Heart of the Diamond

Copyright © 2013 by Carrie Brock

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13 (eBook edition): 978-0-9844000-9-6

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Edited by Bri Bruce

Cover Design by Bri Bruce

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Shropshire, England 1819

Lady Nicole Langley did not want to be engaged, but she also had no wish to die.

Nicki's heart pounded until it echoed inside her head. She clung to moisture-slick lattice and hoped the ancient structure showed enough tenacity to stick to the brick facade of Rosewood Manor. She looked down. The thought came to her that most young women would choose to stroll through the moonlit gardens below on the arm of a gentleman, not be in danger of falling to their deaths in the midst of the foliage while attempting to visit one.

But then, at the age of two and twenty, she accepted the fact that she would never be like most women.

With a fortifying sigh, Nicki turned her attention back to the project at hand: her intention to meet with one gentleman in particular. Teddy Bartholomew, childhood friend and Nicki's first love, now returned to England after six long years.

A quick gust of wind gave her a nudge; the trellis swayed slightly.

With a gasp, Nicki tightened her grip. She pressed her face into cool leaves of ivy and clematis. Her eyes closed to wait for the frantic beat of her heart to slow. Softly, she whispered a quick prayer. The wind stilled, as though in answer to her plea.

Falling two stories to her death might have appealed to Nicki when she awoke this drizzly Shropshire morning engaged to be married to an ogre, but now she was of a different mind. After all, this endeavor, if successful, would set right that insufferable wrong. All she must do is live long enough to reach the window above.

With a deep breath, Nicki released one handhold and fumbled through the ivy for another. That grip secure, she took a step up. Her arms and legs trembled slightly from the unfamiliar exertion. Dancing steps, lessons in etiquette, and corsets did not condition one for climbing.

Nicki risked a peek up toward her goal. She could see that the window to Teddy's bedchamber was open, though the room appeared to be dark.

He must be here.

The note delivered to her this afternoon in the Langley Hall stables had instructed her to come to their “usual meeting place.” Though he had been out of the country for six years, Teddy would not have forgotten their daring escapades that always began by her climbing the trellis to his room.

Another determined breath and she continued on. For not having climbed up the side of a house in a good many years, Nicki made quick work of the remainder of the journey. Her success had a good deal to do with the last minute inspiration that had come to her when she stumbled over a pair of her brother's abandoned trousers. They fit her snugly, but hindered her less than petticoats and an empire gown cinched tight beneath her breasts. Besides, the filmy fabric would have been shredded by this point. Her attire would not shock Teddy—he knew her too well.

The trellis ended abruptly several feet below the decorative wrought iron that framed the window. Intimidated, but not deterred, Nicki balanced herself on one of the topmost rungs and eased herself upward. The rough surface of the bricks caught at the sleeve of her linen shirt, but she grasped the frame and hauled herself up and over the casing.

“Ted…”

The heel of one riding boot tangled in the tassel rope of the velvet drapes as she stepped forward. Nicki managed an ungraceful tumble to her hands and one knee on the bedroom floor, while her other foot remained securely snared by the cord.

Exasperated, Nicki jerked free of the rope. At the same instant she heard a loud, ripping noise. She felt her derrière and sighed in relief. The curtains had torn, but her brother's breeches remained intact.

As she rose to her knees, she dusted off her hands. Her hair, which had been hastily tied back before leaving home, fell in tangled curls about her shoulders and down her back. The pins had scattered with her fall.

For several moments, Nicki groped about the frayed rug, encountering only several holes. No ribbon. No pins. She sighed. At this moment she had no time to waste on hair accessories.

She was on a mission.

Nicki climbed to her feet, swiped at her trouser legs one last time and squinted into the darkness. “Teddy? Are you here?”

A heavy silence met her words. Could he be downstairs at this late hour?

She returned to the ceiling-high window and pushed back each side of the dust-laden draperies. At the sight of the moon, Nicki paused. Its radiance glimmered through clouds that drifted over its surface like coal dust.

She shivered as she looked down into the once-famous rose garden—the pride of this manor long ago. Undulating patches of light and dark moved and flickered over the hulking shapes of overgrown rose bushes like the souls of creatures who had once dwelt in the sunshine, but now were banished to darkness. An enchanted place fallen under a terrible curse. Nicki sighed in regret and sadness.

“I wondered if you would come. You have kept me waiting, my dear.”

Nicki spun at the words, her gaze sweeping the dimly lit room. No matter how long she had been away from Teddy, she would recognize his voice. That certainly was not it.

“Who's there?”

A movement from the farthest, darkest corner caught Nicki's gaze. Shivering, she backed toward the window. She could make out the shape of an overstuffed chair, then the silhouette of a man materialized before the bulky piece of furniture.

He stretched languorously, raising long arms over his head. “I must have fallen asleep. Is it midnight?” His voice filled the room again. Deep, resonant—a heated blade slicing through wax.

Nicki's heart skipped a beat, then raced to catch up. She took another step back just as a sharp gust of wind caught the curtains, causing them to billow out. The heel of her riding boot again snagged in the ancient fabric.

Nicki struggled to jerk her foot free with as much decorum as possible. She certainly did not intend to turn around and bend over to extricate herself, thus providing the stranger with a clear view of her unseemly attire, not to mention the portions of her body the trousers revealed too well.

Holding her breath, she looked up to see the man moving toward her with long, deliberate strides. She froze, completely at a loss.

As he approached her through dappled shadow and light, Nicki had the eerie sense that one of the tallest, most frightening specters from the garden had slipped into the room with her. She experienced a twinge of alarm, but had no time to further assimilate her reaction before the man knelt beside her.

Feeling like a complete and utter goose, Nicki lifted her foot so her heel could be extricated from the velvet. The man clasped her ankle gently, then slipped the torn fabric free with ease. As she watched his actions, it occurred to her that his hair appeared to be darker than she expected, and at the back it touched his shoulders. The scent of sandalwood, soap, and something else—brandy—surrounded her, soothing and oddly hypnotic.

“Please forgive my lapse in manners.” He spoke softly as he released her ankle.

As he straightened, Nicki followed his progress with growing alarm. Never had she set eyes on a man so exceedingly tall.

This was definitely not Teddy.

“I am somewhat rusty at extricating ladies from my bedchamber curtains before a proper introduction.”

The voice sounded so close. Too close.

Nicki moved a safe distance from the window coverings—and the man—though not far enough to bar escape through the window if it became necessary. She strained to make out his features, but he had chosen a position in a patch of darkness—a living, breathing part of the night.

Who was this stranger in Teddy's house?

“I . . . ” She cleared her throat. “I am truly sorry to disturb you. This
is
Sir Theodore Bartholomew's room, is it not?”

The man turned slightly to survey the surroundings of silhouetted bulky furniture, his hand going to his chin. Nicki heard the soft scrape of fingers across stubble.

“Hmm.” He twisted back to face her, and she knew with absolute certainty she had never seen shoulders so wide. “I suppose it was. Once.” He sounded amused.

Recalling her mode of dress, Nicki longed for the return of the curtains to hide behind. Self-conscious, she reached up to smooth her hair, then recalled the lost pins.

She was a mess.

Nicki glanced to the window. She could flee. Surely he would not stop her. As quickly as the desire came to her, she swept it aside. She had come to see Teddy and would not leave until she had done so. Drawing on her inner strength, she clenched her hands together, and was startled to find them as cold as stone.

Then she realized what the stranger had said.
Was
Teddy's room? Impending doom lurked in his choice of words, but Nicki valiantly fought her rising panic. There had to be a simple explanation for this man's presence in Teddy's bedchamber. Surely she would be informed of it at any moment.

“Please. I have come on a matter of the gravest import and Teddy is the only one who can save me. He sent a message only this afternoon. He
must
be here!”

“I have no doubt your situation is desperate, but as you can see Teddy is not here. By the bye, my name is Blake Dylan.”

She took a steadying breath, which only resulted in a sudden light-headedness. What had her stepmother told her? A lady does not give her name to a man unless they have been properly introduced. “Very well, Mr. Dylan. I shall await his return.”

“I would prefer you call me Blake.”

Nicki might be a country miss who had never had a Season in London, but she knew she should not be speaking to this man, and she especially should not address him by his given name. “I said I shall await Teddy, sir.”

Dylan chuckled softly and rested his hands on his hips. “Perhaps your odds of finding a man at home would improve greatly if you called during the daylight hours. Of course, that would be quite a mundane task for a young lady with your obvious taste for adventure.”

Nicki's fragile patience collapsed, releasing a spark of anger. “This is not a matter to be discussed over a cup of tea, Mr. Dylan, and I did not come here for a lecture on propriety! Please tell me where I might find Teddy Bartholomew.”

“He is in America.”

“America?” Her hopes cracked. In seconds they would shatter into tiny fragments. “No, that . . . that cannot be. The note . . . ”

A long pause stretched the silence before Dylan's smooth voice filled the room again.

“You are under a misconception, my charming little intruder. I last saw your Teddy in a saloon in Boston. He was quite indisposed. You see, the man has trouble holding his brandy and had just lost Rosewood Manor in a game of cards—to me.”

Nicki stumbled back a step. A soft cry escaped her lips before she could stifle it. She did not want to believe it, yet she knew better than anyone of Teddy's three loves. Dylan spoke of two. Nicki was the third. In just that order.