Formidable Lord Quentin (20 page)

“It’s like learning to saddle your own horse,” he added when
she showed no interest in trying the knot. “One should know the sport from the
ground up.”

That made more sense, and she nodded agreement. Before she
could speak, however, another footman arrived in the doorway.

“Mr. Acton Penrose and Mr. Carlyle Summerby have arrived, my
lady,” he intoned in disapproval.

Apparently neither man had presented his card, and their
arrival time had warranted the city servant’s disdain.

“Show them in, Vickers, and bring them a brandy. They must
have had a hard ride out here.” Bell turned questioningly to Quent.

He shrugged. “I told Penrose to follow with my horse if he
wished. Perhaps Summerby sought me out for some reason, and they joined
forces.”

Summerby entered protesting. Apparently the earlier mist had
turned to rain. Both men were damp and still wearing boots. Bell didn’t think
she’d ever seen her portly solicitor wearing boots. She hadn’t known he could
ride.

“My lady, I did not mean to intrude upon your dinner hour,”
Summerby said, attempting to right his damp coat and maintain decorum. “I can
wait in an anteroom until you have a moment to spare.”

Bell smiled at his ruffled dignity. She wielded her title
and position to good effect when needed, but not with people she liked. “This
entire house is an anteroom, Mr. Summerby. Until we have furniture that does
not collapse when sat upon, we must be informal. The two of you shall join us
for dinner. Vickers, please take our guests to dry chambers and let them
freshen up and tell Cook we will be slightly delayed.”

She tried to remain serene and perform her duty as the
perfect hostess, but inside, she was panicking. Summerby would never ride out
here unless the matter was urgent. He would have sent a messenger.

Quent looked as if he’d rather follow his aide out of the
room, but he continued entertaining the girls. Bell wanted to be resentful of
his presence, but instead, she was grateful to have someone she could rely on
in case the news was bad.

Which was completely foolish because if the marquess was
demanding delivery of his wards, Quent had no choice except to do so—unless
Bell agreed to marry him.

In his own oblivious masculine way, that was what Quent was
trying to protect her from by offering marriage. She had to accept that he was
on her side.

It was very hard to do. In all her years of living, no man
had ever been on her side before, unless she paid him. She kept waiting for
Quent’s real reason for being here to emerge.

The girls chattered through dinner, thrilled to have male
company on whom to work their wiles. Bell attempted to steer the conversation
in adult directions when she could. Quent was his usual taciturn self, joining
in when business was mentioned, ignoring gossip. Bell sensed he, too, was
worried about the abrupt appearance of their guests.

She wasn’t about to let him receive the news before she did.
After dinner was cleared away, she rose. “Gentlemen, in respect for the long
ride our guests have made, I think we shall forego the usual brandy and cigars
over the table. Syd, Tess, you’ll need to entertain yourselves while Mr.
Summerby and I adjourn to talk business. I assume Lord Quentin and Mr. Penrose
have matters to discuss as well.”

Her sisters frowned worriedly but obediently departed.

Quentin looked mulish. “If Summerby’s news involves my
family, I suggest that we all adjourn together. I don’t need brandy and
cigars.”

Bell raised a questioning eyebrow at her solicitor. Summerby
nervously toyed with his serviette—which indicated that Quent had guessed
right. This involved the marquess.

Penrose confirmed her supposition. “The problem involves the
Hoyt family as guardians. I think Lord Quentin’s opinion would be useful, if
you don’t mind.”

Bell resented her solicitor’s nod of relief but grudgingly
accepted it—for now. Men were strange creatures who feared a woman’s reactions.
They found safety in numbers, apparently. She ought to be cheered that it took
three of them to deal with one of her.

She led the way to the library, wrinkling her nose in
distaste at the musty air. She noticed with approval that the new staff had at
least dusted out the cobwebs.

She eyed the array of cracked leather and worn upholstery
and chose a wing chair near the cold fireplace, leaving the men to test the
rest of the furniture. Quent, naturally, took a large leather chair and dragged
it across from her. A footman set up a table with the brandy decanter near him.
Penrose and Summerby carried smaller wooden chairs over to join them.

“Odd as it may seem, I did not think to acquire cigars,”
Bell said wryly. “May I now ask to what I owe the honor of your presence?”

Summerby clasped his hands nervously. More assured of his
place, Penrose spoke for him.

“We’ve both had visits from a most . . . you
will pardon my expression, my lady . . . obnoxious creature who
claims to work for your family.”

Bell felt the blood drain from her face. “
My
family?” She took a deep breath and
acknowledged the possibility, although she hadn’t heard from any of them since
her marriage. “Since my mother was orphaned young, I suppose you mean my
father’s family. Did he give a name?”

Apparently now that the ice had been broken, Summerby
recovered his poise. “He gave his name as Hiram Kennedy, and said he worked for
the Earl of Wexford.”

Bell almost spit out the sherry she’d been sipping.
Recovering, she dabbed a handkerchief to her lips. “Hiram?
Hiram?
He used to be my father’s stable boy. Does he claim to work
for the dead then?”

“No, my lady.” Summerby twisted his brandy snifter
awkwardly. “If you will remember, you asked me to make inquiries. I sent an
agent to do so. I fear he exceeded his boundaries and imparted information—”

Penrose interrupted. “Wexford’s family had to be told he was
dead. They would have learned it sooner or later since the marquess has sent
inquiries to establish the extent of the estate. As the boy’s guardian, it’s
Belden’s duty to establish the condition of the lands the earl has inherited.
Your agent wasn’t at fault.”

Bell had the sinking sensation she knew where this was
headed. She refused to look at Quent, who had yet to say anything. She admired
the way he waited until he had the facts before offering an opinion. “Go on,
please, Mr. Summerby. What brilliant bit of blackmail has my uncle chosen?”

Summerby relaxed a modicum at her understanding. “I gather
from my agent that your uncle’s wife has taken to calling herself countess. My
agent merely made inquiries into the object you sent us to retrieve. He assures
me he made no reference to you or the children, merely asked after—” He tugged
at his cravat and glanced toward Quent.

Bell grimaced. “It’s all right, Lord Quentin is family.
Quent, I asked Summerby to inquire into a mare of mine I had just learned
wasn’t sent to America with my father. I thought perhaps I could acquire her or
her foals for Fitz.”

She’d thought no such thing. She’d simply reacted with joy,
terror, and panic, and this was the result. Dispassion and logic were far safer
than overwhelming emotional reactions. One would think she’d have learned by
now.

But they had Little Dream! She couldn’t abandon her first
love to her uncle’s crude care. It was killing her that the mare may have been
neglected . . . just as she and her sisters had been. She took a
deep breath and blocked out what couldn’t be changed.

She ought to be furious that the Scots marquess had poked
his nose in where it didn’t belong, but she was too accustomed to the
high-handed methods of Beldens. And she could scarcely blame anyone for her
father’s relations being a pack of scoundrels.

Quent nodded and continued to wait without playing his
hand—so very different from the quarrelsome men of her family. His composure
helped maintain hers at times like this.

Summerby sipped his brandy and gathered his thoughts. “My
informant tells me the mare lives, although it’s malnourished and poorly
treated. According to my sources, your uncle was unable to provide proof of
ownership or the mare’s breeding, so he couldn’t sell her or the foals
outright. The stallion she produced is a good prize winner, but the stud fees
are minimal without the proper papers.”

“And my uncle, him being the lazy sot he is, did not attempt
to write me or mine, or even forge the papers, like any man with half a wit might
have. He simply did what he’s always done, racing the ponies and letting heads
roll as they may.” Bell bit her tongue. Her accent deteriorated when she was
angry. And she was exceedingly angry despite her deceptively quiet tone. To
mistreat an animal as brilliant and sensitive as Little Dream— It did not bear
thinking on.

“What has this to do with the obnoxious personage?” Quent
asked, sipping his brandy with every appearance of calm, although with Quent,
it was hard to tell calm from furious.

He’d carried her through the house today as if she were a
stuffed toy and had seemed to enjoy it. The man was dangerously volatile
beneath that deceptive exterior.

“Lady Belden’s aunt apparently made inquiries after we asked
after the mare,” Summerby explained. “At first, she was eager to sell. Once she
learned of the earl’s passing, she rejected the offer. She now insists she will
only surrender the animals if her husband’s claim to the title is uncontested.
My agent assured her that was impossible. He left, giving her my address in
case she changed her mind. The obnoxious Mr. Kennedy arrived soon after my
agent presented his report to me. Mr. Kennedy repeated the . . .
lady’s . . . demands and apparently sought additional
information on the children, which we did not provide, but we thought you
should be warned.”

Bell frowned in perplexity. She couldn’t imagine Uncle Jim
going out of his way to find someone to bully. What would be his purpose in
sending Hiram to make inquiries? “I didn’t even know Uncle Jim had married.
Does he have children, perchance?”

Summerby made an expression of distaste. “Several children
live in the house. One assumes they are his.”

“And the name of this pristine example of motherhood and
aristocracy calling herself countess before my father was even laid in his
grave?” Bell asked.

“Mary Dolores O’Malley Boyle is all I know, my lady.”
Summerby looked hopeful, as if there might be some possibility that Jim had
married someone important.

Bell knew better, and it took all her strength not to laugh
hysterically. “My father’s former doxy,” she admitted.

And the whore had her hands on Little Dream and her
offspring.

How did one hire an assassin?

“This is the reason I never married,” Quent complained to
Penrose, pacing the chamber he’d taken next to Bell’s. “Women become embroiled
in the most unreasonable tangles, and then they do even more inane things in
ridiculous attempts to become unentangled.”

“You never married because you wanted Bell and didn’t have
time or patience to court anyone else,” Penrose countered rudely, studying the
peeling wallpaper with fascination. He tore a strip and peered under it.

“It’s a damned good thing you’re more friend than aide or
I’d give you your walking papers.” Quent started to drop into a chair, then
remembered the earlier debacle with the broken leg. He’d picked a chamber based
on its closeness to Bell’s, not the amenities. He tested the moldering
upholstery before settling his weight into it. “Bell checks on her family for
the first time in ten years because of a doddering old mare?”

“I heard the story on the way down here. Summerby is being
excessively polite. By all accounts, the uncle has a reputation for brutalizing
animals and people. Lady Bell has no reason to be fond of him, and she has
every reason to be fond of the horse.” Penrose warily took a seat at a desk
with delicate legs and searched futilely for pens or paper.

Giving up, he dug his traveling desk from his baggage. “Her
father’s estate was entailed. It would never go to Bell but presumably to the
uncle—if he can prove his parentage and legitimacy. She didn’t have much reason
to care what happened to the land. Since her father took her horses with him,
she had no connection left to her home—probably Edward’s intent. If Bell sent
Summerby hunting for an animal that could be of little value now, it was
clearly a much beloved pet.”

“Thoroughbreds as pets! I hadn’t thought Bell the
sentimental sort.” Which was the reason he was sitting here growling instead of
heading for his yacht and Ireland.

He had to figure out what the devil he was getting into. He
had never suspected the lady of being the maudlin sort—who would want children
and pets and . . . family. Blast and bother, he hadn’t been
thinking at all except in terms of the lady’s bed and the best way of
negotiating himself into it.

“How many sisters do you have?” Penrose asked, driving the
nail home.

“Six too many,” he grumbled. “But they’re not the
sentimental sort. They don’t treat their horses and hounds as
pets
. They’re for hunting.” Quent gave
that a second thought. “Well, they won’t allow the hounds to be put out at
night, so maybe that makes them guard dogs.”

“No cats?” Penrose asked innocently. “No favorite sheep?”

Quent pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s a moldering
great castle. We used to live with the cattle not that long ago. I thought I’d
escaped all that.”

“You want a woman who dislikes animals and children then,”
Penrose said helpfully, again making his point. “I’ll fetch Fitz’s list. In the
meantime, what do you intend to do about the obnoxious former stable boy and
the doxy?”

Quent peeked warily from beneath the hand he was resting his
head on. “Bell won’t get sentimental over the pair if I have them spit and
roasted?”