Formidable Lord Quentin

by Patricia Rice

  “Bell has always taken care of herself,” Syd protested, not falling for his argument. “And now she has us to take care of her. Why did she throw you out?”

  He had sisters. He knew how their minds worked. Mostly, he ignored them, or he’d never get anything done. But the only goal he wanted to accomplish right now was Bell’s hand in marriage. Toward that end, it was probably best to enlist her sisters.

  “Bell thinks I’m after her money. She thinks I’ll interfere in how she wishes to spend it. So we’re currently a little at odds.” And not just over money, but the girls didn’t need details. He distracted her with a question of his own. “Do you know why she doesn’t ride anymore?”

  Syd shrugged. “She used to ride astride like a man and race Daddy’s horses. I don’t know why she won’t even go out with us any longer. Maybe we’re too boring.”

  Quent kept his passive face on, but this nugget jolted him. He’d known she’d had a hard life in Ireland, but he’d never really looked into the extent of her poverty. He’d merely ascertained that her father had a title and an estate, and her mother’s family came from a distinguished line of Irish titles, even if most of them were Catholic, poor, and powerless.

  Why would an earl’s daughter—a lady who appeared to be grace personified—race horses like a hoyden? The thought appalled and intrigued him.

  Had she been that rebellious—or had she needed to win the prize?

  “Perhaps she was thrown once,” Quent said, to divert any suspicion.

  “Maybe,” Syd said doubtfully. “Are you staying for dinner?”

  “If Bell doesn’t heave anything at me. Tell her you want to learn sailing, and I’ll offer my yacht. Perhaps that will persuade her to let me stay.”

  Predictably, Syd lit up like a sunbeam. “Oh, that would be prodigious fun! I’ll tell Tess.”

  She ran off in excitement. Quent hoped he damned well knew what he was doing because he didn’t want to make an enemy of the woman he wanted for wife. Just because there were a hundred practical reasons they should marry didn’t mean he didn’t need her just for herself.

  After just one night, he was in great danger of needing her in his bed, the way he needed air to breathe. He’d once felt that way about yachting and making money. Did that make him fickle or just too demanding?

  ***

  Bell had yet to establish a good household routine in the aging family manse. When it came to dining, one room was as bad as another. She needed a raft of money and servants to put this place together as it should be, but she was oddly content to let her family shape the routine.

  She followed the sound of her sisters’ voices when it was time for the evening meal. Before she even entered the small breakfast parlor, their excited chatter warned that Quent had not left as she’d commanded. Not that she’d actually expected him to do so. He had a hide as thick as old leather.

  She had to pinch the bridge of her nose to keep her eyebrows from flying off her face when she discovered her sisters and Quent tying knots with the old gold braid Kit had used to confine his tutor.

  One of her well-trained footmen offered Bell a glass of her favorite sherry. She knew there was a reason she’d brought the servants, even if it wasn’t for cleaning rafters. She took a sip before speaking a word. She didn’t have to. Syd explained without asking.

  “We are learning knots so we may go yachting on the river,” she announced excitedly. “Isn’t that absolutely famous?”

  “Who’s been teaching her to talk like that?” Bell wondered aloud, not offering her opinion on yachting—because she had none. She’d never sailed except for the wretched experience of crossing the Irish Sea after she’d married Edward. It was not an experience she longed to repeat.

  “Mr. Penrose uses those words,” Tess said, frowning worriedly. “Is his language not proper?”

  “Cant seldom is, but I suppose that’s mild enough. Why would one wish to tie knots for sailing? Isn’t that what sailors are for?” Bell wondered if dealing with family caused an excess of nerves, thus bringing out her father’s need for strong drink.

  She set her sherry aside and tried to exhibit interest, but Quent’s big body filled the small parlor. She was uncomfortably aware of him.

  “For the joy of accomplishment,” Quent said. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  Bell studied the elaborate pattern he showed her with the gold braid and tried not to think about those long, capable fingers caressing her breasts. She picked up the sherry again.

  “It’s like learning to saddle your own horse,” he added when she showed no interest in trying the knot. “One should know the sport from the ground up.”

  That made more sense, and she nodded agreement. Before she could speak, however, another footman arrived in the doorway.

  “Mr. Acton Penrose and Mr. Carlyle Summerby have arrived, my lady,” he intoned in disapproval.

  Apparently neither man had presented his card, and their arrival time had warranted the city servant’s disdain.

  “Show them in, Vickers, and bring them a brandy. They must have had a hard ride out here.” Bell turned questioningly to Quent.

  He shrugged. “I told Penrose to follow with my horse if he wished. Perhaps Summerby sought me out for some reason, and they joined forces.”

  Summerby entered protesting. Apparently the earlier mist had turned to rain. Both men were damp and still wearing boots. Bell didn’t think she’d ever seen her portly solicitor wearing boots. She hadn’t known he could ride.

  “My lady, I did not mean to intrude upon your dinner hour,” Summerby said, attempting to right his damp coat and maintain decorum. “I can wait in an anteroom until you have a moment to spare.”

  Bell smiled at his ruffled dignity. She wielded her title and position to good effect when needed, but not with people she liked. “This entire house is an anteroom, Mr. Summerby. Until we have furniture that does not collapse when sat upon, we must be informal. The two of you shall join us for dinner. Vickers, please take our guests to dry chambers and let them freshen up and tell Cook we will be slightly delayed.”

  She tried to remain serene and perform her duty as the perfect hostess, but inside, she was panicking. Summerby would never ride out here unless the matter was urgent. He would have sent a messenger.

  Quent looked as if he’d rather follow his aide out of the room, but he continued entertaining the girls. Bell wanted to be resentful of his presence, but instead, she was grateful to have someone she could rely on in case the news was bad.

  Which was completely foolish because if the marquess was demanding delivery of his wards, Quent had no choice except to do so—unless Bell agreed to marry him.

  In his own oblivious masculine way, that was what Quent was trying to protect her from by offering marriage. She had to accept that he was on her side.

  It was very hard to do. In all her years of living, no man had ever been on her side before, unless she paid him. She kept waiting for Quent’s real reason for being here to emerge.

  The girls chattered through dinner, thrilled to have male company on whom to work their wiles. Bell attempted to steer the conversation in adult directions when she could. Quent was his usual taciturn self, joining in when business was mentioned, ignoring gossip. Bell sensed he, too, was worried about the abrupt appearance of their guests.

  She wasn’t about to let him receive the news before she did. After dinner was cleared away, she rose. “Gentlemen, in respect for the long ride our guests have made, I think we shall forego the usual brandy and cigars over the table. Syd, Tess, you’ll need to entertain yourselves while Mr. Summerby and I adjourn to talk business. I assume Lord Quentin and Mr. Penrose have matters to discuss as well.”

  Her sisters frowned worriedly but obediently departed.

  Quentin looked mulish. “If Summerby’s news involves my family, I suggest that we all adjourn together. I don’t need brandy and cigars.”

  Bell raised a questioning eyebrow at her solicitor. Summerby nervo
usly toyed with his serviette—which indicated that Quent had guessed right. This involved the marquess.

  Penrose confirmed her supposition. “The problem involves the Hoyt family as guardians. I think Lord Quentin’s opinion would be useful, if you don’t mind.”

  Bell resented her solicitor’s nod of relief but grudgingly accepted it—for now. Men were strange creatures who feared a woman’s reactions. They found safety in numbers, apparently. She ought to be cheered that it took three of them to deal with one of her.

  She led the way to the library, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the musty air. She noticed with approval that the new staff had at least dusted out the cobwebs.

  She eyed the array of cracked leather and worn upholstery and chose a wing chair near the cold fireplace, leaving the men to test the rest of the furniture. Quent, naturally, took a large leather chair and dragged it across from her. A footman set up a table with the brandy decanter near him. Penrose and Summerby carried smaller wooden chairs over to join them.

  “Odd as it may seem, I did not think to acquire cigars,” Bell said wryly. “May I now ask to what I owe the honor of your presence?”

  Summerby clasped his hands nervously. More assured of his place, Penrose spoke for him.

  “We’ve both had visits from a most . . . you will pardon my expression, my lady . . . obnoxious creature who claims to work for your family.”

  Bell felt the blood drain from her face. “My family?” She took a deep breath and acknowledged the possibility, although she hadn’t heard from any of them since her marriage. “Since my mother was orphaned young, I suppose you mean my father’s family. Did he give a name?”

  Apparently now that the ice had been broken, Summerby recovered his poise. “He gave his name as Hiram Kennedy, and said he worked for the Earl of Wexford.”

  Bell almost spit out the sherry she’d been sipping. Recovering, she dabbed a handkerchief to her lips. “Hiram? Hiram? He used to be my father’s stable boy. Does he claim to work for the dead then?”

  “No, my lady.” Summerby twisted his brandy snifter awkwardly. “If you will remember, you asked me to make inquiries. I sent an agent to do so. I fear he exceeded his boundaries and imparted information—”

  Penrose interrupted. “Wexford’s family had to be told he was dead. They would have learned it sooner or later since the marquess has sent inquiries to establish the extent of the estate. As the boy’s guardian, it’s Belden’s duty to establish the condition of the lands the earl has inherited. Your agent wasn’t at fault.”

  Bell had the sinking sensation she knew where this was headed. She refused to look at Quent, who had yet to say anything. She admired the way he waited until he had the facts before offering an opinion. “Go on, please, Mr. Summerby. What brilliant bit of blackmail has my uncle chosen?”

  Summerby relaxed a modicum at her understanding. “I gather from my agent that your uncle’s wife has taken to calling herself countess. My agent merely made inquiries into the object you sent us to retrieve. He assures me he made no reference to you or the children, merely asked after—” He tugged at his cravat and glanced toward Quent.

  Bell grimaced. “It’s all right, Lord Quentin is family. Quent, I asked Summerby to inquire into a mare of mine I had just learned wasn’t sent to America with my father. I thought perhaps I could acquire her or her foals for Fitz.”

  She’d thought no such thing. She’d simply reacted with joy, terror, and panic, and this was the result. Dispassion and logic were far safer than overwhelming emotional reactions. One would think she’d have learned by now.

  But they had Little Dream! She couldn’t abandon her first love to her uncle’s crude care. It was killing her that the mare may have been neglected . . . just as she and her sisters had been. She took a deep breath and blocked out what couldn’t be changed.

  She ought to be furious that the Scots marquess had poked his nose in where it didn’t belong, but she was too accustomed to the high-handed methods of Beldens. And she could scarcely blame anyone for her father’s relations being a pack of scoundrels.

  Quent nodded and continued to wait without playing his hand—so very different from the quarrelsome men of her family. His composure helped maintain hers at times like this.

  Summerby sipped his brandy and gathered his thoughts. “My informant tells me the mare lives, although it’s malnourished and poorly treated. According to my sources, your uncle was unable to provide proof of ownership or the mare’s breeding, so he couldn’t sell her or the foals outright. The stallion she produced is a good prize winner, but the stud fees are minimal without the proper papers.”

  “And my uncle, him being the lazy sot he is, did not attempt to write me or mine, or even forge the papers, like any man with half a wit might have. He simply did what he’s always done, racing the ponies and letting heads roll as they may.” Bell bit her tongue. Her accent deteriorated when she was angry. And she was exceedingly angry despite her deceptively quiet tone. To mistreat an animal as brilliant and sensitive as Little Dream— It did not bear thinking on.

  “What has this to do with the obnoxious personage?” Quent asked, sipping his brandy with every appearance of calm, although with Quent, it was hard to tell calm from furious.

  He’d carried her through the house today as if she were a stuffed toy and had seemed to enjoy it. The man was dangerously volatile beneath that deceptive exterior.

  “Lady Belden’s aunt apparently made inquiries after we asked after the mare,” Summerby explained. “At first, she was eager to sell. Once she learned of the earl’s passing, she rejected the offer. She now insists she will only surrender the animals if her husband’s claim to the title is uncontested. My agent assured her that was impossible. He left, giving her my address in case she changed her mind. The obnoxious Mr. Kennedy arrived soon after my agent presented his report to me. Mr. Kennedy repeated the . . . lady’s . . . demands and apparently sought additional information on the children, which we did not provide, but we thought you should be warned.”

  Bell frowned in perplexity. She couldn’t imagine Uncle Jim going out of his way to find someone to bully. What would be his purpose in sending Hiram to make inquiries? “I didn’t even know Uncle Jim had married. Does he have children, perchance?”

  Summerby made an expression of distaste. “Several children live in the house. One assumes they are his.”

  “And the name of this pristine example of motherhood and aristocracy calling herself countess before my father was even laid in his grave?” Bell asked.

  “Mary Dolores O’Malley Boyle is all I know, my lady.” Summerby looked hopeful, as if there might be some possibility that Jim had married someone important.

  Bell knew better, and it took all her strength not to laugh hysterically. “My father’s former doxy,” she admitted.

  And the whore had her hands on Little Dream and her offspring.

  How did one hire an assassin?

  Seventeen

  “This is the reason I never married,” Quent complained to Penrose, pacing the chamber he’d taken next to Bell’s. “Women become embroiled in the most unreasonable tangles, and then they do even more inane things in ridiculous attempts to become unentangled.”

  “You never married because you wanted Bell and didn’t have time or patience to court anyone else,” Penrose countered rudely, studying the peeling wallpaper with fascination. He tore a strip and peered under it.

  “It’s a damned good thing you’re more friend than aide or I’d give you your walking papers.” Quent started to drop into a chair, then remembered the earlier debacle with the broken leg. He’d picked a chamber based on its closeness to Bell’s, not the amenities. He tested the moldering upholstery before settling his weight into it. “Bell checks on her family for the first time in ten years because of a doddering old mare?”

  “I heard the story on the way down here. Summerby is being excessively polite. By all accounts, the uncle has a reputation for brutalizing anima
ls and people. Lady Bell has no reason to be fond of him, and she has every reason to be fond of the horse.” Penrose warily took a seat at a desk with delicate legs and searched futilely for pens or paper.

  Giving up, he dug his traveling desk from his baggage. “Her father’s estate was entailed. It would never go to Bell but presumably to the uncle—if he can prove his parentage and legitimacy. She didn’t have much reason to care what happened to the land. Since her father took her horses with him, she had no connection left to her home—probably Edward’s intent. If Bell sent Summerby hunting for an animal that could be of little value now, it was clearly a much beloved pet.”

  “Thoroughbreds as pets! I hadn’t thought Bell the sentimental sort.” Which was the reason he was sitting here growling instead of heading for his yacht and Ireland.

  He had to figure out what the devil he was getting into. He had never suspected the lady of being the maudlin sort—who would want children and pets and . . . family. Blast and bother, he hadn’t been thinking at all except in terms of the lady’s bed and the best way of negotiating himself into it.

  “How many sisters do you have?” Penrose asked, driving the nail home.

  “Six too many,” he grumbled. “But they’re not the sentimental sort. They don’t treat their horses and hounds as pets. They’re for hunting.” Quent gave that a second thought. “Well, they won’t allow the hounds to be put out at night, so maybe that makes them guard dogs.”

  “No cats?” Penrose asked innocently. “No favorite sheep?”

  Quent pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s a moldering great castle. We used to live with the cattle not that long ago. I thought I’d escaped all that.”

  “You want a woman who dislikes animals and children then,” Penrose said helpfully, again making his point. “I’ll fetch Fitz’s list. In the meantime, what do you intend to do about the obnoxious former stable boy and the doxy?”