Emerald Garden (21 page)

Chapter 10

“G
OOD EVENING, MASTER QUENTIN
.”

At half after two a.m., Bentley’s greeting was the last thing Quentin expected.

“Bentley?” He blinked, struggling to accustom his eyes to the glow of the entranceway lamps—lamps he’d assumed would be long since extinguished.

“Shall I take your coat?”

“My coat—oh, yes.” Reflexively, Quentin removed his outer garment and handed it to the butler, feeling disoriented and out of sorts. Having just spent long hours driving aimlessly through the streets of the Cotswolds, he wanted nothing more than to lose himself to the blessed oblivion of a slumber he suspected was not forthcoming.

“Would you care for a drink, sir?” Bentley was asking, tying the sash of his robe. “Or perhaps a late supper?”

“Supper? At this hour?” Quentin appraised the butler’s bedtime apparel and then, as if seeking further corroboration, groped for his timepiece. “It’s nearly three a.m.,” he announced. “Why on earth are you strolling about the manor?”

Bentley clasped his hands behind his back, looking as proper as a dressing robe would permit. “Retiring at my usual hour was out of the question, sir.” The briefest of pauses. “I had, after all, to prepare a suitable uniform for tomorrow, being that my current one is damaged.”

“Ah, the missing button,” Quentin acknowledged, a smile tugging at his lips. Despite his muddled state, he was warmed by Bentley’s well-intentioned ploy. “I should have known you’d never consider receiving Colverton’s visitors wearing a less-than-immaculate coat.”

“Certainly not, sir.” Bentley sniffed at the idea. “In any case, once I’d readied my uniform, I spent the duration of the night combing the servants’ quarters for a matching button to replace its predecessor. ’Twould be a crime to discard a perfectly good uniform because of one lost button.”

“I agree. And tell me, did you locate a matching button?”

“As luck would have it, yes.” Bentley’s expression remained unchanged.

“Now that comes as quite a surprise.” The troubled lines about Quentin’s mouth softened. “You’re a fraud, Bentley.” He waved away the butler’s protest. “You’re also the finest of friends—to Brandi, and to me. I apologize for keeping you awake worrying about my well-being. By all means, take your fictitious button and be off to bed.”

“I’m not particularly tired, sir,” Bentley replied, studying Quentin with quiet insight. “But you must be.”

“No.” Quentin shook his head. “I’ve too much on my mind to be tired. Although, Lord knows I’ve had ample time to reconcile my problems. I’ve been riding about the village for hours. And still I’m no closer to solutions now than I was then.”

“It could be you need a willing ear.”

Quentin gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I fear I need far more than that. This quandary extends beyond the realm of my experience—and my comprehension.”

“Then I suggest we withdraw to the sitting room for a drink. It will help you relax and provide us with an opportunity to talk.”

Instinctively, Quentin glanced toward the second floor landing, recalling only too well his brother’s vow to continue their heated exchange later tonight. The prospect of another battle with Desmond was thoroughly distasteful—another reason why he’d delayed his return to Colverton. With Brandi’s disturbing chastisement still fresh in his mind, the taste of her still warm on his mouth, he felt raw, uncertain—and the last person he wanted to contend with was his brother. “Is Desmond abed?” he asked Bentley.

“He is,” the butler confirmed. A tactful cough. “Sanders and I placed him there ourselves some three hours past.”

“In other words, Desmond was foxed and couldn’t walk.”

“Actually, he was out cold. But Sanders and I were very discreet; we made certain no one was about when we carted Master Desmond off to bed. I stayed only long enough to help maneuver the duke into his nightshirt—after all, ’twould be impossible for Sanders to manage nearly two hundred pounds of dead weight on his own.”

Quentin made a disgusted sound. “Poor Sanders. When he worked for Father, he had only to act as a valet. Now, he must also be caretaker and wrestler. I wish Desmond would muster some inner strength and stop drowning his anguish in a bottle. It won’t bring Father back.”

Bentley diplomatically held his tongue, instead addressing Quentin’s original concern. “In any case, you needn’t worry about Master Desmond overhearing us. So, shall we adjourn to the sitting room for that brandy I suggested?”

“Lead the way, Bentley.”

They walked down the hall, closing the sitting-room door in their wake.

Without delay, Bentley crossed over to the sideboard and poured two healthy portions of Madeira. “Here you are, sir.”

“Thank you.” Quentin paused only long enough to accept the proffered goblet before he began prowling the Axminster carpet, seized by the same restless tension he’d been unable to shake since leaving Brandi.

“It occurred to me, my lord,” Bentley remarked, “that you might not be returning to Colverton at all tonight.”

Quentin froze in his tracks. “Why? Where did you think I’d be spending the night?”

“At Emerald Manor.”

“Damn it!” Quentin tossed off his drink and slammed the glass to a side table. “You, too?”

“Pardon me?”

“Desmond has already accused me of trying to seduce Brandi. Am I to assume you share his opinion?”

“Indeed not, my lord.” Bentley drew himself up, the picture of righteous indignation. “I merely meant that, in light of the unexpected missive from the War Department, coupled with Miss Brandi’s current emotional unrest, she might feel overwhelmed, in need of your strength and your comfort. Seduction never entered my mind.”

“Really?” Quentin averted his head. “Then you’re a better man than I. Because it most definitely entered mine.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself, sir.”

“Am I?” Quentin snapped about to face his friend. “I’ve known Brandi her whole life, spent more time with her than all the residents of Colverton combined. I taught her to shoot, to fish, to ride. I reveled in her spirit, encouraged her independence—when it came to everyone but me. I told myself I did that for her sake, that she needed an understanding shoulder—mine. I never considered the possibility that one day I might … she might … we could …” He broke off, striding across the room to refill his goblet.

“I repeat, you’re being too hard on yourself, my lord.”

Slowly, Quentin lowered the bottle of Madeira, his gaze following it to the sideboard. “Bentley, I’d best be blunt. The feelings I’ve been experiencing for Brandi these past few days have been anything but brotherly.”

“She has become a lovely young lady, hasn’t she?” Bentley inquired pleasantly.

Startled, Quentin’s head came up, his eyes fixed on Bentley’s face. “You’re not surprised?”

“By what? The fact that you’re drawn to Miss Brandi as a woman? Hardly, sir. If you’ll forgive the familiarity of my observations, Miss Brandi is beautiful, intelligent, and delightful company. Your feelings for her have always been powerful—even when she was no more than a slip of a girl. Why would the intensity of those feelings ebb now?”

“Bentley, I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. It’s not the intensity of my feelings at issue here; it’s the direction they’ve taken. Desmond is right. I do want Brandi—and I don’t mean as a friend, or a sister, or in any other platonic capacity. I want her. Period. Precisely the way Desmond accused.
Now
have I made myself clear?”

Bentley arched a brow. “I understood you the first time, my lord. And, might I add, your desire for Miss Brandi comes as no great revelation to me. But desire can be spawned by many things. It can also be displayed in many ways. And, despite anything Master Desmond might claim, seduction is an impossibility—at least in the case of you and Miss Brandi.”

Quentin’s jaw dropped in astonishment, and he shook his head slowly from side to side. “Your insight is astounding,” he pronounced with undisguised admiration. “Is there nothing I can divulge that would surprise or shock you?”

“I think not.” A corner of Bentley’s mouth lifted. “It appears Miss Brandi’s contention is proving to be true—I do know you both better than you know yourselves.” He paused, modestly adding, “Although in this case, one needn’t be a prophet to discern the obvious.”

“And now that we’ve discerned the obvious, what do I do about it?”

“What do you want to do?”

“What I want and what I know to be right are two different things.”

“If you say so, sir.”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “Is that supposed to be an answer of some kind?”

“Not at all, my lord. Only you can provide the answers you seek. And I don’t believe you’re prepared to do that.”

“Seemingly not. Damn it—I’m so bloody confused.” Quentin massaged his temples. “Brandi’s in pain—pain I’m causing. And I don’t know how to alleviate it—whatever path I choose will intensify her hurt.”

“Remember that you care very deeply for her.”

“I need no reminder of that.”

“Clearly you do. Else why would you even ponder Master Desmond’s ludicrous allegation? Seduction is shallow and selfish. Caring is neither—especially when it is mutual. And I don’t think there’s a question about whether Miss Brandi returns your feelings, is there?”

“No.” Quentin’s chest tightened. “There isn’t.” He stared off, seeing Brandi’s flushed beauty as she’d gazed up at him, a rapturous look on her face.

Oh, Quentin, don’t you understand?
He could hear her declaration as clearly as if she spoke it now.
I want to give you everything. I love you.

“Damn it.” Fists clenched at his sides, Quentin shook his head, denying Brandi’s avowal—and his own weakness. “I know what Brandi feels. I even know what she thinks she feels. But she’s too young—and too innocent—to understand the consequences of what’s happening between us. She’s not thinking clearly. Christ, she’s not thinking at all. So it’s up to me to make decisions for both of us.”

“And is your judgment unclouded?”

“ ’Tis unclouded enough to know what’s best for Brandi.” Quentin’s jaw set. “I have no right to rob her of all she deserves—and I have no intention of doing so. As it is, she scarcely has the opportunity to recover from one emotional assault before she is catapulted into the next.”

Bentley inclined his head, instantly perceiving a new and heightened tension in Quentin’s tone. “Did something further transpire tonight?”

“Yes. Desmond and I were alone when he delivered his accusation. But it escalated into an ugly and heated argument—one that Brandi walked in on.”

“She overheard Master Desmond’s insinuation?”

“No, but she understood at once that she was the subject of our battle. She wouldn’t relent until I’d relayed the specifics to her.”

“That shouldn’t surprise you, sir. Miss Brandi is quite persistent when she chooses to be.”

Quentin sighed. “I know. In any case, Desmond’s slur upset her deeply. I suppose she expected more from him, given the compassion he’s displayed this past fortnight.”

“You’re not still deluding yourself into thinking Master Desmond and Miss Brandi have a future together, are you?”

“No, that worry no longer plagues me. Not only am
I
convinced Desmond is all wrong for Brandi, she herself is convinced. No, with regard to Desmond’s role in Brandi’s life, I have but two concerns. The first is that he’ll use his guardianship to bend her to his will—an endeavor I’m counting on you to subvert in my absence.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“My other concern—and the one that truly weighs on my mind—is that Desmond will prove far too weak to ensure Brandi’s safety.”

Bentley started. “Her safety, my lord?”

“Yes. Which is why I’m doubly glad you’ll be riding to Emerald Manor tomorrow to unearth your nonexistent button.” A dark scowl settled over Quentin’s features. “I have no basis for my apprehension. Doubtless, I’m being overcautious—I always am where Brandi is concerned. It’s one reason I haven’t broached this particular possibility with her—that, and the fact that I refuse to compound her anxiety with a theory that is, most likely, groundless.”

“I’m totally at sea, sir.”

Pensively, Quentin set down his glass. “We still don’t know who killed Ardsley and my parents, nor who the intended victim truly was. Suppose—for whatever reasons—that Ardsley was the killer’s target. Wouldn’t it follow that Brandi could now be in danger? Think about it, Bentley. Whatever motive the murderer had, whatever he wanted—be it money, family assets, property—isn’t it probable that Ardsley willed it to Brandi and that it’s now unknowingly in her possession?”

Bentley paled. “I never considered that possibility.”

“Tis my other reason for refusing to leave the Cotswolds until the murder is satisfactorily resolved. Not only to allow my parents to rest in peace, but to ensure that Brandi will be safe—permanently. And I refuse to entrust her well-being to Desmond, especially now. He’s less than reliable under the best of circumstances. And, since Father’s death, he’s been drinking himself into a perpetual stupor. No, I simply cannot leave England at this particular time. I must convince the War Department to delay their orders.” Wearily, Quentin rubbed his eyes. “Speaking of which, I’d best try to get a few hours’ rest. ’Tis nearly dawn. I want to get an early start for London.”

“Of course,” Bentley agreed, noting the pale yellow cast to the eastern sky. “What time shall I have the carriage brought around?”

“At seven.” Quentin crossed the room, pausing as he gripped the door handle. “Let’s hope that my presence in the colonies is not imperative at this time and that, once I’ve explained Bow Street’s findings, my superiors will reconsider and delay my departure.”

“I’m certain they will, my lord. And, with regard to Miss Brandi’s safety—at least for the next day or so while you’re away—don’t worry. I’ll make sure she isn’t alone.”

“Thank you, Bentley.” Quentin drew a slow inward breath. “You’re indispensable. I only wish you were Brandi’s guardian rather than Desmond.”

Bentley gazed thoughtfully after Quentin’s retreating form. “It matters not, sir,” he murmured to himself. “My instincts tell me that Miss Brandi won’t need a guardian for long.”