Emerald Garden (5 page)

“As do I, sir.”

“Quentin, you look exhausted,” Brandi said softly. “Why don’t you go to your chambers and rest? I’ve got to get back to Townsbourne, anyway.”

That haunted look was back in her eyes.

“Why?” Quentin heard himself ask. “Why must you go back to Townsbourne?”

“I don’t understand.” She looked as lost as she had years ago, when he’d bid her goodbye at the gazebo.

“Are you overseeing the staff? The accounts? The property?”

“No.” Bewilderedly, Brandi shook her head. “Desmond’s handling the estate and the businesses for me. As for the staff, they need no supervision. They’ve all performed their jobs splendidly for years.” Her lips trembled. “In truth, I think I’m more underfoot than useful. But they haven’t the heart to shoo me away.”

“Then, I repeat, why must you subject yourself to wandering about a manor that offers you naught but painful reminders?” As he spoke, it occurred to Quentin that his pointed insight applied not only to Brandi but to himself. “A manor you never truly had an affinity for anyway.”

“Quentin is right, you know.” Surprisingly—and for the first time in over a decade—Desmond enthusiastically agreed with his brother. “At a time like this, you should be among people who love you, people who can share your grief.” He touched Brandi’s cheek with infinite tenderness. “Why don’t you stay here at Colverton?”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed on his brother. “At Colverton?”

“Yes, where else?”

Brandi was shaking her head. “You’re both generous and wonderful. Lord knows, I’m here often enough as it is. But I do need time by myself, time to think, to work through my own grief. Moreover, ’tis no secret that I have as little affinity for Colverton as I do for Townsbourne. My feelings are for the people who live here. And those who did. She swallowed. “So, though I deeply appreciate your offer …”

“I wasn’t referring to Colverton,” Quentin interrupted. “I was referring to Emerald Manor.”

“Emerald Manor?” Desmond recoiled. “Whatever for?”

“Because Brandi’s happiest hours have been spent there. Because she’ll have the privacy she needs, the gardens she loves, and us nearby.”

“Nearby? ’Tis a four-mile ride from Colverton to Pamela’s cottage.” Desmond’s pointed description of Emerald Manor was not lost to Quentin. “Further, the cottage is deserted. There is no one there to care for Brandice.”

“I don’t need caring for, Desmond. I’m twenty years old,” Brandi reminded him. “Besides, I would hardly describe Emerald Manor as deserted. Mrs. Collins runs the cottage as if it were an estate, with a staff—albeit small—that’s as disciplined as an army. As for the grounds, Herbert is indispensable; he’s a splendid gardener and one of my dearest friends. He loves Emerald Manor as if it were his own.”

“Brandice, a housekeeper and a gardener are hardly enough to help you recover.”

“But Emerald Manor is.” Quentin met Brandi’s troubled gaze. “I think you’ll heal there, Sunbeam. You’ll heal because you’ll be home.”

Once again, the sadness in Brandi’s eyes seemed to recede. “Yes, I will.” She inclined her head quizzically. “Do you think Kenton would mind?”

“He’d be honored. So would Mother.” Quentin gave her an imperceptible nod. “We’ll ride to Townsbourne and pack a few of your things. The rest can be delivered tomorrow. You’ll be settled in by nightfall.”

“But Mrs. Collins doesn’t even expect me.”

“Forgive me for interrupting, Miss Brandi,” Bentley spoke up. “But I’d be delighted to ride ahead and advise Mrs. Collins of your imminent arrival. It will take the good part of two hours for you and Master Quentin to ride to Townsbourne, collect your bags, and reach the cottage. By that time, not only will Mrs. Collins have a room and a hot meal prepared for you, but—given her feelings for you—she’ll probably have a string quartet performing on the lawn.” Bentley’s lips twitched ever so slightly.

Quentin chuckled. “I don’t doubt it.” His reassuring gaze returned to Brandi. “So, now that your concerns have been addressed and resolved, shall we head out?”

Briefly, Brandi glanced at Desmond. “Do you object?”

Desmond gritted his teeth. “Of course not. If it pleases you to stay at the cottage, then by all means, do so.” His smile was brittle. “I’ll come by tomorrow morning. We can have breakfast together before leaving for London.”

“Yes—the wills.” Brandi’s lashes swept her cheeks. “That would be fine, Desmond. I’m sure I’ll need the support.”

His expression brightened. “And you shall have it.”

“I’d forgotten just how beautiful Emerald Manor is,” Quentin murmured, maneuvering the phaeton down the stone path leading to the cottage.

“ ’Tis a small piece of heaven,” Brandi agreed, gazing about the manicured lawns. “Also my own little sanctuary. Thank you for suggesting I stay here.”

“I’d prefer your smile to your thanks.”

She turned to him and complied, her lips curving upward. “You have both.”

Reining the horses to a deliberate halt, Quentin alit, lifting Brandi to the ground beside him. Then he turned, staring across the gardens to the lattice gazebo that signified all the joy of his past.

“Welcome home, Quentin,” Brandi said softly.

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Home,” he repeated in a hollow voice. “I wonder if that exists for me anymore.”

“It exists for everyone. But I suppose each of us has to find our own.” Soberly, Brandi watched Quentin rediscover Emerald Manor, his poignant gaze flickering over the familiar grounds. “One thing is certain,” she added. “Colverton is no more home for you than Townsbourne is for me.”

My parents spent some of their happiest, most precious moments at this cottage.”

“As did Pamela and … and you and I, before you went away. Even Papa enjoyed his visits here. Emerald Manor is a joyful place.”

Quentin nodded, turning to tug a lock of her hair. “Then perhaps being here will bring back your smile, Sunbeam.”

“What about yours?”

He looked away and fell silent.

With acute insight, Brandi studied the hard line of his profile. “I was worried about you, you know. I’ve never gone so long without receiving a letter.”

Everything inside Quentin tensed. “The last few months were … difficult.”

She lay a hand on his forearm. “Toulouse must have been unbearable. From what I read, thousands of our soldiers died in that battle.”

“Nearly five thousand,” Quentin supplied. “And, yes, it was one of the crudest and bloodiest battles of the war. My only consolation is that on its heels came Napoleon’s abdication.”

“Were you riding with General Wellington?”

“Yes. An hour after we rode into Toulouse, we received word of Bonaparte’s flight. Had we but known his surrender was an accomplished fact, Wellington would never have issued the order to attack. He agonized over the needless deaths.” A pause. “So did I.”

Quentin’s pain pierced Brandi’s heart. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You were in the midst of a nightmare, and here I am asking why you didn’t write more often. ’Tis only that your letters were my sole reassurance that you were well. When they stopped coming, I was terrified. Every day I prayed for your safety. I was so frightened we’d receive notification that …” Brandi broke off.

Reaching down, Quentin extracted an onyx-handled memory from his boot. “I was well-protected, day and night, thanks to your splendid gift.” He placed the knife in her hands.

“You kept the blade!” Brandi’s whole face lit up as she examined the token she’d given him a lifetime ago.

“Did you doubt that I would?”

“Not really, no.”

“Good. Am I to assume, then, that you’ve been equally attentive to my pistol?”

Brandi grinned. “Indeed I have, my lord. To your pistol
and
your horse. Poseidon is twice as fit as when you left him. He’s also decidedly happier with a woman on his back.”

“Is he now?” Quentin cast her a sideways look. “And tell me, Sunbeam, is he also decidedly happier with a sidesaddle on his back?”

“I wouldn’t know. He’s never worn one.”

Quentin threw back his head and laughed. “You’re still my little hoyden, I see.”

“Does that disappoint you?”

“It relieves me. I was half-afraid I’d come home to find you transformed into a proper lady.”

“I? Proper?” Brandi’s delicate brows shot up. “Did my letters convey that ludicrous concept to you?”

“Your letters consisted mostly of caustic comments about each Season’s loathsome balls, and each ball’s loathsome men.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Then why would you think I’d changed?”

“Probably because I prayed you hadn’t.”

Quentin’s words elicited a relapse of that faraway, anguished look he’d seen reflected earlier in Brandi’s eyes. “I can well understand your prayer,” she murmured, wrapping her arms about herself in a self-protective gesture. “So much has changed—so many irrevocable ties with the past have been severed. To recover even one precious, untouched memory is perhaps the greatest comfort of all.”

“Then let us seize those untouched memories,” Quentin suggested, his own melancholy receding beneath his worry over hers. “You yourself just reminded me what a joyous place Emerald Manor is. I propose we recapture that joy. Not today, for it’s late and Mrs. Collins will be clucking over your food turning cold. Nor tomorrow,” he said thoughtfully, “since our excursion to London will undoubtedly take the better part of the day. Therefore, our contest must be held the following morning.”

“Quentin, what are you talking about?” Brandi asked dazedly. “What contest?”

“What contest?” Quentin echoed in mock offense. “Why, our marksmanship match, of course. Have you forgotten the challenge I issued the day I left England? I demanded the right to demonstrate my shooting prowess the instant I returned to Emerald Manor, in order that I might regain my pride—pride which a certain lucky hoyden completely annihilated.”

“Lucky?” A competitive sparkle eclipsed the distant look from Brandi’s eyes.
“Au contraire,
my lord. I remember the contest well, and it was won by sheer skill and unerring accuracy.”

“Prove it.”

“Gladly.”

“Shall we say, ten A.M., the morning after next?”

“Consider the engagement confirmed, Captain Steel.”

“Excellent.” Gently, he brushed one stray cinnamon curl from her cheek. “Let’s get you settled so you might rest up for the grueling competition ahead.”

Abruptly, Brandi’s mood altered, a myriad emotions reflected on her ever-expressive face. “Thank you,” she whispered fervently, gazing up at him. “And thank God for bringing you safely home. Had anything happened to you …” She faltered, unable to continue, paralyzed by the very implication of her own statement.

“Brandi—” Quentin broke off, words suddenly inadequate. What more could he say? No false assurances would do—not when he was confronted with the bleak reality in her eyes. Further, how could he obliterate a fear that was so painfully valid?

As if reading his thoughts, Brandi shook her head, tears glistening on the silken fringe of her lashes. “Don’t,” she entreated softly. “Don’t say anything. Only please, never go away again.” Her breath caught in her throat. “Never, ever again.”

Gathering up her skirts, she sprinted toward the cottage.

Chapter 3

Q
UENTIN’S MOOD WAS DARKLY
pensive as he swung open the door to Hendrick’s office the next afternoon. He’d slept not a wink, his heart heavy with the finality of his parents’ deaths, his mind haunted by a picture of Brandi’s broken expression as she’d run from him yesterday.

He could do naught to rectify either torment, for death was absolute, and his presence in England temporary.

Hell and damnation.

He felt so bloody helpless, like a leaf blowing in the wind—a man who, until this week, had impelled the lives of thousands, and now struggled helplessly in fate’s unpredictable hands.

Inhaling sharply, Quentin slammed the door behind him, bracing himself for today’s ordeal. In less than an hour, his parents’ last wishes and provisions would be disclosed, and Pamela and Kenton Steel would truly be gone.

“Lord Quentin?” A wiry clerk hastened forward, his brows knit in concern. “Are you all right?”

Quentin blinked. “Hmm? Oh, Peters. Yes, I’m as well as can be expected.”

Peters nodded sympathetically. “I understand, my lord. I’m terribly sorry your homecoming was precipitated by such a tragedy. Please, have a seat. Mr. Hendrick will be with you shortly.”

“Very well.” Quentin turned toward the designated chair, starting as he saw Brandi sitting slumped in the seat beside him. “Brandi?”

She raised her head. “Hello, Quentin.”

“Why are you here by yourself? I thought Desmond was joining you for breakfast, then escorting you to London.”

“He did. But he needed a few minutes alone with Mr. Hendrick before the readings began. So I waited here.”

Quentin frowned, wondering. “Today? Why on earth would he need … ?”

“Quentin.” Ellard Hendrick strode out from his inner office, looking as solemn as the occasion warranted. “Welcome home—although, needless to say, I wish it were under different circumstances. Please accept my condolences on your tragic losses.”

“Thank you, Ellard.” Quentin nodded politely. “Have you and Desmond completed your business?”

“Indeed we have,” Desmond acknowledged from within. Rising from the armchair beside Hendrick’s desk, he strolled out to join the other two men. “Hendrick had prepared some documents Father requested, and needed my approval in order to finalize them. Fortunately, there were no unexpected complications, and everything can proceed as Father wished.”

“Documents?” Quentin inclined his head. “Do they pertain to the wills?”

“Not in the least.” Desmond’s expression never altered. “They involve an agreement Father and I were on the verge of consummating. I wanted to be certain Ellard understood that he should continue just as Father originally outlined.”

“Which I fully intend to do.” With crisp efficiency, Hendrick dismissed the subject, glancing beyond Quentin to where Brandi sat. “Brandice? Are you certain you’re up for this, my dear?”

“I’m certain.” Brandi rose, looking so small and lost that Quentin was accosted by a sudden and vivid memory of the precocious six-year-old who’d wept on his sleeve the day her first geranium died.