Emerald Garden (2 page)

“Lord Quentin?” The coachman stood at a discreet distance, calling out to Quentin and pointing at his timepiece. “Forgive me, sir, but your ship leaves at half after three. We must be off.”

“Thank you, Carlyle,” Quentin acknowledged with a wave. “I’ll be along straightaway.” He turned back to Brandi, twining a lock of cinnamon hair about his finger and tugging gently.
“Adieu,
Sunbeam. And remember, safeguard your new pistol. For I intend to demand a second chance to beat you immediately upon my return, even if you’ve already traversed the dreaded portals of womanhood.”

Blinking back tears, Brandi nodded. “Agreed. And
you
remember, always keep your blade close beside you lest you need it.” She rose to her toes, giving Quentin a fierce hug. “God speed.”

He brushed his lips to her forehead, then released her, descending the gazebo steps and crossing the lush rectangular garden for which Emerald Manor was named. Halfway across the sculpted lawns, he turned, gripped by a compelling need to capture a memory, to take with him something neither time nor change could erase.

Leaning against the gazebo’s ivied post, Brandi waved, her burnished hair blowing in soft wisps about her shoulders, a blanket of violets and wild geraniums at her feet.

Resplendence stretched before her; a lifetime loomed ahead.

Heavy hearted, Quentin returned Brandi’s wave, smiling as she held up her pistol, its polished barrel glinting in the sunlight. In return, he patted his boot, indicating that his blade was securely in place.

At half after three, Quentin’s ship left London, transporting him to the European mainland and its awaiting war.

With him he carried Brandi’s knife and an unrelenting premonition.

One that four years later was destined to become a reality.

Chapter 1

Emerald Mentor, June. 1814

B
RANDI SAT BACK ON
her heels with a triumphant whoop. “There! I’ve completed the entire section of geraniums surrounding the gazebo.”

“And not an instant too soon.” Tucking wisps of dark hair from her cheeks, the Duchess of Colverton rose from the flower bed to lean wearily against the gazebo post. “It’s grown so warm; why, it was downright brisk when I left Colverton.”

“That’s because we’ve been immersed in our gardening for nearly five hours now,” Brandi informed her, pointing toward the sky. “Look at the sun. ’Twas barely peeking over the hills when we arrived at Emerald Manor. Now it’s directly overhead. It must be half after noon.” She came to her feet, wiping perspiration from her brow … and decorating her nose and chin with smudges of dirt. “Why don’t we take a much-deserved respite and enjoy the refreshment Mary brought?”

“I need no second invitation.” Gracefully, Pamela sank down on the garden bench, pouring two glasses of recently made fruit punch. “What time does Ardsley expect you home?”

Unceremoniously, Brandi flopped down beside Pamela, accepting the proffered drink. “Knowing that I’m at Emerald Manor? Father probably won’t expect me until nightfall.” She pressed the glass to her lips and, contrary to Pamela’s dainty sips, downed her punch in five spirited gulps. “I’d rather be here than anywhere else on earth,” she declared, refilling her glass.

“I know.” Pamela’s answer was reflective, her brows knitting in heightened concern.

A small round object dropped from the tree overhead, landing in Brandi’s drink with a loud plunk. Punch flew in the air, drenching Brandi’s gown with wide stains of pink.

“Not again!” Brandi set her glass down firmly, tilting her head back to scowl fiercely at the branch above. “Lancelot, I am not amused. That’s the third gown you’ve ruined this week. What do you suggest I tell Papa?”

The red squirrel stared back, evidently unconcerned with Brandi’s dilemma. Snatching up a berry, he turned his full bushy tail and scampered off.

“And to think I raised that ungrateful wretch from infancy,” Brandi muttered, dabbing at her skirts. “I should have known the second I spied that white, quizzing-glass circle about one of his eyes that he’d be as arrogant as every other nobleman of my acquaintance.”

Pamela’s lips twitched. “So
that’s
why you named him Lancelot. I thought perchance you saw some hidden valor in the scamp.”

“Hardly. The only motivation Lancelot would have for rescuing me is if I held a nut in my hand.”

“He’s very adept at ruining clothing,” Pamela noted, battling the laughter that threatened to erupt. She dipped her napkin in water, trying, unsuccessfully, to wash the stains from Brandi’s gown.

“Oh, dear.” Brandi shook her head, rolling her eyes to the heavens. “This time Papa is bound to lose his patience.”

“I doubt it,” Pamela reassured her. “Ardsley will forgive you just about anything; least of all a soiled gown.”

“Perhaps.” Brandi cast a self-deprecating look from herself to Pamela. “Still, even if we disregard the outcome of Lancelot’s prank, how is it that you manage to look coolly elegant after four hours of garden work and I look like a dirty, pathetic kitten who’s just emerged from a violent confrontation with a ball of yarn?”

Pamela could no longer suppress her mirth. “Oh, Brandi, you’re anything but pathetic,” she said, laughing. “You’re a beautiful, vibrant young woman.” Seizing the companionability of the moment, Pamela broached the very subject that continually plagued her. “Kenton mentioned that, according to Ardsley, that very handsome Lord Gallister has been calling on you daily.”

“Hmm? Oh, Lord Gallister. Yes, he’s visited Townsbourne several times.” Her mind already racing onward, Brandi abandoned the cleansing of her gown, squinting at a point beyond the gazebo. “Do you think we should suggest to Herbert that he add another layer of those lovely white stones to the rock garden? I noticed that some of the current ones are beginning to lose their luster.”

“That could be because you’re always drippin’ stream water all over them,” came a gruff nearby voice.

“Oh, Herbert!” Brandi sprang up and rushed over to the manor’s head gardener. “I’m so glad you overheard my suggestion! What do you think of the idea?”

“That depends.” Herbert scowled, his rankled tone belied by the affectionate gleam in his eyes. “Are you gonna keep fishin’ and wreckin’ my rock garden with stream water?”

Brandi attempted a sheepish look. “I’ll try not to.”

“Humph.” Herbert dragged a hand through his unruly graying hair. “All right. I’ll collect a few more of those stones you like so much. But only a few! If you ruin this batch …”

“Oh, thank you!” Brandi hugged him.

“Does Ardsley know you’ve been frolicking in the stream again?” Pamela interjected tentatively.

Herbert’s gaze darted to Brandi’s anxious one. “The fact is, Your Grace, that rock damage could have been caused by lots of things,” he hedged. “Rain, sun—”

“I understand, Herbert.” Pamela sighed. “How very well I understand.”

“Pamela, please don’t tell Papa.” Brandi gripped her friend’s hands. “He’ll be terribly upset. I’ve finally convinced him I’m trying to become a lady.”

With a cough that suspiciously resembled a chuckle, Herbert ambled off.

“And are you, Brandi?” Pamela asked softly. “Are you truly trying to become a lady?”

Brandi lowered her gaze. “Honestly? I don’t think it’s possible.”

“But why, darling? You’re lovely and warmhearted and vivacious. And I’m far from the only one who thinks so. Even
you
can’t help but notice the way gentlemen stare at you, the admiration in their eyes. Why, ‘tis more than two years—indeed three Seasons—since you made your debut, yet men continue to fawn at your feet,”

Brandi shuddered as if she’d just swallowed a worm. “They disgust me.”

“For what reason? Ardsley says they all behave like proper suitors when they call. And my own eyes tell me that many of them are utterly charming, not to mention handsome and thoughtful. Surely one of them—”

“Proper. Charming. Yes, they are that,” Brandi interrupted. “And they want someone equally proper and charming on their arm. I can’t be that someone.” Brandi looked beseechingly at Pamela. “I just can’t.”

The duchess’s eyes clouded. “Brandi, you’re twenty years old. You can’t remain a frolicking child forever.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true.”

Gently, Pamela smoothed Brandi’s downcast head. “Why is the thought of growing up so abhorrent to you? You’re brimming with love and life. Surely you want a home and children of your own.”

A mournful sigh. “I do. But not at the expense of relinquishing all I find such joy in savoring.”

“You make it sound as if you’d be imprisoned! You needn’t relinquish everything, darling. Oh, I imagine you’ll have to forgo such activities as splashing in the stream without your stockings. But your gardening, your riding—albeit with a proper sidesaddle rather than astride—those things you can still do.”

Unappeased, Brandi stared contemplatively at the ground. “Why did you marry Kenton?” she blurted at last.

“Pardon me?” Pamela blinked at the sudden change in subject.

Sitting up, Brandi turned uncertain, anguished eyes to her friend. “Pamela, I never knew my own mother; she died in childbirth. In all ways but blood, you’ve filled her role, and I love you as if I were your natural child.”

Pamela’s eyes misted. “You’re the daughter I never had,” she managed. “Your happiness means as much to me as if I’d borne you myself.”

“I know that. Just as I know you. We’re very different, you and I. However in several ways—boundless devotion to those we love, a deep attachment to Emerald Manor—in ways such as that, we are much the same. Both of us being women, we were raised with the knowledge that we would someday marry and bear children. And, both of us being tenderhearted, we each had dreams of the man who would one day share our life. What I’m asking you now is, how did you recognize Kenton as that man? What reason—other than duty—made you choose him as your husband?”

A tender smile. “That question requires no pondering. I wed Kenton because I was desperately in love with him. And, one and thirty years later, I still am.”

“Kenton feels the same way. He adores you; ’tis obvious in the way he looks at you. Just as your love is obvious in the way you come alive when you’re beside him. You’re two halves of a whole, Pamela, and the love between you is very special and quite miraculous.”

“I won’t disagree,” Pamela said in a quiet, fervent tone. “Kenton is my heart and my soul. Without him, I wouldn’t want to live.”

“Precisely as I would wish to feel were I in your position.” Brandi’s lips trembled. “But I’m not. No man has ever awakened my heart as such. Not Lord Gallister, nor any of my other gentlemen callers. I feel absolutely nothing when I’m with them, not even a flutter. So how can I take the step Papa wants me to take—consider marriage to a man I don’t love and know inherently I never will? The answer to that is, I cannot.” She lowered her lashes. “I’m sorry, Pamela. Truly I am. I loathe disappointing you, Kenton, and Papa. But evidently, between my unorthodox pastimes and my unfulfilled romantic notions, I’m destined to remain alone.”

Pamela studied Brandi’s burnished head thoughtfully, assailed by a relentless suspicion—spawned long years ago—that stubbornly refused to be silenced. “You said you had dreams. Tell me, what sort of man did you dream of?”

A small smile. “One who reveled in my spirit and rejoiced in my unladylike diversions. One whose passion for challenge matched my own. One who loved me for who I am, not for the fictitious creature he yearned I become.”

“I see.”

“You see, but can you
understand?”

“Better than you realize,” Pamela responded evenly, with the barest hint of a twinkle. “Brandi, contrary to what you’ve concluded, I promise you are not destined to remain alone. The man of whom you dream does exist—I can see him as clearly as if he were standing before me. And he
is
someone special, someone rare. All that remains is for you to discover each other, which will happen in its own time—a time I suspect is not too far off.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Trust me, darling; I am.” Pamela stretched, glancing idly toward the stables. “It just occurred to me that you haven’t exercised Poseidon today.”

Brandi’s head came up in a flash. “I completely forgot. Of course! Quentin would never forgive me if I neglected his stallion!”

“Knowing my son, I suspect that’s true,” Pamela concurred, her gaze once again fixed on Brandi. “Which reminds me, you’ve still received no further word from Quentin?”

Joy fled Brandi’s face. “Not since that letter I showed you last month. The poor mail-coach driver—I badger him each time I see him. But, thus far, nothing.”

“Letters from the mainland have been erratic, at best,” Pamela murmured aloud, consoling herself and Brandi simultaneously. “I only pray …”

“Quentin is fine.” Brandi knotted her fists in her gown. “I’d know if he weren’t. He’ll be home any day now.”

“We can’t be certain of that, darling. Just because the Duke of Wellington is returning to England doesn’t mean Quentin intends to accompany him.”

“That’s exactly what it means. Quentin vowed to stay away only until the war was over. Well, Napoleon is safely at Elba. Therefore, Quentin’s arrival in the Cotswolds is imminent.” Shoulders squared defiantly, Brandi gathered up her skirts and rose. “I’d best exercise Poseidon. It’s already past noon; soon the sun will be too strong for us to indulge in one of our breakneck gallops.”

“Of course, darling, go ahead.” Feigning innocence, Pamela waved Brandi off, more certain than ever that the wondrous possibility she was contemplating did indeed hover on the brink of reality.

Now it was up to God and fate.

Colverton Manor

Gone.

Desmond stared down at the empty drawer, his hands shaking with the shock of discovery.

How could that be? he thought, wildly groping for an answer. No one knew of its existence.

Like a man possessed, he began flinging things from every corner of his nightstand, not pausing until it was empty.

He slammed the final drawer to the floor, his breath coming in shallow pants, sweat beading his forehead. There had to be a logical explanation for this. There
had
to be.