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Slayde rose. “I’ll leave you and Courtney to catch up. I must speak with Siebert. Aurora?” He gestured for his sister to accompany him.
Aurora’s face fell.
“Unless you object, m’lord,” Lexley interceded, “I’d be honored if Lady Aurora would agree to stay. She’s awaited this reunion nearly as eagerly as I have.”
A corner of Slayde’s mouth lifted. “Very well,” he agreed, heading toward the door. “I’ll return shortly, with Oridge. He’ll want to meet and talk with you.”
Courtney squeezed Lexley’s arm. “I’ll be right back.” She scurried after Slayde, catching up to him in the hall. “Slayde?”
He waited, his expression tender. “Hmm?”
Without the slightest hesitation, Courtney rose on tiptoe, wrapped her arms about Slayde’s neck, and tugged his mouth down to hers, kissing him soundly. “I just fell in love with you all over again,” she whispered. With a radiant smile, she darted back into the sitting room.
Slayde stared after her, myriad emotions crossing his face.
Then, he resumed his walk to the entranceway, his pace and path the same as it had been countless times before.
Except this time he was whistling.
“
He said nothing else?”
Pacing about the marble floor, Slayde digested everything Siebert had relayed about Morland’s visit.
“No, sir. He just kept repeating himself, alternately demanding to see you and lambasting you for destroying his life, stealing from him yet again, and thus annihilating his future. He reeked of liquor, so deep in his cups he could scarcely stand upright.”
“Obviously, he saw the letter and ransom notes printed in the Times,” Oridge commented, carefully saying only that which was public knowledge.
“My thought exactly, sir,” Siebert agreed. “The duke obviously believes Lord Pembourne’s trading the diamond for Lady Aurora’s life was akin to stealing it from the Bencrofts yet again.”
Slayde halted, his gaze meeting Oridge’s, each of them having the same thought.
Siebert’s assessment would have made excellent sense, if Morland was not the person now in possession of the diamond.
But if Slayde’s theory was correct and Morland was the criminal they sought, his fury could have been ignited only by the realization that the publication of the letter and ransom notes would thwart his attempts to restore the jewel and reap its profit.
Which made yesterday’s diatribe totally baffling.
Oridge had prepared Slayde for Morland’s rage. But the kind of rage they’d both expected had been the kind that incites murder, not childish tantrums. After all, he’d allegedly killed Armon and, just days ago, attempted to shoot Courtney down in cold blood.
That prompted another thought. If Morland was the person who’d followed them to Somerset, aware of the fact that they were en route to London, why had he driven to Pembourne yesterday, presumably to vent his rage at Slayde, knowing damned well Slayde wasn’t there?
Was it all a ruse to divert suspicion from himself?
Was he clever enough to devise such a complex plan?
If he was sober, maybe.
But if he was as drunk as Siebert said? Never.
“You’re sure Morland was foxed?” Slayde demanded. “He couldn’t have been feigning it?”
Siebert’s brows rose. “Not unless he’s the finest actor in all of England. The stench of liquor came from his breath, not his person, which it would have, had he doused his clothing for effect. Moreover, his eyes were glazed, his speech slurred, and his balance severely impaired. No, sir, there’s not the slightest doubt—the duke was totally, utterly soused.”
“I see.” Slayde frowned. Siebert wasn’t prone to exaggeration. And if Bencroft was as deep in his cups as the butler implied, he’d be alert enough to devise nothing.
Unless, of course, Siebert was lying.
