Formidable Lord Quentin (25 page)

He’d grown up wrestling with three strong brothers and a
herd of cousins. He regularly worked off his frustrations at Gentleman Jackson’s.
Tubby, aging, stable hands didn’t stand a chance against brute strength.

The man looked startled when Quent marched down the front
steps, but he didn’t have the sense to run. Hiram continued picking at his
broken fingernails as if he were waiting for someone. Which made Quent
hesitate.

What if he could catch the notorious dollymop as well?

Deciding a bird in the hand was better than two thugs on the
loose, Quent strolled past the lout, flicked open the blade on his walking
cane, and spun about. With the knife end at Hiram’s back, he murmured, “You’ll
be coming with me, sir. Walk slowly or I might slice out your liver.”

Nervously peering from behind the front window draperies,
Bell watched as Quentin marched her father’s former stable boy toward the back
alley. Lifting her skirt, she raced down to the kitchen door she’d entered just
moments ago. It was all very fine for Quent to say he was taking care of her,
but she damned well wanted to know what was happening so she could defend
herself. And her family.

She’d spent her youth protecting her family. The instinct
did not go away with disuse, she realized with disgust.

She was waiting in the tiny garden by the time Quent prodded
Hiram through the gate. Hiram fell to his knees at Quent’s shove. He looked
startled to see her, but his bulging eyes always looked surprised. He’d
apparently tarted himself up in a shiny frock coat and threadbare linen from
the second hand store for this visit.

“My lady, I didn’t do nothin’!” the ruffian pleaded, recovering
quickly from his surprise. “Tell this rapscallion to back off, that I’m just an
old family friend.”

“You were never my friend, Mr. Kennedy,” Bell retorted,
keeping a stiff distance and wearing the expression of disdain she’d perfected
for just such occasions. “You toadied to my father, perhaps, and sometimes
Uncle Jim, but never me.”

“That’s cause you were just a youngster! But it’s different
now, ain’t it?”

“How is it different, Hiram?” Quent asked menacingly,
leaning against the gate so his prisoner couldn’t escape. “Threatening the
lady’s solicitor sounds like business as usual in the Wexford way.”

“Didn’t threaten,” Hiram countered mulishly. “The countess
just let him know we got the estate in hand.”

Quent—blessedly—held his tongue and let Bell address this
one.

“The countess, is it?” Bell asked coldly. “And Uncle Jim has
filed his papers claiming the title with the English court, all right and
proper now, did he? Will he be taking his seat now that he’s a lord?”

Hiram grew sullen and tugged at his soiled tweed vest, which
hung well below his frock coat waist. “He’s like your da, not much on court and
such. But that don’t make him no less an earl.”

“Well, yes, I’m afraid it does,” Bell said with insincere
sympathy. “It would have behooved Uncle Jim to stay in touch with my father
instead of pretending da was dead all these years and usurping his title. Because
my father has an heir, and my brother’s guardian is quite a stickler for
legalities. But that doesn’t explain your presence. What do you want, Mr.
Kennedy?”

“Don’t want nothin’,” he protested. “Just standing by,
waiting for someone. You got no cause to be treating me like this. There’s
laws!”

Waiting for someone
.
Bell exchanged a glance with Quent, who nodded to show he understood.

“Well, no, actually,” Quent offered nonchalantly. “The lady
owns the property and if you don’t have her permission to be loitering outside
her gates and you can’t show you have business here, then the law will throw
you
in gaol, not us. So perhaps you’d
best start stating your business.”

Persuading information out of a hired hand was a waste of
time. She wanted the real offender. Bell feigned a yawn. “Just tie him up,
dear. We’ll wait to see who else shows up. Perhaps we can have a small soiree.”

“My pleasure,
dear,
”
Quent said with a wicked grin. “Shall we let him shout so the rest of the party
knows where to find him?”

Bell pretended to ponder. “It’s a little late for a tea
party in the garden,” she said, noting the darkening skies. “Perhaps we could
simply truss him up until morning, and then let him call to his fellows.”

“A nice night for the stable,” Quent agreed. “We’ll give
your family time to show up.”

Bell hid her grin. So, he understood who Hiram was waiting
for.

“Excellent.” Without a backward glance to the cringing man
on his knees in her garden, Bell swept inside.

Once there, she hurried to the front window again. As suspected,
Hiram hadn’t been outside her door to catch some sun.

She smirked in triumph as she noted a plump female wearing
gaudy, wide pink skirts from her mother’s day—possibly from the countess’s
wardrobe—standing on the corner, looking puzzled. The woman paced back and forth,
peering up and down alleys, ignoring the curious stares she drew from street
urchins and passersby.

Bell didn’t have Quent’s swordstick. Not knowing who might
be lurking in the shadows, she didn’t dare make a target of herself. She needed
to hire more footmen.

No, she didn’t, not when she had Quent. Happiness surged
through her at the sound of his boots in the back part of the house. She opened
the front door and pointed out the figure in pink. “Dolly,” she murmured. “Will
you use a sword on her?”

“Come along.” He caught her elbow and led her out. “Let’s
have that tea party.”

***

Not seeing any threat in a pair of brass-faced
parvenus
, Quent was almost enjoying
himself. He hoped Nick and Fitz would find the uncle in Ireland as simple to
deal with as Dolly and Hiram.

The pink-garbed female turned and noted their approach with
alarm, but Quent caught her elbow before she could decide which way to run.
Bell graciously linked arms on the other side, and they dragged her,
protesting, toward the house.

“Honestly, I can’t imagine what you’re about, accosting a
lady just walking! It’s above enough that I can’t stroll down a London street—”

Bell raised her eyebrows, snickered, but held her tongue.

Quent followed her up the front steps, where her butler held
open the door, his dignity entirely undisturbed by their ranting guest. It may
have helped that Quent had greased Butler’s conscience with a purse of coins
earlier.

“Well, I never . . .” the frump was protesting. “It’s not as if I
meant to
intrude . . .
”

“Then just what did you mean to do, Mrs. Boyle?” Quent
asked, relishing the moment as the would-be countess halted to take in Bell’s
elegant parlor. “In society, one waits for an invitation before appearing on
someone’s doorstep.”

With her overlarge breasts spilling from an old-fashioned
bodice that was meant to be accompanied by a modesty piece, the faded beauty
flung back her wilted bonnet. Her once blond hair had lost its luster and
looked more haystack than crowning glory, but then, Quent allowed that he might
be prejudiced. Next to Bell’s dignified beauty, any woman would fade away.

“Fat chance that Miss High-and-Mighty would invite
me
inside,” the blonde declared irately.
“Not once did she ask after me or her ailin’ uncle or any of the rest. But now
there’s somethin’ in it for her, she sends her sneaks around, lookin’ to see
what they can steal.”

Behind the woman, Bell looked amused. She gestured at Quent
to continue.

“If you’re referring to Lady Belden, might I introduce her?”
Quent suggested.

“Lady Belden!” Mrs. Boyle looked as if she might spit. “That
imp from hell ain’t no lady, for all she was born into the family. Who are you
and what are you doing in her house? Hires servants to do her dirty work, does
she?”

Quent lifted his eyebrows, understanding Bell’s amusement.
He gestured for her to take the next act.

“Why, Dolly,” Bell simpered, “I’m that hurt that you’ve
forgotten me. I hadn’t thought I’d harmed your hard head when I brought that
vase down on you. How sorry I am that you’ve lost what little brain you
possessed.”

Bell had smashed a vase over the head of her father’s
mistress? Quent would have liked to have seen that. He eyed her with
appreciation, realizing the depths he had yet to explore.

The appalled Mrs. Boyle swung around and glared. “
You
? That can’t be you. Don’t play me
for a fool, girl. You’re no lady. Anyone can see that. Where’s your jewels, I
ask you? And look at that gown! It looks no more than something that should be
worn to bed. You’re his lightskirt, no doubt. What kind of shady goin’s on am I
caught up in?”

Quent feared Bell might double up laughing. So much for
protecting her from fearsome relations.

“Be that as it may,” Quent said solemnly, “may I present my
fiancée, Lady Isabell, dowager marchioness of Belden? Or was there another
lightskirt who hit you over the head with a vase?”

“Izzy?” the creature screeched in disbelief, realizing her
error. Then feigning a faint, she staggered backward toward Quent.

He stepped aside and let her stagger a little further so she
collapsed on a sofa.

“Izzy?” he murmured as Bell wrapped her hand around his arm.
“Do I get to call you Izzy when you swat me with a fan?”

“Calling me Izzy will earn a swat,” she murmured back,
admiring the performance on the sofa. “Do you think she will slide off for
effect or call for her smelling salts?”

Quent tapped his finger against her lips to silence her and
addressed the problem. “Dear me, Mrs. Boyle, where is your maid? I fear the
household isn’t in the habit of carrying smelling salts. My Izzy never suffers
from the vapors.”

Bell pinched his hand but snickered.

He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in ages.

The mop-haired Dolly straightened and attempted to regain
some of her lost dignity. She tugged at her pink silk and glared. “How’d ye
know my name?” she demanded.

“Providing you actually have a marriage certificate to prove
the name is yours,” Bell said with exasperation, “it’s the name you gave my
solicitor. It was not very difficult for me to deduce who had come to town
asking after me and for me to point you out to Mr. Hoyt. Again, what are you
doing here?”

“I could do with a cuppa tea,” their guest said petulantly.

“We could put her in the stable with Hiram,” Quent
suggested, losing his patience.

Mrs. Boyle’s faded blue eyes grew wide in alarm. “You ain’t
hurt him, have ye? He be the only one worth anythin’ ’round the place now that
Jim’s down with the ague and dropsy all the time.”

“You’re right, this grows tiresome,” Bell said in her
world-weary voice, expressing no sympathy for her supposedly ailing uncle.
“She’s looking for excuses and doesn’t have any, which means they were up to
something nefarious. My guess is that they hoped the house was empty so they
could break in and look for Dream’s papers. The horse would be worth
considerably more with those. Let’s call the watch.”

“I’d do no such thing,” Mrs. Boyle said in indignation.
“Hiram said he’d just scout about a bit if I’d keep an eye on his back. We just
wanted to talk to ye, all pleasant like.”

This time, Quent snickered. “By Jove, I can imagine how
pleasant it would have been for Bell to come home and find the two of you
sitting in her parlor. You do know her servants are hired pugilists who use
their fists as weapons? Did you think we’d leave my lady alone?”

Dolly paled more, if that was possible. “Izzy ain’t never
been one to need servants,” she complained. “We thought she’d be about the
countryside on her horse.”

“You have my horse,” Bell snarled.

Which was when Quent finally grasped some portion of Bell’s
refusal to ride again. It didn’t make logical sense, but as an
eighteen-year-old, she had been deprived of the animal that had been her
mother, father, home, and source of income for years. She was clinging to a
memory while avoiding any new attachment—
just
as she avoided attaching herself to him.

If he considered how she’d turned to Edward and been cast
aside . . . her rejection of all emotional connections almost
made sense.

He was finally beginning to understand the woman. He knew
she was loyal. He hadn’t understood how deeply her feelings ran. Her defensive
tactics had new meaning . . . and the ability to shatter his
soul.

“I’ll sell ye the horse,” Dolly offered. “Just let me and mine
have what’s rightfully ours.”

“And what is that?” Quent demanded. With his new
understanding of Bell, he struggled with panic. If Nick didn’t find the mare—
he could lose Bell
.

“Jim’s got to be the earl so he can keep the estate. He
worked all his life for that bit of rocky land. It’s his. No young upstart can
have it.” Dolly crossed her arms defiantly over her ample bosom.

“That’s impossible,” Bell said in frustration. “The law
dictates inheritance, not us. You and Jim can continue living there as always.
No one’s denying you that.”

“If my young ’uns can’t count on that land as theirs, you’ll
not ever find your damned horse,” Dolly retorted. “That’s that, and I’ll be
leavin’ now.”

She struggled to rise from the low settee. Quent left her
there. He wrapped his arm around Bell’s shoulders, but they were as stiff and
unforgiving as fortress walls.

“You’ve moved the horse?” he asked.

Dolly pushed herself to her feet and adopted a mulish
expression. “You think I’m stupid? The old nag is all I got to bargain with,
her and her expensive get we can’t even sell. But I found a Tinker what will
take them if you don’t. I’ll guarantee you’ll never find them unless you give
us what we want.”

She stalked toward the door, where Butler waited to let her
out.