Formidable Lord Quentin (4 page)

That was Quent’s thinking, but he seldom revealed his
hand—especially when he wasn’t certain he wished to play it. He nodded, slapped
his tall hat on his head, and proceeded out of the aging edifice that had
probably sat on this narrow medieval street since London last caught fire.

One did not go up against the unyielding majesty of
centuries of English law without a great deal of ammunition. Bell had wealth on
her side. Quent had his own wealth, his father’s title, the earl’s will, and
his gender. The grimy stone buildings around him had been built on centuries of
law that favored men, titles, and wealth. She would lose.

He would lose any chance of winning her bed if he fought
her.

He damned well didn’t want to recommend she marry anyone
else.

He’d sacrificed his youth for his family. How much more of his
hard-won freedom was he willing to sacrifice for Bell’s relations?

He feared he was about to learn how a condemned man felt.

***

The modiste had strewn the Aubusson carpet of Bell’s
newly-refurbished upper salon with bolts of silks, muslins, buttons, bows, and
sample books. The delicately curved blue-and-gold sofa Bell had so carefully
chosen last spring was buried under boxes of feathers, lace, and ribbons. The
girls had jigged around excitedly with the bounty until the once-serenely
elegant chamber now resembled an explosion of colorful plumage in an exotic
zoo.

Bell allowed their delight to assuage her frayed nerves.
She’d heard nothing from Quent or her solicitor. She was about to come apart at
the seams with worry. Perhaps Quent really had gone hunting tutors instead of
interfering where he shouldn’t.

Even if Quent had behaved himself, Summerby would still be
obligated to notify the marquess in Scotland. That gave her a little time to
prepare, she hoped.

“Really, Bell?” Tess asked in wonder, stroking an
elaborately woven fine cotton. “This is what you call muslin? Ours is so much
coarser! And ladies wear fabric like this in public? It is almost . . .
unseemly.”

Since Bell was sitting there in the lightest muslin in her
wardrobe in respect for the August heat, she spread the skirt over her palm to
display it. “One wears petticoats, naturally, but muslin is all the rage. And
Syd really cannot appear in anything else. If innocent young girls may wear
white muslin, then widows certainly can.”

Tess glanced sadly at her dark skirts. “Shouldn’t we all be
wearing black? It’s only been six months since Father died.”

Bell frowned. She had mourned the loss of her father a
decade ago, when he’d still been alive but not to her. “It is very hard to
think of him dead,” she admitted. “I have been picturing him happily riding
broader fields. Do you miss him terribly?”

Both girls looked more uncomfortable than distressed. Tess
finally spoke with a sigh. “We were living in the boarding house that Jeremy’s
parents owned. We did not see Da much these past years since our step-mama
died.”

There was the earl Belle knew. She might paint pretty
pictures of her handsome, laughing Irish father, but they were just that—the
wishful images of a child who missed her home and family. She was certain he’d
loved his family as best as he was able, but he’d spent more time with his
drinking cronies than with his children. That was what he’d been brought up to
do.

And judging from their work-roughened hands, her sisters had
paid their own way—as Wexford women were taught to do to survive.

“I must write and express my gratitude and sympathy to your
husband’s family,” Bell decided, already planning a substantial donation to
them and their church. “I suppose you might wear lavender or gray out of
respect, if you wish, but it’s not wholly necessary. And white is also
perfectly respectable mourning wear, plus absolutely necessary for an ingénue.”

“If I must wear white, then I want the dotted one,” Syd said
with a defiant tone, holding up the fabric to her face and glaring at it. “With
lavender ribbons all over.”

“Syd!” Tess scolded. “Ribbons are far too expensive. You
will not be going anywhere to be seen.”

“Why can I not be seen?” Syd asked. “You were seeing Jeremy
when you were my age.”

“There is no one in Town to see you,” Bell said, diverting
the impending argument. “But there is no reason you can’t have ribbons and
sashes. We haven’t been to the milliner’s yet, so you may want to wait and
choose your colors after that.”

Grasping the opportunity, the modiste produced a rich white
satin. “For the young lady’s presentation, yes? With the lace and pearls . . .”

Both girls fell speechless as the modiste’s assistant held
up examples of how the gown would be adorned in seed pearls amid the lace.

Bell had adored dressing her protégées and Quent’s sisters,
but they had all been pragmatic young women, experienced in pinching their
coins. Tess and Syd, however, had no concept of what materials could be had,
much less their cost. Bell understood she should be careful not to
over-indulge, but she loved shocking them. They deserved a little pampering
after years of desperation.

“First, morning and walking gowns,” Bell corrected the
modiste, wielding her fashion authority. “Once they are dressed for the shops,
we can explore and see what colors and fashions appeal most. They need a little
town bronze before choosing more expensive garments.”

“Very wise, milady,” the modiste acknowledged, setting aside
the luxurious fabric and returning to sturdier broadcloth. “Will the ladies
need habits?”

“Naturally. Boyles are born on horseback. That forest green . . .”
Bell realized her sisters hadn’t resumed chattering, an unusual state if she’d
ever heard one. She glanced at them questioningly.

“We lived in town and didn’t have a horse,” Tess murmured
apologetically. “Daddy sold the mares he took with him.”

The mares that had been Bell’s life and soul for her first
eighteen years. At the time, the pain of their loss had been as great, if not
greater, than losing her family. “Even Little Dream?” she asked, trying to hide
her horror. He father had
promised
to
take care of her mare . . .

“No, we learned Dream was with foal before we left. He left
her with Uncle Jim in payment of debts he owed,” Tess acknowledged, lovingly
folding a piece of lace over her hand, not recognizing the blow she’d just
dealt. “Might I have some of this for a new gown for Beebee?”

Bell nodded, unable to speak through her despair. Dream, the
mare she’d raised from birth, in Uncle Jim’s ignorant care? How had she not
known
this? She’d been told their father
had been allowed to keep his horses to set her sisters up in the new world. For
all his faults, her father was an excellent horseman and would never let harm
come to his animals. She’d thought Dream would be in good hands. She’d wept and
pleaded to keep her mare, but Edward had refused, saying the valuable horse had
been part of the bargain.

So she’d consoled herself thinking Dream would provide an
excellent dowry for her sisters, and then she’d shut the memory and the pain
out of her heart. She had turned her mind to learning to be the best wife and
marchioness in existence, and done her best never to think of her horses again.

And now to learn that her Dream could still be alive . . .

She suffered the despair of an adolescent all over again,
only this time with a mature woman’s sense of responsibility . . .
a deadly combination.

She wanted to rip off heads, and these days, she had the
power to do so.

She’d have Summerby send a groom to Ireland—immediately.

Still stunned, Bell tried to imagine a world where her
father did
not
proudly sit one of his
Thoroughbreds. He’d sold them
all
?
Tess had been a daredevil on horseback before the age of eight. Syd had already
known how to groom her pony and ride like the wind when she’d been younger than
Kit. The true awfulness of their circumstances finally sank in.

“Kit?” Bell asked in dismay. “An earl of Wexford who cannot
ride?”

Looking a little surprised that Bell stuck to the topic,
Tess bit her lip and nodded. She clung to the soft white muslin and lace she’d
chosen for Beebee. “Horses are expensive to keep,” she explained. “We had no
land and no stable.”

At the age of six, Kit couldn’t even ride a pony? That would
not do at all. Bell didn’t know how she would rectify the omission, however.
She hadn’t touched a horse since she’d left Ireland. She didn’t
want
to touch a horse, she reminded
herself. The wound had healed. She refused to reopen it. But she knew her duty.

“That must be corrected at once,” Bell said, hoping she hid
her frown. Just because she would never ride again did not mean the children
shouldn’t. Turning back to the modiste, she gestured at the broadcloth. “Habits
for both of them. Can you recommend a good tailor for boys?”

She jotted down the names but knew she must consult with
Quent or his friends about suitable clothing for a young boy. She had no
familiarity with male accoutrement. Fashionable Nick Atherton would have been
an ideal adviser. He wouldn’t harbor ulterior motives like Quent. And with four
sisters, he was accustomed to shopping. But he and Nora were still on their
wedding journey aboard Nick’s ship.

She would think of
someone
besides Quent to ask.

When Jocelyn Montague sent up her card a little while later,
Bell smiled in relief at the solution. Blake Montague, her husband, worked with
the Duke of Fortham. He knew everyone. “Bring her up at once and fetch some
tea, please,” she told the maid. “Syd, clear some room on the sofa, will you?
If you are to take the town by storm, you will need sponsors, and Mrs. Montague
is one of the best.”

Moments later, statuesque Jocelyn Montague swept into the
sitting room in all her golden glory. Bell watched in amusement as her sisters
gaped. Jo flung off her gold-embroidered pelisse to reveal a stunning blue
Grecian gown that flattered her generous figure. The lady sailed her feathered
hat to a table, set her hands on her curvaceous hips, and studied Bell’s
guests.

“All these years and you’ve been holding out on me, my lady!
I should turn around and stomp back out in utter outrage at the insult. You
have sisters! Why did you never say so?”

Amused at this performance, Bell gestured for her stunned
sisters to rise. “Mrs. Blake Montague, may I present Mrs. Jeremy Dawson and
Lady Sydony Boyle, daughters of the late earl of Wexford. Girls, Mrs. Montague
is the wife of a rising politician and related to Viscount Carrington.”

Both girls bobbed polite curtsies. Jocelyn tapped a gloved
finger to her cheek, nodded approvingly, and took the seat cleared for her.
“Raise them like peas in a pod in Ireland, do you? They’ll be as stunning as
you, once you have them coiffed and gowned. Where have you been hiding them?”

Bell hid a smile at Jo’s bluntness. Her former protégée
might be young, but she wore authority with the ease of a duchess born and bred.

“It’s a long story,” Bell said with a tilt of her head,
indicating the hovering modiste. “We’ll explain later. Madam Evangeline, if
you’ll leave the samples and start on the walking dresses, we’ll call on you
again to complete the order.”

Dismissed, the modiste and her assistant hastily gathered
their supplies. Pretending to pick up around Bell’s chair, Syd whispered, “Lady
Sydony? I am a lady?”

“Of course you are, silly. As is Tess. But I assumed she
preferred her husband’s title. It is her choice. Women wield so little power,
we must take advantage where we can.”

“Women are the power behind the throne,” Jo said solemnly,
stripping off her gloves. “Blake and I will be holding a small dinner party in
a few days, just a few of his boring officials and their wives. If the three of
you would be so kind as to attend, you’ll liven the dull summer, and we’ll gain
an advantage over the biddies for being the first to provide grist for the
gossip mill. The whispers are already rampant.”

“A private dinner party would be an excellent introduction,”
Bell agreed. “Perhaps just Tess, though. Syd would be bored faint.”

“No, I wouldn’t, honestly,” Syd said in eagerness. “I love
parties!”

“You have not suffered through a political dinner,” Bell said
firmly. “I assure you, you would slide under the table. We should contain
gossip and direct it to anticipation of society meeting you.”

Jo grinned. “Devious, milady. I bow to your better strategy.”
She turned to Syd. “We will think of a more interesting affair for your
introduction, something that includes more young people. Will you be attending
finishing school in the fall?”

Syd looked appalled.

“We’ve not had time to discuss anything but infants and
clothes,” Bell said apologetically. “And just now, horses. It has come to my
attention that the earl of Wexford cannot ride. I have been debating inflicting
the lot of them on Fitz and Abby or repairing to Belden Hall in Essex and
buying my own stable.”

The latter made her faint heart quail, but for her siblings,
she would provide Paris, France, if required.

“Fitz and Abby, definitely.” Jocelyn poured her own tea and
helped herself to a biscuit. “Fitz can help you choose a stable should you
decide to improve that distressing manse in Essex.”

“You are right, of course,” Bell agreed with a sigh. “I just
hate imposing on their good natures.”

She really needed to enlist Jocelyn’s well-connected husband
in her cause, but she had yet to tell the girls that their “guardian” was
actually a crotchety old Scot who never left his northern hills.

Fortunately, a maid arrived with a message from the nursery,
and Tess excused herself. Belle waved Syd after her. “Go. We’ll just gossip
about people you don’t know.”

Bell mentally commended the girls’ Irish nanny stepmother
when both performed correct curtsies and farewells before departing.