alleged kidnapping. And the name—and whereabouts—of the pirate who assisted you."
A flicker of emotion—was it trepidation or surprise?—registered on the duke's face. "I haven't the slightest clue what you're babbling about."
"Don't you? Then let's digress for a moment. When last I saw you, you were being tossed out of White's, for the third and final time. Even their gracious members lose patience with an unruly drunk who owes thousands of pounds to each of them. As I recall, you were livid, resentful, and barely able to hold your head up. A week later, I heard you'd withdrawn to Morland, supposedly for good. Now, some nine years later, you've evidently relinquished the bottle and rejoined the world—specifically by taking productive jaunts into Newton Abbot. Am I correct thus far?"
Morland swallowed; angry spots of color tingeing his cheeks. "Why the hell have you been checking up on me?"
"We'll get to that in a minute. For now, tell me, are my facts correct?"
"Yes." The answer was unexpectedly straightforward. "I've spent years in a perpetual stupor. And, yes, I've spent that time sequestered here at Morland, where I retreated for what I intended to be forever. What you failed to mention, however, is that my incessant drinking and ultimate seclusion stemmed from losses caused by the Huntleys."
"We didn't put the bottle in your hand nor relegate you to self-imposed isolation. We also didn't squander your money or undermine your business ventures. How long are you going to blame us for your own weaknesses?"
"My so-called weaknesses didn't cause my son's death."
Slayde's jaw unclenched a fraction as he recalled the pale young man who'd attended Oxford when he did—and died before ever completing his education. "Hugh was very frail, Morland."
"He was also my firstborn, the heir to my title and to whatever funds remained in my estate. And with his mother gone, he was all I had left."
"You still had—have"—Slayde corrected himself—"Julian."
A harsh laugh. "Julian? Don't insult me, Pembourne. You know very well my younger son hasn't returned to Morland Manor in years. He has as little use for me as I do for him. He's my grandfather all over again: irresponsible, self-centered, always abandoning his duties to dash off on one adventure or another. Hardly someone for a father to rely upon in his old age. Hubert was my life, my future. And because of the Huntleys, he's dead."
"Hugh died from a fever, not a curse."
"I disagree. Every heinous incident that's plagued my family began the day your great-grandfather stole that black diamond and kept it, rather than delivering it as he and my grandfather had originally promised. That piracy spawned a curse that, unless the wrongs he committed are rectified, will poison our lives forever."
"Rectified?" Slayde leaped on Morland's pointed statement, perceiving the chance to elicit the confession he'd come for. "Is that what you're in the process of doing—rectifying the past to obliterate the curse?"
"You're talking in riddles again."
"Am I? Then I'll be direct. What incited you to relinquish your seclusion?"
A shrug. "Perhaps it was the realization that I'm getting old, the desire to seize whatever fragments of my life are left. Not that it's any of your concern."
"Oh, but it is my concern. Because, you see, I've had some interesting chats with the village merchants this morning." Slayde pressed on with his charade. "As well as with your solicitor and your banker. It seems that you've been conducting a little financial business of late, discussing some upcoming investments and reallocation of funds. Quite impressive for a man of supposedly paltry means. One would almost think you were coming into money—a great deal of money. Of course, that would be impossible for a man with only an estranged son for family and no dealings with the world, wouldn't it?"
Morland's fist struck a side table. "How dare you intrude into my affairs!"
"In this case, they're my affairs, as well." Slayde went in for the kill. "Because the crime you committed to procure your new-found wealth was a crime against me—and one that affected the lives of innocent people. Don't even consider absolving yourself with the fact that it was your accomplice who carried out the sordid plan. You invented it. Through your orders, that filthy pirate blackmailed me, captured a ship, killed its captain, and severely wounded his daughter. All of which I've vowed to avenge." Slayde's eyes glittered dangerously. "And being the callous animal you've accused me of being, I'll begin by thrashing a confession out of you."
Rather than shrinking in terror, Morland seemed to visibly relax, the pulse in his throat slowing to normal. "In other words, with regard to whoever's orchestrated this crime you're raving about, you have no proof."
Damn the bastard for being sober. "How much are you getting for the diamond, Morland?" Slayde demanded in a final attempt to render Lawrence off balance, to pressure him into letting some small detail slip. "How much did you pay that pirate to get it?"
Morland's eyes narro
wed. "Are you telling me the stone is missing? The stone whose whereabouts you supposedly never knew?"
"You know damned well it's missing. I turned it over to your cohort in exchange for the woman I thought was Aurora. And, incidentally, that woman—the captain's daughter—is staying at my home. Because of you, she's injured and orphaned. So for her sake and mine, you can begin by telling me where I can find your accomplice. I have a score to settle with him." A lethal pause. "I have an even bigger one to settle with you."
"Well, you won't be settling it today," Lawrence said icily. "Because I have nothing to tell you. I applaud the fine work done by this pirate—whoever he might be—but I fear I've never met the man, much less ordered him to extort the diamond from you. However, when you find him, let me know. I'd like to be the first to offer my congratulations—and to convince him to restore the stone to the royal family who paid for its recovery. Then perhaps my luck really will change." In a sudden, impatient gesture, Morland extracted his timepiece, cast a swift glance at it. "I fear your ten minutes are up. Further, since I am—according to your own intrusive investigations—a busy man, and since I've only just walked through my own entranceway…"
"From where?" Slayde interrupted, seizing the unanticipated opportunity Morland had just provided. "That was to be my next question. Where is it you just returned from? Not the village; I've just come from there, spoken with all your colleagues. So precisely where did you go and with whom did you meet?"
The pulse in Morland's throat accelerated again. "Get out, Pembourne."
"What's the matter? Did I strike too close to the truth? 'Tis an innocent enough question. When put to an innocent man, that is."
Morland flung open the library door and stepped out, just as Thayer and four footmen approached. Gesturing for the butler to proceed with fulfilling his orders, Morland turned his frigid stare on Slayde. "Get out," he ordered. "Now. Of your own volition or with the aid of my staff. Either way, this conversation is at an end. Permanently. You're never to set foot in my home again. Is that clear?"
Unmoving, Slayde glared back, hate coursing through his blood like an untamed river. "Very clear. As is the answer you've just provided. You were meeting with that pirate, weren't you? Paying for his services. Has he given you the diamond yet?"
Shaking with rage, Morland turned and stalked down the hall.
This time, Slayde moved. Reaching the doorway, he shoved by the unsettled servants, calling out, "Don't become too complacent, Morland. I'll see you in Newgate yet."
A bitter laugh. "And I'll see you in hell, Pembourne."
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
Courtney was sitting in a chair by the window, pushing a half-eaten scone about on her plate, when Slayde's phaeton rounded the drive. Instantly, she tensed, fingers gripping the chair arms as she fought the impulse to dash from her bedchamber and down the stairs in order to learn what information Slayde had wrested from the Duke of Morland. Pragmatism restrained her. If she reaggravated her wounds now, Lord alone knew how long she'd be bedridden. And whatever she intended to do—based on Slayde's findings—it didn't include being an invalid.
Impatiently, she shifted in her seat, wondering why it was taking Slayde an eternity to alight from his carriage and make his way to the second floor.
What if he weren't coming directly to her chambers? That untenable possibility incited action.
With a slight grimace, Courtney pushed herself to her feet and sidestepped the end table. Waiting only until her ribs had finished clamoring their protest, she tied the sash of her wrapper and maneuvered her way across the room. A brief respite to steady herself. Then, she gripped the door handle and eased open the door.
She nearly collided with Slayde in the hallway.
"What are you doing out of bed?" he demanded.
Courtney tilted back her head until she could meet his disapproving gaze. In truth, she hadn't realized just how tall he was until now. Then again, this was the first time she'd been on her feet in his presence. "I was on my way to speak with you," she replied. "I knew you'd returned; I saw your phaeton round the drive beneath my window. I had to know what you'd found out."
He scowled. "Very little." Reflexively, he grasped her elbows, urged her to retrace her steps. "You shouldn't be—"
"But I am. I have been since noontime. I intend to be until dusk. So don't bother escorting me back to that prison of a bed. I want to hear everything that's happened. And I want to hear it in an upright position."
Slayde's dark brows lifted, a twinge of amusement easing the taut lines about his mouth. "Evidently, you're healing. I begin to see signs of the tyrant Madame La Salle rejoiced in bidding good-bye."
"I am."
"You are—which? Healing or a tyrant?"
Courtney smiled in spite of herself. "Both." She pointed at the mahogany end table. "See how much better I am? I was enjoying my afternoon refreshment in a chair."
"Then let's restore you to it and we'll have our conversation."
"All right." She allowed herself to be eased back into the seat, unable to deny the incredible relief her body experienced as it relinquished the burden of standing.
"Better?" Slayde drew up a second chair and joined her.
"Much. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Their gazes locked, and Courtney felt a jolt of awareness rush through her, memories of last night darting dangerously close to the surface. Slayde was remembering, too; she could tell by the intensity of his gaze, the tension suddenly pervading his powerful frame.
With a visible effort, he looked away, clearing his throat and surveying the bedchamber. "I'm surprised my sister isn't glued to your side. I rather expected she'd spend the day regaling you with Mr. Scollard's fanciful tales."
"She was. She did." Following Slayde's lead, Courtney complied with the change in subject. "Aurora was with me all morning. Just before noon, she left to…" A delicate pause.
"…To visit the Windmouth Lighthouse," he supplied. "Her customary destination. Courtney, your loyalty is commendable. But you needn't worry about betraying Aurora's confidences. My staff is well paid and equally well instructed. All of my sister's actions are reported immediately upon my return to Pembourne."
"Don't you think that's a bit restrictive?"
Slayde's jaw tightened. "Restrictive, but not excessive. Given the situation, it's the way things must be."
Courtney bit her lip to stifle the argument she felt coming on. Slayde's overseeing of Aurora was none of her business. Further, she understood that his overprotectiveness was rooted in love, love and concern for Aurora's safety.
Which reminded her of the pressing issue: Slayde's trip to Morland.
"Did you see the duke?" She leaned forward to ask.
"Oh, I saw him all right." With a brooding expression, Slayde stretched his legs out in front of him. "But the visit was far from what I expected."
"What do you mean?"
Courtney listened intently as Slayde relayed the entire day's events to her, from his subtle questioning of the merchants in Newton Abbot to his ugly and unresolved confrontation with Morland.
"You think he's hiding something," Courtney deduced, when Slayde had finished.
"I damned well do. Why else would he suddenly and conveniently be resurrecting his life?"
"Maybe for the reason he gave you—to reclaim whatever's left."
"Which is nothing, according to him."
"He didn't react at all when you mentioned that pirate, or Papa?"
Slayde's lips thinned into a grim line. "Only by gloating."
"Then we're right back where we started." Even as she gave voice to the untenable truth, an emotional dam—too overpowering to keep intact—burst inside her. Ignoring the warning twinges that accompanied her actions, she vaulted to her feet, crossing over to the wardrobe and pulling out one of the gowns Aurora had provided. "I can't wait another minute."
Slayde was beside her in a heartb
eat. "What in God's name do you think you're doing?"
Gripping a blue day dress, Courtney turned, regarding Slayde with anguished determination. "What I should have done from the onset: go to search for Papa—and that filthy pirate who hurt him."
"Courtney." Slayde's hands were gentle on her shoulders. "You're going nowhere. You can scarcely stand up, much less leave Pembourne."
"I'll manage. Anything is better than this inactivity. I can't lie here, doing nothing, for another minute." She punctuated her words with adamant shakes of her head, fighting back tears of anger and frustration. "Don't you understand? I'm wasting time. If Papa is still alive, he needs me. I can't just lie in bed, day after day, waiting for some miraculous occurrence to resolve things. I've got to do something—now." She clutched Slayde's waistcoat.
