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"What do you know of his mother?"
"Only that she was a quiet, docile woman whose health was as weak as her will. She died twenty years ago. Julian and his brother Hugh were lads at the time. Sadly, Hugh inherited his mother's frail constitution."
"Hugh was the same age as Slayde."
"Yes, senior to Julian by a year. Hugh and Slayde entered Oxford simultaneously. Unfortunately Hugh fell ill and died during that first term."
"I recall Slayde being terribly distressed when that happened," Aurora murmured. "As were my parents when Slayde told them the news. Obviously my family thought highly of Hugh."
"He was a good man, hon
orable of purpose, generous of nature. Quite different from his father and grandfather."
Aurora frowned. "And from Julian?"
"Not in principles, but in fact. Very different."
"Were they close?"
"In heart, yes."
"In heart," Aurora repeated. "Does that mean they cared about similar things or about each other?"
"Feelings are best expressed by those who experience them," Mr. Scollard replied.
A discouraged sigh. "If that's an answer, its meaning eludes me."
"That's because the answer you seek is not mine to convey. You will hear it from another, to whom the answer and the feelings belong. At which time, the meaning to which you refer will become abundantly clear—to both of you."
"If that another is Julian, I'll have to assume he talks in his sleep. As you yourself just pointed out, my betrothed is a very autonomous man, not one to expose his feelings—to anyone, much less a wife."
"The merlin is deceptive."
"Not this merlin," Aurora countered. "Certainly not like his namesake, the merlin falcon, who appears to be small and nonthreatening. No, Mr. Scollard, Julian is anything but deceptive. He's overwhelming in every way—stature, presence; he looks every bit as threatening as he is."
"But is he every bit as threatening as he looks? Or is that a deception unto itself; one of which even the duke himself isn't aware?"
Aurora blinked, thoroughly confused. "I don't understand what you mean."
"You will." Mr. Scollard patted her cheek and rose. "Soon. Now come. 'Tis time to climb to the tower and watch the onset of the new day. Then I must get on with my chores and you must get on with your daydreams." Another twinkle of those omniscient blue eyes. "By the way, fret not. Your wedding dress will fit perfectly. Four cakes or not."
* * *
As always, Mr. Scollard was right.
Thirteen days later, the dress did fit perfectly. Although, Aurora mused as she pirouetted before the looking glass, was the impeccable fit the result of Mr. Scollard's prophecy alone or had it something to do with her own inexhaustible bursts of energy—the bubbling anticipation that had made settling down for meals virtually impossible?
She'd probably never know for sure. All she did know was that ever since Mr. Scollard's prediction, she'd scarcely managed to stand still, much less sit, a fact that had thoroughly exasperated the poor maids who'd required her overseeing to pack her bags, and infuriated her already peevish modiste who had insisted on measuring mademoiselle for a wardrobe of new suitable gowns. Suitable for what? Aurora had wanted to scream. The next months would doubtless be consumed not with attending lavish house parties, but with searching for the black diamond. Madame Gerard, however, didn't know that. Further, the woman was unyielding, claiming that a married woman—and a duchess no less—required an entire line of new dresses, one for every occasion. Rather than argue, Aurora had steeled herself for what turned out to be prolonged hours of taking measurements, choosing colors, and selecting fabrics.
The sole diversions that had gotten her through the endless fortnight were her daily romps about the grounds with Tyrant—prompting a host of frustrated guards to follow in their wake—and her recurrent visits to the lighthouse. Three or four times each day, she'd raced down and burst into Mr. Scollard's domain, interrupting his work to pace about, babble incessantly, then become restless and rush back to the manor. The lighthouse keeper, extraordinary man that he was, had never complained, only listened patiently and silently, an odd smile playing about his lips.
During several sleepless nights, Aurora had contemplated slipping out of the manor and making her way to the far grounds of Pembourne where her great-grandfather's falcon cages stood. No one had disturbed them in years, so they'd be just as James had left them, other than the fact that they were now empty. Or perhaps not empty, perhaps holding a clue that would help her and Julian find the black diamond.
No. She'd dared not give in to that temptation lest the guards report her actions to Slayde, necessitating an explanation she'd promised Julian she would not give—yet.
Julian.
Apart from Aurora's speculations over the black diamond, Julian had been the major source of her sleeplessness. Maddeningly, she'd seen him but once during that interminable waiting period, four days prior to the nuptials when he'd come to flourish their newly acquired marriage license and to tell her privately—during the two minutes he managed to get her alone—that he'd uncovered nothing of consequence at Morland.
