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Like a fatal dagger, the demand sank into Miss Payne’s gut. Inadvertently, she took a step backward, dreading the reaction she was about to elicit. “Lord Pembourne turned it over to Armon.”
Silence.
Nervously, the housekeeper wet her lips. “I’ve never known Armon to do anything quite so stupid.”
“On the contrary—his plan was brilliant.” A rustle of motion as the dark, cloaked figure emerged from the shadows. “Quite brilliant. ’Tis a pity he’ll never enjoy the fruits of his labor.”
With that, the black cloak brushed by and was swallowed up by night.
Dartmouth was silent, the crude road adjacent to the wharf deserted.
Uneasily, Armon glanced behind him, reassuring himself that the cove where the Fortune awaited him was nearby, safely within view. All he had to do was hand over the diamond, pocket the three hundred thousand pounds, and sail off to his new life—far away from England.
He hurried toward the alley that was his customary meeting place. Grimes would be waiting. He always was, whenever Armon sent word ahead that he’d be coming. And in this case, the fence had probably slept in the alley the night before. Just knowing he’d soon be receiving the black diamond—a treasure worth more than a hundred times his customary exchange—hell, Grimes’s beady little eyes had probably bugged out of his head when he’d read the message.
Armon’s fingers slipped inside his coat, closing around the bulky shape of the diamond, as if for comfort. The bloody stone was enormous—over two hundred carats, if memory served him right. Well, whoever wanted it was welcome to it. As for him, all he wanted was the money being offered in exchange.
With a relieved sigh, Armon reached his destination. Rounding the wall, he eased halfway down the alley, noting the dark silhouette fifty feet away. “Grimes?”
“Sorry, Armon.” Slow, purposeful footsteps. “I had some urgent business for Grimes. Thus, he was detained.”
All the color drained from Armon’s face. “I…”
A bitter laugh as the footsteps closed in—and halted upon reaching their prey. “Why, Armon, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were disturbed by my visit.”
The barrel of a pistol glinted in the night.
Armon backed against the wall, his mind racing for a nonexistent means of escape.
Lying would be futile. Fleeing, impossible.
Dying, inevitable.
“I have the stone.” Wildly, he groped inside his coat, tearing open the lining—and praying for a miracle.
“I assumed you would.”
“Here.” He extended his shaking hand, the diamond clutched tightly in its grasp. “Take it. It’s yours.”
“It most certainly is.” His fingers were unpried. The gem disappeared. “Our business is now complete. Adieu, Armon.”
He hadn’t time to reply.
The pistol fired. Its single shot, issued at point-blank range, struck Armon’s chest with a quiet thud. He crumpled and fell.
With but a cursory glance at the dead body, his assailant turned triumphant eyes to the priceless jewel, studying its shimmering facets. “Finally. After all these years, justice is served.”
The clip-clop of horses’ hooves permeated Courtney’s consciousness, rousing her from half-slumber. Eyes flickering open, she took in the pale glints of dawn as they tentatively brushed the room. Her first thought was that it was far too early for those on land to be traveling.
Her second thought was that it was Slayde, leaving for Morland.
Automatically, she pushed herself up to a sitting position, relieved when her head and ribs retaliated with only a mild protest. Moving aside the bedcovers, she eased herself to her feet. Her legs wobbled but held. She took one step, then another, making her way over to the window and peering out.
The phaeton had rounded the drive and was traversing lush acres of greenery, heading away from the manor, its sole occupant the powerful man holding the reins.
Slayde.
Leaning against the wall, Courtney watched him until he disappeared from view, fervently wishing she were going with him to confront Lawrence Bencroft—her injuries be damned.
