Victoria stood up and came around the desk to slip an arm around the older woman’s shoulders. “You’d leave me, Willie?” she asked mournfully, resting her head against the side of Wilhelmina’s ample bosom. “You know I was only teasing, don’t you?”
“Here now,” Wilhelmina scolded, disengaging her mistress’s arm before she succumbed to the urge to cradle Victoria in a motherly embrace as she had done years ago. “That’ll be enough of that, Missy. Besides,” she continued after she had snatched up her feather duster and launched an attack on another row of books, “now that the Professor isn’t here to naysay anything, you can keep your books anywhere you want to, right?”
Victoria leaned back against the front of the desk, a slowly widening smile lighting her features as she contemplated the bookshelves as they would look when lined with row after row of her books—volumes that would reflect her deep love of art, music, and fine literature. “I’ll keep Mrs. Radcliffe on a top shelf, though, Willie, just so as not to injure some visitor’s sensibilities,” she decided, beginning to enjoy the thought of at last being her own mistress. But the smile faded as she remembered that hers was to be a short-lived independence.
“At least we won’t be pinching pennies quite yet, Willie. I found another hundred pounds, stuck between the pages of one of the Professor’s daily journals I was reading this afternoon,” she told Wilhelmina now, for the time had more than passed to keep secrets from the housekeeper.
“Did you now?” Wilhelmina observed, peering around the room as she contemplated the fortune that could be concealed between the covers of Quennel Quinton’s extensive collection. “Do you suppose the money belongs to Lord Wickford now?”
Crossing her arms militantly across her chest, Victoria responded loftily, “The will said he was to get the collection. It mentioned nothing about anything hidden in the collection. Besides, he’d do nothing more lofty with the funds than to spend them on some painted dancer from Covent Garden or some such thing. No! I shall use the money to investigate the murder. I’m sure that’s what the Professor would have wished me to do.”
“Quennel Quinton never wished for anyone to do anything with money,” declared a deep voice, “except give it to him so he could squirrel it away—and you know it, Willie Flint!”
“By the holy Peter!” Wilhelmina Flint screeched, throwing up her hands in dismay.
Victoria turned fearfully toward the doorway at the familiar tone of the man’s voice, only to see the Professor standing just at the edge of the rug.
“Good afternoon, ladies. The door was open, so I let myself in,” he said, just before Victoria Quinton, who had always thought herself above such missish displays, slid gracefully to the floor in a swoon.
CHAPTER SIX
VICTORIA RETURNED to consciousness slowly, her first thought concerning the fact that she was somehow lying down on the drawing room settee in the middle of the day with her shoes on. Her second thought was—naturally—that Willie would tear a wide strip off her if she could see her acting with such callous disregard toward the furniture.
Then vague memories of what had transpired in those last moments before her swoon sent her blood to pounding through her veins, and she opened her eyes a fraction, calling tentatively, “Professor?”
“Not likely” came the amused answer, and she turned her head warily on the pillow to peer at the elegantly clad man standing in the middle of the room.
“You!” she bit out, swinging her legs to the floor so that she could come to a sitting position, a move that sent the room spinning slightly before her eyes for a moment. “Ohhh, my poor head! What are you doing here, sirrah? How dare you remain alone in a room with an unconscious female? Have you no decency at all?”
Patrick Sherbourne, unruffled by this outburst, walked leisurely toward a small armless chair near the settee and sat down before deigning to answer. “You are correct, Miss Quinton, to point out my lapse in observing the proprieties.”
“I should certainly hope so!” she said primly, arranging her skirts over her knees.
“However,” he went on, undaunted, “in my own defense I must say that I have in the past had occasion to be alone in other rooms with other horizontal females, so you may see why I did not realize my error sooner.” He paused a moment—for effect, Victoria was certain—then added, “Of course, none of them were unconscious at the time, you understand. After all, I do have my reputation to maintain, don’t I?”
Victoria’s hands clenched into fists as she fought to take hold of her temper before it got the better of her, causing her to disgrace herself by picking up the statuette on the table in front of her and ramming it firmly into Lord Wickford’s left ear. “I withdraw my observation on the proprieties, sir. Clearly I am wasting my breath pointing out any impropriety to one such as you. But I would like to ask you a question, if I may?”
“You may,” Patrick agreed, “although I cannot promise to have the answer at my disposal. I’ve just arrived, you see. The front door opened at my knock—it was slightly ajar—and after debating a bit I decided it would be best if I entered and ascertained for myself whether or not there was anything amiss. After all, the burglar may have come back for a second go-round, mightn’t he?”
“And I was just lying in here—alone?” Self-consciously, Victoria raised a hand to assure herself that her black mourning gown was still securely buttoned up to her throat. “Weren’t you worried that I had been murdered?”
Patrick carefully removed a small speck of lint from his pantaloons and held it up to the light. “That distressing thought had occurred to me, but of course I dismissed it at once,” he answered languidly. “You see, drawing on what I’d gleaned from our initial meeting, I deduced that there isn’t a single soul in all the British Isles with enough moral courage to try to harm so much as a single hair on your head.”
“Indeed,” Victoria said tartly.
“Yes, indeed. It would take a braver man than I to attempt to overpower you, Miss Quinton. Why, your tongue alone could slice a man to ribbons before he could muster a counterattack. Then there’s your appearance…”
Victoria sat up very straight and glared at him from between narrowed eyelids. “And what, pray tell me, is so very intimidating about my appearance?”
Patrick ran his gaze over her figure, from her untidy topknot to the heavy black shoes sticking out from beneath the hem of her woefully out-of-fashion gown, and shuddered delicately. “Please don’t force me, Miss Quinton. After all, I am a gentleman.”
“Miss Victoria! You’re awake!” Wilhelmina burst into the room like a whirlwind, a small glass vial held high in one hand and a damp cloth clutched in the other. “I was that worried when you fainted, not that I blame you, for I don’t. I made Quentin wait in the library after he carried you in here, so you wouldn’t wake just to see his ugly puss and go off again. Here, dearie, take a sniff of this,” she ended, dropping to her knees beside the settee and taking the stopper out of the vial.
“Oh, take it away, Willie!” Victoria begged, pushing the bottle back from her nose as the stinging fumes brought tears to her eyes. But Wilhelmina’s mention of someone named Quentin brought her up short, and she grabbed the housekeeper’s other wrist to hold her there. “I thought I saw the Professor come into the library, didn’t I, Willie?”
Victoria’s grip was painfully tight on Wilhelmina’s wrist, and the housekeeper hastily bobbed her head up and down in the affirmative, hoping her answer would result in her freedom before her hand turned blue. “Yes, yes, Miss Victoria, you thought you saw the Professor,” she agreed, tugging hard until at last her wrist was free. “Lord, you’ve got quite a grip for such a scrawny thing, child.”
“Strong men quail before her, that’s what I’ve heard,” Sherbourne put in silkily as he helped the housekeeper to her feet, and Victoria grumbled something unintelligible under her breath.
“Here, now,” said a voice from the door. “Take your hands off my beloved, or prepare to defen
d yourself!”
“Beloved!” Wilhelmina scoffed, tossing her head so that her heavy mane of greying red hair shifted slightly in its pins. “That’s a round tale, Quentin, if ever I heard one.”
Both Patrick and Victoria were struck speechless by the sight of the man who was now standing in front of Wilhelmina, an ingratiating smile lighting his face.
At first sight there was no reason for either of them to believe they were seeing anyone but Quennel Quinton, but a few moments of careful observation banished that disquieting thought from both their heads.
Quennel Quinton had been a rather tall, portly man of about five and fifty years, with blue eyes and a blond fringe of hair ringing his otherwise bald head. The man Wilhelmina had addressed as Quentin was his exact double physically, except perhaps for the fact that his blue eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief, his rounded cheeks were as rosy as two ripe apples, and his mouth was arranged in an unabashed grin—something Quennel Quinton’s mouth had never seemed able or willing to produce.
And there any attempt at making a comparison between the two men came to an abrupt end. Where Quennel had been sober, almost funereal in his dress, Quentin was clad in loud, flamboyantly styled emerald-green satin, with half a dozen gold chains spanning his considerable stomach. Three glittering rings pinched the pudgy fingers of both of his hands and a diamond as large as a pigeon egg nested in his cravat.
No, this certainly couldn’t be Professor Quennel Quinton come back from the grave—not unless being tucked up temporarily underground had served to addle his senses beyond measure.
Quentin stood very still, seeming to enjoy the fuss his presence was making, as Patrick, quizzing glass stuck to his eye, walked in a slow circle around the man, inspecting him like a tout assessing a possible Derby entry, while Victoria, still sitting perched on the edge of the settee, openly goggled at him, her mouth slack.
“You’re a relative, of course,” Patrick said at last, allowing his quizzing glass to drop. “I don’t believe we saw you at the funeral.”
“Yes,” Wilhelmina cut in, obviously not in the mood to kill the fatted calf for this supposed returned prodigal. “So seein’ as how you’re too late to either steal the pennies off his eyes or the brass nails from his coffin, why did you bother to come, Quentin? There’s no money for you, you know. Not a single bent brass farthin’.”
Quentin turned to Patrick, a sad smile on his face. “Ain’t exactly tumblin’ over herself to welcome me back, is she?” he asked blithely. “Ah well, it’s not like I was expectin’ her to fall on my neck weepin’ with joy, you know. Give her time, your lordship, that’s what I say. I know she still loves me.”
“Love you? Love you!” Wilhelmina shot back heatedly. “You left me to rot while you went off chasin’ rainbows. Snuffed my love like a candle, that’s what you did. So if you think you can just come trippin’ in here after all this time and call me your love, Mr. Quinton, let me tell you—”
Quentin winked at Sherbourne. “See? I told you. She’s crazy in love with me.”
“Oh, fie on you, Quentin Quinton!” Wilhelmina cried, flapping her great white apron a time or two in a shooing motion before raising it to cover her flaming cheeks as she ran from the room like a hysterical young girl.
All this time Victoria had been sitting there, her eyes going back and forth from Quentin to Wilhelmina to Patrick, like a helpless spectator trying her best to keep watch on a flying shuttlecock during a game of battledore, unable to summon up so much as a single question that had anything to do with the conversation then taking place. But now, with the housekeeper gone (taking with her the disquieting thought that the woman had a torrid romance hidden in her past), Victoria at last found her voice.
“Who—who are you?” she asked hollowly.
Sherbourne patted her on the shoulder in a maddeningly brotherly way. “Not a very original question, my dear Miss Quinton, and certainly not up to your usual standards, but I do believe you are heading in the right direction.”
Turning her head slowly so that she could look directly into Wickford’s eyes, she pronounced two words slowly and distinctly: “Go…away.”
“Here, now, young’un, is that any way to talk to his lordship?” Quentin scolded, looking from one to the other of the young people in consternation, finally directing his bright blue eyes at Sherbourne. “You are a lordship, ain’t you, young fella? You look like a lordship.”
“Patrick Sherbourne, Earl of Wickford, at your service,” Patrick admitted, bowing in Quinton’s direction. “My compliments, sir, and those of my tailor, who has repeatedly told me that clothes do make the man.”
Quentin smiled again, clearly delighted to be in the presence of an earl, and held out his beefy, beringed hand. “Quentin Quinton, if you don’t already know it. It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”
Victoria stood up, exasperated beyond belief at the polite exchange taking place between the hated Wick-ford and this strange man who must surely be related to her, heaven only knew how. “Isn’t this all just too pleasant for words,” she bit out sarcastically. “Shall I ring for the tea tray now, or do you wish for me to withdraw so that the two of you can have a pleasant coze in my drawing room?”
“Feisty little thing, ain’t she?” Quentin asked Patrick before lowering his considerable bulk into a nearby chair, whose springs protested loudly under the strain. “Reminds me of her mother, bless her dear departed soul, although she doesn’t seem to have poor Elizabeth’s looks. Pity. I had hoped—”
The sound of a heavy object hitting the far wall with some force brought Quentin up short, and both he and Patrick turned to look at Victoria, who was still on her feet, and looking more than a little incensed. “Will you please tell me who you are? I feel as if I’ve been somehow transported to Bedlam. Look what you made me do!”
Shebourne obligingly looked in the direction she was pointing and saw the heavy book that now lay against the base of the wall, its spine badly splintered. “Elizabeth, then, was also a bit overvolatile?” he asked Quentin placidly, ignoring the fact that Victoria was standing not two feet away from him, her hands clenched into tight fists.
“Not exactly overvolatile, your lordship,” Quentin corrected, “but game as a pebble, dear Elizabeth was. Never did understand how she ended up with Quennel, but her father arranged the marriage, and there was nothing the poor child could do to gainsay it.”
“Ohhh!”
“You screeched?” Sherbourne asked Victoria, who had just dropped heavily back down onto the settee, her amber eyes flashing fire. “Really, Miss Quinton. I know you are not in the custom of receiving visitors, but even the most elementary show of good manners seems to be beyond you. You are to entertain guests, not quiz them or—most definitely—subject them to the sight of ugly temper tantrums. Perhaps you should withdraw, just until you can gain control of yourself.”
Quentin chuckled his appreciation of Sherbourne’s wit, but his face sobered as he looked at the girl, who appeared to be on the verge of hysterics—or murder. “Victoria, my dear child,” he said, frowning, “please forgive me for shocking you and then ignoring you. But I must say, I was a bit surprised that you refused to call me Uncle. I know your father and I didn’t exactly get on over the years, but—”
“Uncle?” Victoria interrupted, slowly shaking her head. “I believe I must have misunderstood you, sir. The Professor had no brothers.”
Quentin’s troubled expression cleared as at last he understood Victoria’s confusion and the reason he had not been informed of his brother’s death. “No brothers, is it, niece? Well, tell me now, how do you like this? The departed Quennel was not only my brother, but my twin brother. I’m the older by five minutes,” he added, turning to Sherbourne.
“And may I say you also were the recipient of all the looks and personality,” Patrick replied, clearly amused. “I don’t mean to pry, Mr. Quinton, but perhaps you will be good enough to answer one question. Where have you been keeping yourself, if Miss Qu
inton here has never heard of your existence?”
Quentin reached up to scratch at the bit of blond fuzz that sat above his left ear. “Well now, your lordship, that’s a long story, and I’m feeling a mite parched. Victoria, do you think you could scratch up something in the way of some liquid refreshment for your poor black-sheep uncle?”
Victoria was still feeling disoriented, still struggling to take in what she had just heard. “I—I imagine I could have Willie make some tea,” she offered weakly, never thinking to offer any of the Professor’s private stock of brandy as she herself had never known the taste of strong spirits.
“Tea! That’d be the day. I should have known Quennel wouldn’t have any good wine in the house. Cheap as a clipped farthing, that was my dear brother,” Quentin retorted, winking at Patrick as he reached a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a flat silver flask. “Just fetch us a couple of glasses, niece. Right, your lordship?”
Patrick couldn’t remember the last time he had been so diverted. Whether it was the flask or Victoria’s ridiculously shocked expression at the sight of it that set him off, even he couldn’t have said, but suddenly he found himself lying back against the chair cushions, laughing out loud.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“AND THAT’S ABOUT IT, your lordship. Quentin married Elizabeth and the two of them traveled straight here to London, with my darling Willie coming along after leaving a message for me warning me never to darken her door again unless I was willing to give up my reckless ways.”
Victoria and Patrick had been listening with great interest for nearly an hour as Quentin told them about his checkered youth in Sussex. The only sons of an impoverished, widowed cleric, Quennel and Quentin Quinton had been raised in a drafty, run-down rectory, dependent on Elizabeth’s father, the local squire, for their daily bread.
The questioning Miss Quinton Page 6
