Formidable Lord Quentin

by Patricia Rice

  A good long gallop out to the edges of town . . . Would accomplish nothing.

  He needed to treat Bell and this situation as he would any other investment that required planning and negotiation. “Quit distracting me. I found a perfectly sensible solution to Bell’s problems, and she tells me no, under utterly no circumstances. What the hell does the woman want? And here I’d thought she was one of the sensible ones.”

  “Lady Bell?” Penrose asked in surprise. “She’s the ultimate mysterious female. Surely there’s someone easier if it’s a woman you want.”

  “Easy women aren’t very interesting,” Quent pointed out, but the thought of other women had his mind leaping to a new direction. Sometimes, negotiating required looking disinterested. “I’m thinking my father might accept my taking charge of Lady Bell’s sisters if I were married.” He mulled the possibilities, looking for the advantages.

  “Why would you want Lady Bell’s sisters if you marry someone else?” Penrose asked, reasonably enough. “You have more than enough of your own.”

  “Pick one, and I’ll give her to you,” Quent said morosely. He didn’t want any other woman he knew. Penrose was right. Marrying to inherit more females didn’t make sense even to him. He simply refused to accept rejection without the kind of fight he knew how to wage—and Bell didn’t.

  “Lady Bell is planning on taking her sisters to visit Fitz,” Penrose said helpfully.

  “She’s running away in hopes her solicitor can find a solution before my father starts enforcing his demands.” Quent understood the fool woman to that extent, at least. It’s the same thing he would have done had he been in her shoes.

  But he was not in her shoes. He was a man of authority who didn’t run away from his responsibilities. And besides, he’d seen a side of the lady that intrigued him and almost convinced him that marriage wasn’t a complete sacrifice. “I’ll follow her down and write my father that we’re introducing her family to friends. He can sit up there on his throne and spin webs on his own for a while.”

  “Web spinning being a family trait and all,” Penrose acknowledged, nodding wisely.

  “Quit chuckling up your English sleeves and tell my valet to start packing. Then help me create a list of eligible females I might marry. Fitz is undoubtedly the first person I should discuss this with.”

  “Oh certainly,” Penrose mocked, “because all the world knows he chose so wisely by marrying a poor farmer’s daughter with a herd of young siblings.”

  “He’s a gambler. I’m not. Betting on love is the worst sort of foolishness, although Fitz manages to win even in that. I prefer to make an informed choice.” He knew Bell better than any woman in London. He was more than informed. He’d seen her toes.

  Six

  “Kit, if you don’t sit still and quit kicking my seat, I’ll have the driver tie you on back with the trunks.” Bell hid her exasperation as her brother ignored her warning and continued kicking with the new boots he’d insisted on wearing.

  “Why can’t I ride on the horses?” he whined.

  “Because they are carriage horses. I have told you we are going to look at ponies, but if you don’t behave, I’ll assume you don’t want one. Read one of the books we brought.”

  “We could tie his feet,” Syd suggested helpfully. “How much longer before we arrive? I’m perishing of thirst.”

  “Me, too,” Kit shouted, bouncing in his seat.

  “You need a baggage wagon to put him in,” Tess said, digging through their lunch basket for the last of the cider.

  Bell hadn’t wanted to ask Quent if she might borrow his carriage to transport tutor, maids, and wiggly six-year olds. He’d accuse her of absconding with his father’s wards. Bell preferred to think of it as strategic retreat until she heard from Blake Montague, or better yet, Blake’s mentor, the Duke of Fortham, about her chances of winning guardianship.

  She had heard nothing from Summerby about Little Dream. She told herself that no news was good news.

  Disturbed by Tess’s movement, Beebee woke from her slumber and began to whimper. Bell lifted her chubby niece into her lap and hummed a lullaby. At least the babe was easily pleased. She leaned against Bell, sucked her thumb, and drooled down Bell’s spencer. Bell twisted the babe’s fair curls around her finger. She had no idea what she was doing, and her doubts were piling higher than the sky.

  “Isn’t that the large gentleman who visited the other day?” Tess asked, glancing out the window after putting away the empty jug. “The handsome one who shouted at Kit?”

  Bell thought a foul word and dipped her head to look out the far window. Muscled legs and narrow hips in tight breeches might be anyone, but the stunning black Friesian gelding was all Quent’s. A smaller bay bearing a more slender man rode along side of him.

  Bell gestured at the driver’s door and Syd. “Tell the driver to halt, please.”

  She transferred Beebee back to Tess and unsuccessfully tried to wipe the drool from her spencer.

  “Exchange seats with me,” she demanded, indicating that Tess scoot over as the carriage pulled to a halt.

  The horses obligingly stopped with the carriage. Bell lowered the window glass. She was far more comfortable flirting than scolding like a fishwife, but she would learn to shout if that was what it took to reach through a man’s thick head.

  Quent lifted his hat in greeting. “Good morning, my lady. Warm day for a drive.”

  “Equally warm for riding, I should think. I do not remember asking for an escort.” There, that seemed respectable and polite without a fishwife in sight.

  “I have business with Fitz and heard you were heading that way also. We thought it might be pleasant to keep you company.” Quent’s dark eyes danced with mischief.

  “Certainly, my lord, most pleasant. I do not believe you have formally met my sisters.” Once Quent had dismounted and opened the carriage door, Bell made the introductions, leaving Kit for last.

  He was kicking the seat as hard as he could, chanting “pony, pony, pony.” Bell grabbed him beneath the arms and shoved him out the door in Quent’s general direction. “Here. Wexford would like a horse ride. I’m sure that will make the journey more pleasant for all concerned. Have a good gallop.”

  Startled, Quent grabbed the young earl. She almost laughed at his stunned expression.

  Relieved of her burden, Bell found a grip on the door and yanked it shut, then signaled for the driver to resume their journey.

  Sitting back in her seat, she couldn’t see Quent’s reaction, but she imagined it with great satisfaction.

  “Lord Quentin is quite handsome,” Tess said warily. “Does he court you?”

  “He courts my money, and I will not have him. Men take away all our rights and treat us as porcelain figurines for their sideboards. They despise it when a woman has a mind of her own and power to go with it.” Bell crossed her arms and glared at the gelding side-stepping nervously outside the window. Kit was probably kicking the unfortunate animal.

  “Is he poor?” Syd asked with interest, dipping her head to watch the struggle between man and boy.

  “No, he’s wealthy in his own right, but he supports his father’s large family. Big houses and big families are a constant drain. They all need to marry well.”

  “But Tess and I are poor,” Syd pointed out. “Why would any of the men in his family be interested in us?”

  “You’re not poor. You’re my sisters. They know I would provide you with a handsome settlement.” As she had her other protégées. She would never let her friends or her sisters do without—which meant their husbands benefitted. “Perhaps I shall have Quent tell his greedy father that I will not settle anything on you if you marry into his family.”

  “That would start a very unpleasant fight with the family with whom we might have to live,” Tess said reasonably.

  So it would. Of course, suing them would have the same effect.

  In less than a fortnight, her tranquil life had descended into turmoil a
nd conflict. She might as well have never left Ireland.

  ***

  John Fitzhugh Wyckerly, seventh earl of Danecroft, and Abigail, his countess, lived in the run-down family estate in Berkshire. The huge towers and ponderous, sprawling silhouette of Wyckersham impressed new arrivals, until they were close enough to notice boarded-up windows, unmown lawns, and deteriorated gardens.

  Considerable improvements had been made in the time since Fitz had taken possession of the family manor, but even the king would lack the fortune necessary to correct generations of neglect.

  Quent decided it was just the sort of medieval atmosphere for pondering his father’s latest irascible demands. The marquess now threatened to send Syd and Kit to school as charity students if Bell didn’t pay their tuition.

  Lachlann Hoyt did not understand women who chose to disobey his orders, and his temper was not ameliorated by his son’s refusal to jump instantly to his command. Quent lived in fear of a carriage-load of Hoyts arriving on his doorstep, demanding the truants and freeloading off his hospitality until he produced them.

  He held his mount and the sleeping earl steady as the carriage pulled up to a halt at Wyckersham’s front stairs. He needed to see Bell again to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing in defying his father’s orders for a woman who had just rejected his suit. At the moment, escaping on his yacht sounded preferable, but he wasn’t a coward.

  Before Bell’s footman could pull out the carriage steps, the front doors of the house exploded open, and children, servants, and the countess spilled down to greet them.

  “I am so glad you have come! Here, let me have Beebee. What a precious doll! Look at your new bib!” Lady Danecroft cooed at the toddler. At the same time, she directed servants to relieve Quent of his sleeping burden and sent children scampering back up the stairs with bags and parcels.

  Quent admired her efficiency. “Wellington should hire you, my lady,” he said, dismounting to aid the ladies from the carriage. “Your troops respond instantly to command.”

  “The trick to children is keeping them interested and busy. They’re all agog at having visitors.” Lady Danecroft returned to oohing and ahhing over new travel costumes as the girls emerged from the carriage.

  Bell glared as Quent helped her out—possibly because he glanced down to catch a glimpse of her trim ankle. He was developing an unhealthy obsession with the lady’s limbs.

  “Perhaps the trick to children is hiring tutors to keep them interested and busy,” Bell said sweetly.

  Well, maybe her glare was for other reasons. Quent shrugged off the barb. “You’re the one who left without tutors and maids. Fortunately, you won’t need to buy another carriage to transport them. My father can handle that. He’s quite adept at dealing with rambunctious boys.”

  That remark earned him an even blacker glare, and he bit back a smile. He’d badgered, negotiated with, and twisted the arms of far wilier businessmen than Bell. He knew how to achieve what he wanted, and his spirits rose in anticipation of the challenge.

  He just needed to be more certain of what he wanted. He’d wanted Bell for ten years. He’d never wanted marriage. Or children. He’d moved to London at first opportunity to escape his chaotic, noisy family and enjoy the ordered serenity of a bachelor life. It would behoove him to study the lady’s preferences—did she want the chaos of family disrupting her well-organized household? He couldn’t fathom it.

  Assuming her stiffly dignified marchioness posture with nose in the air, Bell swept after the countess and the children without a second look back.

  “She’s not the chatty sort, at least,” Penrose said, following Quent’s gaze. “A bit like you, actually, subtle and clever.”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t discover her weak spots. Let’s find Fitz.” He strode after the stable lads leading his Friesian, knowing Danecroft was far more likely to be working with the horses than his account books at this hour. John Fitzhugh Wyckerly had been Fitz for so long, and the title so unlikely to be his, that his friends had difficulty recalling his recent acquisition of the earl of Danecroft title.

  “Shouldn’t you tell the lady that your carriage will be arriving tomorrow? She could send for the rest of her servants.” Penrose limped to keep up with him.

  “I’m thinking about it. Is it better to let her learn how family oversets everything so she might finally surrender and send them to my father? Or will she be more grateful for my aid and give me what I ask if I solve all her problems?”

  “If you’re asking me, she’s most likely to take a dirk to your gullet if she learns you’re pulling her strings as if she were a puppet in a Punch and Judy show, but I’m just a soldier, not a lady’s man.”

  “We’re both bachelors. We need the advice of a married man. And there’s one now.” Quent hailed the slender earl.

  Fitz Wyckerly only bore a slight resemblance to the refined man-about-town who’d once gambled at the best tables wearing silk and lace. Today, his riding coat sported worn elbows, his linen had mysterious spots, and his once-polished boots appeared ready to part from their soles.

  But beneath his cow-licked mop of light brown hair, he still wore the unmistakable grin that had charmed his way into London’s parlors. “Quent! Acton! You’re sights for sore eyes. I thought I was about to be inundated with petticoats. What brings you here? Not my wine cellar, I’m certain.”

  “We have come for a professional consultation. And to see the horses, of course,” Quent said. “I’ve heard you’ve expanded the stables.”

  “Horse acquisitions are a question of balance. Come along, I’ll show you.” The earl loped back toward the horse barn. “Since this building is the only decent thing my father left, it’s served me well.”

  Quent remembered the enormous edifice with high oak ceilings and polished stalls that stretched nearly as far as the eye could see. The late earl had been a spendthrift, a gambler, and a drunkard. Fitz was probably still paying the debts on the construction of this monument to selfishness. But Quent admired his friend’s eye for good horseflesh, so at least the expense was now being put to good use.

  “The balance?” Penrose asked when Quent didn’t. He’d gone to school with Fitz.

  “The craze for perfectly matched Cleveland Bays as carriage horses has been replaced with a need for speed now that London has seen Prinney’s Yorkshire Coach horses. I already have a Thoroughbred stud and rights to half a share of another over in Newmarket. I bought a couple of excellent Cleveland Bays at bargain prices when we first began the stable, so I bred them last year to the Thoroughbreds. I already have a start on a stable of speedy carriage horses.” He gestured at a couple of stalls with bay foals.

  Quent admired their sturdy flanks. “Even I can see the beauty of these. And they will be speedier than my Bays?”

  “On good road, they will practically fly. My mares have bred two colts and a filly and I’m looking for more. Those are my future profit. The balance comes in not putting all my coins in one basket. For now . . .” He led the way down the aisle. “I have current profit on my Welsh ponies and Irish hunters, basic breeds everyone wants. If I were richer, I’d start developing another Thoroughbred stud, but they cost the earth.”

  “Lady Bell is in need of several good mounts and a pony. She can afford any price you name, so start planning your next generation,” Quent advised.

  Fitz laughed. “I don’t bite the hand that feeds me. She sends me most of my buyers. And she only sends good ones, not the ones who damage their cattle. I am learning the value of loyal patrons.”

  “The lady knows everyone worth knowing and is a good judge of character, admittedly. I hadn’t realized she kept up with the horse market, though. She’s had those same carriage horses for as long as I can remember.” Quent strolled through the stable, marking the horses most likely to suit her sisters.

  “The marquess bought them,” Fitz said with a shrug. “Lady Bell has never bought an animal of her own. Since she seldom leaves town, she
doesn’t really need a mount. Perhaps that will change now that she has her sisters.” Fitz studied his own inventory with interest, evidently sizing them up for the lady’s needs.

  “I believe she mentioned that Boyles lived on horseback, but I’ve never seen her on a horse. Did the marquess keep her from owning her own?” Quent wondered aloud.

  “That wouldn’t stop her. Perhaps you misheard. Or she is one of the Boyles who don’t ride. It happens every generation or so,” Fitz said cheerfully. “I never had the funds to appreciate animals before, but I’m caught up in them now.”

  “I couldn’t afford to join the cavalry, but I know the men cherish their Irish hunters. Sturdy and reliable the times I’ve ridden them,” Penrose said, almost wistfully.

  “Marry a wealthy lady and own your own stable,” Fitz said. “I recommend marriage to all my friends now. Gives one a new perspective.”

  “Because bachelorhood is so tedious?” Quent asked with sarcasm. “But we have come for your advice as a married man. I need a brandy before I’m ready to discuss the matter, though.”

  “There might be a bottle reserved just for you.” Fitz slapped him on the back and shoved him toward the door. “Anytime you’re willing to discuss marriage is a good time for a drink.”

  That was Quent’s opinion, too. A drink . . . or three. He shuddered, remembering the last woman he’d proposed to marry—before he’d learned the folly of confusing lust for loyalty and love. The experience had scarred him for life.

  Seven

  “Why has Lord Quentin arrived with you?” Abby whispered after they’d left the children in their rooms and strolled the corridor to Bell’s chamber. “I thought your intent was to remove your family from his notice.”

  “He spies,” Bell complained morosely. “He knew I was coming here, probably even before I did. I have no idea why he decided to follow. He doesn’t have much interest in country life.”