Andrea Kane (14 page)

“Who would come to Pembourne before seven a.m.?” Courtney interrupted, walking slowly toward the window.

A shrug. “Probably the Viscountess Stanwyk. She visits Lady Aurora now and again.” Matilda sighed deeply. “Very well, if you insist on traveling to London with Lord Pembourne, then I shall accompany you.”

“You?” Courtney turned, her brows arching in surprise. “Whatever for?”

It was Matilda’s turn to look amazed. “To chaperon you, of course. You can’t very well journey alone with the earl. You’re a single young lady with a reputation to consider.”

“A reputation?” Courtney’s shoulders began to shake with laughter. “Oh, Matilda, I have no reputation, nor do I care a whit about one. The sole year I spent as a proper young lady was at a boarding school that would rather endure a plague than readmit me. The remainder of my life, I’ve been at sea. I’m hardly in danger of being compromised by traveling with Lord Pembourne.”

“Still, I’ll…”

Strained male voices drifted up through the open window.

“That can’t be Lady Stanwyk,” Courtney murmured, peering out. “Oh, God.” All the color drained from her face. “Matilda, Slayde is talking to a gentleman in uniform. The uniform looks like one of those worn by Bow Street.”

Ignoring her physical discomfort, Courtney gathered up her newly donned skirts and made her way to the door. “I’m going downstairs,” she announced in a tone that precluded argument.

“I’ll assist you.” Matilda scurried to her side.

By the time they reached the foot of the stairs, Slayde and his visitor had entered the manor and were conversing heatedly. Slayde’s expression was grim, while the stocky uniformed gentleman looked decidedly uneasy, shifting from one foot to the other and hanging near the entrance like a scared rabbit longing to bolt. Courtney paused, not merely to study the men, but to clutch the banister in an attempt to still her swimming head and trembling limbs.

“Are you all right, Miss Courtney?” Matilda asked with a worried frown.

“Fine, Matilda. I’m just regathering my strength.”

Hearing their voices, Slayde glanced up, his dark scowl growing darker. “Courtney.”

She braced herself for what she assumed would be an admonishment about overexerting herself.

It never came.

Without another word, Slayde walked rigidly toward them, taking Courtney’s arm and nodding a curt dismissal at Matilda. “I’ll take over from here.”

“Very good, m’lord,” the lady’s maid replied. “I’ll pack Miss Courtney’s bag for your trip.”

“No. Don’t.”

Courtney started at the harshness of Slayde’s tone.

So did Matilda. “But I…that is—”

“Forgive my rudeness, Matilda,” Slayde interrupted, clearly trying to make amends, at the same time ending the conversation. “But packing is no longer necessary.”

“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, why 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?