Once Upon a Diamond

Teresa McCarthy

ONCE UPON A DIAMOND

Copyright © Teresa
McCarthy, 2012

All rights reserved

EBook, August 2012,
Teresa McCarthy

Cover Art, LFD
Designs For Authors

No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored, copied, or transmitted without the prior
written permission of the copyright owner.

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

Chapter
One

England

T
he
blasted diamond was nothing but trouble. Tristan Charles Fullerton
combed
a hand through his jet-black hair as he stood in the middle of the grand foyer
of Lancewood Hall, a half day’s ride from London. Rain pelted the door beside
him as thunder rumbled through the darkened sky. He peeled off his wet cloak,
his jaw tightening. The weather was horrid, but it was nothing compared to the
storm swirling in his soul.

A
frown marred his brow as he raised a hand to the missive tucked inside his
jacket. Indeed, the clandestine orders from the Foreign Office could spawn more
trouble than the notion of the Prince Regent and Napoleon sharing a mistress.

He
squinted at the swaying silhouette approaching from the dimly lit hallway. His
lips twitched as the hammering rain mingled with the sound of the butler’s
shoes clacking unevenly against the marble floor. “Perkins?” 

“Evening,
my lord.”

Tristan
lifted a black brow at the pungent smell of spirits drifting his way. “Good
evening. Delightful weather we’re having, is it not?”

“Delightful?”
Perkins frowned, his leathery face crinkling with displeasure. The older man
stood beside Tristan, shaking the rainwater off his master’s black cloak. A row
of silver buttons winked against the light from the chandelier above them.
“Would think that Little Corsican himself is knocking at the door.” 

Tristan
grinned and slapped the water off his breeches. Devil take it. Perkins was a
stubborn old crow. He had told the man to let the younger servants answer the
evening calls.

“Why,
if I had a chance at him,” Perkins gave the wet cloak another shake,
accidentally sending a silver button clanking to the floor, “He would be
mincemeat, my lord.” 

For
a second, the old butler stopped his tirade against Napoleon, stooped down to
pick up the lost button, and slowly unfolded his body. “Pure mincemeat.” 

Tristan
pressed his lips together to suppress a chuckle. “My dear Perkins, I do believe
Boney’s somewhere else at the moment. A little place called St. Helena.”

The
butler raised a white brow as if digesting that thought. “Indeed. I would have
saved England time and money if they sent him to me. Young people today don’t
know a thing about war, you know.” With a proud jerk of his head, Perkins
turned and began swerving back down the hall, announcing he would have the
valet take care of the button in no time.

Tristan
shook his head as he strode toward the stairs. It was fortunate his business in
Town had been a success. The family coffers had been swiftly dwindling due to
his father’s quest, and that had put a strain on everyone, including the
servants.

In
need of a drink, Tristan started toward the library, favoring his right leg as
he climbed the stairs. Hell and spitfire, if it hadn’t been for that American
chit years ago, his foot wouldn’t be throbbing like a fat man’s gout.

Ambling
past the thick oak doors, he raised his gaze to the eerie glow of the solitary
candle shimmering on top of the marble mantelpiece above the hearth. A deep
sigh rumbled in the air, and he froze. His gaze shifted to his younger brother
seated in the leather chair. “Edward?” 

Holding
his breath, Tristan took a hesitating step forward. The young man’s broad
shoulders were slumped over their father’s desk, his head resting near the ink
well.

With
a groan, the twenty-two-year-old slowly raised his head, brushing a limp hand
through his sandy brown hair, breaking the awkward silence. “Trist, thank
heaven you’re here.”

The
strain in Edward’s voice sent a prickle of alarm down Tristan’s spine. “What’s
wrong?” 

Frowning,
Edward flagged a paper in the air. “He’s dead, Tristan. It’s all right here.”

“Who’s
dead?” 

Edward
dropped his head into his hands. The paper fell beside him as he mumbled,
“Father. Father’s dead.” 

“Father?”
Tristan’s voice exploded in shock as he stalked across the room, his Hessian
boots brushing across the Aubusson rug. “The devil he is.”

Tristan
lit another candle and snatched the letter off the desk. His gaze swept over
the paper, stopping on an unfamiliar signature. His breath caught in his
throat. The letter mentioned the earl had died of an inflammation of the lungs.

Tristan
felt a corner of his heart twist. If only his father had loved him –  

NO! What
the deuce was he thinking? 

A
few tense seconds passed before he looked up. “Who the blazes is Harold
Fletcher? He signed this along with the magistrate?”

Edward
shrugged, his eyes filled with tears. “D-don’t know. Looks like Fletcher was
with Father when he died.” 

“On
that cursed journey from Italy.” Tristan bit back an oath. Their father, the
Earl of Lancewood, may be dead, but it didn’t change the fact the man had been
mad - mad enough to mortgage almost all they had, nearly everything but the
entailed estates. The foolish search for the diamond had killed the earl, not
some inflammation of the lungs.

Wanting
to slam his fist into the wall, Tristan ate up the distance to the rosewood
sideboard near the window. He grabbed the brandy decanter, splashed some of the
amber liquid into a glass, then poured another drink for his brother.

His
brain burned with the memory of his father’s last words to him.
“This
diamond is pure, its brilliance magnificent. The gem must be handed down from
generation to generation. It is our tradition. I must find it.”   

Tradition?
Family? Tristan scowled as the scent of lemon lifted from the sideboard. The
smell stirred unbidden memories of a lonely six-year-old boy, a child who had
tried to gain his mother’s affection by polishing the mahogany table in her
salon. All he had received for his efforts had been a swift slap to the face,
then an hour later, a kiss on his forehead.

His
lips thinned as he tightened his hold on his glass. His mother would need to be
told.

He
strode toward Edward, offering him the drink, and winced at his brother’s pale
face. He hated to see his sibling in such pain. Edward was kind and decent, an
honest sort, with his mind in his books and thoughts on farming and crop rotation.

But
now was not the time to tell his brother they could have been driven into
debtor’s prison because of their father’s insane search.

“He’s
dead, Edward, and so is his quest.” 

Edward
lifted the glass to his trembling lips. “It’s seems like some horrid
nightmare.” He sighed, taking a sip. “What about the diamond?”

“The
diamond?” Tristan turned to stare into the storm. Heavy raindrops slid along
the panes of glass, distorting his reflection. “It’s best to forget about the
cursed gem.” 

Edward
finished the drink and rose. “It...it got the best of him, Trist. Sort of took
over his mind.” He paused. “But I do know...he loved you.”

“Love?”
Tristan snapped.

Without
warning, a bolt of lightning sliced across the sky, and the panes of glass
became a mirror. For a split second their faces were lit, Edward’s in grief,
Tristan’s in anger.

Tristan
spun around, his back to the window. “Let’s not get duty confused with love.”

“You’re
w-wrong,” Edward said, his voice raw with pain. “You we’re always wrong about that.” 

Tristan
set his jaw. A clap of thunder shook the walls as his sibling shuffled toward
the door. Rain continued to pound against the windowpanes while the click of
heels echoed down the hall. Edward didn’t understand. No one did.

Tristan
clenched his hands. At the age of twenty-seven, he was earl now. He had
inherited all that belonged to his father: the debts, the homes, the lands, the
money, and worst of all, the horrid quest. It didn’t matter that the earl or
the countess had never loved him. Nothing but the diamond mattered now.

He
grabbed the letter from Fletcher and whipped it into the empty fireplace -
empty like his heart. With a sense of urgency, he built up the fire, letting
the smell of burning paper reach his nostrils.

Heat
filled the room. His lips gave a wry twist as he stared at the shooting flames,
dancing like demons in his soul.
A precious diamond? Nothing was that
precious or that pure.

He
took a step back and slipped a hand into his pocket, pulling out the missive
from the Foreign Office. He’d heard different stories about the gem’s origin
and had no idea about the truth until today. Lord Castlereagh’s words had come
at a most inopportune time indeed.

He
rested a Hessian boot upon the hearth and studied the letter. When the man told
him of the diamond’s history and its immediate importance to England, Tristan
had been shocked.

Deuce
take it! Even though his father was dead, the mad search for the diamond was to
continue.

A
heavy pain centered in his chest when he thought about the earl.

Tristan
clamped his thumb and forefinger over the bridge of his nose. The devil of it
was, the earl’s death would only enhance Tristan’s effort and his cover. He was
to find the diamond, not for himself, but for England, and only England.

It
only made sense to have him hunt for the gem since his father had been on the
quest for years. Working covertly would be easy. While he searched for the
diamond, society would believe he was following in his father’s footsteps. How
advantageous for everyone but him.

It
was ironic, he thought as he raised his gaze to the howling winds. He’d finally
made enough on his investments, and the family debts could be paid. Yet now, he
was to be sucked into the nightmare again.

A
bitter smile skimmed his lips. For the past five years, he had worked in
British reconnaissance while his father had searched in vain for the elusive
diamond, leaving his family and responsibilities behind.

Well,
he laughed sadly, why the devil shouldn’t he be the likely candidate to
retrieve the diamond his father loved more than his firstborn? 

Why
indeed? Because, hell and thunder, he wanted nothing more than to bury the
blasted quest along with his father and be done with it all. The diamond had
ruined his father’s life, and if Tristan wasn’t careful, it would do the same
to him.

With
an oath, he kicked the hearth, feeling a blinding pain shoot up his wretched
leg. “’Tis a blasted quest. But confound it, for the good of England, I’ll find
that diamond, and then I can live in peace.”

Massachusetts

Matthew
Wilcox clenched a hand around his mug and frowned at Mr. Bartholomew Travis,
his father’s friend and lawyer. “What proof have you that my father’s death was
a murder and not an accident?” 

Mr.
Travis scanned the smoke-filled room with eagle-like eyes and took a swig of
his ale, returning an unwavering gaze back to Matthew. They were nestled at a
corner table in the Red Lion Pub, a Boston favorite to sailors and tradesmen,
conveniently located next door to the offices of the Wilcox Shipping Line, the
family business, which after Robert Wilcox’s death was now owned by Matthew and
his sister.

“I
can only tell you what the old sailor told me,” Mr. Travis replied, his voice
filled with sympathy. “Hobson saw your father thrown overboard, but it was
raining so hard, he couldn’t see who did the deed. Frankly, I believe him.
Robert Wilcox was too good a seaman to have an accident like that, even in a
hellish storm.”

 “But
why didn’t Hobson come to me?” Matthew snapped. “The man was working for us. It
was his duty to tell me what happened.”

Mr.
Travis leaned forward. “His duty could get him killed. He must have had a
feeling someone was watching him. Maybe even the murderer. After he told me his
story, the man ran out of my office as fast as lightning. I doubt I could find
him now if I tried.”

Matthew
gritted his teeth. “Perhaps, if I –” He ducked, yanking the older man to the
floor.

Mr.
Travis’s eyes widened in shock as a knife plunged into the wall. “W-what in the
blue blazes!”

Matthew
jerked his gaze toward the knife, then flicked a glance across the crowd. “I
believe someone just tried to kill one of us.” 

The
boisterous group hadn’t noticed anything amiss. They were still drinking and
singing to their heart’s content. Mr. Travis was speechless, his face as white
as his cravat.

Matthew
pulled out his pistol, and with a curse, wrenched the knife from the wall,
handing the weapon to the older man. Pushing his father’s friend toward the
bar, Matthew surveyed the room with a critical gaze. “Stay here.” 

Mr.
Travis licked his lips and slouched against a stool while Matthew moved through
the crowd, searching for the coward.

Mr.
Travis, temples sweating, was tipping a newly opened bottle of whiskey to his
lips when Matthew returned to the bar. The pub owner, a shocked observer to the
event, apologized profusely and offered to make a formal complaint to the
authorities. Not wanting to make his trouble known, Matthew politely refused,
knowing he would take care of the matters himself.