Emerald Garden (39 page)

“What are you babbling about?”

“Did he get to Father in time, or did you ensure he didn’t?”

Desmond’s pupils dilated, and he recoiled as if he’d been struck. “You think I killed Ardsley?”

“Did you?”

“You think
I’m
the one who arranged that carriage accident?” Desmond stared at Quentin incredulously, all the color draining from his face.
“You think I killed our father?”

“I pray to God you didn’t.”

“Well, pray somewhere else.” Desmond’s features hardened to stone, his body rigid with repressed emotion. “Get out, Quentin. Get out of my home. You’re no longer welcome at Colverton. Go to your mother’s house. Marry Ardsley’s daughter. But don’t ever show your face here again.”

Snatching the bottle of port, Desmond stalked from the room, leaving naught but unanswered questions in his wake.

“Two missives were just delivered from London,” Bentley announced, approaching the gazebo.

“For whom? From whom?” Brandi popped up, her nose smudged with dirt.

“Let’s see.” Bentley glanced thoughtfully at the envelopes in his hand. “The first is for Master Quentin from Mr. Hendrick. ’Tis a shame Mr. Hendrick didn’t know his lordship was traveling to London. He could have met with him in person rather than communicated with him by message. Ah, well.”

“And the other missive, Bentley?” Brandi pressed, wiping her sleeve across her forehead. “Who is it for?”

“Hey! Are you helpin’ me dig up these dead geraniums or not?” Herbert demanded from his kneeling position. “I’m angry as a hornet, as it is. I’ve lost these two rows of flowers one time too many. I’m half tempted to put nothin’ here but dirt.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Brandi retorted with a grin. “You care far too much about your garden. I told you; we’ll figure out the problem.
After
Bentley tells me who the other missive is for.” Hands on hips, she gazed pointedly at Bentley.

“Oh, didn’t I mention that detail, Miss Brandi?” Bentley’s brows rose in surprise. “How careless of me. ’Tis for you.” He paused, fighting the twitching of his lips. “From Master Quentin.”

With a squeal, Brandi snatched it from his hand. “Let me read it.”

She tore the note open, scanning the few lines before letting out a yelp that made Lancelot pause, six trees away, in the midst of devouring a berry.

“He got it! Quentin got it!” She flung her arms about Bentley’s neck, hugging him so tightly the butler had to extricate himself in order to resume breathing. “I hardly dared let myself hope. But I should have known Quentin would find a way. Oh, I love you, Bentley … and you, too, Herbert.” She whirled about, yanking at Herbert’s work-worn hands until he stumbled to his feet, then, before he could stop gaping, she dragged him into a joyous little jig.

“What?” Herbert gasped, when at last they halted. “What is it his lordship got?” He looked bewilderedly at Bentley.

“I wouldn’t know,” the butler croaked, rubbing his throat before readjusting his slightly mussed collar. “Perhaps Miss Brandi can enlighten us.”

“ ’Twould be my greatest happiness to enlighten you.” Brandi’s face glowed, emanating a pure, irrepressible joy. “Quentin and I decided to say nothing until we were certain he could acquire the necessary license—and the assurance that Desmond would do nothing to intervene. Both those obstacles have been overcome. Quentin will be home tomorrow. And the following day, I shall become Mrs. Quentin Steel.” She gazed euphorically from Bentley to Herbert. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Herbert let out an exuberant whoop, enveloping Brandi in a most inappropriate bear hug. “More than wonderful!” he exclaimed. “I’m so happy, I could bust.” Awkwardly, he drew back. “I’ve gotten you all dirty,” he muttered, brushing grains of soil from her sleeves. “Don’t know what I was thinkin’.” He blinked, keeping his suspiciously bright gaze fixed on Brandi’s gown.

She covered his hand with hers. “Thank you, Herbert,” she managed, her voice rife with emotion. “Your approval means the world to me.”

“Approval? I’ve been waitin’ for this day for as long as I can remember. Finally, you’re gonna be as happy as the duchess prayed you’d be.” A nostalgic look crossed Herbert’s face. “As happy as she and the duke were.”

“I could wish for no greater blessing.” Slowly, Brandi turned to Bentley. “Bentley?”

A broad never-before-seen smile split the butler’s face. “I must say, it was a challenging battle, Miss Brandi. But we won it, didn’t we?”

“Yes, Bentley, at long last, we won.” Brandi stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, my dear friend,” she whispered.

Unclasping his hands from behind his back, Bentley tenderly patted her hair. “ ’Twas not my doing, but fate’s,” he murmured.

“Perhaps,” Brandi replied solemnly. “But in this case fate had a bit of help.” Dabbing at her cheeks, she stepped away. “You’ll both be at the wedding, of course.” An impish grin sparkled through her tears. “ ’Twill be a most unusual ceremony. The bride will be given away, not by one, but by two special gentlemen.”

A rustle shook the leaves overhead.

“Squirrels are not allowed in church,” Brandi called up to her red friend. “But we shall have a wedding picnic right here at Emerald Manor directly after the ceremony. And, to that feast, dear Lancelot, you are definitely invited. I believe you’ll enjoy it ever so much more than you would the taking of the vows.”

“Not I,” Bentley asserted, his composure—and his clasped hands—restored. “These vows are most welcome, and long overdue.”

“And now they’re but two days away,” Brandi stated, wonder lacing her words. Abruptly, her head snapped up. “Oh, Lord. What will I wear? I’ve been so busy fretting and praying that I completely neglected to plan.”

“I believe Mrs. Collins has nearly completed your wedding dress,” Bentley informed her offhandedly. “I’ll verify that with her now, before I return to the garden to assist Herbert in gathering the appropriate flowers for your garland. As for your veil, Mrs. Collins has retrieved the one Her Grace wore on the day she became the Duchess of Colverton. I assumed that would please you.”

Throughout Bentley’s accounting, Brandi’s gaping mouth grew wider. “Quentin and I told no one of our plans. How did Mrs. Collins know?”

One of Bentley’s brows arched.

Smiling, Brandi waved away her question. “Never mind. I’m sure you knew of this wedding long before we did.”

“Indeed. Although I must admit, his lordship did give me a moment or two of concern. His honor and virtue can, at times, be exasperating, can they not?”

“They certainly can,” Brandi concurred. “As can his bloody self-control. In more situations than you can imagine. But fear not. I plan to burn all three of those assets to ashes.” Oblivious to Herbert’s flaming cheeks, she seized Bentley’s arm. “May I go see the gown? I know you said you wanted first to verify its status with Mrs. Collins, but …”

“But patience is not one of your finer assets,” Bentley supplied helpfully. “Nor, in this case, should it be. You are, after all, the bride. So, run along.” He gestured toward the cottage. “Find Mrs. Collins. Revel in her creation. I shall remain here with Herbert and select a lovely arrangement of blossoms for your hair.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you both so much.” Without pause, Brandi dashed off, nearly tripping over her skirts in her haste to reach the cottage.

“I hope she doesn’t try that in the church,” Herbert grumbled good-naturedly. “Or else she’ll end up slidin’ down the aisle on her bottom.”

“I don’t think Master Quentin would mind a bit,” Bentley returned, a corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “So long as she arrives at the proper destination and he is there to receive her.”

With an answering chuckle, Herbert lowered himself to his knees amid the garden’s rainbow hues. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

With a final glance at Brandi’s retreating form, Bentley nodded, glancing distastefully at the clumps of dirt already adhering to his polished shoes. “Ah, well,” he conceded. “ ’Tis for Miss Brandi, after all.” So saying, he rolled up his sleeves and gingerly squatted beside Herbert to amass the perfect blooms for Brandi’s headpiece.

Exploding into the cottage, Brandi burst through to the kitchen—and smack into Mrs. Collins. “Oh, Mrs. Collins, you’re wonderful!” She hugged the baffled housekeeper, who was struggling not to drop the hot pie in her hands.

“I didn’t realize you were so hungry, Miss Brandi,” she replied, pivoting to set down the pan. “I’ll cut you a slice.”

“I’m not hungry.” Brandi dismissed the pie with a wave of her hand. “Nor is that why you’re wonderful—although I’m sure the pie is splendid. But what I’m referring to surpasses its glory by far—my wedding gown.”

Mrs. Collins gasped. “How did you learn about that?”

“Bentley told me.”

Elation erupted on the housekeeper’s face. “Bentley told you? Then that could mean but one thing. You and Master Quentin …”

“Yes. Oh, yes. Quentin and I are getting married. The day after tomorrow.” Brandi seized the housekeepers hand, dragging her away from the oven and toward the door. “Now, please, please, may I see my dress?”

“This instant.” Mrs. Collins wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll fetch it from its hiding place in my room. You go to your bedchamber and—” A swift assessment of Brandi’s smudged cheeks and grass-stained gown. “Clean up a bit.”

“I’m on my way.” Brandi sprinted up the steps like a filly.

A quarter hour later, fresh and glowing, Brandi twirled about before her bedchamber’s looking glass, watching the silver lace sparkle atop the elegant white satin. She met her own exhilarated gaze in the mirror. “Is that really me?”

“No one else,” the beaming housekeeper assured her. “And you are the most breathtaking of brides.”

“ ’Tis the gown—it’s what dreams are made of. How on earth did you sew it so quickly?”

“I was inspired.” A twinkle. “I also didn’t do it alone. Over the past fortnight, Bentley has supplied me with three competent seamstresses and a wealth of magnificent material.”

“Here? At the cottage? Where was I?”

“When you weren’t recuperating? Where you always are.” Mrs. Collins held up her fingers, counting off. “In the garden with Herbert, the woods with Lancelot, the stables with Poseidon, or the gazebo with your daydreams.”

Brandi’s expression turned sheepish. “I am dreadfully predictable, aren’t I?”

“Never that, Miss Brandi.” The housekeeper laughed. “Just too restless to remain inside, and therefore, easy to plan a splendid surprise for.”

“How can I ever thank you? ’Tis the most exquisite gown I’ve ever seen.” Brandi turned, clasping the housekeeper’s hands.

“The joy on your face is thanks enough.” Mrs. Collins squeezed Brandi’s fingers. “Be happy, love.”

“I’m marrying Quentin. How can I not be?”

“I agree. Which reminds me, when will his lordship be returning?”

“Tomorrow. Oh, Mrs. Collins, this is going to be the longest night of my life.”

“I think not,” the housekeeper amended wisely, smoothing the delicate lace that defined Brandi’s bodice. “I think tomorrow night—the eve before your wedding—might even surpass it.”

Brandi wondered if that were possible.

It seemed an eternity before the moon was eclipsed by the rising sun, longer still before the morning unfolded, bringing with it the sounds of Quentin’s approaching carriage.

Nearly knocking Bentley to the ground, Brandi raced out the door, flinging herself into Quentin’s arms before he’d finished alighting. “You’re home!”

His bone-melting smile warmed her inside and out. “Yes, Sunbeam, I’m very much home.” Drinking in her glowing features, he threaded his fingers through her hair and kissed her in full view of Bentley and the footmen. “Do you know, I could grow accustomed to greetings such as this?”

“Then you shall always have them,” Brandi vowed breathlessly. “Whether you’ve spent days in London or months in the colonies, you have my word that you’ll receive lengthy, loving—and shamelessly public—displays of affection upon your return.”

“I shall hold you to that promise.” Quentin’s knuckles brushed her cheek, stroked a line down the delicate bridge of her nose. “I missed you.”

“I’ve been going mad.” She gripped his coat. “I did interpret your missive correctly, didn’t I? You do have the license?”

Grinning, Quentin patted his pocket. “Safe and sound, and very, very legal.”

“And Desmond?”

Quentin’s smile faded.

“Was it terribly difficult? Did he make a scene?”

“Not about us, no. He was surprisingly acquiescent. But he also refused to give me the information I sought.”

Brandi sighed. “That comes as no surprise. Whether Desmond is guilty or not, we both knew he wouldn’t take kindly to being accused—especially by you.”

“I quite agree, sir,” Bentley murmured from behind.

“As do I.” Quentin gave a weary sigh. “Confronting Desmond was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”

“How did he react to the question you most dreaded asking?” Bentley queried. “Surely Master Desmond wasn’t in any way involved in tampering with the carriage, was he?”

“In my opinion, no. As to his reaction, he was horrified. He ordered me from Colverton, never to return.”

“Quentin, I’m sorry,” Brandi murmured.

“Desmond and I never shared more than a flimsy bond of brotherly affection,” Quentin stated grimly. “But whatever we did have has now been destroyed. Irreparably, I fear.”

“Not if he’s innocent,” Brandi countered at once. “Your brother, better than anyone, knows your reason for delving into this whole sordid affair: to unearth our parents’ murderer. Presumably, he wants the killer punished as much as you do. I’m certain he’ll forgive you for exploring every conceivable avenue—even those pertaining to him.” Soberly, Brandi met and held Quentin’s gaze.
“If
he’s innocent.”

Gravely, Quentin nodded. “Yes—if.”

“What about Papa’s ledger? Did Desmond also deny that he’d tampered with that?”

“He did—but with a lesser level of conviction. When I suggested his connection with Father’s death, he went wild with shock and outrage, while when I broached the subject of the ledger—more or less accusing him of blackmailing someone into altering it—he merely became sullen and evasive.” Quentin scowled. “I can’t shake the ominous feeling that Desmond is somehow implicated in all this—if not legally, then ethically. I spent much of my London trip trying to glean even an iota of information: visiting several companies with whom Father did business, asking a few casual questions—and walking away knowing as little as I had when I arrived. The truth is, I can accomplish nothing without Father’s records—records that Desmond flatly refused to give me and to which I have no access now that I’ve been banned from Colverton. It appears my only remaining hope is to apprise Ellard of my suspicions and to ask for his help.”