Emerald Garden (27 page)

“No, of course not,” she denied. “In fact, I’m not even certain Quentin is still in London. He’s due back in the Cotswolds anytime now.”

“In that case, why didn’t you wait for him before you went tearin’ off to London? He could’ve gone with you. Was your business too important to put off for a day?”

Brandi’s fingers tightened around the ledger, and she silently pondered how much she wanted to reveal.

Seemingly, her silence disturbed Herbert.

“Were you in London all this time?” he asked in a dubious tone.

“Yes—more or less.”

“What does that mean, ‘more or less’?”

Brandi blinked, unaccustomed to Herbert interrogating her. “It means that I stopped by Colverton on my way home. I’d hoped Quentin had already returned. Evidently, he hadn’t. Neither, apparently, had Bentley.” She paused. “Bentley didn’t drop by Emerald Manor this evening by any chance, did he?”

“No.” Herbert scowled. “Not that I would’ve noticed him anyway. I was too busy combin’ the grounds for you.” He cleared his throat. “I thought Bentley said he was goin’ to Berkshire to visit a friend.”

“Only for the day.” Brandi sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll speak with him tomorrow. I’ll ride to Colverton at first light.”

“Humph. Well, in that case, you’d better get some rest. If I know you, you’ll be too excited to sleep. You’ll be up before the first bird, and on your way to Colverton before the first glimmer of sunlight. Besides”—he yawned, turning to go—”I’m pretty spent myself. All that worryin’ tired me out.” Pausing, he offered, “If you want, I can stop by the carriage house now and tell Lakes to have the carriage ready at dawn.”

“Hmm? Oh, no, thank you, Herbert. I think I’ll take the phaeton and drive myself.”

A nod. “Then I’ll say good night.”

Brandi reached out and squeezed his arm. “I really am sorry for dashing off without an explanation. It was thoughtless and stupid of me. Please don’t be angry. Next time, I promise to tell you precisely where I’m going.”

“Next time?” he grumbled.

Recognizing his softening tone, Brandi smiled. “Yes, my friend. With me, there’s always a next time.” She reached for the door handle. “Good night.”

Herbert stared after her for a moment. Then he turned and made his way toward the woods.

A quarter hour later, Brandi slid between the sheets, plagued by a lingering sense of guilt. While it was wondrous to remain youthful, she admonished herself, in some aspects of life—aspects she had yet to master—it was very important to mature.

She’d let Herbert down tonight.

Obviously, he’d spent hours worrying over her safety. It wasn’t important that his reasons were unfounded, nor his anxiety atypical. What mattered was that he’d felt responsible for her, and she’d overlooked his sense of duty, impulsively rushing off just as she willed. No, the fault was hers. She had to learn to think before she acted, to be more considerate of those she loved.

This metamorphosis to womanhood was even harder than she’d imagined.

Wearily, Brandi sank into the bed’s softness. She’d make it up to Herbert somehow. The short-term solution was easy. After her morning visit to Colverton, she’d return to Emerald Manor and go straight to the garden, where she’d help Herbert replant his rows of geraniums.

“ ’Twas the long-term that would prove tricky.

Brandi’s lids grew heavy, an annoyance at best. Before she gave in to the relentless pull of slumber, she intended to finalize her plans for becoming an adult, mentally begin composing a list of questions for the gentlemen who’d be attending Mr. Hendrick’s meeting, and think through tomorrow’s chat with Quentin.

An instant later, she was asleep.

Bright sunlight danced across Brandi’s face, teasing her into wakefulness. Her eyes opened, and she blinked, striving to clear away the final cobwebs of sleep.

Her first coherent thought was that it was late—very late. Her second was that Quentin would doubtless be home.

Bolting to a sitting position, Brandi sought out her bedchamber clock for confirmation—-and received it.

It was ten A.M.

Ten A.M..?

With a muffled oath, she leaped from the bed, trying to run in three different directions at once. In her entire score of years, she’d never slept this late. And, while she recognized that it was because yesterday had obviously depleted her, she had no time to indulge herself.

She yanked on her clothes, her mind racing as it re-planned her day in light of this annoying occurrence. She’d fetch the phaeton and ride posthaste to Colverton, praying all the while that no one had yet spoken with Quentin.

The odds were poor. Unlike her, Bentley never overslept. And Mr. Hendrick? Well, for all she knew the meeting he’d referred to—the one with Desmond today—was taking place right now, with her luck, at Colverton, not London.

She racked her brain, trying to recall if the solicitor had mentioned a location. He hadn’t.

Damn. If Quentin and Mr. Hendrick were both at Colverton, then Quentin knew everything.

And she was in deep trouble.

Brandi paused in the process of dragging on her second stocking, the subject of Mr. Hendrick eliciting another thought.

Had the missives been sent? And, if so, how had the gentlemen in question reacted?

That anxiety supplanted all others. She simply had to know. So, no matter what manner of reception awaited, ’twas off to Colverton for her.

Twenty minutes later, her father’s ledger safely tucked away in a pocket beneath her skirts, Brandi sprinted down the garden path toward the carriage house, a scone clutched in each hand. She veered off through the woods—the quickest route to her destination. The quickest and the most deserted. With a modicum of luck, she wouldn’t run into anyone between here and there, and would, therefore, manage to spirit away the phaeton and tear off to Colverton in no time.

She didn’t slow until both scones had been eaten, and she spied evidence that her goal was nearing—a flash of white glinting through a clearing in the trees. “I’m sorry, old friend,” she called to her beloved gazebo, “but this is one time I cannot stop. We’ll have to enjoy our customary morning visit in the evening—just this once.”

Racing on, she wove her way through the stretch of trees that separated the gazebo from the carriage house.

Branches rustled overhead, followed by a whooshing sound and two loud thunks.

“Ouch!” Brandi came to a halt. Rubbing her head, she glanced from the shells at her feet to the culprit up above. “Those hurt,” she chastised.

Without the slightest show of remorse, Lancelot finished off his snack, freeing up another nutshell. He stared down at her, shell poised to drop, his quizzing-glass gaze narrowed and somehow accusing.

“Don’t even consider it,” Brandi warned.

The squirrel blinked.

“I know you’re angry with me for oversleeping,” Brandi apologized. “But I can’t make up for it now. I must see Quentin immediately. You shall just have to amuse yourself for a few hours. When I return—and after I assist Herbert—you and I can romp to your heart’s content. How would that be?”

Another blink.

“Well, it will have to do.” With an exasperated sigh, Brandi continued on her way.

A few minutes later, the rustling resumed from somewhere behind her.

“Lancelot, I’m warning you …” she began.

She never finished her sentence.

A high shrill cry echoed from behind—the shriek Lancelot used only when he was in distress. Frightened, Brandi whipped about, following the direction of the sound and scanning the woods for a sign of her squirrel.

Three things happened at once.

A flash of red dove from the sky, a roar of pain sliced through the trees, and a loud crack resounded, followed by a blinding pain in Brandi’s temple.

With an agonized cry, Brandi crumpled, her hand rushing instinctively to her head.

Blood. Her hand was covered with blood.

Her stomach lurched, and a wave of dizziness accosted her, colors converging into a blinding, spinning kaleidoscope.

Somewhere in the distance, sounds of a struggle ensued: snapping twigs, muttered oaths, the distant thud of running footsteps.

And then … oblivion.

Chapter 13

“T
HERE, THERE, MISS BRANDI
. ’Twill be but a moment longer and your wound will be bandaged.”

With a great effort, Brandi opened her eyes, blinking up at Mrs. Collins. “What … wound? Ooh.” She moaned, a sharp pain piercing the side of her head.

“Lie still,” Mrs. Collins soothed. “You’re all right now. It feels much worse than it is.”

Memory struck Brandi in a rush, and, instinctively, she started to come up off the sofa. “That loud crack. Lancelot … oh.” For an instant, Brandi wondered if her skull had shattered. Shakily, she lay back, grateful for the soft pillows beneath her head.

“Your squirrel’s fine, Miss Brandi.” Herbert’s voice drifted to her from across the sitting room. “I saw so for myself. I never thought the day would come when I’d be grateful to that bloody rodent. But I am.”

“Herbert?” Brandi murmured weakly. “What happened?”

Herbert and Mrs. Collins exchanged glances.

“You were shot, Miss Brandi,” Herbert answered quietly.

“Shot?” For some reason, Brandi’s mind refused to comprehend. “How? By whom?”

“I’m not sure.” The gardener made his way hesitantly to her side, his expression stricken. “A stupid accident, I’m guessin’. Someone huntin’ here without permission, someone who didn’t know anyone was livin’ here but the servants. I was tendin’ the flower bed around back of the cottage. I heard your squirrel friend screech—sounded like it was comin’ from the woods. I took off in that direction. I’d barely gone a few paces when I heard someone bellow, then a gunshot, and then your scream. I got to you the same instant Bentley did. That squirrel of yours was sittin’ next to you. He looked kinda funny—his fur was all messed up, like he’d been in a tussle. I could swear he understood you were hurt. He waited until Bentley and I got to you, then shimmied up a tree. That’s how I know he was fine.
You,
on the other hand, were unconscious.” A hard swallow. “And bleedin’ badly. We were afraid we’d lost you.”

“Bentley is here?” Brandi was desperately trying to think coherently.

“He was. He rode to the cottage this mornin’ to check up on you. His carriage wasn’t here ten minutes when he heard the commotion. He was as shook up as me.”

“But, thank the Lord, ’tis only a flesh wound,” Mrs. Collins inserted, sitting back with a flourish; “A well-bandaged one, if I must say so myself. Although I still wish you and Bentley had caught the scoundrel who did this, Herbert. I’d like to have given him a piece of my mind. Trespassing is bad enough, but hunting or target shooting without being certain the woods were deserted?” Vehemently, she shook her head. “Disgraceful.”

“I heard Lancelot shriek,” Brandi muttered unsteadily. “He leaped from the tree—I saw him. He must have attacked whoever the trespasser was. You said the man got away?”

“Yeah,” Herbert confirmed. “After you were safe in the cottage, I went back out there, tore up every inch of those woods. But he was long gone. I wanted to get my hands on him so bad. Humph—piece of my mind? What I wanted to give him was a piece of my fist.”

Gritting her teeth, Brandi slowly turned her head in Herbert’s direction. “You said Bentley
was
here. Where is he now?”

“He rode to Colverton a little while ago.” An attempted smile. “He’s fetchin’ that hero of yours.”

“Quentin’s home?” That registered, dazed or not.

“Um-hum. And, accordin’ to Bentley, he’s not gonna be too pleased—not about this accident, or about your disappearance yesterday, or about a half-dozen other things.”

As if on cue, the sound of horses’ hooves raced up the drive, drawing closer, then ceasing. A door slammed, then another, followed by pounding footsteps echoing through the hallway.

The sitting-room door burst open.

“Brandi.” Quentin crossed over in three long strides, waiting only until Mrs. Collins had stepped aside before perching himself on the edge of the sofa. “Sunbeam, are you all right?”

Despite her dizziness, Brandi recognized the stark fear in Quentin’s voice, the panic on his face. She forced a weak smile. “Actually, I’m a bit under the weather, my lord,” she murmured, reaching for his hand. “If you wish to best me in a competition, I should think now would be the perfect time.”

“Reckless little fool.” Quentin brought her palm to his lips. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute. I swear I’d thrash you if I weren’t so grateful you’re safe.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Were you going to thrash me, you would have done so long ago. After twenty years, I’ve given you ample cause.”

“More than ample cause,” he amended. Frowning, he leaned forward, assessing the size of her bandage and the area surrounding it with an expert eye—an eye that had witnessed everything from flesh wounds to fatal ones. Ever so lightly, his fingers brushed the side of her face—the warmth of her skin a reaffirmation that she was alive. “How bad is it, Mrs. Collins?” he asked hoarsely. “Bentley said there was a great deal of blood.”

“There was,” Bentley confirmed, striding in. The tension on his face eased when he saw that Brandi was awake. “Miss Brandi. Thank heavens.”

“ ’Tis true, my lord,” Mrs. Collins was saying. “There was a lot of blood. But once I’d washed it away, I could see that Miss Brandi’s wound wasn’t serious; the bullet had only grazed her.”

“We have her rascal of a squirrel to thank for that,” Bentley put in. “From what Herbert and I could piece together, Lancelot assaulted the encroacher. In fact, judging from the scuffle we overheard and Lancelot’s disheveled state, ‘tis quite possible he saved Miss Brandi’s life. Had he not acted so quickly, I shudder to think …” Bentley broke off, electing not to complete his thought.

Mrs. Collins’s lips thinned into a grim line. “The man must have been drunk. Either that, or blind. How could he fail to notice Miss Brandi? Why, her hair color alone is bright enough to detect, no matter how thick the trees.”

“Mrs. Collins.” Quentin brought an end to the unsettling speculation. “Could you fetch Brandi some tea? And maybe a blanket or two?”