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"I haven't a clue." Courtney pursed her lips, considering the possible reasons for this inconceivable visit. "Let's give him time to state his business to Slayde. Then I'll go down and find out."
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Chapter 3
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Julian strolled the width of the marble entranceway, hands clasped behind his back as he awaited the return of the Pembourne butler. The servant had been blatantly rude, he reflected with a twinge of amusement. Oh, not at first. Not until Julian had announced himself. But once he'd heard the name Bencroft, the prim fellow had gone rigid, informing Julian that the earl was a very busy man and doubtless would be unable to see an unexpected guest. Then with a frosty glare, he'd stalked off to announce Julian's arrival.
The question was, was the butler's flagrant disapproval based on what he'd doubtless overheard about last night's scandal with Aurora or did it stem from the mere fact that Julian was a Bencroft? More to the point, how heavily steeped in age-old hatred was Pembourne's staff and, most particularly, was its master?
Pensively Julian contemplated that thought. He scarcely knew Slayde Huntley. They'd crossed paths at Oxford and more recently at White's, on those rare occasions when Julian's sporadic journeys back to English soil corresponded with Slayde's equally infrequent trips home. It seemed the two of them were both wanderers, loners plagued by the past's grim echoes.
Echoes that incited them, whether out of an innate sense of unease or a desire to escape all reminders of an unrelenting past, to avoid each other, never sharing more than a cursory nod or a fleeting word.
Except when Hugh died.
Julian could still recall the genuine sorrow on Slayde's face when he'd approached Julian at the university, offered his sympathy—despite, and in full view of, the stunned, prying stares of their fellow classmates, many of whom half believed in the existence of the black diamond's ancient curse and thus entertained the possibility that the Huntleys were responsible for Hugh's death.
Slayde's act had been a courageous one. One that showed character and decency, as well as compassion.
One that Julian would never forget.
But thirteen years had passed since Hugh's death—years laced with unspeakable tragedy. How much had that tragedy transformed Slayde and his outlook?
The answer to that question would dictate the tenor of this meeting, one Julian was becoming increasingly eager to hold.
Veering about, he inclined his head in the direction Pembourne's butler had taken, half-tempted to abandon protocol and simply strike off on his own to search the corridor until he found whichever room Slayde was occupying. But no—he'd wait. For while he was determined to accomplish his goal, that goal would be far easier to attain if he were granted an audience rather than compelled to force his way in.
On the heels of that decision, the butler's returning footsteps sounded, and an instant later the disapproving servant re
appeared. "His Lordship will see you."
It sounded more like a death sentence than an invitation, Julian noted, smiling wryly to himself. "Lead the way."
He followed the manservant down a long corridor and into a mahogany-furnished study.
Slayde Huntley rose slowly from behind his desk. He looked coiled, ready to strike—yet beneath his eyes were shadows of fatigue, and lines of worry tightened his mouth. "I thought Siebert was mistaken when he announced the name of my visitor," he began. "I see I was wrong."
"Thank you for seeing me, Pembourne," Julian replied. "Graciously or not."
"The question is, why am I seeing you? I must be insane."
"Or perhaps only curious."
Siebert interrupted with a haughty sniff. "As no refreshment is required, I'll return to my post, sir," he declared, tossing Julian another icy stare before retracing his steps from the study.
A corner of Julian's mouth lifted. "Your staff is loyal."
"They have reason to be."
"I'm curious about your butler—Siebert, did you say his name was?—about Siebert's animosity. Does it stem from outrage over last night's indiscretion or a fundamental hatred for the Bencrofts?"
"Perhaps some of both." Slayde gripped the edge of his desk. "Why are you here, Morland?"
Without the slightest show of discomfort, Julian crossed over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of Madeira. "Would you like one?"
"No."
