Emerald Garden (29 page)

“At which point he’ll burst into Emerald Manor on his white steed,” Quentin concluded icily. “I’m glad you told me, so I can prevent it from happening. The last thing I’ll allow my deceptive lush of a brother to do is subject Brandi to the surly aftermath of one of his drunken stupors.” Seeing the surprised lift of Bentley’s brows, Quentin added, “If I sound uncharacteristically brutal, it’s because my prolonged visit to the War Department yielded results that demolished my sympathy for Desmond.”

“You’ve lost me, sir. You did say Lord Bathurst granted your request and deferred your orders, did you not?”

“I did. But not before I met with him personally—after a full day of his staff ignoring, stalling, and evading me.”

Bentley looked puzzled. “That sounds like rather odd treatment, my lord.”

“Odd and unprecedented. Which is what I told Bathurst. He was as perplexed as I. At his suggestion, I questioned each of his aides. It took forever, but I finally discovered the poor lad who was young and impressionable enough to succumb to aristocratic pressure. It seems he was ‘urged’—should he wish to retain his position—to make it appear on paper that my presence in America was needed posthaste. And you’ll never guess who did the ‘urging’? None other than my loving brother.”

Somehow Bentley found his voice. “Why would Master Desmond do such a thing?”

“Can’t you guess?”

A heartbeat of silence. “Miss Brandi.”

“Of course. Desmond doesn’t want me near her—a goal which would be realized by my hasty departure for the colonies. However, his plan is doomed—and not only because I discovered it in time for Bathurst to defer my orders. But because even after the murderer is unveiled, even when I do leave England, I will never again denounce my role in Brandi’s life, nor will I deny my feelings for her. And God help Desmond if he tries to stand in my way.”

“Bravo, sir.”

Quentin quirked a brow. “I’m glad I have your approval, Bentley,” he acknowledged dryly. “And now that we’ve established that fact, can we return to the matter of today’s mysterious shooting?”

“Pardon me, my lord.” Mrs. Collins poked her head into the room. “But Miss Brandi is awake. And she’s asking for you.”

“Shall I wait here, sir?” Bentley inquired.

“No. Come with me.”

Nodding, Bentley followed behind Quentin, remaining tactfully in the background as Quentin strode across the sitting room to where Brandi lay propped on the sofa, a blanket draped about her and voluminous pillows arranged beneath her head. Amid the copious bedcovers, she looked small and pale and very fragile.

“Did you have a nice nap, Sunbeam?” Quentin asked with offhanded ease, his casual tone belied by the intensity of his gaze.

“I suppose.” Brandi touched her bandage tentatively.

“Is the pain better?”

“Yes, considerably.” She searched his face. “The nap helped. But not as much as what I was doing beforehand.” A pause. “I was doing what I think I was doing—wasn’t I?”

A corner of Quentin’s mouth lifted. “Um-hum.” He sat down beside her, pressed her palm to his lips. “We both were.”

“Good.” She looked relieved. Sensing Bentley’s presence, she turned her head in his direction, not a shred of embarrassment tingeing her cheeks. “Thank you again for coming to my rescue.”

“Your squirrel did that, my lady. All I did was assist him.”

That made Brandi smile. “Then we shall have to prepare a special feast of nuts and berries in honor of Lancelot’s heroic deed.”

“Sweetheart,” Quentin repeated soberly, “are you certain the pain has subsided?”

Brandi gave a deep, resigned sigh. “If you mean, am I up for your berating session, the answer, unfortunately, is yes, Just let me know how much Bentley has already told you, and I’ll fill in the rest. Feel free to begin bellowing at any point along the way.”

Bentley was assailed by a sudden attack of coughing.

Quentin scowled, first at Bentley, then at Brandi. “I know about your jaunt to Townsbourne,” he informed her. “And about the ledger you found. Which reminds me, why didn’t you ever mention the hidden compartment in your father’s desk to me?”

“You never asked.”

“Very amusing. In other words, you intended from the beginning to search the desk yourself.”

“No, I intended from the beginning to search the desk with you. You were in London. So I searched it with Bentley.” Again, she inclined her head in Bentley’s direction. “Did Smithers provide us with any clues?”

“None, my lady. The four Berkshire gentlemen on the viscount’s list are, evidently, not enjoying new and bounteous fortunes.”

“Oh.” Brandi’s face fell. “Well, hopefully my plan with Mr. Hendrick will tell us if any one of the others is guilty.”

“What plan with Mr. Hendrick?” Quentin ground out. “Damn it, Brandi, did you go to Ellard’s office yesterday?”

“Yes. I asked him to arrange a meeting between all the gentlemen listed in Papa’s ledger, and me.” She frowned. “Oh, yes, and Desmond. Mr. Hendrick insisted he be there.”

“I’m sure he did. Have you already spoken with Desmond about this?”

“No. Mr. Hendrick is meeting with him today. Actually, I rode by Colverton last night on my way home, although, in truth, it was you and Bentley I wanted to see, not Desmond. In any event, I saw no one. The manor was dark. You must all have been abed.”

“I wasn’t abed,” Quentin countered. “I wasn’t even there. I didn’t arrive at Colverton until this morning.”

“This morning? Early? Then why didn’t you ride right out to see me?” she demanded.

Quentin shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t believe this. No, not early. If you must know, little hoyden, my carriage arrived at Colverton just as Bentley was preparing to leave for Emerald Manor. He filled me in on the antics of the past several days, then went on ahead while I bathed and changed. After which, I fully intended to ride directly to the cottage, even before I knew you’d been hurt. Is that satisfactory?”

Brandi’s eyes sparkled. “Yes.”

“Good. Now let’s try to recall who is grilling whom, shall we?”

“Whatever you say, my lord.”

“Back to this meeting you’re arranging.” Quentin folded his arms across his chest. “What is its purpose?”

“Why, to determine if one of the gentlemen listed in Papa’s ledger is guilty, of course,” she said in an exasperated tone.

“Do you actually believe that if a murderous swindler is present in Hendrick’s office, he will succumb to an attack of conscience and confess all? That the very sight of you will cause him to spring to his feet and proclaim his guilt?”

Brandi flinched. “There’s no need to be sarcastic or insulting. Obviously, I know better than to believe that. But if one of those men did cheat my father, his records will conflict with Papa’s ledger. And he won’t be able to cast aspersion elsewhere—not with all his colleagues in the same room. Thus, his scheme will be exposed.”

“Just like that.” Quentin’s scowl deepened. “Tell me, was this Hendrick’s idea?”

“No. ’Twas mine.”

“I don’t even know why I bothered asking. The real question is, how does Hendrick factor into this grand plan of yours?”

“He represents the business interests of every man on that list. He promised to review their files and take the first step in arranging our meeting.”

“First step?”

“He sent out missives in order to determine a mutually convenient time and day.”

Quentin and Bentley exchanged glances. “When, Brandi? When did he send out those missives?”

“Last night.”

“Hell and damnation.” Quentin averted his head, a muscle working in his jaw.

“Why does that upset you?” Brandi asked, her brows drawn in question. “And why is your reaction so extreme? I expected you to be angry, but you’re more than angry. You’re downright cruel. Quentin, what is it? You’ve never treated me like this before.”

A look of naked emotion crossed Quentin’s face. “I’ve never cared like this before.”

The admission—uttered as much to himself as to Brandi—settled softly about them, traversing an invisible span between past and present, melding the two into one.

Their gazes locked.

Unnoticed, Bentley slipped from the room.

Inhaling sharply, Quentin sifted his fingers through Brandi’s hair, “Sunbeam …”

“Later.” Tenderly, she pressed a silencing forefinger to his lips. “Not now. I want to savor the words the first time you speak them. Not hear them blurted hastily in the midst of a lecture, no matter how loving its intent.” She leaned forward, brushed her lips to his. “Later,” she repeated softly.

Quentin’s hand slid beneath her burnished mane, caressed the warm skin at her nape. “My beautiful Sunbeam,” he murmured. “Why is it that every cherished moment must be eclipsed by dark reality?”

“Because those moments are meant to stand alone, so that we might properly treasure them.” With that, she sat back, inclining her head expectantly. “Now, tell me why you’re so enraged about the missives Mr. Hendrick sent.”

“Very well.” Quentin weighed his explanation, seeking words powerful enough to inspire caution, gentle enough to preclude fear. “There’s a possibility that, evidently, hasn’t occurred to you. It’s slim, I admit, but viable nonetheless. The reason I haven’t mentioned it until now is because it’s only speculation, and I didn’t want to frighten you. Lord knows, you’d endured enough these past weeks. But maybe it’s best that we discuss my theory now, if only to open those extraordinary, willful eyes of yours.” He intertwined their fingers. “Not two hours ago, you missed being killed by mere inches and the grace of God. Did you ever think that perhaps the shooting was no accident? That someone might be trying to—” He struggled with the word
kill,
then abandoned it.
“Hurt
you?”

Brandi’s pupils dilated. “Hurt me?”

“Think about it. Let’s assume that your premise is correct—that, in fact, Ardsley was the intended victim of the carriage disaster. Take it one step further. Assume the killer wanted to silence your father from revealing not only the fact that he’d been deceived but the identity of the deceiver. And silence him he did, thus eliminating all threat of exposure.

“Then, without warning, Ardsley’s bright, persistent daughter intervenes, delving until she finds a damning ledger. The culprit’s anonymity is once again at risk. Brandi”—Quentin’s tone gentled, his fingers tightening around hers as if to cushion the blow—“he’s already murdered three people to protect himself. Do you honestly think he’d hesitate to do so again?”

Whatever color remained in Brandi’s cheeks rapidly drained away. “Oh my God … I never even considered that.”

“Listen to me, Sunbeam. This isn’t a certainty. It isn’t even a likelihood. It’s simply a possibility. But even a possibility is too much when it comes to keeping you safe. Now do you understand why I became crazed at the thought of you dashing about London-—or anywhere else—alone?”

Rather than answering, Brandi stared up at him, comprehension illuminating her eyes. “Now I see why you reacted so violently to the missives Mr. Hendrick sent,” she. murmured, half to herself. “You believe that one of the recipients is guilty, and that, upon reading Mr. Hendrick’s note, he deduced what I had in mind. And that he then tried to …”

“I don’t want you jumping to conclusions.”

“I’m not. Nor do you believe I am, or you wouldn’t even have considered this possibility, much less mentioned it. Moreover, your theory makes perfect sense.” Brandi’s chin quivered. “Herbert surmised that the man who shot me was probably a trespasser, someone who assumed no one was living at Emerald Manor but servants. I realize now how flimsy that explanation is—doubtless Herbert’s attempt to shield me. The fact is, why would anyone believe Emerald Manor to be deserted? Pamela and I spent long hours in the gardens nearly every day, in full view of any and all passers-by. And since her death, I’ve spent more time in the gazebo than I have in the cottage. No, Quentin. Whoever fired that pistol knew I’d be about.” Terror filled her eyes. “He must have waited for me in the woods. He intended to kill me.”

Tenderly cradling her injured head, Quentin gathered her to him. “Stop it, Sunbeam. This is pure speculation. We don’t know if there’s even a grain of truth to it.” He brushed his lips across her forehead. “But until we’re certain, no more stupid risks, all right?”

Dazed with shock, Brandi nodded. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “What a fool I’ve been. None of this even entered my mind.”

Quentin buried his lips in her hair, feeling the chill of her fear and hating himself for causing it. “You’re not a fool,” he countered, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re a beautiful, courageous woman. And I don’t want you to be afraid. Nothing is going to happen to you. I won’t let it.”

Brandi fought the panic, and lost. “When will you sail for the colonies?” she asked, dreading his response.

“Not until the murder is resolved. Lord Bathurst delayed my orders.”

She drew back, relief flooding her face. “Thank God. Quentin …” That vulnerable look invaded her eyes, permeated his soul. “Stay with me. Don’t go away.”

It was the same plea she’d uttered to him a lifetime ago—on the day he’d returned to the Cotswolds.

The same plea, a different man.

“I won’t,” he heard himself say, offering the unfulfillable promise he’d vowed never to make. “I won’t leave you—ever.”

Brandi shook her head adamantly, negating the significance of his response. “That’s not what I meant,” she clarified in a fierce whisper. “I know it can’t be forever. But it can be now. Here. At Emerald Manor. Until this nightmare is over. Please, Quentin. Stay with me.”

Something painful and profound moved within Quentin’s chest. “Brandi, I can’t.”

“Why?” Tears shimmered on her lashes. “Because it would shatter my reputation? I don’t give a damn.”

“No.” He framed her face between his palms. “Because it would shatter my control.”

“I don’t give a damn about that either. In fact, I would welcome it.”

With a half-laugh, half-groan, Quentin dragged Brandi back into his arms. “Ah, sweetheart, were it only that simple.”

“It is.”

“No. It’s not. Damn it, Sunbeam, you can’t possibly understand what’s at stake.”