Courtney’s lips trembled. “Thank you, Aurora. I’ll keep reminding myself of that.”
The grandfather clock struck midnight.
In his study, Slayde poured another brandy and paced restlessly about the room.
He’d closeted himself here to plan tomorrow’s unscheduled confrontation with Morland.
Instead, he’d done nothing but think of Courtney.
There was something poignantly moving about her, something that touched a chord inside him, resonated through him like a melody he’d never heard yet somehow recognized. He’d felt it when he watched her sleep, then again when she’d been chatting with Aurora and her spirit had shown signs of revival. It was separate and apart from her beauty, even from her inner strength. The former elicited attraction; the latter, admiration. This was something different. And he was damned if he understood it.
One thing he did understand, and that was Courtney’s need to strike back, to punish the bastard who’d killed her father. The more Slayde pondered the facts, the more convinced he was that the pirate in question had not worked alone. Somewhere out there was an accomplice—or, more likely, an employer—who’d paid to have the black diamond seized.
Seized—or from the viewpoint of Morland’s warped mind, restored. That unstable lowlife had never ceased to believe that the jewel rightfully belonged in the hands of the Bencrofts. So if he was at the helm, it was not only to reap the wealth afforded by the black diamond, but to undo sixty years of what his distorted mind perceived as heinous injustice.
If he was at the helm.
But who else would have been twisted enough to invent Aurora’s kidnapping?
Tossing off his drink, Slayde contemplated the forthcoming altercation. Confronting Morland was going to be ugly. The man was a weakling, a drunk, and a liar. He was also bitter and vindictive, hating the Huntleys with every fiber of his being. Clearly, whether he was guilty or not, he’d deny everything and throw Slayde off his estate.
Unless Slayde arrived with ammunition.
Ammunition in the form of concrete proof or, at the very least, powerful enough implications to make the duke lose his shaky composure and—given the combined effects of constantly consumed liquor and the pressure—to incriminate himself.
Raking a hand through his hair, Slayde considered that prospect. He’d have to acquire some information before bursting into Morland’s home and accusing him of theft, blackmail, and, indirectly, murder. He’d visit a few of the duke’s colleagues, learn a little about what the fool had been up to over the past fortnight, whom he’d seen and where he’d been.
Then Slayde would go for the kill. Through skill and cunning, he just might succeed in prodding Morland into talking a bit too much and divulging some condemning detail, after which he would ascertain the name and whereabouts of the pirate who’d killed Courtney’s father and exact the revenge she sought.
As well as a semblance of his own.
The abhorrent events—and unanswered questions—of ten years past unfolded in Slayde’s mind once more, in vivid, excruciating detail.
His parents, lying in pools of blood on the marble floor. The terrified servants, all shaking their heads, swearing they’d seen and heard nothing. The
authorities, after weeks of futile investigation, shrugging their shoulders and abandoning their search for the murderer. And the odious, though unproven, possibility that Chilton Bencroft, Geoffrey’s son and Lawrence’s father, had ordered the monstrous execution, exacting the most horrible, fatal kind of revenge.
Lord, how Slayde wished he’d reached the bastard in time to learn the truth, to choke it out of him, if need be. But the old man had died a month later, succumbing to a longstanding weakness of the heart.
And the truth had died with him.
Perhaps, through Courtney, Slayde was being given another chance to see that justice was served. Tomorrow’s excursion would tell.
With a weary sigh, Slayde turned down the lamp and headed for bed.
The second floor was silent.
Slayde rounded the landing, grateful that Aurora had finally retired for the night and that the servants had followed suit. He felt the need for solitude, and thankfully, all of Pembourne was deep in slumber.
A choked sound refuted that notion, reaching Slayde’s ears and stopping him in his tracks. Straining, he listened, wondering if it had been his imagination.
No, there it was again. Someone was crying. And, judging by the direction of the sound, that someone was Courtney.
All thoughts of solitude having vanished, Slayde retraced his steps, turning the door handle without pausing to knock.
Shadows washed the room, broken only by the dim glow of a single lamp. It was enough. Slayde could easily discern Courtney’s slight form, huddled in the center of the bed, weeping as if her heart would break.
“Courtney?” He shut the door, crossing over.