Emerald Garden (23 page)

She deserved so much more—a man who could make her the center of his world, offer her forever and all it entailed.

Whoever this fictitious man was, Quentin wanted to kill him.

Vehemently, Quentin swung his legs over the side of the bed, resuming his earlier pacing. One month ago, his life had been in order; he’d belonged to the army, and all those he loved had been safe and prevailing in the Cotswolds. Now his parents were dead, their murderer at large, the War Department behaving in a questionable manner, and he had no idea who he was or where he belonged.

And there was nowhere to turn, for the only person who understood him was the very one who was driving him crazy.

Brandi.

So much for the hope that facing his feelings would help provide an answer to his inner turmoil, Quentin mused. Instead, he felt more frustrated than ever, backed into an impossible corner from which there was no escape.

He had to rest. He couldn’t afford another sleepless night, not with tomorrow morning’s meeting looming ahead. He needed to be alert and ready to plead his case to the War Minister. Because, come hell or high water, he intended to convince the War Department to alter the timing of their orders—after he got to the root of their standoffish treatment.

Wearily, Quentin sank into a tufted chair, leaning his head back against the cushions. It seemed that all his problems—his feelings for Brandi, his concern for her safety, his future in the military—all hinged upon the resolution of his parents’ murders.

Which made one decision an unalterable reality: He would not leave English soil until the killer was apprehended.

“Why, Bentley? Why won’t Quentin be home today? What aren’t you telling me?”

Reacting to Bentley’s news, Brandi came to her feet, clutching the gazebo post with a combination of frustration and worry.

“I’m not keeping anything from you, Miss Brandi.” Bentley stood dutifully in the garden below, having arrived at Emerald Manor not ten minutes past. He’d followed the identical procedure he had yesterday: circumventing the cottage and veering directly toward the gazebo, knowing he’d find Brandi in her customary position—staring out over the gardens, daydreaming within the soothing confines of her gazebo walls.

Patiently, he reiterated his message. “Master Quentin’s note said only that he needed to speak with the War Minister himself and that he’d be doing so first thing this morning. He expects to return to the Cotswolds no later than tonight, or, at the very latest, tomorrow.”

“The War Department is obviously not pleased by Quentin’s request.” Brandi frowned, crossing over and descending into the garden. “They’re probably pressuring him to leave for the colonies as requested—posthaste.” She inclined her head in Bentley’s direction. “Am I the primary reason Quentin wants to delay his trip?”

A heartbeat of silence.

“Am I, Bentley?”

“Among other considerations, yes.”

“I was afraid of that.” Brandi’s small chin set. “Well, I won’t have it.”

“Pardon me?” One brow rose in question.

“Bentley, sit with me for a minute.”. Brandi gestured toward the bench alongside the gazebo. “I believe ’tis time for us to have a candid chat.”

“As you wish, Miss Brandi.” Bentley waited until Brandi was settled before lowering himself beside her.

Brandi wasted not an instant, but plunged forth. “I’m in love with Quentin. You’re aware of that fact, I presume?”

“You presume correctly.” A corner of Bentley’s mouth lifted. “Only a dolt could overlook your enchanting but transparent feelings for Master Quentin.”

“Well, the dolt in question is currently at Whitehall.”

Bentley coughed—a noise which sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “I won’t argue your depiction. However, in his defense, I do believe Master Quentin perceives your feelings. ’Tis only his own which elude him.”

“Is that your subtle way of telling me that, in your opinion, Quentin returns my love?”

“Forgive my impertinence, my lady, but only another dolt would fail to notice so obvious a reality.”

Brandi’s eyes sparkled with laughter. “In this case, Bentley, I’m delighted to be the dolt of whom you speak.” Her fingers interlaced in her lap. “Now that we’ve put our cards on the table, I’ll be blunt.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew any other way to be.”

“True.” Brandi grinned. “Very well, then, I’ll
continue
to be blunt. The only way to shake Quentin free of his absurd notion that I require solely his protection—and nothing more—is to demonstrate how very independent I truly am.

“Indeed, my lady,” Bentley returned calmly. “And, knowing you, I assume you’ve already formulated a plan as to how this can be accomplished?”

“I have. In fact, if my plan is successful, it might not merely convince Quentin of my inner strength, but perhaps steer us closer to the discovery of our parents’ murderer.” Brandi leaned forward conspiratorially. “Are you willing to listen?”

“I’m all ears.”

“While Quentin spends this extra day or two in London, I plan to do precisely what I promised myself I’d do upon learning that the accident was murder—take matters into my own hands. Directly after breakfast, I shall ride to Townsbourne and conduct a thorough search of Papa’s study. He did keep some of his more important documents at home. ’Tis possible one of them will provide a clue as to the killer’s motive. If such a clue exists at Townsbourne, I shall find it.”

Bentley started. “I distinctly heard you assure Master Quentin that you would await his return before doing something impulsive—such as rushing headlong to Townsbourne and possibly endangering your safety.”

“How would visiting Papa’s—and my—home endanger my safety?” Brandi’s delicate brows rose. “That’s ridiculous, Bentley. Quentin is just being overprotective. After all, I hardly think the murderer is lurking about the grounds of Townsbourne, lying in wait for someone to arrive and discover his presence. And even if he were, Townsbourne is my home—I hardly think my presence there would arouse his suspicions, do you? Only you and I know the true purpose of my visit, just as only you and I will know if its outcome is successful and I unearth something incriminating. Moreover, Quentin’s exact request was that I give him one day before I act. Well, I’ve given him that. ’Tis not my fault that he’s been detained at Whitehall. In addition, what I assured him was that I would not travel to Townsbourne alone. Which I won’t.
You’ll
be with me.” She caught her breath, gazing expectantly at Bentley.

“I, my lady?”

“Of course.” She shot him a meaningful sidelong glance. “You’d planned to spend most of the day by my side anyway, didn’t you? Just as you did yesterday—glued to me like a governess to her young charge? At Quentin’s request, of course.” She smiled. “I may be a dolt, Bentley, but I’m not a fool. I realize Quentin dispatched you to Emerald Manor in his stead, to ensure that I don’t succumb to whatever emotional frailty he suspects I might succumb to. Well, I don’t need a governess. But I do need a friend. A friend who believes in my ability to secure my own future.” Brandi placed a beseeching hand on Bentley’s sleeve. “Please help me. I won’t be breaking any promises. Nor can Quentin be upset with my decision—not if you go with me.”

“Very well, I’ll accompany you to Townsbourne,” Bentley announced, straightening his waistcoat. “But not because of the flimsy line of reasoning to which I was just subjected.”

Brandi blinked. “Then why?”

With a flourish, Bentley rose. “Because you’ll race off to Townsbourne whether or not I accompany you. Therefore, given the choice, I’d prefer—as you put it—to act the part of your governess and ensure your well-being, rather than permit you to dash off like a senseless twit.”

“Oh, thank you, Bentley.” Brandi flew to her feet and hugged him. “This senseless twit is more grateful than you can imagine.”

Bentley’s hands remained firmly clasped behind his back, but a flicker of a smile touched his lips. “I’m glad we arrived at this understanding, my lady. Especially given that, should you accomplish all you set out to do, Master Quentin will undoubtedly be making periodic trips abroad for the War Department, leaving behind the impossibly difficult woman he loves and, consequently, a splendid opening for a lifelong governess.” Bentley gave an exaggerated sigh. “ ’Tis good to know my job is secure.”

“For life, Bentley,” Brandi vowed with a saucy grin. “Without question, for life.”

“Bathurst, let’s cease this game playing.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Quentin regarded the War Minister over the piles of paper lining Bathurst’s desk. “We’ve known each other a long time. I’ve deciphered more French codes than the rest of the British army combined. I’ve given you nothing but honesty. Now I’m asking the same in return.”

“And I’m offering it to you.” Bathurst frowned as he scanned the missive Quentin had thrust before him. “I issued these orders because, as my advisors agreed, you’re needed in the colonies—more specifically, in the area surrounding Lake Erie. ’Tis the only location in which the Americans have a decided advantage over us. In order to subvert their attacks and regain control, we must first decipher their coded messages. And, frankly, no one is as skilled as you in doing so.” Thoughtfully, Bathurst rubbed his chin. “Still, I’ve received no indication that an American invasion is imminent. Therefore, in light of what you’ve just told me—Bow Street’s heinous discovery—I see no reason why our troops cannot survive another few weeks without you. Consider your request granted. Investigate your parents’ untimely deaths. You’ll leave for the colonies directly thereafter.”

“I appreciate that, Bathurst.” Quentin gripped his knees. “But that is not the honesty to which I referred. Why did all your subordinates act so bloody evasive yesterday?”

“Evasive?” The minister’s frown deepened. “If you’re asking why your request wasn’t granted then and there, you already know the answer to that. ’Tis my signature on your orders, and no one but I am authorized to alter them. And, as I’m sure you were told, I was unavailable yesterday, as I spent most of the day with Parliament.”

“So I was advised. And, no, I didn’t expect anyone to subvert your authority. But I did expect my request to be heard by one of your aides-de-camp. Instead, I was deferred time and again, left waiting for meetings that never occurred. ’Twas as if no one wanted to address my predicament.”

“I have no answer for you, Steel. I agree, that does sound odd.” Bathurst came to his feet. “If you’ll give me the names of all the aides with whom you spoke—or attempted to speak—I’ll look into the matter.”

The gnawing sense that something was amiss refused to be silenced. “That would ease my mind greatly,” Quentin replied. He leaned over and took up a quill. “Allow me five minutes and you’ll have that list.”

Despite his expedient furnishing of the five names in question, the day passed without word from Bathurst. By six P.M., Quentin was back to pacing his room, angry and uninformed.

A quarter hour later, a messenger hurried into the inn, locating Quentin’s room and delivering the official note from the War Department. Seeing the ill-humor of the note’s recipient, the messenger pocketed Quentin’s proffered coins, then beat a hasty retreat.

Impatiently, Quentin tore open the message, swearing under his breath as he read the annoying contents:

Numerous interruptions kept me from carrying out the task we discussed until late in the day. After speaking with all five aides, I’ve learned nothing of consequence. You’re welcome to speak to each of the men yourself. I’ll leave that decision to you. Bathurst

“Damn it!” Quentin crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it across the room.

He’d just wasted an entire day for nothing. He should have gone directly home after his meeting with the War Minister; after all, he’d gotten what he came for—Bathurst’s permission to delay his departure. So why hadn’t he just dismissed yesterday’s detainment as a mere inconvenience and gone back to the Cotswolds? It certainly wasn’t pride which propelled him. His reputation was long established and hardly subject to evaluation, least of all by the civilians at Whitehall. Why, then, had it troubled him that they’d treated him in an unprecedented and peculiar fashion?

And why did it trouble him still?

Slowly, Quentin crossed the room, stooping to pick up the note.

Very well, he determined, smoothing the rumpled page. He’d already squandered a day. He’d squander one day more.

“Here it is, Bentley.”

Brandi groped in the back of her father’s desk drawer, feeling her way along until she found what she sought. “This should do it.”

Bentley stared in astonishment as Brandi released the catch, revealing a hidden compartment. She leaned forward, peering inside before reaching in to extract a slim file.

“Papa always stored his more pressing papers in this spot,” she explained triumphantly. “Knowing Papa, he probably did so to ensure that none of the staff had access to the file. As I’m sure you recall, Papa was very private about business affairs.”

“Actually, I wasn’t aware of that, Miss Brandi. The viscount always seemed quite straightforward when he visited with the late duke.”

A reminiscent smile touched Brandi’s lips. “That’s because he was dealing with Kenton. I truly believe the only people Papa fully trusted were Kenton and his sons.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Actually, given that Papa named Desmond overseer of the businesses, it stands to reason that, at some point, he also apprised him of this drawer’s existence. I’m surprised Desmond hasn’t already removed the file.” She shrugged. “Well, maybe with all his new responsibilities, he hasn’t had the time to do so.”

“Yes, Master Desmond has been finding it hard to maintain a clear head,” Bentley commented dryly.

Brandi sighed, instantly comprehending Bentley’s subtle message. “I noticed he’s been drinking rather heavily. When he left Emerald Manor the other nights he was thoroughly foxed.”

“So I discovered.”

“Well, I hope he regains control of his life soon. For his own sake—and for Kenton’s. After all, Kenton willed an entire dukedom to Desmond, along with a wealth of obligations—obligations he cannot fulfill without a keen—and lucid—mind.” On the heels of her assessment, Brandi sank back into the desk chair and began flipping through her father’s file.