Formidable Lord Quentin (5 page)

“They’ll do splendidly once we polish their accents,” Jo
said in approval. “I take it they weren’t entirely raised by wild Indians as
rumor has it.”

Bell gave an unladylike snort. “Not entirely, although I
suspect the Indians may be more civilized than my father was. I have Summerby
investigating the girls’ circumstances. They claim Kit’s mother was a nanny,
but I suspect she was a governess. She seems to have taught them more than I
knew at that age.”

Jo sipped her tea and raised knowing eyebrows. “So, then,
tell me what is troubling you and how can I help?”

Belle didn’t hesitate. “You can ask your husband to speak
with the duke to see if he will support me when I sue for guardianship.”

“I talked to a duke,” Tess was still exclaiming the
morning after Jocelyn’s dinner party. “And a viscount . . .
That’s less than a duke, isn’t it? But he was so charming!”

Syd hung on to every word, crumbling her toast over the
breakfast table. “Were any of them young? Handsome? What did they talk about?”

Tess wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Montague was handsome, but he
was the youngest, and he must be in his thirties. And they talked politics and
said terrible things about the American government.”

Bell reached over and patted her hand. “I hope you do not
have holes in your tongue this morning. You did an excellent job of smiling
prettily and stabbing them with your eyes. I am very proud of you.”

She was bursting with pride. Even Jocelyn had agreed that
Tess would do well once she’d learned enough about society to actually converse
instead of just giving speaking glares. At least, Bell hoped Tess would learn
to speak up. Right now, her sister spent most of her time assessing the
situation—probably as a result of their unfortunate upbringing.

“Do you ever have real parties with dancing and people my
age?” Syd asked wistfully.

“We will.” Bell didn’t know how or when, but she would make
it happen. Syd was much too young and unpolished to be introduced to the
sophisticated society functions that Bell attended, but young people must
gather somewhere. She added one more thing to her growing list to do.

She loved challenges and it was wonderful to have her family
back. This might turn out to be the most exciting summer she’d ever had.
Conquering society had been terrifying, but now that she’d done it, she was
confident she could push her sisters to the highest peaks.

A footman arrived carrying a visitor’s card. Bell glanced at
the card and pushed back her chair. “Have Mr. Summerby taken to the study,
please. I will be right with him.” She picked up the papers she’d been trying
to peruse while her sisters chattered. “We should be ready to take the shops by
storm this morning. Wear your new gloves and forget those dreadful Methodist
bonnets. Try the hats you picked from my wardrobe, and we’ll be on our way in
an hour.”

That stopped any further demands for parties or arguments
over politics. Shopping was a fabulous distraction, for now. Bell didn’t know
what she’d do once they realized all her friends were married and too caught up
in their own lives to include the younger set. Bell might be content with a
night at the opera or a card game with an elderly acquaintance. Her sisters
wouldn’t be. She couldn’t rely on Jocelyn to keep them entertained—political
dinner parties were really not the thing for young girls.

But neither was Scotland.

Mr. Summerby rose from the wing chair when she entered.
Bespectacled, with receding gray hair, and a definite paunch beneath his
unadorned waistcoat, he looked every part a fastidious solicitor. Bell had no
idea of his age, but his face bore wrinkle lines only about his eyes. She’d
hired him upon a friend’s advice after Edward’s death, when Edward’s solicitor
had insisted that she needed a man to look after her investments—and that man
should be him.

Summerby, on the other hand, had agreeably accepted her
orders, even when she’d been giving away fortunes to her protégées. If he made
suggestions, he didn’t argue if she rejected them. That didn’t happen often.
His recommendations had always been superb.

“Butler brought you tea?” Bell inquired. “Most excellent.”
Edward had always called his butler by the name of Butler until no one
remembered the servant’s real name. Bell had tried asking once, but the staid
retainer had appeared horrified at the idea of change.

“I thank you for coming out, sir. This is a delicate matter,
and I didn’t know how to phrase it in a letter.”

“For you, my lady, I would sail the Thames,” Summerby said
with a twinkle behind his glasses. “Your projects always keep me on my toes.”

“Yes, well, suing a marquess for guardianship ought to have
you ballet dancing. I hope I will not be adding one too many challenges to your
repertoire.” Bell took the seat behind the desk and produced her notes.

The solicitor returned to his chair and opened the portfolio
he’d brought with him. “Your generous fees allow me to hire more assistants. I
am at your disposal. I have notified the marquess of your father’s will, as is
required. I’ve not heard back from him. Your brother’s credentials have been
filed with the courts. Unless there is some complaint, there should be no
difficulty with his claim to the title.”

“My father might have been an inveterate gambler, but he
knew all about English courts,” Bell said dryly. “I’m sure he was more than
happy to cough up whatever sum it took to ensure that his heir claimed his
worthless title rather than allow the crown to have it. That may be a problem.”

Mr. Summerby looked at her over his spectacles and politely
waited for explanation.

Bell tapped her fingers on the paper, looking for a way to
state the matter so as not to sound like an hysterical female. “The marquess
may not be the only one we must take to court. My father had a younger brother.
Uncle Jim was raised with my father and treated by my grandfather as one of the
family. My grandmother was deceased, but Jim’s mother never lived with us. I
had assumed he was illegitimate, but I could be wrong. If he has been acting in
my father’s place, it’s to be expected that everyone will assume my father
looked on him as his heir. Knowing my father, he may even have even encouraged
that belief, since he had only daughters when he left. I doubt that proof one
way or another can be found.”

Summerby clasped his hands over his paunch and waited.

Satisfied that he understood the first part of her
difficulty, she continued. “Jim is not educated but he knows how to grab
advantages, even if they may be illegal. He will not willingly release any
control of the estate that he’s achieved. One of the many reasons I adored
Edward when I married him was that he legally bound and gagged Jim so
thoroughly that he’s not once come after me for money. I found this document in
Edward’s files after his death.” She shoved a piece of paper across the desk.

Summerby scanned it. “Edward was a brilliant businessman, no
doubt about it. So part of your settlement was that this uncle was granted a
life estate in the earl’s land as long as he made no demands on you or yours.”

“Which is why I’ve never inquired into my father’s affairs.
The lands were not part of my dowry, and I had no wish to ever speak with Uncle
Jim. The man is a lazy bully with a nasty temper. I was happy to be rid of
him.”

“But now . . . you have a little brother who
will inherit those lands, and when he comes of age, he will have some say in
their management. And this personage may even attempt to disqualify the boy’s
legitimacy.”

Bell took a deep breath and tried not to cry. “Not only
that. There is plenty of time to worry over land management, and I don’t doubt
our eventual ability to establish Kit’s claim. My concern is more immediate. I
have just learned that . . .” How did she say it without
sounding a fool? “I had a mare, a powerful Thoroughbred I raised and nurtured after
her dam died when I was only fifteen. Little Dream won every race I ever
entered except that last one.” When the mare had stepped into a mud hole and
thrown Bell over her head, thus losing the match, the farm, and her freedom,
but that was neither here nor there.

Summerby frowned and polished his glasses. Courteously, he
waited.

“When Edward agreed that my father could take all his
animals with him, he told me that Little Dream was part of the bargain, and that
I could not keep her.”

The mare had been the mother and confidante Bell had never
had, the freedom and independence that had saved her sanity, the proof that she
was more than an uneducated worthless female. Losing the horse had been akin to
losing herself.

She’d tried to understand her father’s decision at the time.
Little Dream had been extremely valuable. Her family needed the money her horse
could earn. She’d bit back her tears, surrendered a little piece of her soul,
and grown up quickly.

Taking a deep breath and letting her eyes dry, she continued
with determination. “I have just learned that the mare was with foal and
couldn’t be taken, so my father left her with Uncle Jim. I want her back. I
want her and her
offspring
back. And
I will not take no for an answer. Jim is a brute who beats animals. He has no
doubt ruined my mare, but I will not let her die at his hands if it can be
prevented.”

Summerby nodded and began taking notes.

***

With the letter from his father scorching a hole in his
coat pocket, Quent strode stiffly toward the Belden townhouse. He clenched his
walking stick so hard, he had to loosen his grip so as not to break the
expensive piece.

He despised having his hand forced. He’d requested that his
father be reasonable and give him time to find a compromise. But no, the old
man had seen the glint of potential gold, and his resentment toward the late marquess
raised its ugly head. Quent growled and a mangy dog dashed out of his way.

Send the wenches and
the new earl of Wexford here,
the letter had commanded. Quent could
practically hear the glee in his father’s voice.
We’ll marry the girls off to your brothers and betroth the earl to your
niece. The dowager can afford to dower them handsomely.

If her hand were forced, Bell would no doubt tie any dower
funds up in a trust so tight that his father couldn’t lay hands on it. Not that
his father cared as long as more of his liabilities were bartered off and
provided for, whether they liked it or not.

The marquess thought in terms of assets and liabilities when
it came to family members. Bell would tear the old man limb from limb if she
knew.

In resentment that his request for compromise had been
ignored, Quent had dashed off his own demand:
Give
Bell the guardianship or
the manor won’t be seeing a new roof.
He could almost hear the old man
weighing the coins on either side of that argument. Their battles always ended
in a counting of coins. Quent almost preferred swords.

A drunk in disheveled tail coat returning home from an
evening’s revels staggered into Quent’s path, then righted himself and nearly
fell onto an elderly lady. With a snarl, Quent grabbed the fellow by his wilted
linen and yanked him upright, daring him to take offense.

The drunk obliged and swung his fist. Quent caught it, twisted
his opponent’s arm behind his back, and shoved him on his way. The drunk
yelled. The lady cooed. The altercation didn’t provide satisfaction. He stalked
on.

Belle had not called on his aid once in the past week—an
ominous sign on top of the disaster in his pocket. Reaching her door, he rapped
with his walking stick, harder than entirely necessary. Behind him, the drunk
still staggered and shouted aimlessly.

Quent had a need to beat someone, but even he must admit
that complete strangers might not be the best target. Bell’s drunken father
would be his preference, but digging up a moldering corpse might be considered
a bit odd.

And he understood his own father’s desperation too well to
consider taking a stout stick to the old man.

Wondering what was taking Bell’s servants so long to answer,
Quent stretched his shoulders in his close-fitting jacket in a futile effort to
relax.

He twirled his stick and promised himself that in a moment
he would be holding a snifter of the late marquess’s best brandy. The servants
knew his preference, and he could settle into the handsome study with the
latest newssheets until Bell deigned to acknowledge him. The late marquess
might have been a pathetic old miser, but Quent respected his penchant for fine
furniture and valuable books.

Still, no one answered his knock. Quent twisted his
neckcloth in the heat. The whole household could not have taken a day off. He
rapped again, more sharply. This time, a harassed looking footman answered,
gazed at Quent in dismay, and offered entrance. The Chippendale tables in the
foyer lacked the luster they’d possessed last week. The tall clock didn’t seem
to have been wound.

Howls of fury and outrage echoed from the normally tranquil
upper stories. The footman raced off to the nether parts of the house.

Before Quent could find his own way to the study, a savage
war whoop erupted on the stairs above him, accompanied by a clatter of boots.
Unprepared to be assaulted in Belle’s normally serene haven, Quent held his
stick at readiness and braced himself for whatever descended.

He set the stick down again when his four-foot high attacker
appeared on the landing clothed only in knee-length shirt and riding boots.
Smears of red adorned his chubby cheeks, a bedraggled peacock feather hung from
a braided lock, and he wielded what appeared to be a wooden kitchen mallet.

The brigand leapt from the last few stairs squalling war
cries. With the benefit of experience, Quent grabbed him by his shirt back
before he could cause harm, then dangled the imp above the floor. More whoops
and shouts ensued but Quent’s arm was longer than the wild Indian’s legs, so he
averted any damage.