Formidable Lord Quentin

by Patricia Rice

  “Well, I suppose business is slow now that the season is over and everyone has retreated from the city.” Abby puckered her forehead in a frown and opened the door to a chamber on the far end of the corridor. “But he has never visited just for the pleasure of it. Will this room suit? It’s not the tower. You didn’t give me time to clean that out.”

  Bell glanced at the lovely airy chamber with freshly starched muslin bed curtains, ancient blue velvet draperies, and a newly waxed wood floor sans whatever moth-eaten carpet had left the large light square in the middle of the floor. This was so far above the ruins of her origins, she could not begin to quibble.

  “This is charming, and you know it,” Bell said honestly. “You have an excellent eye for creating warmth. I am sorry to have barged in upon you like this, but I needed time to think, and Quent isn’t leaving me alone to do so.”

  “That’s almost promising,” Abby said with a twinkle in her eye. “Has he finally realized what a gem you are and decided to pursue you?”

  Bell dropped wearily onto the soft mattress. “He asked me to marry him. He says he can talk his father into letting him keep the children so I might have them instead of sending them to Scotland. But we both know he’s just using this as an excuse to lay his hands on my purse strings.”

  “Not necessarily,” the countess contradicted. “He’s been sniffing around you for years, and you cannot be so blind as to not know it. Perhaps he’s decided it’s time to settle down. He’s never seemed fond of housing family, so proposing marriage is quite a condescension for him.”

  “It’s pure arrogance,” Bell retorted. “I have been married once for convenience. I will not do so ever again. I will go to Scotland with the children should it come to that.”

  “Wasn’t he the one carrying Kit when you arrived?” Abby asked in puzzlement. “That doesn’t sound like a man who doesn’t like children.”

  “He likes getting his own way. Kit is simply a means to an end. No, we shall choose horses for the girls and a pony for Kit, and then retire to the house in Essex, where Quent will not be welcome,” Bell said decisively. “The children will be too tired this evening, but in the morning, perhaps, we can see what Fitz has. Then we may disappear in a cloud of dust.”

  “Do not hurry off!” Abby protested. “You must take your time, let the children come to know each other. And if Fitz doesn’t have precisely what you need, he’ll be happy to go to Tattersall’s. He’s beyond thrilled to have this opportunity to help you, after you’ve helped us so much.”

  Bell almost grew teary at the kind words when she was feeling so beleaguered. “I have done nothing that shouldn’t have been done years ago, had Edward not been such a miserable misogynist who thought of all women as no more than useless ornaments, at best. He and Quent are much of a kind, a family trait, I fear.”

  “I don’t think Quent hates women,” Abby argued. “He’s simply too busy to look beyond his nose.”

  Bell shrugged wearily. “Not much difference. Women have no power or wealth, so they’re beneath his notice. I’m the only challenge of the fairer sex that he’s met. Should I ever give in to his whims, I’ll be reduced to the same level as all other women. He’s just being stubborn because I’ve bested him for so long.”

  “I hate to see two good friends at loggerheads. Perhaps we can find a solution if we all talk these next few days. It will do Quent good to take some time out of the city to enjoy life. Rest a bit, and I’ll send a maid to help you dress for dinner.”

  Abby bustled off to keep her nest pleasant by performing other missions of mercy. Bell wished she could be more like her friend, able to find love in adversity and be happy under any circumstances.

  She had thought she was happy living alone, but now that she had her family again . . . It was chaos. She had to admit that she was miserably incompetent at childcare. Still, she felt as if some long-lost part of her was returning to life. And she knew she was up to the challenge of learning to deal with her siblings—if given enough time.

  Real families loved each other, wanted the best for each other, and stuck together through thick and thin. She would not abandon her siblings the way she had been cast aside.

  ***

  Syd eagerly threw back the moldering draperies of their bedchamber window. “Have you ever seen anything like this, Tess? It’s a castle! Look, the village is way down there in the valley. That’s where the common folk live.”

  “Common folk, as in people like us?” Tess asked in amusement. They’d been given a chamber to share, but a nursemaid had carried off Beebee and Kit, so she was free to indulge in silliness for a few minutes.

  “That’s just it,” Syd said excitedly. “Here, we’re special! We’re the daughters of an earl. No one cared about that back in Boston.”

  “That’s because we were living with dirt poor Methodists who despised aristocrats and no one told them who we are. It’s hard to be special when you’re working for food. And you will notice that the windows in this castle are cracked, the bed posts are older than any existing forest, and we have no carpet on the floor. I’m betting the sheets are threadbare, too. This is no palace, Syd, just a mountain of old rocks, larger but not so different from home.”

  Despite her words, Tess didn’t mind any of that. She lay back on her mattress and admired the grand space. Once upon a time, the plaster ceiling over her head must have been molded with cherubs and garlands and probably gaily painted. Now, the crumbling plaster cherubs had patched flat places where their noses and wings had been, and the paint had paled to specks of pastels.

  It was still more charming than any place they’d ever stayed, including her moldy room in Ireland. She remembered that pile of rocks for its greenery—even growing inside on the walls. As a child, she used to bring snails into her room to see if they’d live on the moss on her windowsill.

  “I wonder if Lord Quentin’s home in Scotland is grander?” Syd asked idly, examining the wardrobe where the maid had hung their still meager attire.

  Syd never asked anything idly. Syd was young, but she’d always been a schemer and a reckless doer. Tess was the one who pondered for a long time before acting. But she didn’t have to think too deeply to understand Syd’s concern.

  “Even if his Scots home is a castle, would you want to live there?” she asked. “What would we do all day in someone else’s home? I’m sick and tired of being a poor dependent. I want a home of my own.”

  “Lord Quentin is a wealthy man,” Syd said slyly. “If Bell really doesn’t want such a lovely man . . .”

  Tess sighed. Even her mind had traveled that road. “Do you really think he’s in search of any wife, or is it just Bell he seeks?”

  “You look much like Bell, so where’s the difference? If you were his wife, it would be most excellent, in my opinion,” Syd said loyally. “I don’t mind being a dependent until I’ve had a grand ball and been squired about by dozens of handsome suitors!”

  Syd was right. If Bell didn’t want to marry the gentleman, Tess had no such compunction. She could have a home and stability for a change, plus have her family around her.

  Tess had married the love of her life and lost him. She didn’t expect to ever love again. She could marry an older, wealthier man for the sake of her family—just as Bell once had. Really, it was almost her duty to do so.

  ***

  “I think you’re inviting disaster,” Fitz warned his guest as they sat about the dining table, drinking their brandy, after the women withdrew. “My gambler’s instinct says this is entirely the wrong way to go about pursuing a woman.”

  “That’s not your gambling instinct, that’s your innate honesty. Whereas Quent has the morals of a cheap pettifogger,” Penrose corrected with the bluntness of a man who had been a friend longer than an employee.

  Quent laughed. “I don’t come cheaply these days. And Bell isn’t any woman. She doesn’t want to be courted, especially by me. I need to catch her attention first.”

  He needed to
be the one in charge, but his friends understood that. They might not understand why, but they accepted his leadership as a given. He was older, wealthier, and in many ways, wiser. Life had pounded experience into him—with a cudgel—at an early age.

  Unfortunately, Bell really was like him in that measure, although he supposed her experiences had scarred her in different ways. Finding a path around her defenses was akin to finding one around his own. He twitched his shoulders in discomfort, fingered the intriguing list in his pocket, and set his empty glass back on the table. Time to leap into the fray. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that.

  The sooner he settled this marriage/guardianship problem, the faster he could pry his father off his back and return to generating cash for the family roof. Making money, he understood. Dealing with warring family—he avoided.

  He accepted that Bell would insist on tying her funds up in a trust for her sisters and herself. He wouldn’t argue with her over the marriage provisions, and he would never ask her for money—even for the roof. He was confident that his family’s fortune would be repaired on what he earned. Money was not the question in his suit—although his sanity might be.

  At least, this time he was entering into courtship with eyes wide open. Lust and a need for commitment were more sensible than weak affectations like love.

  The women were scattered about the parlor when the men joined them. Quent knew all the ladies to be pretty, but his gaze just naturally gravitated to Bell. She’d always had the ability to draw his eye, even when he’d been young and perishing of a stupidly broken heart and had vowed to never let another woman into his life. For Bell, he was now ready to make a reluctant exception.

  He knew she couldn’t play the pianoforte, but she’d draped herself elegantly on the bench, idly punching the keys and matching the notes to a musical score she was trying to read. A sconce above her head emphasized the red threads in her dark hair. A curl adorned her bare nape. Her gold silk dinner gown draped seductively over a curvaceous figure that had developed from a child’s skinniness to that of a full-grown woman over the years he’d known her.

  And her position revealed one dainty shoe and stockinged ankle. Quent reluctantly dragged his gaze away and bowed to the amused countess. Fitz’s wife could be an annoying know-it-all, but she was generally demure and kept her thoughts to herself—

  —Unlike Bell’s sisters. They leapt from their chairs to usher the men in, chattering about a game of charades. Penrose seemed particularly stricken when the younger chit grabbed his arm and led him toward a chair near the pianoforte.

  The older one—Tess, he thought Bell called her—took Quent’s arm and steered him toward a loveseat beside her. “We thought we could have a challenge in the evenings, gentlemen versus the ladies. We are well matched, aren’t we? Four ladies against three gentlemen?”

  Bell arched an eyebrow in apparent surprise at her sister’s eagerness, but she shrugged in reply to Quent’s questioning expression. He resisted Tess’s placement and strode to the cold fireplace instead.

  “I am not much at games, but I’ll be happy to judge, if you like.” He leaned against the mantel, wondering how to steer the conversation in the direction he had in mind. He’d only been thinking in terms of shocking Bell, not her young sisters. Should he wait? Or would they all go upstairs together?

  “Oh, but it will be fun,” the younger girl cried. “You don’t want to spoil the fun for everyone.”

  “Hush, Syd, I’ll sit out the game with Mr. Hoyt, and the rest of you can play,” Tess suggested.

  That did not sound as if they were planning on retiring soon. His own sisters could stay up later than he had any inclination for, particularly if he was in their chatty company.

  Fitz took a seat beside his wife, who was adding trim to a child’s attire. Very practical woman was the countess. Abby leaned over and kissed her husband’s cheek but didn’t object to the game.

  Penrose actually looked interested. The ex-soldier hadn’t had the time or funds to play in society’s drawing rooms. And now he had the attention of two attractive single ladies. Quent knew his friend would cut his own throat before disagreeing with the women. Penrose took the empty seat beside Mrs. Dawson.

  Quent refrained from rolling his eyes. While the younger ones chattered about the best topic for a charade, he removed the list from his pocket and handed it to the countess. “I am calling on your expertise, my lady. Fitz agrees these ladies are all suitable for courtship, but he has more insight into their wealth than their personalities. May I have your opinion?”

  Abby looked surprised. To Quent’s gratification, even Bell sat up straight and sent him a suspicious look. He rather liked the quickness of her mind.

  “You are looking for a wife, Lord Quentin?” Mrs. Dawson asked with interest, dropping her charade of playing charades.

  “I am considering it, yes,” he said stiffly, figuring he sounded pompous but not knowing how else to start this inane discussion. “I cannot continue relying on Lady Bell to bring out my sisters and cousins. I need a respectable female to shepherd them about.”

  “I’ve told you I can still herd them,” Bell said irritably, rising from the pianoforte to take the list from Abby’s hands.

  “I fear I don’t go about much in society,” the countess acknowledged. “The names are familiar, but I wouldn’t pretend to know any of them well enough to judge their suitability. Bell would know more.”

  Which was entirely what Quent had anticipated. Subterfuge was the only tactic they’d ever used between them, and he didn’t mind employing it now.

  Bell was shaking her head and tapping her pretty slipper as she scanned the list. “Fitz, you know better than to include the Wellingham chit. She has her cap set for a title, preferably one who takes his seat in the Lords so she can steer his career.”

  “That doesn’t make her ineligible,” Fitz argued. “She’s smart, pretty, and capable, right up to Quent’s mark. She might make an exception for him.”

  “Even if she is intelligent enough to see Quent’s worth, her parents aren’t. They come from a long, aristocratic lineage. The Scots are far beneath their dignity.”

  “And one in trade, further still?” Quent asked silkily. He’d already assessed the list and had come to the same conclusion.

  “I didn’t say that, you did,” she retorted. “One cannot account for the prejudices of society. They just are. For a little reverse prejudice, you cannot consider the Smith child. She has no lineage at all. Her father is a smarmy village merchant who gambled himself into a fortune. Yes, she’s pretty, but as vapid as they come, without a single thought of her own.”

  “And she and her family would be thrilled at Quent’s suit,” Fitz argued.

  Quent had done business with Smith and had barely been aware that he had a daughter until Fitz had added her to the list. “The main concern is that she can hold the advantage over my high-handed sisters, isn’t it?”

  “She’s not eighteen. Not a chance,” Bell said firmly. “You need a widow already wise in the social arena. Perhaps Lady Charlotte,” she said with less certainty, studying the names.

  “Who has the face of a horse and two left feet, I’m here to attest.” Quent verified her doubt. “There is no one perfect woman. I must settle for the one who can chaperone my sisters— and possibly your sisters, if my father has his way.”

  Belle slapped him with the paper and returned to the pianoforte.

  She was quick to catch on to his ploy, but he’d made his point. She was the only one suitable for his wife.

  Eight

  Bell seethed. There was no one perfect woman, indeed! She was perfect for Quent’s purposes . . . except she demanded love, and he didn’t know emotion existed. So, strike her off the list, too.

  She’d go back to Ireland and take her family with her before she let any of those less than perfect women introduce her sisters to society.

  Why on earth had the bull-headed man suddenly decided he needed a w
ife to deal with his sisters? She would ponder that, but she was too angry. She could not imagine why men and women were on the same planet except for the basic necessity of procreation.

  Since she had never provided Edward with children in their years of marriage, she obviously didn’t need men.

  Once, the lack of children had broken her heart, but she didn’t believe in looking back. There was no shortage of children in the world, as her family proved.

  Across the room, Tess boldly took Quent’s arm and asked him to walk her around the parlor, presumably to discuss his requisites for wife, if Bell knew anything at all. Her sister was safe practicing her limited wiles on a skilled bachelor like Quent, so she let them go.

  She would truly dislike seeing another woman holding his arm and attention. That realization only heightened her anger. She had grown complacent in believing she could rely on him as family friend. She must stop that, at once. He must follow his own course.

  While Bell pecked at the pianoforte keys, Syd engaged Acton Penrose in an enthusiastic conversation about Spain. Her sister would gain a reputation as a bluestocking with that kind of talk, except no one who saw her excited gestures and heard her laughter could ever call Syd a bluestocking. No, she’d be an Original if Bell had her way—if Syd wasn’t whisked off to a cold corner of Edinburgh and buried in books for the next few years. Bell had no objection to education, but she knew from experience that it must be well-rounded with social instruction as well.

  She’d forgotten how family added to worries. She would simply have to learn to handle their problems again, as she had while still a child—a child who had carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was in a far better position to aid her siblings now. Fretting over her family’s future was a small price to pay to have her sisters back, and it certainly relieved the enormous fear of wondering if they were still alive.

  Of course, now she had to fret about the mare who had been the only loving companionship she’d really known, but she hoped Summerby had that in hand. She should ask Fitz if she could house the mare here. She didn’t want to grow attached again, but Dream deserved rich green pastures.