Emerald Garden (32 page)

“Hardly. He unraveled my entire plan, persuaded Bathurst to delay his orders. No, Hendrick, the only place my brother will be leaving is Colverton. He—and my nosy butler—are moving to Emerald Manor. To be with Brandice.”

“I see.” Hendrick grew thoughtful. “Your plan to prevent Quentin and Brandice from becoming involved is looking rather dim, I fear. Although, I must say, you’re well rid of Quentin and Bentley. The less you see of them, the less likely you are to let something slip. As for your plans to wed Brandice, I’d suggest that, during your oncoming talk, you declare your deep and abiding devotion, as well as your concern for her safety and well-being—both of which you could ensure were she your duchess. Emphasize what would be hers: title, wealth, security. This might be your last chance.”

“Very sensible, but futile.” Desmond’s lips thinned into a bitter, angry line. “Brandice cares not a whit for my title nor anything that accompanies it. And Quentin has all but threatened my life if I interfere in this budding love of theirs.”

A flicker of surprise. “The alliance between Quentin and Brandice has plainly gone far beyond what I fathomed,” Hendrick noted, his expression growing thoughtful. “The use of subtlety in your dealings with Brandice is more important now than ever. Even if you fail to win her hand, you cannot afford to lose her friendship—not when it’s crucial that she heed your advice to abandon her plans for this meeting. Anything short of success in your upcoming chat could prove disastrous.” He scowled. “I don’t think I need to stress that fact.”

“No. You don’t.”

“Good. Then you agree with me that, in order to be in full command of the situation, you must be in full command of your senses—in other words, totally and continuously sober. During our visit to Emerald Manor, you will not touch a drop of liquor.”

“You’re not my father, Ellard.”

“Nor are you. Which is doubtless why Kenton chose to leave his entire legacy, including his title, to Quentin.” A pregnant pause. “I wouldn’t want to have to mention that fact during our jaunt to Pamela’s cottage.”

“You bastard,” Desmond hissed. “I paid you a bloody fortune to destroy that amended will. I’m paying you even more to keep your mouth shut.”

“I appreciate that. So let’s not do anything to jeopardize things, shall we? Now, to sum things up,” Hendrick continued, never missing a beat, “I told Brandice I’d be meeting with you today, which I have. You told Quentin you’d bring me back with you, which you will. Everything should then fall nicely into place.”

“Except for one small unavoidable detail.” Assailed by a sudden dark reality, Desmond dragged a shaking hand across his brow. “Who the hell took a shot at Brandice? You and I both know there’s no link between your late-night missives and Brandice’s episode in the woods. And while I loathe my brother, one thing he said was true. After this incident with Brandice, I can’t hide from the Bow Street findings anymore. Father’s carriage being tampered with, Brandice’s near-fatal shooting—could they be related?”

“Why the sudden concern? Don’t tell me you’re actually feeling remorse?” Hendrick asked in surprise.

“Is that so hard to believe?” Desmond snapped. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done, even though I’m frank enough to admit I’d do it all again if I had to. But that doesn’t mean I wished my father dead, nor Brandice harmed.”

“Calm down, Colverton. I meant no insult.” Hendrick shifted in his chair, absently rubbing his forearm. “However, you do have a point, although for pragmatic reasons, not emotional ones. The carriage disaster was an isolated incident of violence, and Bow Street has doubtless been investigating it as such. Now everything’s changed. Should Quentin manage to convince them that Brandice’s shooting was linked to her father’s death, the authorities will be forced to view this whole messy business on a grander scale and will, consequently, intensify their search. And, if they probe long enough, they’ll discover the very secrets we’re striving to keep hidden. No, ’tis time for us to take matters into our hands.”

“And how in the name of heaven do we do that?”

“You
can’t.
I
, however, can.” Hendrick sat back, giving Desmond a measured look. “I know far more about the private circumstances of the members of the
ton
than anyone at Bow Street ever could—their financial statuses, yes, but also their friends, their enemies, their liaisons. I’m sure I could accelerate the murder investigation—but in a more suitable manner. Discreetly. Covertly.”

“Expensively.”

“Indeed.” Hendrick shrugged in an offhanded manner. “After all, it would take a great deal of my time—time I’d otherwise be devoting to other clients. Clients who pay handsomely for my services.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Never mind. Disregard my offer entirely. I never would have made it had you not experienced a sudden jolt of sorrow and regret …”

“Cease your hypocritical show of concern.” Desmond staggered to his feet. “You’re as worried about discovery as I am. But fret not. I’ll pay you. Hell, at this point, I’m paying you so much, what’s another few hundred pounds a week?”

“An agreeable sum. Very well, I’ll begin delving into the matter as soon as I return to London. Which brings this meeting to a close.” Hendrick glanced down at the papers littering his desk. “Go to the coffee room at Limmer’s—and I do mean for coffee, not port. I’ll join you shortly. We’ll be en route to the Cotswolds within an hour.”

“All right.” Desmond made his way to the door.

“Coffee, Desmond,” Hendrick reiterated in a warning tone. “Not port.”

“I heard you.” The door slammed behind him.

Frowning, Hendrick leaned back in his chair, once again massaging his forearm. Desmond’s drinking was fast becoming a problem, making him loose of tongue and careless of action. Judging from Brandice’s diplomatic queries yesterday, the new duke’s business acumen was also in question. Alerting him to that fact right now—when the drunken fool was too deep in his cups to react sanely—would have been a mistake. Hopefully, after a few sobering cups of coffee, he’d be rational enough to listen. After which, if the chat with Brandice were handled correctly, any concerns she harbored would be obliterated.

That left Quentin, whose besotted feelings for Brandice would make his own task easy and buy him a fair amount of time.

Still, he
had
to get out of the country.

But not yet. Not until Desmond found that cursed evidence Kenton had so carefully concealed—evidence more vast than the books that ensured Desmond’s undoing, more damning than anyone but Kenton had known.

Coming to his feet, Hendrick withdrew his right hand from beneath the desk, where it had stayed throughout his meeting with Desmond. Touching the bandage, he flinched. Damn. He had to remove the dressing and don gloves to hide the bloody gashes that had yet to heal. He couldn’t risk drawing attention to his wound, especially not while visiting Emerald Manor.

He crossed his office, carefully locking the door before he began the painful task of unraveling his bandage.

That blasted squirrel,
he raged silently.
I should have wrung his bloody neck.

Chapter 15

“H
OW IS SHE, BENTLEY?”

For the fourth time since midnight, Quentin flung open his bedchamber door and stepped into the hallway, waylaying Bentley the second he heard his footsteps.

“Quite well, sir.” Bentley stood directly across from Quentin’s room, having long since abandoned the notion of passing by without providing an update on their patient. “Better than you, in fact.”

“I’m fine, Bentley.”

“It’s nearly one A.M., and you’re still fully dressed. If you don’t mind a gentle reminder, the whole point of my taking over sentry duty was for you to get some sleep. You haven’t budged from Miss Brandi’s side since late afternoon.”

“I was watching for a delayed reaction, possibly even signs of a concussion.”

“I think we can safely rule out anything dire, my lord. Miss Brandi just ate her second portion of supper—to make up for skipping her midday meal, she said—and is eyeing that oak tree outside her window in a manner I find most disconcerting.”

“Oak tree?”

“Yes, sir. The one she’s so adept at climbing.”

“I didn’t know she climbed …” Quentin broke off, his gaze narrowing suspiciously. “What do you mean by ‘eyeing’ it? How is she ‘eyeing’ it?”

“Longingly, my lord.”

“She wouldn’t dare.”

Bentley cocked a brow. “What were your exact words this morning? You remember—after you called us both fools.” He pursed his lips in apparent contemplation. “Ah, I recall. They were ‘She’s as restless as a firefly and equally unable to remain still. You and I should know better than to believe she could—
would
—stay put.’” Bentley gave a haughty sniff. “And you accuse me of underestimating Miss Brandi?”

“I’ll throttle her.” Quentin was already heading down the hall.

A corner of Bentley’s mouth lifted. “Shall I have dessert sent up, sir?”

“No.” Quentin slammed open Brandi’s door.

“I quite agree,” Bentley murmured under his breath. “It appears that, for once, dessert is not needed.”

Turning on his heel, he headed toward the stairs.

“Quentin.” Yanking the curtains closed, Brandi whirled about to face him. “What are you doing here?”

“My exact question.” Quentin closed the door, folding his arms across his chest. “What were you just doing?”

“I, I …”

“Damn it, Sunbeam, didn’t you hear a bloody word I said today?” Crossing over, Quentin pulled back the drapes, assessing the towering tree silhouetted against the darkness of night. “Where were you going?”

“I heard every word you said,” she replied, fidgeting with the edges of her wrapper. “I was only trying to get some air. You’ve kept me locked up like an invalid all day.”

“You’re still weak. Have you forgotten you were shot this morning?”

“Of course not. But, other than a bit of tenderness—” Gingerly, she touched her bandage. “I feel wonderful. Except for the fact that I’m being held prisoner,” she said pointedly. “Stop worrying. I only wanted to stroll in the gardens. Not the far ones by the gazebo, but the ones directly beneath my window. Is that so dreadful?”

Quentin’s gaze flickered from Brandi to the oak tree and back. “You’ve done this before, I take it?”

An impish grin. “Countless times.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask …”

“Since I was six,” she supplied. “Whenever Pamela and Kenton held a party here. I’d slip out this window via my dear old friend the oak, and scoot down to the ground.”

“Why?”

Brandi caught her lip between her teeth, wondering how frank she should be, then accepting that degrees of candor were not her forte. “There’s a fir tree just outside the guest quarters—overlooking that private section of woods in the rear. I’d inch my way along until I reached it. Fortunately, it had a sturdy low branch, perfect for a six-year-old’s stretch, and a plush array of cushioned branches—perfect for sitting—amid the profusion of greenery. Best of all, it offered the finest of vantage points. I could hide there for hours, surveying the entire grounds of Emerald Manor—and all its occupants—undetected.”

“But why?”

The very question she had dreaded.

With a sinking heart, Brandi raised her chin, meeting Quentin’s curious gaze and wishing she could predict his reaction. Slowly, she began counting off on her fingers. “Lady Penelope, Lady Edwina, the Marchioness of Elmswood, that Yorkshire countess, the Canadian official’s daughter …” She paused to suck in her breath and switch to her other hand. “Lady Elizabeth, whose father wanted to call you out …”

“Enough.” Quentin held up his palm, staring at her in utter stupefaction. “You climbed that tree just to watch me?”

“No, my lord,” she corrected. “I climbed that tree just to spy on you.”

Without warning, laughter erupted from Quentin’s chest. “Sunbeam, Sunbeam, what am I to do with you?”

“Are you angry?”

“That depends. What precisely did you see?”

“A great many unworthy women basking in the pleasure of being in your arms.”

Quentin’s laughter faded. “Is that all?”

“If you mean did I investigate what happened when you led a particular lady deeper into the woods, the answer is no.” Brandi’s lashes swept her cheeks. “Even then, I don’t think I could have withstood it. For different reasons, of course. Then it was childhood possessiveness and repugnance that a man and woman would wish to touch in so intimate a manner. Now—” Her lashes lifted, a wealth of feeling in her eyes. “Now I couldn’t bear your holding any woman but me.”

Features taut with emotion, Quentin threaded his fingers through Brandi’s hair. “God help me, I don’t want any woman but you.”

“I’m yours,” she stated simply.

With a harsh groan, Quentin brought a burnished strand to his lips. “You’re aging me, Sunbeam. Rapidly.”

“Good. Then perhaps you’ll realize I’ve aged as well.”

Something shimmered in his eyes. “I’ve already realized that.”

“I’m glad.” Brandi reached up, smoothed her fingers over the exposed skin at his throat. “Thank you for staying,” she said quietly. “Just knowing you’re nearby, knowing you’re here if I need you—that means everything.”

Of its own accord, Quentin’s gaze swept over her, taking in the soft lush curves concealed only by the diaphanous silk of her nightrail. His insides tightened, and the all-too-familiar battle commenced inside him, tearing at his soul, raging with all the fires of hell.

Brandi watched his face, then took a step backward, untying her wrapper and tossing it to the bed.

“What are you doing?” Quentin’s voice sounded like gravel.

Her smile was seduction itself. “Precisely what I promised I’d do. Trying to tempt you, my lord.”

“You tempt me without trying,” Quentin returned, his hands defining the silky curves of her shoulders. “I’m fighting with all my strength, Sunbeam,” he confessed quietly. “But I fear I’m losing.”

“With this particular battle, I suspect defeat is far more wondrous than victory.” She loosened his cravat, unbuttoned his shirt, tugging the edges away so her palms could discover the warm, hair-roughened surface of his chest. “You’re so strong,” she whispered, leaning forward to kiss the skin she’d bared.