Emerald Garden (7 page)

“I agree, sir. But, where will you stay?”

“ ’Tis not as if I don’t have a home here at Colverton, Bentley. I’ll stay here—tor however long I remain in England.”

“You plan to return to the continent?”

“When I’m needed, yes.”

Silence.

“Sit down and eat, Master Quentin,” Bentley said at last. “You need your strength.”

Quentin complied, absently chewing his food, his thoughts troubled and faraway.

A prolonged interval elapsed.

“Bentley—” Quentin broke the silence at last, finishing his last bite and pushing aside the empty plate. “Has much changed since I’ve been away?”

“Changed?” A split second of hesitation, as telling as it was brief. “Are you referring to anything in particular, my lord?”

“No. Yes.” Quentin’s head came up, his probing gaze leveled at the butler. “I’m referring to Desmond. Has he, or any one of his relationships, undergone a transformation recently?”

Bentley’s cough was uneasy. “I’m not certain how to answer that, Master Quentin,” he responded, his composure slipping but a fraction.

A fraction was enough.

“It appears you know precisely how to answer that.” Quentin was more determined than ever to get at the truth. “Bentley, I’m asking you to tell me what you know. How have Desmond’s alliances altered while I’ve been—”

The sound of the front door opening interrupted Quentin’s interrogation. With obvious relief, Bentley reacted, veering abruptly to return to his entranceway post. “Please excuse me, Master Quentin. We’ll continue our talk later.”

“Yes, Bentley, we most definitely shall.”

Quentin had no time to ponder Bentley’s uncustomary state of off-balance. An instant later, Desmond strode into the sitting room, his expression dark and brooding. He barely nodded in Quentin’s direction, simultaneously tugging off his cravat and crossing over to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.

“Is Brandi all right?” Quentin demanded in response to his brother’s obvious agitation.

The question seemed to intensify Desmond’s annoyance. “Yes. Brandice is fine.” He tossed off the contents of his glass. “However, you and I need to have a talk.”

“Do we?” With a measured look, Quentin altered his tactics, sensing that some of his answers were about to find him. He leaned back in his chair, casually crossing one leg over the other, his posture deceptively relaxed. “I assume this talk pertains to whatever was plaguing you in Hendrick’s office.”

“Indeed it does.”

“Does it concern the terms of Father’s will?”

In the midst of refilling his glass, Desmond sloshed a bit of brandy onto the sideboard. “Father’s will? Why would you suppose that?”

“Because it’s a logical assumption. What else could possibly have upset you?” Quentin baited, convinced that the real cause for his brother’s unsettled state had only to do with Brandi.

His suspicions were heightened by Desmond’s terse response.

“I’m not distressed over Father’s will.” His hand now steadied, Desmond faced Quentin, shoulders squared with purpose. “I’m distressed over Brandice.”

“Brandi?” Quentin’s brows rose in apparent surprise. “Why? Has she done something to anger you?”

“Hardly. ’Tis her future that worries me.”

“Her future?”

“Yes. ’Tis now my responsibility to shape it—as her legal guardian.”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed on Desmond’s face. “Not to shape it, Desmond; to oversee it.”

“I see little, difference between the two.” Desmond set down his glass, slapping his palm on the tabletop and leaning forward to regard his brother. “But the point is a moot one.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. The significant factor here is that, as a result of the accident, Brandice feels very much alone. Just as fate has robbed us of our father, so it has done to her.”

“My mother died in that carriage as well,” Quentin added icily. “Perhaps that detail is of negligible importance to you. But not to me. And not to Brandi, who adored Mother as if she were her own. So I think it’s safe to assume that Brandi is also mourning that loss.”

“I apologize for the oversight. Yes, Pamela’s death is an equally devastating blow—for you and, perhaps even more so, for Brandice. Which only escalates my concern. The impact of this disaster has left Brandice vulnerable and in shock.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“I would hate for anything …” A pregnant pause. “Or
anyone
to intensify that shock and thwart her recovery.”

That did it.

Like a lion prodded by a stick, Quentin lurched forward in his chair. “Are you implying that
I
would do anything to hinder Brandi’s healing?”

“Not intentionally, no.” Visibly startled by his brother’s uncharacteristic outburst, Desmond softened his approach. “Quentin, you’ve been away for over four years.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“Things have changed since you left.”

“For example?”

“For example, Brandice has grown up. She’s no longer the worshipful child you bid goodbye, nor is she the reckless young girl who galloped wildly through the woods by your side and raced barefoot through the stream at Emerald Manor. She’s twenty years old now, very much a woman grown.”

“I have eyes, Desmond. I can see precisely what Brandi is—and what she is not.” Quentin’s jaw set. “Can you?”

“Very clearly.”

“I wonder.”

“Would you like to know what I see?” Desmond demanded. “I see a frightened, abandoned young woman who needs someone to lean on, someone she’s certain will remain by her side.”

“And, if I view this brotherly chat in light of what I’ve witnessed these past few days, am I to presume that someone is you?”

Desmond’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “I’ve never left her. As the duke of the manor, I’m committed to Colverton and will reside here for the rest of my life. I have no obligations which could take me away from England, perhaps permanently. Can you make the same claim?”

Quentin’s gut twisted, his brother’s intimation striking home.

“ ‘Tis no secret that Brandice adores you, Quentin.” Seizing the opportunity, Desmond pressed his advantage. “She always has. In all ways but blood, you’re a revered older brother. But I cannot permit you to use that affection in a manner which could cause her pain.”

“And how would I accomplish that?”

“By lulling her into a false sense of security. By encouraging her to depend upon you, leading her to believe you’re home to stay, then deserting her the moment the military summons you: journeying to God knows where, putting your life in jeopardy, and perchance snatching away one of Brandice’s final remaining constants.”

“You make it sound as if I intend to willingly embrace death, arms open wide. I assure you, I don’t.”

“Embrace it, no. But the very nature of your career commands that you live, day by day, at the heart of battle. Can you honestly claim you aren’t perpetually at risk? Can you guarantee your safe return?”

A muscle worked in Quentin’s throat. “You know I can’t. But, Desmond, after seeing the way our parents’ lives were snuffed out, can you really claim that the life of a duke holds guarantees? Can you truly promise Brandi forever?”

“Perhaps not. But the odds of survival are far better as a landowner than as an army captain. And, even excluding the possibility of death, your career is abroad, Quentin, not in England. Your presence in the Cotswolds will always be temporary. How much security will that offer Brandice?”

Something inside Quentin snapped. “Is all this concern for Brandi stemming from the fact that you’re her newly appointed guardian?”

“No, all this concern for Brandice is because I intend to become her husband.”

Quentin had thought himself prepared for precisely this response.

He wasn’t.

“Brandi’s husband,” he reiterated, the words burning like bile in his throat. “Interesting that she never mentioned your betrothal to me. Tell me, how does she feel about becoming your wife?”

“I can only surmise.” Desmond’s expression was the epitome of candor. “I hadn’t the chance to offer for her before Ardsley’s cruel and unexpected death. But if you’re asking if Brandice cares for me, I believe the answer is yes. I also believe that had tragedy—and your homecoming—not intervened, Brandice’s and my betrothal would be an imminent reality.”

Quentin gripped the arms of his chair. “I can understand how the accident would deter your plans. But my homecoming? How does that interfere?”

“That’s a particularly stupid question, Quentin.” Desmond’s tone was bitter. “As we just discussed, Brandice’s affection for you is undeniable. Equally undeniable is your, shall we say, less than enthusiastic opinion of me. It stands to reason that Brandice would be negatively swayed by your sentiments.”

“Not if her feelings for you are as strong as you’ve implied,” Quentin refuted.

“You underestimate your influence over her. Nevertheless, that is not the point. The point is that I will not stand by, as Brandice’s guardian, and allow you to build up her hopes, then dash them.”

“How noble. So what do you suggest? That I have nothing to do with Brandi while I’m in England? That I wipe out a lifetime of friendship in order to deter any feelings of dependence?”

“Of course not. I’m merely asking that you emphasize the temporary nature of your stay. And the brotherly nature of your feelings.”

A caustic smile. “And the pure, untainted nature of yours?”

Desmond inhaled sharply. “I don’t need you to plead my case, Quentin. What exists between Brandice and me will flourish on its own—so long as no one interferes.”

An icy chill blanketed Quentin’s heart. “Do you even know Brandi? Have you any idea what she’s about or what makes her happy?”

“The Brandice that existed four years ago? Maybe not. The Brandice of today? Yes, I believe I do. I suggest you ask yourself that same question.”

The brothers’ gazes locked.

“Pardon me, Master Desmond, Master Quentin.” As was his way, Bentley knocked and entered simultaneously. “But a gentleman is here to see you.”

“Send him away, Bentley. We’re not receiving any visitors so soon after Father’s death.” Desmond turned, assessing the butler reprovingly. “Moreover, I think we should discuss your form of address. I realize you’ve known me since I was a tot. Yet I wonder if you comprehend that I am now the Duke of Colverton. Bearing in mind your many years of service, I’ll permit your informality during private moments such as this, but I expect you to address me as ‘Your Grace’ in front of others.”

“I’ll try to remember that, sir.” A muscle twitched briefly in Bentley’s jaw. “As for your visitor, I wouldn’t recommend sending him away. I believe he is with the authorities—if I comprehended his title correctly, that is.”

“Did the gentleman wish to see us both?” Quentin’s amusement at the butler’s pointed sarcasm was eclipsed by his sudden sense of uneasiness.

“Yes, my lord, he did.”

“Then you may show him into the library, Bentley,” Desmond directed stiffly. “We’ll join him there.”

“Very good …” Bentley turned on his heel. “Your Grace,” he added over his shoulder.

“Does that insolent man understand who works for whom?” Desmond muttered to Quentin.

“He
does,” Quentin responded dryly. “I’m not at all certain
we
do.” Already on his feet, he headed for the door.

“Quentin.” Desmond stayed him with his hand. “Before we go see what this man wants, do we understand each other? With respect to Brandice, that is.”

A cold nod. “We do.”

“Then you’ll …”

“I’ll do anything in my power to keep Brandi from being hurt,” Quentin clarified. He shrugged off Desmond’s restraining hand, his mind totally consumed with their awaiting guest and the unknown cause of his visit. “Let’s go see what the authorities want.”

The lanky man rose the instant Quentin and Desmond entered the library. “Gentlemen,” he said without preamble. “Forgive me for intruding during this period of mourning. I wouldn’t be here, were it not a matter of crucial import.”

“We assumed as much,” Desmond replied curtly. “What is this about?”

“You are the Duke of Colverton, I presume?”

“I am. And this is my brother, Lord Quentin.”

A nod. “My name is Glovers, and I work with the Bow Street magistrate.” He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, my lord, I’m afraid I have some very unpleasant news for you. It concerns the recent deaths of your father, his duchess, and the Viscount Denerley.” Glovers opened his portfolio, rustling an official-looking page before him. “To be blunt, we’ve just determined that the late duke’s carriage did not veer off the road by chance. It was tampered with; one of its axles severed partway through.”

“What the hell are you suggesting?” Desmond demanded.

“ ’Tis no mere suggestion, Your Grace. The occupants of that carriage did not die by accident. They were murdered.”

Chapter 4

H
OW IN GOD’S NAME
could he break this news to Brandi?

Quentin asked himself that question for the hundredth time as he alighted from his phaeton, making his way across the sun-drenched gardens of Emerald Manor to the cottage ahead.

It was just shy of ten a.m. He’d left Colverton a half hour ago, praying that the right words would materialize en route to his shooting match with Brandi.

They hadn’t. In truth, even after yesterday’s grueling session with Glovers and a painfully sleepless night, Quentin himself had yet to come to grips with the abhorrent reality that someone had actually murdered his parents and Brandi’s father. So how could he expect Brandi to endure that knowledge? And what answers could he provide to her questions, when the authorities themselves were stymied?

For over an hour, Glovers had grilled him and Desmond, each minute of the arduous interrogation leading to the same unanswerable questions:

Who had tampered with the Colverton carriage?

Who was the intended victim: Kenton, Pamela, or Ardsley?

And the most heinous question of all: why?

Utterly baffled, Glovers had taken his leave, no closer to the truth than when he’d arrived. After which, Quentin and Desmond, both dazed and drained, had retired to their separate bedchambers, each needing to deal privately with his own shock and grief.