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“I realize that. But, if Elinore is behind this, her entire personality is a façade, and we don’t really know her at all. She’s feigned friendships, dismissed her own responsibility for your parents’ murders, even pretended to mourn t
hem—and to care for their children. She’s manipulated, plotted, stolen, and, indirectly, killed. Could that kind of person commit premeditated murder? I would say yes.”
“She could have taken that shot at you,” Slayde reasoned aloud. “She’d have had ample time to follow us to Somerset, just as she’d have had ample time, upon returning from London and discovering Armon’s subversion, to ride to Dartmouth and kill him. But she had a motive for doing away with Armon. Why would she want to kill you? What would suddenly render you a threat?”
Memory exploded like fireworks. “Dear God,” Courtney breathed. “I gave her reason to feel threatened. Just before you and I left for London, I told her I intended to scour Armon’s ship until I found evidence of his employer’s identity. Slayde, no one but Elinore and Aurora were with me when I said that.”
“Hell. Bloody, bloody hell.” Slayde ran both hands through his hair. “No wonder Mr. Scollard kept talking about danger being at Pembourne’s portals, on its doorstep.”
“That’s right. He said that to you yesterday.” Courtney gripped Slayde’s arm. “Yesterday afternoon—at about the same time Elinore was visiting with Aurora. Lord, it all makes sense. Horrible, unbearable sense.”
“Courtney—” Slayde’s expression was haunted. “If you’re right, if all this speculation turns out to be true, I’ve blinded myself to a reality that could have endangered Aurora’s life.”
“Don’t think that way. Aurora is fine. She will remain fine.” Courtney turned, punctuating her claim by shoving the journal back in its spot beneath the nightgowns and shutting the drawer. “Let’s not react until we determine if all this speculation is fact. We have no proof, no confession. We don’t even know what Elinore intends to do with the diamond, if she has it. Obviously, she hasn’t tried to sell it, or she’d be aware that it’s fake. Which she definitely is not aware of; only yesterday she told Aurora how delighted she was with your decision to reveal the truth in the Times, so that your parents could at last rest in peace.” Courtney felt bile rush to her throat.
Eyes ablaze, Slayde seized Courtney’s arm. “Let’s go. ’Tis time for answers.”
Pembourne was silent as a tomb.
Long after Slayde exited the ballroom, having reconvened the entire staff and shared the real purpose for their earlier writing exercise—right down to describing the document that had provoked it—the servants huddled together, whispering in horror. The fact that one of them was a conspirator to murder was unfathomable.
Miss Payne shrugged into her coat and passed by Siebert, trembling so badly she could scarcely speak. “Siebert, I need some air.”
“I understand, madam.” He himself was sheet-white.
Exiting the manor, she collected the phaeton, disappearing down the drive and through the gates in a cloud of dust.
“That’s our cue,” Slayde muttered to Courtney and Oridge, from where their carriage was concealed by the roadside. “Let’s go.”
Elinore strolled about the garden, admiring her new emerald brooch and contemplating—with a surge of anticipation—the matching earrings that would soon be arriving. It was such a lovely treat to actually wear some of her prized possessions, she mused. So many of her treasures were far too precious to risk removing from their special case, much less don. Treasures such as the countess’s magnificent collection—especially, at long last, the majestic black diamond. She didn’t dare wear that, or any of her dear, departed friend’s gems lest someone recognize them and try to wrest them away. Nonetheless, ’twas well worth the sacrifice. She could still gaze at them each day, watch them sparkle on their velvet bed as they were captured by sunlight or shimmering in moonlight. How perfect they were—unflawed, unrivaled, and—in contrast to all else—immortal.
And they were hers.
A speeding phaeton shattered Elinore’s reflections, and she started, watching it race up the drive and come to a halt before her.
Her eyes smoldered as she saw who the driver was.
“Are you insane?” she hissed as Miss Payne leapt to the ground. “What are you doing here?”
“They know,” Miss Payne panted. “Lord Pembourne and the girl. They know.”
Elinore tensed. “Just what is it they know?”
“They found the sketch. I don’t know where, or how. All I know is they have it, they realize someone at Pembourne helped with the burglary, and they’re about to learn who that someone is.”
“And how are they doing that?”
“Lord Pembourne had all the servants write some words—giving us a fabricated reason as to why. Now, he’s on his way to London, seeking a handwriting expert. He’s going to match our hands with that on the sketch. Once he does, my identity will be known.”
“I see.” Frowning, Elinore stroked her brooch, its cool emerald surface a comforting balm. “How terribly unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate? Our entire lives are unraveling, and you consider that to be unfortunate?”
Elinore’s hand stilled. “Our lives?”
“Forgive me—my life,” Miss Payne hastily corrected herself. “Lady Stanwyk, you must understand. I can’t go back there. They’ll send me to Newgate. Please—you must give me that job you promised when I first approached you ten years past. I understand why, after Armon killed the earl and countess, I couldn’t leave Pembourne without arousing suspicion. But none of that matters any longer. If I go back, ’tis as good as a death sentence.” A choked sound. “Armon is no longer alive to be persuaded to vouch for my innocence. Lord Pembourne will assume I aided in the murders. I can’t take that risk.”
“No, indeed you can’t.” Elinore’s jaw set. “Nor can I.”
