Emerald Garden (30 page)

“I know what’s at stake.” Brandi leaned back, searched his eyes. “Do you?”

“So well that I want to envelop you and free you all at once.”

“What if I don’t want to be freed?”

Silence.

“Quentin,” Brandi murmured, easily interpreting the clashing emotions that warred across his face, understanding them with an intuition as old as time. “No matter what’s changed between us, you’re still my best friend. You always will be. I want you with me, if only for comfort.” A mischievous smile darted across her lips. “And, should your never-failing control falter, mine shall take over. “ ’Twill be an interesting switch, wouldn’t you say?”

Laughter rumbled in Quentin’s chest. “Very interesting. And how, my impulsive hoyden, will you manage that?”

“I suppose you’re too arrogant to believe I’m totally immune to your charms?”

The laughter faded as quickly as it had come. “To the contrary, Sunbeam, I’m humbled by what happens when you’re in my arms. And I’m as helpless as you to prevent it.”

Brandi lay her palm against his jaw. “Emerald Manor is yours. Need I remind you that the cottage includes your own bedchamber?”

He turned his lips into her palm. “Ah, but will I use it?”

“That’s entirely up to you.”

“You’re tempting fate, you know.”

“No, I’m tempting you.”

Another chuckle. “You have no idea how much.”

“I think I do. In fact, I’m counting on it.” Brandi’s eyes sparkled. “I’m also counting on the fact that you’ve never been able to say no to me.”

Quentin raised his head. “Nor you to me,” he reminded her.

“True.” She gazed up at him, her heart in her eyes. “Stay with me.” she repeated quietly. “Mrs. Collins will be here to silence any wagging tongues. Bring Bentley, as well. After all, once news of my accident becomes public, everyone will assume I’ll need constant ministrations. Knowing how close our families are, the
ton
will simply presume that you and Bentley are helping Mrs. Collins take care of me.”

“Which I intend to. In light of what’s happened, I don’t want you left alone for one bloody minute.” Quentin frowned. “Damn. I’ve got to see Hendrick.”

“He’s probably at Colverton. He said he planned to meet with Desmond today.”

“In London, not here. And speaking of my brother, I have a few unresolved issues to take up with him—when he gets his head out of a bottle long enough to listen.”

“So do I. I want to show Desmond the ledger and ask him about Papa’s unreasonable losses.”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t give the ledger to Ellard then?”

“Of course not. I told him to copy down the figures so I could show the ledger to you.”

“Excellent. Where is this ledger?”

Pointing to her gown, Brandi grinned. “Under here. Would you care to fetch it?”

One dark brow rose. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I’m fully prepared to be burned.” She nuzzled the bare warmth of Quentin’s throat. “Go to London if you must.”

“No.” A tremor rippled through him, and his arms closed possessively around her. “I’ll ride to Colverton, deal with Desmond. But I’m not returning to London. I’ll instruct my brother to bring Hendrick back to the Cotswolds with him following their meeting. At which point, you and I will both have a chance to give voice to our questions. And our concerns.”

“Fine. Then don’t leave at all. You can simply send Desmond a missive, telling him to escort Mr. Hendrick directly to Emerald Manor.”

“That won’t work. Bentley left instructions with poor Sanders to apprise Desmond of your accident the instant he awakens. You and I both know that, once Desmond hears the news, he’ll insist on stopping here en route to London—the dutiful guardian looking after his charge—especially once he learns that I’ve returned. No, I’d rather deal with Desmond now. Besides”—Quentin gave Brandi a melting smile that singed her down to her toes—”I’ve got to go to Colverton anyway. To pack.”

Chapter 14

“S
ANDERS, IS MY BROTHER
awake?” Quentin demanded, crossing the front hallway in long strides.

“Only just, my lord.” The valet finished his descent from the second-floor landing, pausing now and again to glance uneasily over his shoulder. “How is Lady Brandi, sir?”

“Weak. Shaken. But fine. Have you told him?”

Sanders had no time to reply.

With a thud and a curse, Desmond staggered to the head of the steps, tightening the belt of his dressing robe and glaring at Sanders. “What the hell is going on here? I asked for a drink.” From the corner of his eye, he spied Quentin. “Oh, I should have guessed. The incomparable Lord Quentin has returned to Colverton. Tell me Sanders, was that the crucial announcement you were hovering about me to make—the one that precluded your following orders and fetching me a fresh bottle of Madeira?”

“No, Desmond, it wasn’t,” Quentin said, his tone as stony as his stance. “Sanders was trying to tell you Brandi’s been hurt.”

Desmond’s surliness vanished. “Hurt? How?”

“She was shot.”

“Christ—when? Is she all right?”

“Several hours ago. And, yes, she’ll recover. She’s dazed and weak, both from blood loss and shock. She’s also in a fair amount of pain. But, luckily, the bullet missed its mark and grazed her temple. Any closer would have killed her.”

“Missed its mark? Are you saying someone tried to murder Brandice?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Desmond swore, raking an unsteady hand through his hair. “Who the hell would want to …” He broke off, glowering at his valet. “Why didn’t someone awaken me right away?”

“Sanders attempted to,” Quentin returned, assessing his brother with utter distaste. “But you were even more uncooperative at that time than you are now. Difficult as that might be to believe.”

“I didn’t get to bed until dawn. I was exhausted. But for something like this”—Desmond shot another malevolent look at his valet—”you should have tried harder.”

“Sanders is as splendid a manservant as they come,” Quentin inserted, sparing Sanders the indignity of defending himself. “ ’Tis hardly his fault that you’re too deep in your cups to know day from night.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sanders acknowledged quietly.

Color suffused Desmond’s face. “Evidently, my valet’s been talking out of turn.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Quentin refuted. “I have eyes. You’ve been perpetually drunk since Father’s death.”

Desmond’s lips thinned. “We’ll discuss my habits another time, Quentin. Alone,” he added pointedly. “Right now, Brandice needs me. I’ll get dressed and go to her.” He turned and headed back toward his room.

“Don’t,” Quentin directed Sanders, staying the valet’s progress with his hand.

“He’ll need my assistance, Lord Quentin.”

“I’ll give him all the assistance he needs. I have a strong feeling he’d prefer to be alone for the conversation we’re about to have.”

“Oh, I see.” Sanders mopped his brow uncertainly.

“In the interim, I’d appreciate your finding my valet and asking him to pack a bag for me. And one for Bentley. We’ll be moving to the cottage.”

Sanders blinked in surprise, but aloud all he said was, “Of course, my lord. I’ll advise Wythe at once. I assume he’ll be traveling with you as well?”

“No.” Quentin gestured meaningfully toward the top of the stairs. “I think you’ll require Wythe’s services far more than I. Should it prove necessary, Bentley can act as my valet for however long we remain at Emerald Manor.” A flicker of amusement. “It will help keep him humble.”

Sanders’s lips twitched. “For how many days shall I tell Wythe to pack?”

“I don’t know. That depends on what we learn about Brandi’s supposed accident, and on how quickly she heals. I won’t leave her alone until I’m convinced she’s fully recovered—and not in danger.”

“I understand, my lord. I’ll instruct Wythe to pack enough for an extended stay. We can always arrange for additional changes of clothes to be sent to the cottage as you need them.”

Quentin nodded. “Thank you for your diligence, Sanders. I can understand why Father proclaimed you to be indispensable.”

Unconcealed gratitude shone in Sanders’s eyes. “Thank
you,
my lord,” he said simply.

Ascending the first step, Quentin paused. “By the way, I’d suggest waiting about a half hour, then delivering that bottle of Madeira to Desmond’s chambers. He’s going to need it.”

“As you wish, sir.” Sanders bowed and hastened off.

Jaw clenched, Quentin took the stairs two at a time, never slowing until he reached Desmond’s chambers.

He flung open the door.

Desmond whipped around in surprise, an empty bottle clutched in his hand.

“I thought you were dressing,” Quentin noted with icy derision.

“I am. There’s not even a bloody drop left.” Desmond slammed the bottle onto his nightstand and looked past Quentin into the hallway. “Where the hell is Sanders?”

“Busy. I told him I’d assist you.”

Desmond tensed. “Does that mean you know who shot Brandice—and why?”

“Not
who.”
Quentin closed the door and leaned back against it.
“Why
should be obvious, even to a mind clouded by liquor.”

“I’m perfectly sober,” Desmond retorted, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. “But if you’re implying there’s some correlation between the carriage accident and …”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Quentin interceded. “It was murder. Stop denying the truth by burying your head in a bottle. Glovers made the Bow Street findings quite clear. The carriage axle was severed.”

“Even so, how does that relate to Brandice? Tell me the details of this shooting.”

“She was in the woods at Emerald Manor. Evidently, so was her unseen assailant. He waited, then followed her and fired. She’d be dead had it not been for her squirrel, who attacked and clawed at the intruder until he fled. It’s that simple.”

“How do you know it wasn’t a trespasser, hunting on the cottage grounds?”

“I don’t. But, on the heels of our parents’ murders, I suspect otherwise.”

“I’m still at sea. What connection is there between the two incidents? Brandice wasn’t anywhere near Father’s carriage when it went off the road.”

“No, but Ardsley was.”

Silence.

“You think Ardsley was the target?” Desmond managed.

“ ’Tis certainly possible. And, if so, Brandi could now be in danger. She is, after all, Ardsley’s daughter and has inherited all that was his.”

“I need a drink.” Desmond weaved toward the door.

Quentin seized his arm. “I’m not finished. In fact, I’ve barely begun. We have another matter to clear up, which is why I asked Sanders to leave us alone.”

“My Madeira …”

“Later.” Quentin’s grip tightened. “After I’ve said what I came to say.”

A muscle flexed in Desmond’s jaw. “What do you want, Quentin?”

“Answers. Explanations. Admissions.”

A glimmer of uncertainty flashed in Desmond’s eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the War Department.” Crossing the room, Quentin yanked open the drawers of Desmond’s chest, tossing a shirt and cravat on the bed. “Start getting dressed. You have an appointment in town.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Desmond snapped. Abruptly, he held up his palm. “Never mind. The ever-efficient Bentley.” He ignored Quentin’s command. “What about the War Department?”

“That’s where I spent the last few days. You do recall that, don’t you?”

“Of course. I’m not feeble. My memory is intact.” Desmond casually fingered his shirt. “So, when will you be setting sail for the colonies?”

“Your memory is indeed splendid,” Quentin commended with a mocking smile. “Considering I never mentioned the details of my meeting at Whitehall.”

“Y-you told me you’d been summoned.”

“Did I? Evidently, my memory is not nearly as reliable as yours. In either case, I am certain I never specified the reason for my summons. Nor where the War Minister intended for me to travel.”

Silence.

“Tell me, Desmond.” Quentin cocked an inquiring brow. “Does the name Lathrop mean anything to you? What a foolish question. Of course it does. You just told me your memory is intact. Therefore, how could you forget a discussion you had not one week past with one of Bathurst’s aides?”

“Very well.” Resentment flashed in Desmond’s eyes. “Yes, I recall Lathrop. And, no, I’ve forgotten neither our discussion nor our arrangement.”

“Excellent. Then tell me, are you so eager to have me gone that you’ll resort to blackmail in order to ensure my departure?”

“I’d resort to worse if it would drive you away.”

The vehement admission hung in the air.

Quentin drew a slow inward breath. “Ironic, isn’t it? This is, I believe, the first honest conversation we’ve ever had. Bearing that in mind, and at the risk of endangering our new brotherly bond, might I ask why you’re so eager to rid yourself of my presence? Is this all because of Brandi?”

“Yes. No. Damn.” Desmond flung his shirt to the bed. “You’re in favor of honesty? Fine. Here it is. I’ve wanted Brandice forever. But in her worshipful eyes, no one’s ever existed but you. Finally, after putting myself through hell, risking things you couldn’t possibly imagine, I’d very nearly won her over. Then you came home. And suddenly all my plans were for naught. She’s bloody infatuated with you all over again. And what’s worse is, now you want her, too, despite all your claims to the contrary. Do you think I’m blind? Damn you, Quentin, haven’t you taken enough of what was mine?”

“Brandi was never yours, Desmond.”

“She could be. If you’d stay the hell away from her.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why? Because of your supposed friendship?”

“No. Because I’m in love with her.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Quentin wondered who was more stunned to hear the words spoken aloud, he or Desmond.

A timid knock sounded. “Your Grace?” Sanders opened the door a mere crack. “I have your Madeira, sir.”

“It’s about time.” Desmond stalked across the room and yanked open the door, snatching the bottle from Sanders’s hands. “Now get out.”

“Yes, sir.” Sanders backed away, glancing briefly in Quentin’s direction. “Your bag is packed, Lord Quentin. As is Bentley’s.”