Andrea Kane (32 page)

An aching smile. “Not only my question, but my prayer.”

“M
Y LORD.” ORIDGE GREETED
Slayde at the door of the warehouse he’d specified as their meeting spot. “I’m glad you’re here.” A flicker of surprise as he glimpsed Courtney. “Miss Johnston accompanied you, I see.”

“I insisted on coming, Mr. Oridge,” Courtney answered for herself. “I can’t be shielded. ’Twas my father’s ship Armon seized. Because of him and his men, I lost my home, my father, and very nearly my life. If any of Papa’s crew is still alive, I want to see them firsthand. Further, I want to be allowed to board the
Fortune
after it’s been emptied, to look around for possible clues that could lead us to Armon’s accomplice. Oh, and I’ll be more than happy to identify any members of his crew I recognize from the
Isobel
’s capture. That will give Bow Street additional leverage to hang them.”

Oridge glanced at Slayde, who nodded.

“Miss Johnston is right,” he told his investigator. “She
is
directly involved in this mystery—even more so than you’re yet aware.”

“Sir?”

Slayde frowned, recalling for the umpteenth time the recent attempt on Courtney’s life. “I’ll explain later. For now, fill us in on whatever you’ve learned thus far.”

“Very well,” Oridge agreed. “Armon’s first mate did a fair amount of talking, once he was properly persuaded.” A subtle flexing of his muscles left little doubt as to what method of persuasion Oridge had used. “Evidently, most of the
Isobel
’s crew were transferred to the
Fortune,
as per Armon’s instructions.”

“Were they hurt?” Courtney demanded anxiously.

“No. To the contrary—they were ignored. Once Armon’s crew realized their captain was gone for good, chaos erupted. His men were preoccupied only with getting to London and pawning the booty they’d pilfered from the
Isabel,
then sailing off to parts unknown. Your father’s crew was imprisoned aboard the
Fortune
solely during those hours when Armon’s men disembarked to hawk their goods. Otherwise, they were free to move about at will, so long as they didn’t make trouble. Which none of them did. Consequently, they are now alive and unharmed—at least those crewmen who were transferred to the
Fortune,
that is.”

“ ‘Those who were transferred to the
Fortune,’ ”
Courtney repeated. “Who wasn’t?”

“Ten men in all—one of whom, as you know, was your father.”

“What about Lexley—Papa’s next in command?”

“He, unfortunately, was another of the ten. It seems Armon viewed him unfavorably; he said Lexley had given him too much trouble to be spared.”

“He did.” Courtney’s throat tightened. “Poor Lexley battled Armon every step of the way. Especially when he commanded him to hurl Papa overboard.” She bowed her head. “The only time Lexley complied without resistance was when Armon ordered him to transfer me to Lord Pembourne’s fishing boat.
That
order he embraced, realizing it would afford me my sole chance of survival. Lexley was decent and loyal—too loyal to serve a pirate. And, because of that, he died.”

“We don’t know that for a fact.”

Courtney’s head came up. “What do you mean?”

“Lexley wasn’t killed on the spot. He and the eight other crewmen I mentioned were shoved into longboats and taken beyond Cornwall to Raven Island.”

“They were left there…alive?”

“Yes.” Oridge held up a restraining palm, trying to temper Courtney’s eagerness. “I must caution you, Miss Johnston, that the odds of surviving Raven Island are very slim. No ships travel there, not with the harsh currents and jagged rocks, so the prospects of a chance rescue are nil. There is also little to eat and nothing in the way of shelter.”

“Then what hope is there?”

“The fact that I’ve arranged a
planned
rescue. The instant I wrested the details of what had occurred from Armon’s first mate, I sent word to a colleague of mine, who, along with five associates of his, happen to be among the most extraordinary and seasoned navigators in England. I didn’t receive word back from my colleague until just before you arrived, as he lives far west in Cornwall. In any case, he and his men departed for the isle instantly, equipped with longboats, food, and medical supplies. They left from Falmouth, so they’ll probably have reached Raven by now. Let me repeat, the chances of recovering your crew alive are remote but, in their favor, it’s been a rather mild May. And, should Lexley and the others have discovered any source of food—be it nuts, berries, or an unlikely fish or two—there is a slim chance they could be alive. We’ll soon know.”

“Thank you,” Courtney said gratefully. “I pray your efforts, and the efforts of your men, are successful.”

“As do I.” Oridge gestured for her and Slayde to follow him. “Armon’s men are in the rear of the warehouse, under guard. Once you’re finished with them, they’ll be taken away. As for
your
crew—” Oridge grinned. “I took the liberty of providing them with a few rounds of ale at the local pub. By now, they must be feeling quite renewed.”

“I hope I can make the same claim once I’ve faced Armon’s men,” Courtney muttered, suddenly shaken by the fact that she was about to confront the fiends who’d destroyed her home and killed her father.

“You will.” Tenderly, Slayde enfolded her fingers in his, his warmth a welcome balm to her distress. “I’m right beside you.”

Courtney could actually feel his strength seep through her, renew her faltering courage. “Thank you, my lord,” she replied, love shining in her eyes. “Although I must warn you that once this ordeal is over, I’ll want to join my father’s crew at that pub, where I intend to consume one—perhaps two—full goblets of fortifying brandy.”

Slayde’s smile wrapped itself around her. “My pound notes are ready.”

It was like reliving a nightmare, Courtney thought, scrutinizing the cluster of surly, foul-smelling pirates, meeting the cruel gazes of those who’d boarded the
Isobel
with Armon. She’d caught mere glimpses of them during those horrible days of her imprisonment; in fact, the only ones she’d viewed up close were the two who’d joined Armon in besieging the quarter-deck. Yet it mattered not. Their bristled faces, filthy hair, and arrogant sneers had engraved themselves in her mind forever—an indelible horror that no amount of retribution could erase. Just looking at them now was enough to make her gut clench and her blood run cold.

And, God help her, to remember.

Slayde was watching her unsteady breathing, her ashen expression. “Oridge, I have nothing to say to these bastards,” he pronounced. “So far as I’m concerned, you can take them away and hang them all now. But let’s allow Miss Johnston to identify those who seized her father and her ship, just to eliminate any chance that the magistrate might be generous in his sentencing. Then, get the scum out of here.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Oridge turned to Courtney. “Miss Johnston, do you recognize any of these thugs?”

With a shudder of revulsion, Courtney nodded. “Those two.” She pointed at the last two men on the left. “They guarded the
Isobel
’s berth deck. I saw them outside my cabin door whenever Armon opened it. The scarred one in the rear I recognize as well. He preceded Armon onto the
Isobel.”
Courtney’s heart lurched as her eyes found the most painful memory of all. “The stout one on the right and the grizzled-looking one beside him are the ones who invaded the quarter-deck with Armon.” She felt their icy, unrepentant stares, and a violent surge of hatred shot through her—so intense that, at that moment, she wondered if she, too, were capable of murder. “The latter one held me; the former aided Armon in wresting Papa from the helm,” Her voice broke, and she turned away, literally shaking with rage.

“Oridge?” Slayde questioned instantly.

“That’s more than enough,” Oridge assured them. “We can now add murder to their list of crimes.” He nodded at the guards. “Take them.”

Even with her back to them, Courtney could still see their faces. She squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the memories flooding through her.

“Let’s adjourn to that pub.” Slayde wrapped a strong arm about her waist, leading her away—from the warehouse and the past. “I could use a drink myself. Then we’ll head back to the inn and rest. Later today, we’ll board the
Fortune
and have a look around.”

“No,” Courtney whispered, shaking her head. “Although I thank you from the bottom of my heart. But I can’t rest until I’ve searched Armon’s ship. I need to go there now.”

Slayde stared down at her for a long moment. Then, he nodded. “Oridge,” he said quietly. “Lead us to where the
Fortune
is docked. While we’re searching, I’ll fill you in on all the events preceding—and during—Miss Johnston’s and my trip to London.”

An hour later, having scoured Armon’s quarters inch by inch, Courtney had all but given up. For the third time, she delved through his desk, hunting for a journal, glancing up occasionally to see if Slayde was having any better luck searching Armon’s trunk, or Oridge, through his bedding.

Hadn’t the bloody pirate kept any written records at all?

She was about to scream in frustration when, from a kneeling position beneath the berth, Oridge made a triumphant sound of discovery. “This looks promising.”

“What?” She was beside him instantly, holding her breath as he extracted his discovery, then eased back on his haunches to examine it.

It was a single sheet of paper that had been folded into a tiny square, then jammed beneath the leg of Armon’s bed—so carefully placed it was almost invisible.

Courtney gasped as Oridge smoothed out the page and came to his feet. “That’s the Huntley family crest,” she pronounced. “ ’Tis the same stationery on which Aurora and I penned our note to the
Times.”

“It is indeed,” Slayde concurred, reaching Courtney’s side. “The crest is faded, but nonetheless distinguishable.” His brow furrowed. “Who wrote the letter? What does it say?”

“ ’Tis a diagram, sir. And a note.” Oridge turned his attention to scanning the contents.

Abruptly, Slayde went rigid. “My God,” he breathed, snatching the paper from Oridge’s hands. “A sketch of Pembourne Manor. Or at least a portion of it, from the entranceway to the library. I don’t understand.” He squinted. “The bloody note at the top is faded.”

“Bring it closer to the light,” Courtney urged, rushing to the porthole. She waited until Slayde had complied, then peered over his shoulder and read the message aloud:

A: I was instructed to prepare this sketch for you. Use the passage to the library for both coming and going. You’ll find it unbolted when you arrive. I’ll secure it once you’ve gone. The strongbox is concealed in the top drawer of the library desk. The jewels are in it. Take it. Just before you leave, unlock the entranceway door and leave it ajar. Don’t fail.

The library. The strongbox. The jewels. The faded letters. Dear Lord, it couldn’t be.

Courtney’s gaze darted to the upper corner of the page, finding and confirming her worst suspicions. The date on the note read
27 March 1807.

Beside her, Slayde made a strangled sound, and she turned, searching his agonized face, finding her answer even before he spoke.

“My parents died four days after this note was penned.”

“Oh, Slayde.” Instinctively, Courtney reached for him, clasping his taut forearms.

“Armon killed them.” Slayde’s throat was working convulsively, his stare now fixed on the sketch. “No wonder Bow Street couldn’t find any clues on or near the manor—Armon didn’t break in, nor did he exit through the front door. That also explains why my parents never suspected there was an intruder inside when they returned home that night. If he came and went through the library, the entranceway door was still properly locked upon their arrival. He didn’t open it until after…after…” A hard swallow. “Bow Street checked the passage—a mere formality, given the front door was ajar—but it was secured at both ends.”

“Who knew of its existence?” Oridge asked quietly.

Slowly, Slayde turned toward the investigator, his eyes bleak with realization. “Only those at Pembourne: my family, the servants. We never used the bloody thing. My great-grandfather was the last Huntley to have need of a passage for secret comings and goings.”

“Perhaps the last
Huntley.
Evidently not the last
person.”

Again, Slayde’s stare returned to the sketch, as if needing further confirmation that the atrocity he was beholding was indeed real. “Someone living at Pembourne drew this sketch,” he said, giving voice to the unfathomable truth. “Someone I
trust,
someone
my father
trusted. Whoever that someone is helped Armon break in and kill my parents.”

“I doubt murder was part of their original intention, sir,” Oridge interceded gently. “More likely, they meant to snatch that strongbox and bolt. Unfortunately, your parents surprised them by returning.”

“What the hell’s the difference?” Slayde shot back, his fist striking the wall of Armon’s cabin so hard it shook. “The end result is the same. Armon murdered my parents, aided either firsthand or indirectly by a trusted resident of Pembourne.”

“Both of whom were receiving orders from whoever ordered this sketch to be drawn,” Courtney murmured, once again studying the note. “Do you think he was seeking the black diamond?”

“It would stand to reason that he was.” Oridge rubbed his chin. “Given that Armon blatantly extorted the diamond from Lord Pembourne scant weeks ago, my suspicions are that his motivation
and
his employer have remained the same. So, I would think, has his coconspirator.”

Silence, as the implications of Oridge’s conjecture sank in.

“You’re saying there’s a traitorous bastard living at Pembourne,” Slayde bit out. “Not only then, but now.” He sucked in his breath. “It makes a world of sense, now that I think of it. That’s how Armon could so cleverly plan Aurora’s alleged kidnapping and coincide it with his ransom notes. He had a wealth of information close at hand: his Pembourne accomplice. He had only to confer with that faithless bastard to know my sister’s intentions—and to act on them.”