“Renowned? You mean notorious.” Aurora folded her arms across her chest, her palms rubbing the fine muslin as if to warm away her trepidation. “I’m so relieved the stone is gone, together with all the ugliness it embodied. It’s destroyed our family, whether or not Slayde chooses to believe it.”
“Oh, he believes it. The only difference is, he believes the curse is not the diamond itself, but those who seek it.”
Aurora’s gaze grew speculative. “You’ve been at Pembourne for but a few days. Yet my brother has shared more with you than he has with anyone, including me.”
“Aurora, he hasn’t—”
Swiftly, Aurora waved away Courtney’s protest. “You don’t understand. I’m not upset. In fact, I’m elated that Slayde has allowed someone to venture past those bloody walls of his. Perhaps he’s finally recognizing that none of us can survive alone. If so, there just might be some hope for him after all, but only if he accepts the fact that needing others is not an affliction but a blessing.”
Slayde would not have welcomed Aurora’s proclamation.
A mile from Pembourne, he steered his phaeton into its fourth circular trip around the picturesque country road, berating himself yet again for departing from Pembourne at the absurd hour of six a.m.
Absurd because, even with the stops he intended to make, the ride to Morland—just six miles inland of the small town of Dawlish where Pembourne was situated—would take no more than an hour. Plus, the businessmen he meant to visit prior to descending upon the duke would hardly be at their establishments at the first light of dawn.
Which meant he could do naught but drive aimlessly for hours.
Nevertheless, he’d needed to get away.
The need itself was unsurprising. Most of his return trips to Pembourne were brief, characterized by a restless unease that took him away almost as soon as he arrived. He’d stay only long enough to ensure Aurora’s well-being, then depart on another business journey—abroad and as far from the past as possible.
Not this time.
This time, he’d been troubled not by restlessness or even unease, but by a myriad of conflicting emotions, the result of which was an unprecedented combination of tenderness, determination, and guilt. All of which pertained to Courtney—Courtney and whatever had transpired between them last night.
What had transpired was merely a kiss, he amended silently. What had happened was another story entirely.
He’d never forget the look on her face when he’d left her: not distress or guilt or even regret, but wonder. There had been wonder in her sea-green eyes, an exhilarated awe that both humbled and terrified him.
Because he’d felt it, too.
This whole situation was insane. He’d rescued the woman from death, taken her into his home. ’Twas only natural that she reach out to him for comfort, that he reach out to offer it.
Comfort, hell. That kiss had been deep, consuming, underscored by an unknown, but no less profound, emotion that shook him to his soul. Not to mention desire, desire as unfamiliar as it was intense, simmering beneath the surface like the first embers of a fire about to blaze out of control.
For a man who’d lived one and thirty years and who, despite his solitary existence, was no stranger to passion, it was sobering to feel more shaken by a kiss than he’d felt as a result of his most ardent sexual joining.
His behavior prior to that kiss was even more unsettling.
Never had he gone to a woman’s bed without the mutually agreed-upon decision to couple. Yet last night, long before their embrace was even a thought, much less an action, he’d stretched out alongside Courtney as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, held her without a shred of discomfort, talked with her—not as an overture to coupling, but as an entity unto itself.
And told her things he’d never told another.
Oh, his recountings could hardly be described as great revelations, not when half of England was privy to the details of the Huntley curse. Still, he’d never shared his thoughts, his feelings, with anyone. Like his life, they were his and his alone.
Until last night.
Moreover, it wasn’t only their talk that unnerved him, or even their kiss—although God help him, he couldn’t forget the taste of her mouth, the softness of her skin, the delicacy of her frame. It was the aftermath that shook him.
Never had he carried memories of a woman with him, much less wanted to slay her dragons the way he did Courtney’s. He was determined to find the pirate who’d killed her father—regardless of whether Morland was involved—and drive a sword through his heart, just to give her back a semblance of what she’d lost.
All in all, Slayde concluded, his fingers tightening about the reins, he’d just enumerated far too many nevers to suit him. Consummate realist that he was, he forced himself to acknowledge the truth: not only did Courtney Johnston have an amazing effect on him, but after a matter of days—or perhaps right from the start—she’d touched something inside him he hadn’t known existed and would will away if he could.
Ironic that he would do so more for her sake than for his own.
’Twas true, he was a loner. He’d been that way all his life—from Eton to Oxford. How much of that trait was inherent and how much a result of the alleged curse and its ramifications, he hadn’t a clue. The fact remained that, since childhood, he’d relied only upon himself. His parents’ murder had heightened that independence and inner strength, because from that day forward, he had no longer been a man unto himself. He was needed—by Aurora, by the enormous responsibilities left to him as the Earl of Pembourne. And he was determined, having endured the profound devastation rendered by those who sought the black diamond, to retain his autonomy, not only emotionally, but in fact.
Thus, on the day he discovered his parents’ bodies, he vowed to himself that the last generation of Huntleys had suffered the hatred and greed spawned by his great-grandfather’s theft, that the last drop of Huntley blood had been spilled.
That the family name would die with him.
It wouldn’t be difficult to accomplish. He and Aurora were the last remaining Huntleys. Aurora would marry—he’d see to it—and her children would bear her husband’s name. After which, if Slayde died without wife or issue, Aurora’s offspring would inherit the Pembourne estates and fortune while remaining immune to the Huntley curse.
If Slayde died without wife or issue.
Accordingly, his responsibility was to relinquish any thought of marrying or siring a child. And he’d fulfilled both aspects of that responsibility—the former by undisputed decision, the latter by discipline and by choosing seasoned bedmates who were equally as adamant about avoiding conception as he.
Hardly a description of Courtney.
No, a woman like Courtney was destined for a loving husband, a houseful of children, and a lifetime of untinged tomorrows, none of which he could offer her. So attraction or not, wonder or not, she had no place in his life. And since she was clearly too naïve to recognize this, it was up to him to protect her.
To save her—again. Only this time, from himself.
Jaws tightly clenched, Slayde urged the horses toward the town of Newton Abbot—and toward the meetings that would culminate in a confrontation with the Duke of Morland.
It was just past ten o’clock when Slayde steered his phaeton around the bend leading to Morland Manor.
Grimly, he contemplated the tactics he would take in light of what he’d learned from those of the duke’s colleagues with whom he’d spoken.
His findings had been most surprising.
Evidently, Morland had changed considerably over the past few months—not in his finances, but in his behavior. According to two local merchants and the local innkeeper, he’d emerged from his estate, not once but several times, using the inn to meet with colleagues whose descriptions Slayde recognized as belonging to a prominent Devonshire banker and an equally respected solicitor.
Meetings he’d been sober enough to conduc
t.
Seeking out the two men in question, Slayde had been blocked by a wall of professional ethics, gleaning nothing save his own inference that Morland was re-emerging into the business world.
Why? More importantly, what could have prompted this sudden and drastic transformation?
Slayde intended to find out.
A wry smile twisted his lips as he passed through Morland’s iron gates and regarded the desolate structure looming ahead. First, he’d have to get inside, push past the servants, and get to the duke. Needless to say, he didn’t anticipate a particularly warm welcome.
His assumption was confirmed five minutes later by the pinch-nosed butler who answered his knock. “Yes?” he inquired, his bland tone telling Slayde he had no idea of his caller’s identity. But then, why should he? Slayde had never so much as crossed Morland’s threshold.
“Good day,” he replied, equally aloof. “Kindly advise His Grace that the Earl of Pembourne is here to see him.”
Comprehension struck.
All the color draining from his face, the butler sputtered, “D-did you say…?”
“Indeed I did. Now that we’ve confirmed that I am indeed Slayde Huntley, go tell Morland I’m on his doorstep, with no intentions of leaving until we’ve spoken.”
Forcibly, the butler restored his composure. “His Grace is out.”
“ ‘Out’ as in away? Or ‘out’ as in passed out—drunk?”
A haughty sniff. “Away, my lord.”
“Fine. Then I’ll wait for him to return.”
“That could be hours.”
“I’m in no hurry.” So saying, Slayde shrugged off his coat and slung it over the astonished butler’s arm. “Is the library down this corridor?” he inquired, already heading in what seemed to be the logical direction. “I’ll pass the time reading.”
“But, Lord Pembourne, you can’t—”
“Thayer, whose phaeton is that around front?” The voice at the front door brought both men up short. Turning, they watched Lawrence Bencroft step through the entranceway. “I’m not expecting anyone.”
“Ah, but someone is expecting you,” Slayde said, his tone ominously quiet.
Morland’s head came up, like a wolf scenting danger, his eyes narrowing on his guest. “Pembourne.”
“Ah, you’re sober enough to recognize me. An impressive feat, considering the fact that we haven’t seen each other in—let’s see, how long has it been since you shut yourself up in here with only a bottle as company? Eight years? Or is it nine? I believe it was nine—a mere year after my parents’ deaths.”
“What the hell are you doing in my home?” Morland nearly flung his coat into Thayer’s arms, heading toward Slayde with angry—but steady—steps. “Get out. Or I’ll have you thrown out.”
“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, Pembour
ne. 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.”