Heart of the Diamond (47 page)

From deep inside came Blake's voice—strong and confident.
I should have told you then I had fallen in love with you.
She had worked so hard for that declaration. Teddy—this monster holding her like some minion of Satan—could never take from her the sweetness of that victory.

If Teddy did succeed in marrying her, she would make certain his future life would be an eternal hell. He would never be free to trust her from his sight. And she would never cease fighting him—never give up striving for escape so she might return to Blake. Nicki opened her eyes.

In morbid fascination, she stared at the statue Teddy hefted so casually. His intent crashed upon her as though the ceiling had come down about her ears.

Nicki gave a desperate lurch forward. The man's hold slipped and she cried out. The sound disappeared into the heavy fabric that dropped over her. She clawed desperately at the throw, fighting the material that threatened to suffocate her. She felt a sudden explosive, searing pain at the back of her head. She fell forward, stunned.

Another, sharper pain and blackness washed over her.

“My lord . . . my lord?”

The words combined with incessant knocking brought Blake out of a sound sleep. Automatically he reached out to his side, but his hand encountered only emptiness. He opened his eyes. Nicole was gone.

As Blake stood, he noticed that his jacket dropped to the floor. Then he saw his trousers draped off the arm of the wing chair. Grabbing those, he slipped into them, all the while looking for his shirt. The knocking turned almost desperate and Blake abandoned the search and went to open the door.

Chester dropped his hand and squared his shoulders. “I apologize for disturbing you, my lord, but you have a visitor.”

Blake glanced from the butler in his robe to the mantel clock over the fireplace. Three o'clock. “A visitor? Not . . .”

“No, sir. It is your solicitor just arrived from London. It was my thought that he would like a bed, but he insists on speaking with you immediately. Shall I bring tea?”

His solicitor? Good God, what now? “No tea, Chester. A good strong pot of coffee with two cups should do.”

Chester flinched slightly at the suggestion. He had been unable to accustom himself to Blake's taste for the dark American brew. “Very good, my lord. Coffee. Shall I bring Mr. Tunstell to you here?”

A quick survey of the room revealed Blake's shirt on the floor behind the settee. His gaze flashed back to Chester, who maintained a neutral mien, but Blake could have sworn his mouth twitched. “Bring him here, Chester. I suppose he cannot expect to find a man in court dress at this time of morning.”

“As you say, sir.” Chester bowed, making to leave, then stiffened. He cleared his throat, his gaze carefully directed over Blake's shoulder. “Sir, you have a . . . a ribbon . . . dangling from your . . . your trousers.”

Blake glanced down. Sure enough, Nicole’s rose-colored hair ribbon hung from his waistband and spiraled delicately down the inside of his leg. With a wry grin, Blake pulled the velvet free and wrapped it about his hand. “Very observant, Chester. Thank you.”

“All in a day's work, my lord. I will show Mr. Tunstell to you at once. Perhaps I should first straighten the room a bit?”

“I will take care of it. See to Tunstell.”

Blake tidied the room somewhat smugly as his mind reflected on what had transpired before the fire not two hours earlier. He pulled on his shirt and fastened the pearl-topped buttons. He noticed one sleeve hung slightly longer than the other. Beneath his arm he discovered a gaping hole. With a sigh, he tucked the shirt into his breeches, and retrieved his socks and boots.

With one last glance at the room, Blake took a seat behind his desk and adjusted the wick on the oil lamp to provide more light. He had just finished when Chester tapped lightly on the open door.

“Mr. Tunstell, my lord.”

The short, rotund man paused at the doorway, then gratefully followed the direction Chester indicated. Despite the coolness of the climate, Mr. Tunstell sweated profusely. Blake searched his mind for a name. Joseph? No, that was the eldest son who had died in the war against Napoleon. George? No, that was the father. John? Yes, this was John, the youngest son.

With a gusty sigh, Mr. Tunstell dropped into one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. He placed his leather carrying case at his feet and dragged a soiled handkerchief from his jacket pocket. The threadbare beaver hat was removed before the man proceeded to mop the perspiration from his balding pate. Small dark eyes glittered behind wire-rimmed spectacles. Blake knew instantly that this man was not the fool he appeared to be.

“Have I gone bankrupt, Tunstell?” Blake leaned forward, steepling his fingers. He knew from their correspondence that this man was quick of mind and possessed of sound judgment.

“Of course not, my lord!” John Tunstell shook his head adamantly, jarring his glasses to the bridge of his bulbous nose. “I would never allow such a thing to occur. Your millions are quite safe and amassing nicely.”

“That is of great relief to me. If I am financially stable, then what brings you here from London in such a rush? You look as if you have slept in your clothes.”

Tunstell smoothed his surcoat, which might have been sadly creased if it did not fit quite so snugly. After several attempts to yard the garment over his girth, he succeeded only in unseating his hat, which thumped to the floor. “I have indeed, Your Lordship. I took the liberty of borrowing a post chaise and six from your stables in London, or I would never have made such splendid time.”

“It is past three o'clock in the morning, Tunstell, and today is my wedding day. Would you please arrive at some point?”

The little man reached for his case and the seams of his jacket strained in protest. Blake winced, but the thread held under the strain. As Tunstell flipped the tarnished brass clasps and opened the case, Blake made a mental note to reevaluate the man's salary.

Patiently, Blake waited as the man rustled through his bag, murmuring to himself, finally withdrawing a thick sheaf of papers tied together with a frayed red ribbon. “This is my purpose for being here.”

Blake took the bundle, untied the bow, and spread the pages out on the surface of the desk. In leafing quickly through the papers, he noted most appeared to be guarantees for accounts from various establishments in London. A tailor, stable. Some were gambling markers.

All the documents appeared to be dated within the past month. His confusion deepened with each page. “What have these to do with me?”

“I apologize, my lord, for the delay in bringing this to your attention. It has taken some time to gather all the information. I had a Bow Street Runner assisting me or it might have taken weeks longer than it has. And with your wedding occurring so quickly . . .”

“This is not my tailor. These are not my bills.”

Tunstell attempted to pull his jacket down over the roll around his middle. “Yes, my lord. I apologize. In my weariness I am not making myself very clear. I should start from the beginning.”

Blake rubbed his forehead. “Please do.”

“I came personally to explain the situation when I had all the information and realized the extent of the problem. It came to light when our establishment received your letter expressing your intent to wed the eldest daughter of the Duke of Billington as well as to make good on all the duke's bills—but of course you know all that. When my father saw the invitation he was quite disturbed.”

“I apologize for any upset I might have caused him,” Blake responded dryly.

Tunstell raised a placating hand. “It was not the fact that you were marrying, my lord, but the identity of your bride. You see one of my father's clients also expressed that he would be marrying Lady Nicole Langley, daughter of the Duke of Billington. And apparently this gentleman had run up quite a list of debts using his fiancée’s inheritance as collateral.”

A throbbing began in Blake's temple. He rubbed his forehead. “And you feared I might be falling prey to a hoax of some sort?”

“It had crossed my mind, my lord. The funds have already been expended on the duke's behalf. I put a deposit on a house for the Season and opened the bank account in the duke's name, as you instructed. The news that another man also claimed to be engaged to Lady Langley alarmed me greatly. Of course, my father did not reveal the man's name to me. Confidentiality, you know.”

Blake slid back the chair, stood, and went to the window. Another man in Nicole's life? He stared blindly into the darkness beyond the glass. Though it had cut into several other investments, he had instructed Tunstell to take the steps necessary to set Billington up comfortably for this Season as well as the following. He had also ceased his efforts to drain the man's finances. Damn it all, who would dare parade about London charading as Nicole's fiancé?

Then he knew. Only one man . . .

A knock at the door interrupted Blake's reverie. He turned toward the sound with his fists clenched at his side. “Are there no distinctions between day and night in this godforsaken neighborhood?”

Tunstell's eyes widened behind his spectacles. Blake raised his hand in what he hoped was a placating gesture, then strode to the door to fling it open.

Chester stepped back from the doorway to give Jonathon Langley a wide berth. He spoke from several feet away. “My lord, the Duke of Billington.”

Alarm raced through Blake, together with a feeling that he had enacted this scene before. He tightened his hold on the wood of the door. “Billington? Has something happened?”

Jonathon delivered a distracted nod in Chester's direction, then stepped into the room. “It's Nick. She's been stolen.”

Quickly, Blake calculated the time it would have taken Nicole to reach her home from Rosewood. Though he had no clue about the exact time she left, he had been with Tunstell for more than the amount of time she would have needed. He closed the door and turned to face Jonathon.

God, no, not Nicole. Not Nicole.
“Are you certain, sir? You checked the stables? What about Shelby's room?”

Billington shook his head sadly in denial. He looked exhausted, his normally colorful complexion tinged with grey. “It was Shelby that told me. It seems Nicki, Mina, and Shelby rigged some sort of trap to catch the bloke who's been poking about in my study. Shelby was supposed to set up the machine in my office and go up to bed, but he decided to hide out behind the settee. He fell asleep there. Then, about an hour ago, he was awakened by a thump. He could only see the feet of two men. Nicki was on the floor on her knees being held against one of the ruffians. They threw a blanket over her head and knocked her unconscious with one of my snakes. The boy blamed himself because he was too afraid to rescue her.”

Rage filled Blake. Forcing the emotion back, he called for the calm detachment he had depended upon for so long, for that was the side of him that would reclaim Nicole. “Shelby is just a boy. He could have done nothing.”

“He's beside himself just the same. After the men left with Nick, the alarm on the machine was tripped. When I got to the library, I found Shelby in hysterics.” Jonathon's blue eyes filled with angry moisture. His chin trembled. “The blackguards won't get away with terrorizing my children!”

Offering what comfort he could, Blake gripped Jonathon's shoulder. “We will see to that, will we not? But I need all the information you have. Did Shelby recognize any voices?”

Jonathon paled and looked away. “One was Ted. Teddy Bartholomew. He didn't know the other. Can you believe it? I let that man into my home. Trusted him like he was family.”

“Nicole will be devastated. We have to find her. Did Shelby hear anything that might tell us where they went?”

Jonathon latticed his fingers, cracking his knuckles unconsciously. His gaze avoided Blake's. “Just that Ted intends to marry her. He left notes for me and for you, most likely hoping we'd think they were from Nick. I burned the deuced things.”

Tunstell cleared his throat, drawing the gaze of the other two men. “Shall I wait outside, Your Lordship?”

Blake stared at the solicitor for a long moment. Pieces were coming together in his mind, slowly, but inexorably. “No, Tunstell. I might have further need of you.”

Suddenly, the door swung inward. Jonathon sidestepped before it could slam into him. In sailed Sophia, regal as a queen despite her crumpled dressing gown and her abundant dark curls tied up in strips of cloth. “I demand to know what all this racket is about. My bedchamber is directly overhead and I have gotten absolutely no rest for several hours!”

Blake watched her silver-eyed gaze take in Tunstell's insignificant efforts to melt into his chair, then Jonathon, who had the appearance of a man who had been dragged through the rose bushes. Her attention finally paused on him.

He debated how much to tell her, then sighed. “Sophia, it seems my fiancée has been kidnapped by Theodore Bartholomew and the man has every intention of marrying her. We were just about to devise a plan for her rescue. Perhaps you would care to add your expertise.”

Surprisingly, Sophia's lovely face crumpled into tearful distress. “Goodness, Blake, I had no inkling what was occurring. You must go after her at once. She must be rescued from that pompous little—”

“I agree, Sophia, but we have yet to learn where they have gone.”

Jonathon put his hands together and Blake feared he intended to crack his knuckles yet again. “None of my horses are gone, Teddy's horse is still in its stall. I have Andrew and one of his sons holding the horses around back at the stables. They'll help us search.”

“Good,” Blake said. “Our best chance of finding them lies in searching all the thoroughfares. The difficult thing is that there are so many directions they could have gone and still be able to turn off and head for Scotland. I will awaken Percy and Carlton. They may go into shock at the earliness of the hour, but they will be capable of taking a direction. Jonathon, you and I shall take another.”

“You can count me in on the hunt, as well. I've grown a little bored with whist.”