Legacy of the Diamond (Black Diamond 1)

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.”