Formidable Lord Quentin

by Patricia Rice

  “Maybe I’ll hire him as my steward,” Bell said sweetly. Hiring servants and ordering a household about were accomplishments she had learned early on. “They’re my family and not your responsibility.”

  “They’re my father’s wards,” Quent countered. “Quit quibbling just because you can.”

  “Then don’t quibble when I say I’m coming with you. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you— I am, at the very least, your equal, Hoyt. I am not a figurine to be set on the shelf until it’s convenient for you to notice me.”

  He leered over his coffee cup. “Notice, I can do.”

  “Nice dodge,” Penrose muttered, watching them with interest.

  Bell ignored the male byplay. “Tess, I’ll leave you in charge. You know where I keep coins if you need anything. I cannot promise I’ll be back immediately. Help the housekeeper situate the children and the others to dry chambers. Tell her the new linens should be arriving shortly. Let the footmen answer doors. Mr. Penrose, don’t allow strangers on the property, please. If you need help, both my grooms and my footmen know how to use firearms.”

  Tess and Syd stared at her. Bell shrugged. She didn’t want to disillusion them about the disreputable elements of their family. Let them think she feared kidnappers on a general basis.

  “Now that everyone is suitably terrified, including me, you had best have your maid pack bags. I might be gone for a while,” Quent said grumpily.

  “I am capable of returning anytime I like without your aid. I’m thinking of buying another carriage, and I know how to hire one,” Bell said loftily.

  She did, however, fret over what he had planned.

  ***

  Quent had wanted to catch the end of the turbulent storm winds and see what speed he could wring from his sleekly-designed ship, but his two passengers already looked a trifle green. Summerby was wrapped up in his redingote and just needed a muffler to complete the image of terrified hostler.

  Bell, being Bell, carelessly wrapped an arm around a mast and strained to see the shore. She’d knotted her hem into a loop so the skirt didn’t trip her up and wore a scarf around her hair and jaw, hiding her expression—not that she would allow anyone to see her distress. That she’d anchored herself to the mast instead of striding around, inspecting everything, told Quent all he needed to know of her fear.

  With regret, he turned the wheel over to his first mate. Taking Bell’s elbow, he pried her loose from the timber. “We can talk below.”

  Summerby willingly followed them out of the wind. The cabin was small. Quent had never meant it to be more than a place to escape the weather. He settled Bell on a cushioned bench and let Summerby take a seat across from her. Quent remained standing, lounging against the bulkhead.

  He had no intention of discussing horse removal in front of a solicitor. Instead, he launched into the matter paramount in his mind. “I’ll have the banns called and obtain a special license so we will be prepared to marry however you like and as soon as the settlements are signed. Summerby here can arrange it so what’s yours will remain yours, but prohibiting me from investing your funds is foolish. I can advise you better than Summerby. I can probably increase your income faster than you’re currently spending it.”

  Bell glared. “I am not a risk taker. You are. And it’s not as simple as that. We have two separate townhouses, Belden Hall, Kit’s estate, your father’s monstrous castle, plus all the costs of our various families. It could take years to settle all our differences. I simply don’t see the point in marriage. Tell your father that I can take care of my family just fine, if he’ll leave them to me.”

  Quent hated reducing marriage to a quarrel over funds, but at least he understood the basis of her fear. He resented that she thought him no better than Edward, but she had no way of knowing differently.

  If their problems were limited only to money, he knew he would ultimately win. But the obstacles between them were much more challenging. She had a place in society that she would have to give up if she married him. He had a bachelor life that he preferred. Each day, more subtle complications raised their ugly heads. She had a right to be afraid—he was terrified.

  But he’d negotiated himself through worse predicaments. All he had to do was keep his damned obstinate father in line.

  Quent braced his legs against the sway of the ship and met her glare without flinching. “You may declare yourself my equal, but all of Parliament and most of England would disagree. You cannot be named guardian. I can. And we can sell all the unentailed property and build a castle, if that’s what you wish. I don’t know how many more reassurances I need to give you.”

  “Perhaps, my lady,” Summerby said pacifyingly, “you could let me speak directly with Lord Quentin’s advisors, and the settlements can be drawn out without the emotional attachments. I’ll give them your requests concerning expenditures, but we cannot resolve differences on who makes the decisions. I fear that’s a problem all marriages face.”

  “I want a legal statement from Lord Belden that he will appoint Quent as guardian upon our marriage, and I want a statement from Quent agreeing to let me make decisions about my family’s future,” Bell said adamantly.

  Quent hid his grin. He was finally turning the corner—she was admitting that she might marry him. The statement from his father . . . might take sabers and dirks.

  “Then I’ll have to insist on making all decisions for my family’s future,” Quent said silkily. “If my sisters want to throw themselves away on penniless suitors, I stand in my father’s stead and can reject their offers.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If they’re good men—and your sisters would never choose otherwise—I’ll simply fund them as I have my other protégées,” Bell said belligerently.

  He could tell the instant she realized she’d just agreed to dower his penniless sisters. She frowned and quite wonderfully shut up.

  “Let’s start there, Summerby,” Quent told the solicitor. Taking a page from Bell’s book on a silent ending to an argument, he refrained from crowing over his skills as a negotiator. “My lady, would you like a stroll about the deck now that you have your sea legs?”

  She eyed him suspiciously but took his hand.

  “I don’t know if I qualify as having sea legs,” she protested. “We are still only on the river, aren’t we?”

  Quent shrugged. “On a day like this, the river qualifies. Mostly, it’s a matter of accepting that you can’t bridle wind and water as one does a horse.”

  “But the sails do that, do they not?” she asked, emerging on the deck and looking about with more interest than earlier. “Ropes and canvas are a form of bridle?”

  “And the rudder, yes, I suppose.” Leaving the solicitor safely ensconced in the cabin, he found a spot where the wind didn’t blow Bell’s hair about as much and bluntly launched into the next argument. “I understand the horse is important to you, but you do agree that Kit’s future is more important than a horse?”

  “Of course,” she said with irritation. “I simply don’t intend to give in to the demands of a bully and a whore on either matter. I had no objection to my uncle living in that hovel and eking out a living as best as he could. He is family, after all. But I will not tolerate being threatened.”

  “We don’t know that your uncle is the one doing the threatening, since his wife could have sent the stable hand to do her bidding without his knowledge. Women are capable of almost anything in the interest of their children. She presumably wants better for them than she had.” Quent was merely testing Bell’s knowledge of the people she’d left behind so he could arrange his plans to suit. He had no illusion that a woman demanding a title that wasn’t hers had Bell’s finer sensibilities.

  Bell wrinkled her delicate nose. “I cannot imagine Dolly as anything other than self-centered. If she wants her children to advance in the world, it will be because she wants them to take care of her. But really, I need to talk to any of the remaining tenants. They can tell me more of Dream and
her offspring then Dolly is likely to acknowledge. Da was daft but never mean. He left me Dream’s papers. He wanted me to have my horse if she was still alive, if Edward ever relented. Jim can’t keep her from me.”

  “He can if he hides her. And if you want the offspring as well, the matter grows more complicated.” Quent concealed his alarm behind calm reasoning. He didn’t want her traveling to Ireland and confronting dangerous relatives, but denying her would only make her more determined. “Nick is practicing to be a diplomat, and his wife is quite good. Let them assess the situation.”

  Despite her finely sculpted features, Bell managed to look mulish. “I want all Dream’s offspring. Jim shouldn’t be left with animals, much less people. We don’t need drawn-out court battles. I can buy him off.”

  Quent’s alarm escalated. He tamped it down behind cold logic. “Let Nick scout the territory first. Once we know how the ground lies, we can storm the castle. A little planning will clear the field and achieve everything you seek.”

  She continued scowling. “This isn’t war. This is a usurper who needs his head removed.”

  “And you’re not a medieval queen who can shout Off with his head! Besides, any queen who wanted to keep her own head didn’t shout that unless she’d already planned and plotted and knew it was safe to do so. Admit that Nick is in a better position to go in as a stranger and do the planning for you.” Quent loved the way her eyes shot fire as she considered his advice.

  “I don’t like it,” she fretted. “I know these people. Nick doesn’t. I want it ended once and for all. I want my horse back now. Any claim to Kit’s title is spurious. Dolly simply wants to make trouble and money.”

  “I agree,” he said reasonably. “But I think if we simply go about our normal business, pretending she and her bully don’t exist, we’ll drive them to commit more foolhardy escapades. We can call in the authorities once we have all the facts in hand.”

  Her scowl disappeared, and Quent almost shuddered in expectation.

  “You’re right! They’ll come looking for me. Then I can cut off their heads,” she said in bloodthirsty delight. “That makes sense, thank you. Let Nick find my horses. I’ll take care of Dolly and her cohort.”

  Quent heroically refrained from bashing his head against the mast.

  Nineteen

  Bell clung to her bloodthirsty vow to slay anyone who stood between her and her horse. The determination helped her stay composed while Quent assisted her into a rowboat to take them to shore near Whitehall. With her horse as her goal, she would take on hurricanes. A rickety little rowboat and filthy water wouldn’t daunt her.

  On shore, they parted ways with Mr. Summerby, who hurried off to his office in the city with his head undoubtedly spinning with all their instructions about the marriage settlements. Without asking what she wanted, Quent hired a carriage to take them to her townhouse in Mayfair.

  The stomach-churning exhilaration of sailing combined with Quent’s potent presence and her own fierce resolve succeeded in keeping Bell too off balance to protest. She didn’t want Quent helping her. She didn’t want to be dependent on his aid. But she liked having his competent assistance. She was a turmoil of confusion.

  At home, Butler greeted them stoically, without complaining that she’d removed all his underlings to the country. Even though they’d left Aunt Griselda behind, Quent insisted on entering the house with her, and Bell couldn’t find the wit to argue. He took Edward’s chair in the study, which should have left her uncomfortable but didn’t. More important matters had disrupted her orderly life, and she didn’t have time to fret over chaperones and who sat in what chair.

  How odd that small matters disappeared when confronted with life-changing events.

  A decade ago she had lacked the confidence to believe she could overcome society’s gossip. These days, she knew she could stare down any biddy daring to criticize her behavior—and They Would Wilt beneath her scorn.

  She felt lighter discovering that freedom.

  “Do you have anyone to send to Nick in Brighton?” Quent asked, removing pen and paper from the desk as if it were his.

  Scanning through the notes and invitations that had arrived since she’d left, Bell held one up. “The Athertons are in town. I can send one of the kitchen boys over.”

  “Excellent. Wonder if Fitz would be interested in going with them to Ireland? He could handle the horses while Nick commands the crew. Do you know where the mare’s papers are?” He didn’t look up from his writing.

  Bell really wanted to resent him taking over her study, but she hated this gloomy bookshelf-lined room. Once upon a time she’d attempted to persuade Edward to share their correspondence here as she and Quent were doing now. But she’d been a young country girl, unfamiliar with London society, and he’d disdained her offer. Since then, she’d used a sunny office on the next floor.

  She left Quent to his note-writing. The chest containing all her father’s possessions had arrived shortly after the girls. She’d poked around in it and knew what she needed.

  She dug out the box in which her father had always kept important papers. Inside, she located the yellowing document she’d seen earlier and unfolded it, smoothing her fingers over the fading ink. Little Dream had been sired by a descendant of Eclipse, one of the greatest race horses of all time. Her birth had been properly registered in the General Stud Book under the Wexford title. Once upon a time, her family’s stable had been respected.

  She dug further into the papers and found the one wrapped in faded blue ribbon—the certificate her father had presented to her for her sixteenth birthday, giving her ownership of the foal she had raised. Tears slid down her cheeks as she remembered how proud she had been that he’d recognized her hard work.

  She’d raced the two-year-old that day and won her first prize. The prize had paid the taxes and bought Easter dresses for Tess and Syd. She had some good memories of home—few, perhaps, but some. She had tried to set all her memories aside when she’d married and her family had departed. It had been less painful to look forward instead of backward. But maybe now that she had her family again . . . she could let herself remember the good parts.

  If she could have Little Dream back . . . her heart might be whole again.

  She carried the documents down to Quent, who studied them with interest. When he looked up at her, he must have seen the tears she’d tried to wipe away. He came around the desk and wrapped her in his arms.

  “We’ll retrieve your horse, ma belle. I’ll send troops to hunt her down, if we must.”

  She wept harder then, and buried her face in his broad shoulder. “It’s just so hard to trust anyone else—”

  “Someday, you need to tell me your story,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Or maybe it’s better if you don’t because I can’t strangle the dead. I’ll just show you that I’m not Edward or your father or any of those other men who failed you.”

  Bell lifted her head and shoved away, swiping angrily at her tears. “They failed me because they wouldn’t listen to me! Just once, I want a man who acknowledges I am as capable as they are.”

  She tried to walk away, but he caught her arm and hauled her back. He was so damned big and competent, and she was small and dressed in frills. She wanted to stomp her heel on his boot to prove she wasn’t helpless. She simply froze and looked down her nose at him—an expression that had served her well these last years.

  Impervious to her ire, Quent studied her through serious dark eyes. “I am listening. I am trying very hard to hear what you aren’t saying very clearly. If I have learned nothing else from my sisters, it’s that men and women don’t speak the same language. So if you try to communicate with me, you need to help me out until I learn what tears and anger really mean.”

  Shocked, Bell quit fighting him. “You would listen if I said I should go with Nick to Ireland?”

  “I would listen, but I probably wouldn’t agree,” he said with a wry smile. “Not because I don’t believe you�
�re capable, but because I would die a thousand deaths should anything happen to you. That’s not easy for a man to admit, so don’t expect to hear it again.”

  His admission caused a wriggly, almost pleasant sensation in her middle and tamped down her temper. “And you don’t think women die a thousand deaths just worrying over their stupid men who insist on doing reckless things?”

  “Touché,” he acknowledged with a nod. “I’ll try not to do reckless things, if you’ll promise the same. Although what we both deem reckless may not be the same. Will you explain your anger?”

  Forced to examine her reaction, Bell sighed in exasperation. “I’m not angry with you but men in general. And you do not need to hear the pathetic litany of very good reasons I have for despising the male of the species. Just do not deny me in your decision-making is all I ask. If Nick agrees to sail to Ireland, then I must be present when you talk with him to tell him what to expect.”

  “Very well, I think I can do that. I’m not much accustomed to allowing anyone—not even my family—into my decisions, so you may need to remind me.” His eyes danced with an interest that had little to do with the topic under discussion.

  Bell patted his cheek. “Certainly, my dear. If you leave me out of your decisions, I will leave you out of my bed. Perhaps you will remember then?”

  Feeling oddly comforted by the argument, Bell left him to his note writing while she sent servants to pick up packages for her family.

  Once Quent discovered how much a second family would cost, he might change his mind about the efficacy of marriage. Until then, she would enjoy the prospect of another night of sharing her once-lonely bed.

  She would be concerned that becoming the Wicked Widow instead of the Virgin Widow might harm her sisters’ chances with society, but marrying a Scots tradesman would cause worse damage. She wasn’t worried about society anymore. She knew how it worked. Money always cast a favorable light, and she meant to find good men for her sisters, not simple-minded idiots who listened to gossip.