Legacy of the Diamond (Black Diamond 1)

“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.”