Emerald Garden (49 page)

“Why?” Quentin asked hoarsely. “After paying Hendrick to conceal that will, why did you work so hard to unearth it?”

“I found myself severely lacking in options,” Desmond returned with a candid shrug. “You see, as we both know, I’m too much of a coward to ride to your rescue. And, as things turned out, I wouldn’t have been needed.” His admiring glance darted to Brandi. “Your life was evidently in the finest of hands, your rescuer far more competent than I.” Assessing her unconventional attire, a faint smile touched Desmond’s lips. “You were right, Quentin,” he declared, his gaze returning to his brother. “I fear your Sunbeam was born to please you, not the
ton:
She would …” A breath of a pause.
“Will
make a most irreverent duchess.”

Brandi bit her lip, determined to stay silent while the miracle hovering before her unfolded.

“Go ahead,” Desmond urged Quentin. “Take the papers.” A corner of his mouth lifted, more with sadness than amusement. “You’re effectively the Duke of Colverton. And, I suppose, rightfully so. You may be transient, but you’re intelligent, responsible, and honest. Perhaps that’s what Father realized all along.”

“Father realized a great deal more than that,” Quentin returned, an odd expression on his face. “Like the fact that, beneath your flaws, you do have a conscience. A conscience
and
a heart.” Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “Let me ask you something. Before he died, Hendrick implied that you’d attempted to save our lives. What did he mean?”

“Nothing too heroic. Only that I tried to discourage him from harming you. I was hoping to divert his efforts long enough for me to get to Emerald Manor and warn you. But it didn’t work that way. So I chose this avenue instead, since I knew damned well Father’s amended will was undestroyed. If there’s one thing I never questioned, it was Hendrick’s greed. He was making too much money in blackmail payments to shred his winning ticket.” With an ironic shake of his head, Desmond added, “It’s funny, the way things turn out. When Father first executed that amended will, I would have given all I had to tear it to bits. Now? The truth is, I’m rather glad it still exists. Effecting it won’t erase what’s happened, but at least I’ll feel slightly less guilty knowing Father’s wishes have, ultimately, been met.” Desmond pressed the papers into Quentin’s palm. “And, lest you suspect otherwise, I assure you, I am sober. I’m also ready to go whenever you are.”

“Go? Go where?”

“To Bow Street, naturally.”

Quentin swallowed, seeing his father’s words in his mind’s eye and understanding at last what Kenton wanted him to do.

More surprisingly, what
he
wanted to do.

Forgiveness … brotherhood …

“Desmond, I can’t pretend to condone your illegal dealings, nor the motives that provoked them,” Quentin said quietly, staring down at the documents he now held. “But I think these last few weeks have taught you something. Lord knows, they have me. They’ve taught me what’s important, what’s replaceable and what’s not. And while I’m certain you and I will never be much alike, you are my brother.”

“What are you saying?”

“First, stop destroying yourself with guilt. You didn’t kill Father. Hendrick did. As to what I’m saying, it’s simple. Judging from Father’s note, I believe he forgave you your wrongs. In light of that, I intend to try to do the same. To that end, I shall furnish the authorities with the papers that incriminate Hendrick, and bury the past where it belongs.”

“And me?”

“What about you?”

“My wrongs, as you called them. They’re crimes, Quentin, not insignificant blunders. I paid Hendrick to doctor Ardsley’s records. And Father’s records. I also paid him to conceal the amended will.”

“The will is no longer concealed—it’s in my hands. As for the records, you altered the distribution of profits and losses, but not the totals yielded. Both Ardsley and Father received their proper sums, so no actual theft was committed. What’s more, neither Brandi’s father nor ours would want your indiscretions made public—not only for your sake, but for the preservation of our family names. As for retribution, no punishment inflicted by a magistrate could be worse than the one you’ve already rendered upon yourself.”

“How true,” Desmond replied in a hollow tone.

“Lastly,” Quentin raised his head, his jaw set with purpose, “your motivation was rooted in a resentment I recommend we put to rest, along with the past.”

Desmond didn’t pretend to misunderstand Quentin’s meaning nor the generosity of his offer. “There’s still the matter of Father’s evidence,” he prompted, pointing to the book Quentin held. “The actual records showing the discrepancies I requested.”

Glancing down at the ledger, Quentin realized with a start that his brother was actually giving him one last chance to change his mind—a self-sacrifice the Desmond he knew would never have made.

Quentin’s final qualms vanished in a heartbeat.

“What records?” He slipped the ledger under his arm.

“Why are you doing this?” Desmond’s voice was unsteady.

“I told you. We’ve changed—both of us. If I doubted it before, I don’t any longer. And we’re brothers. After all we’ve lost, ’tis time for us to recognize that.” Quentin cleared his throat. “We can begin by reading Father’s will together, and deciding how to best implement his wishes. We’ll also send for the authorities, so they can collect the data on Hendrick and dispose of his body.”

“Thank you,” Desmond said stiffly. “I won’t claim to deserve such leniency. But I’m not foolish enough to refuse it.” So saying, he climbed the gazebo steps and lowered himself to the bench, awaiting his brother.

Quentin turned to Brandi, smiling when he saw the delight in her eyes. “I take it you approve?”

“Absolutely.” She stood on tiptoe, brushing her lips to his. “I’ll ride into the village and have a message sent to Bow Street. You and Desmond need some time alone.”

Wrapping his arm about her waist, Quentin drew his wife to his side. “Have I thanked you for saving my life?” he murmured for her ears alone.

“No.” Brandi dimpled. “But I’d much prefer you do so later. Proper thanks are best offered in private, don’t you agree?”

“Unquestionably.” Quentin’s grin was the essence of seduction. “But I must caution you, there’s nothing proper about the thanks I have in mind.”

“I should hope not.”

A husky chuckle. “You’re a superb marksman, my lady.”

“As I said in the past, I’ve had the finest of instructors. He also happened to provide me with the finest of pistols. It remains ever by my side, ready to protect me.”

“What a coincidence. So does your instructor.” Tenderly, Quentin framed her face between his palms. “Forever, Sunbeam.”

“Oh, longer than that. I insist.” Brandi’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. “After all, forever has been done. ’Tis up to us to surpass it.”

“A challenge, my lady?”

“But of course, my lord.”

“Very well then.” Quentin kissed her, savoring the miracle that was his. “In that case, I accept.”

Epilogue

August 1815

L
EANING HER HEAD AGAINST
the gazebo post, Brandi stared dreamily across the cottage grounds, reveling in the news Quentin’s letter had conveyed.

The Hundred Days were over. Napoleon had been defeated at Waterloo and was en route to St. Helena, banished into exile for the rest of his life. His reign, at last, was at an end.

Which meant Quentin was coming home.

Brandi gazed down at the missive in her hand, smiling as she reread it for the hundredth time:

Sunbeam,

I’m sailing for England to resume our ongoing challenge. Be forewarned: With the contest I have in mind, there are no losers. So ready yourself for the sweetest of victories.

All my love,

Quentin

“Do you require anything before I leave, Miss Brandi?”

Brandi turned, gazing fondly at Bentley. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. I was daydreaming.”

“Obviously.” Of its own accord, a corner of Bentley’s mouth lifted. “And I needn’t ask about what. Or, rather, whom.”

“No, you needn’t.” A grin. “Did you say you were leaving?”

“Yes, I’m en route to Colverton. Master Desmond has summoned the entire staff for a meeting. Which reminds me, would you object if Herbert, Mrs. Collins, and the remainder of the cottage staff were to accompany me? The duke specifically requested we all be there.”

Brandi’s brow furrowed. “Of course not. But why? Has something in particular prompted this?”

“I wouldn’t know, my lady,” Bentley responded in a tone that told Brandi just the opposite. “But I’ll furnish you with full details upon my return.”

“When will that be?” she asked suspiciously.

“Oh, several days.” He turned, hands clasped behind his back as he headed off. “Enjoy yourself, Miss Brandi. You most assuredly deserve it.”

“Enjoy myself?” she muttered under her breath. “All alone here?”

A berry fell at her feet.

“All right, I’m sorry—
nearly
alone,” she amended, gazing apologetically up at Lancelot.

Evidently, he forgave her, for he scurried up the tree and disappeared.

Sighing, Brandi stared off toward the woods, wondering what Desmond’s meeting was all about. Maybe he was planning a large welcome-home party for Quentin—a possibility she never would have contemplated a year ago. But the transformation that had taken place since then was extraordinary.

Desmond had discovered something he’d never known: contentment. Once he and Quentin reviewed the terms of Kenton’s amended will and decided how to best enact them, he’d readily done so, learning to share control of the family assets, giving ultimate say to Quentin—as their father had requested—while keeping his title, home, and pride intact, as Quentin had insisted.

Most wondrous of all, Desmond and Quentin had become brothers.

Raising her eyes to the heavens, Brandi gave silent thanks for all the blessings that were theirs.

Far above, she felt certain Quentin’s parents and hers were smiling down on them.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Brandi whipped around, her whole face lighting up at the sight of her husband lounging at the foot of the gazebo, purposely repeating the words he’d spoken five years before when he’d left for war.

Back then, she’d been a child.

Now, she was a wife.

“Quentin!” Brandi’s feet never touched the steps. She launched herself straight into her husband’s open arms.

“Ah, Sunbeam.” Quentin’s voice was hoarse, his hands shaking as he clasped her to him, enveloping her in his embrace. “God, I missed you.”

“You’re home,” Brandi whispered, needing to confirm the truth aloud in order to believe it.

“Yes. I’m home. For good.”

Brandi drew back, searching his face, touching every beloved line and contour. “You’re thin. And you look so tired. But in no time …” She broke off, her eyes widening as Quentin’s pronouncement registered. “For good?”

“Um-hum. And forever. Correction: beyond forever.”

“But …”

“No
buts.”
Quentin smoothed her hair from her face, bending to taste her mouth—once, twice—lifting his head with the greatest reluctance. “I’ve given England my all,” he answered simply, seeing the question in her eyes. “Now, it’s time for us.”

“But Wellington …”

“I have his blessing. Hell, even his approval.” Quentin grinned. “Do I have yours?”

Brandi didn’t smile. “Quentin, are you sure?”

“Surer than I’ve ever been of anything. I’m at peace, Sunbeam. And so is England. My skills have been passed on to others equally capable; I made sure of that these past few months. Napoleon is gone. The Treaty of Ghent with America was signed months ago. The War Department will now have more than ample time to complete the training I began. I won’t be needed—except, of course, by my beautiful wife.”

“Are you doing this because of Desmond? If so, ’tis unnecessary. Even with you away, he’s done a wonderful job at Colverton, and …”

Quentin pressed his fingers to her lips. “No, it’s not because of Desmond. And I know what a splendid job he’s doing. I’ve just come from Colverton.”

She blinked. “You stopped there?”

“Of course. How else could I summon the servants away?”

Comprehension spread like a blanket of sunshine across Brandi’s face. “No wonder Bentley dashed off like a child with a hidden sweet. He knew.”

“He did indeed.” Quentin caressed her face, threading his fingers through her burnished tresses. “We never did have those three days alone together.”

“No. We didn’t.” Brandi twined her arms about his neck. “But Quentin, if Whitehall should require your deciphering proficiency …”

“They won’t. There are others now. Trust me, Sunbeam.” He tilted her chin up, his eyes darkening with emotion. “Besides, I intend to be very busy.”

“Managing Colverton?”

“No. Filling you with my child.” Quentin’s lips feathered across her cheek, seizing her lips in an endless, drugging kiss. “Ah, Brandi, I love you so bloody much. I want to watch you swell with my babe. I want to pour myself into you and create a daughter with your spirit, a son with your fire. I want to pervade Emerald Manor with our children’s laughter, and its gardens with their joy. Tell me you’ll give me that. Tell me you want it as much as I do.”

“Want it?” Brandi managed, dazed with the combined elation of Quentin’s military retirement and the idea of carrying his child. “I want it more than anything on earth. Other than you.” She drew back, staring up at him with wide damp eyes. “Pinch me.”

His lips twitched. “Gladly. But you won’t awaken.”

“Oh, Quentin, I love you so.” Finally accepting that her most fervent, impossible wish had been granted, Brandi tightened her grasp about her husband’s neck, pressing against him as if to meld their souls as well as their bodies.

A hard shudder racked Quentin’s body. “And I love you. With all my being.” He swung Brandi into his arms. “Christ,” he muttered. “I don’t think I can make it to the cottage.”