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 Elmore. 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 farfetched 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, why 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.”
“We could easily discern if he traveled to London last week.”
“We could and we will. But that alone isn’t enough. We must determi
ne where he was when Armon—” Slayde broke off, realization darting across his face. “Armon was murdered either early yesterday morning or late the night before—in Dartmouth, which is a two- to three-hour carriage ride from Morland. I arrived at Morland Manor late yesterday morning. The duke returned to his estate immediately thereafter. When I asked where he’d been, he refused to answer. I know he wasn’t in the village; I’d have seen him there when I was questioning the merchants. So where was he?” A fierce glint lit his eyes. “And doing what—killing his accomplice?”
“Slayde.” Courtney struggled to remain calm. “Your theory is plausible. But we haven’t a shred of evidence.”
“Then we’ll have to find some.” Slayde averted his head, staring icily across the room. “If Morland is the man Armon worked for, then he’s indirectly responsible for your father’s death and the fate of your ship.”
“I know.” Courtney swallowed, hard. “Slayde, what about the Fortune, Armon’s ship? Did Mr. Rainer mention if Bow Street was pursuing it?”
Slayde’s laugh was harsh. “He didn’t need to mention it. They’re not. Bow Street is terrified of the Huntleys. You saw how fast Rainer bolted—he’s afraid to so much as cross my threshold. No, Courtney. Any further investigating, we’ll have to do on our own.”
“Then we shall.” Courtney sat bolt upright, battling the surge of dizziness that immediately claimed her. “We’ll begin by riding to Dartmouth. From there, we’ll sail out in search of Armon’s ship. Doubtless, it’s heading as far and fast from English waters as possible. I suspect the crew fled long before Armon’s body was discovered. They must have waited in a nearby cove for his return, and when hours passed without a sign of their captain, they probably panicked and set sail. They couldn’t have traveled more than fifty or sixty miles. We’ll find them.” She bolted to her feet. “We must find them. Some of Papa’s crewmen might still be—” Abruptly, she swayed, clutching the table for support.
“Courtney.” Slayde leapt up and caught her elbows, easing her back to the sofa. “As we’ve discussed, you’re in no condition to traverse the seas. Further, we haven’t a clue in what direction the Fortune is traveling. To go after it would be to waste precious time, time that could be spent gathering evidence and proving Morland’s guilt—or unearthing whoever really is guilty. Think about it. I agree with you that the Fortune must be found. But ’twould be far easier for the investigative firm I’ve hired to send an experienced navigator after it, while you and I delve into the crucial matter of unmasking Armon’s accomplice.”
Fists knotting in the folds of her gown, Courtney willed away the damnable weakness that thwarted her every move. “I hate this,” she bit out.
“I know. Take deep breaths and sit quietly. The lightheadedness will subside.”
A minute later, she nodded. “I’m better now.” Soberly, her gaze met Slayde’s. “I’ll agree to your suggestion, but only if this delving includes my efforts as well as yours.”
He scowled. “You’ve been out of bed for an hour and you’re barely able to stand. Resting on a carriage ride to London was one thing. Dashing about Devonshire doing what I intend—hunting down unsavory jewel contacts and interrogating any other lowlifes who might have known Armon and who might lead us to his accomplice—is quite another.”
“I see your point.” Courtney chewed her lip. “Very well,” she conceded. “I’ll remain at Pembourne, spend the day with Aurora—perhaps even find out who knew of her plans to go to London.” A pause, as Courtney fought to still the pounding in her head. “You do what you just described: probe the wharf near Dartmouth to learn who Armon’s associates were, hire an investigator to go after the Fortune.” Her chin set stubbornly. “But before that investigator begins his search, bring him to Pembourne. I want to talk with him. He’ll need the facts I can supply: descriptions of the Fortune’s crewmen who accompanied Armon onto the Isobel, snatches of conversation I overheard, and most importantly, names and descriptions of Papa’s crew, in case any of them were taken prisoner and are still alive. None of this should delay your investigator’s search by any considerable amount of time. I’d be willing to wager a thousand pounds—if I had it—that as a result of their successful retreat, Armon’s crew has been lulled into a false sense of security and has, by now, slowed their ship’s frantic pace, reasonably convinced no one is pursuing them. Which no one was. Until now. So—” Courtney concluded, hearing her own voice waver, a clear warning that her energy was rapidly diminishing—“is my plan acceptable?”
Slayde studied her, brow furrowed. “The idea seems sound enough. As you pointed out, the Fortune can’t have ventured far. One extra day won’t give them much more of an advantage, especially if we counter that advantage by spending the time gathering information to hasten our search. Moreover, your idea appeals to me for another reason. The knowledge that my investigator will accompany me home tonight should serve to keep you at Pembourne—you and Aurora.”
“Aurora? How does she factor into this?”
“Aurora factors into anything that involves trouble,” Slayde retorted dryly. “She thrives on adventure, or hadn’t you noticed the way she glows when she’s relaying one of Mr. Scollard’s tales? She accepts every word as absolute truth—and not only those in his stories. She believes in every farfetched legend she gets wind of, including the one surrounding that wretched black diamond. Although, in that case, I must admit I was relieved as hell to discover she feared the jewel and its curse, else she probably would have escaped from Pembourne and combed all of England to find the bloody stone.”
“Probably,” Courtney concurred, recalling the sparkle in Aurora’s eyes when she’d recounted one of Mr. Scollard’s yarns.
“And now?” Slayde continued. “With a mystery such as the one you and I are embarking upon? Right here in her own home? ’Twould awaken every reckless impulse she possesses.” He cast a knowing look out the window. “By now, she’s undoubtedly on her way home from the lighthouse—where she’s been since dawn—eager and ready, having noted Bow Street’s carriage round our drive. Unfortunately, Rainer’s visit cannot be kept secret from her; the lighthouse provides a superb view of Pembourne. You can see the entire estate from its tower.”
Courtney frowned, an unwelcome possibility inserting itself in her mind. “If you’re asking me to lie to Aurora about the reason for Mr. Rainer’s visit, I won’t. ’Tis my intention to earn your sister’s friendship. In order for that to happen, there must be honesty between us. I know no other way. Deceit has no place in a caring relationship.”
An odd expression crossed Slayde’s face. “No, it doesn’t. Not unless there’s just cause to employ it. Which in this case, there is not.” Roughly, he cleared his throat. “I wasn’t suggesting you lie to Aurora. I only meant to point out that once she learns why Bow Street was here, she’ll be ready to plunge right into what she’ll view as a grand adventure. You’ll need to pin her down to keep her from following my carriage to Dartmouth. And trust me, pinning Aurora down is like trying to catch a firefly. Even I know that.”
Even you? Courtney wanted to blurt out. As her brother, it should be especially you. Wisely, she refrained from speaking her opinion aloud. It was too premature, too intrusive. But someday—soon, if she had her way—Slayde would allow Aurora into his heart.
Storing away that inspiring possibility, Courtney replied, “Fear not, my lord. I’ll pique Aurora’s interest by telling her about the investigator’s imminent visit. In the interim, I promise to keep her occupied.”
Occupied. Now that spawned another interesting notion, one that sent Courtney’s thoughts spinning in an entirely different direction. Hadn’t she, mere minutes ago, determined that she must put her past to rest? Well, why not start today? With a bit of help, she could seek some answers and keep Aurora amused at the same time.
If only she could combat this intolerable weakness long enough to do so.
“Courtney? Are you in pain?”
“No.” In truth, she was
fading fast, but she wasn’t about to reveal that to Slayde—not in view of the plan she’d just formed. “I’m a bit tired, but I’m fine.” She drew a shaky breath, trying to regain a semblance of strength. “Are we in agreement, then? I’ll stay behind; you bring the investigator to Pembourne tonight.”
“Agreed.”
“Good.” Courtney rose—slowly, this time—accepting Slayde’s proffered hand in order to sustain her balance. “Then I shall return to my chambers at once, to rest up for Aurora’s arrival. You leave for Dartmouth now.”
Slayde wrapped his arm around her waist. “I will. After I’ve escorted you to your room and made certain you don’t swoon.” His meaningful look told Courtney her false bravado hadn’t been the slightest bit convincing. “I’m glad you prefer honesty. You’re a deplorable liar. Now lean against me or you’ll never manage the stairs.”
With a wave of gratitude—and something more, Courtney complied. “A deplorable liar? Admittedly so, my lord.” She paused, tilting her face up to his. “You, on the other hand, are a far too accomplished one. You’ve not only fooled the world, you’ve even fooled yourself. Thank goodness, you’ve just met someone you can’t fool—me.”
Stunned disbelief flashed across Slayde’s features.
Courtney gestured toward the doorway. “Shall we attempt the stairs?”
For a long moment, Slayde remained silent, and Courtney could actually feel the tension rippling through him.
Abruptly, he nodded. “Yes. You’re exhausted.”
Without another word, he guided her from the salon, up the stairs to her room. There, he turned her over to Matilda’s able care. “Rest” was all he said before turning on his heel and leaving the bedchamber.