Formidable Lord Quentin

by Patricia Rice

  ***

  The Honorable Nick Atherton and his wife Eleanora—who refused to use her Mirenzian title of princess—filled Bell’s parlor with their larger-than-life presences.

  Quent had once thought brown-wren-like Nora to be a quiet, unassuming seaman’s widow—until she’d displayed her talent with swords and sailing. She’d routed villains and Nick’s demanding father and brought incorrigible Nick into line, all within the space of a few weeks. If dashing Nick could find happiness with such a formidable personage, then Quent thought he should be able to deal with a dignified lady like Bell. He hoped.

  Today, the demure princess was wearing a sophisticated blue silk afternoon gown with a sash that looked as if it ought to hide a pistol.

  “Bell, I hope we can help,” Nora said in greeting, hugging their hostess. “And I want to meet your sisters and brother before we leave for Amsterdam! I cannot imagine how it must be to suddenly have a family!”

  “Since you only recently acquired a few royal cousins you didn’t know about, I think you have some idea,” Bell said dryly, gesturing for her guest to take a seat.

  “But my cousins don’t live with us!” Nora laughed. “I would most likely kill them if they did. I’m sure your siblings are much more reasonable.”

  “Only younger,” Quent said grimly. “But it’s not the young ones causing trouble. It’s the old ones.”

  “Shall we take this to the study and leave the ladies to exchange notes on new family?” Nick suggested. Tall, blond, and garbed in the height of fashion in his dark blue fitted tail coat, starched linen, and Hessians, Nicholas Atherton looked the part of genial diplomat and earl’s son. Only those who knew him well knew the ruthless history concealed behind his indolent facade.

  Quent didn’t have to look at Bell to know her reaction to Nick’s suggestion. “You really do like living dangerously, don’t you?” he asked.

  Nick chuckled. “It was worth a try.” He bowed over Bell’s hand. “My lady, we would protect you from the evils of the world. You deserve only sunlight and roses.”

  Bell slapped his hand. “Flattery will get you nowhere. I would sail with you, if Quent would let me.”

  Nick looked mildly alarmed. “That shouldn’t be necessary. My crew would no doubt faint at the prospect of accidentally flapping their vulgar tongues in your presence. Even Nora agrees she’s better off staying here. Fitz has agreed to handle the cattle. We’ll pick him up on our way back to Brighton.”

  “Let the men play their games. We’ll play ours,” Nora said, comfortably settling on the sofa and taking the teacup Bell handed her. She glanced up at Quent. “Sit down, sir, and quit hovering. We want to hear Bell’s side of the story first. She’ll know her family better than you.”

  Quent appropriated the cushion beside Bell, establishing his territory. He felt like a destrier in a ladies’ closet. He was unaccustomed to sharing tea and discussing business with females.

  He’d learn, if he had to crush all Bell’s china in the process.

  “Summerby’s clerks have drawn up notarized duplicates of the mare’s papers so Nick will be removing the horses with all legalities covered,” Quent told them. “We just don’t expect it to be as simple as walking in and taking the animals.”

  “They’ll hide them,” Bell acknowledged. “I’m amazed they haven’t forged papers and sold Dream already. Or maybe they’ve been thinking about it since she’s growing older and worth less for racing and breeding. You can offer money for her past upkeep. I know she would have earned far more than her feed over the years, but I don’t want to dicker. I just want my horse.”

  “And your aunt wants your brother’s title,” Quent reminded her. “You can’t dicker with that. We’ll have to leave horsenapping to Nick and Fitz and hope for the best.” He could tell she didn’t like it, so he distracted her. “We need to decide on wedding plans.”

  As expected, Nick and Nora exclaimed in excitement, and Bell’s glare warned he’d feel the brunt of her wrath later. But for the moment, she was neatly diverted from fretting over the horse.

  “Horsenapping, really?” Nick murmured to Quent a little later while reaching for a tea cake. “How dangerous are these people?”

  Bell and Nora were arguing over the advantages of a quiet ceremony over a public one. Pretending to lean over and choose a delicacy, Quent bent his head closer to Nick’s. “Boyles are bloodthirsty and reckless, but I suspect this branch is most likely lazy and incompetent. Threats should do it.”

  Belle leaned over and handed him a wafer with green paste on it. “Uncle Jim was six-feet tall and burly when I saw him last. He knows how to use a musket but not a sword. I have good ears, so stop shutting me out.”

  “And the doxy?” Nick asked, eyes dancing with amusement.

  Quent fumed but let Bell have control of the conversation again.

  “Mary Dolores used to live in the village and make her living on her back. She’s bigger than I am, but she’s far more likely to use her blunt wits than her brawn. I doubt she knows which end of a weapon is which. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t hired people who do.” Bell wrinkled her nose in thought. “Or seduced them into helping her.”

  In any other company, the ladies would be fainting in shock at Bell’s crudeness. Nora and Nick merely looked fascinated.

  “Very well, we’ll go in peace and carry heavy arms,” Nick agreed. “My gang can handle anything up to and including a pirate crew. They have few illusions about females. If your horse is there, we’ll retrieve her.”

  “Scout first, make sure the mare is there,” Quent warned, wishing he was going with them to make certain it was done right. “And ask about foals. We understand there’s a valuable stallion.”

  “Fitz will handle that,” Nora said serenely. “You can be certain he’ll have his eye on the stock. He’s nearly frothing at the mouth at the prospect of acquiring descendants of Eclipse.”

  Quent squeezed Bell’s hand, and she sent him a look that he interpreted as gratitude—although he wasn’t entirely certain for what.

  Until these last weeks, he’d never realized that she lived in fear—but he understood it now. When one was raised among bullies and thieves, the fear never quite goes away.

  She needed him, even if she wouldn’t acknowledge it.

  And if he wanted his future wife to accept that he wasn’t one of the thieves and bullies, he’d have to exert himself to prove he could be trusted in more ways than commerce.

  With only his tyrant of a father as an example of a family man, Quent was traipsing dangerous ground. He tugged at his neckcloth and slanted Bell a glance. Unlike his sisters, Bell would stab him with a pitchfork if he resorted to bullying.

  Twenty

  After the Athertons departed, Bell was too anxious to settle down. Glancing at the long clock, she decided she had time to run to the shops for a few additional purchases. She donned gloves and hat before realizing she had neither footman nor personal maid to accompany her. She’d sent everyone—plus the carriage—to Essex and left them there. She could take a parlor maid with her, but Butler was likely to snarl.

  Frustrated, she vowed to go on her own. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t capable of walking a few blocks carrying packages. She’d simply grown pampered these last years.

  Before Butler could open the door for her, Quent materialized. She’d thought he’d left with the Athertons.

  “Going for a walk? May I join you?” He took his walking stick and hat from the servant before she could reply.

  “Have you moved in?” she asked suspiciously.

  “You have no footmen, so yes, I’m moving in. It’s not as if Butler is capable of holding off your obnoxious relations,” he said unrepentantly as they strolled down the street. “And as far as I can ascertain, you don’t know how to wield a sword or pistol.”

  “I should learn,” she muttered. “You don’t really think Dolly and her cohort are so diligent as to be watching the house, do you?”

  “They were
in London just a few days ago, so I’m hoping they are,” he said with relish. “That way Nick and Fitz can retrieve your horses uninterrupted while I have the pleasure of beating your relations to a pulp. Once all that’s settled, we can marry in peace.”

  “And you call me bloodthirsty! You do realize I haven’t signed any settlements yet, don’t you?” she asked, trying to maintain her hauteur while perfectly aware every neighbor was watching them. She swung her parasol as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Our men of business haven’t quit arguing, true. That doesn’t keep us from going for the special license tomorrow.” He patted his pocket. “I’ll drop the betrothal announcement at the newspaper while we’re out. That should shut up any cackling.” He nodded at the windows they passed.

  “I don’t know what you think marriage is,” she said grimly. “But it’s not all smiles and kisses. I’d like to keep you as a friend, but I just don’t see that happening. You’ll grow bored once you’ve won your goal. You’ll look for other challenges, and I’ll have to throw things at you to catch your attention.”

  He glanced at her in surprise. “Is that what you think? You believe I could ever forget your presence?”

  “Edward did,” she pointed out. “Sometimes, I used to sit in his study and read while he worked on his Shakespearean folios. A few times, he’d find places where the text didn’t agree with the original, and he’d comment, but I’d never read Shakespeare, and it took me too long to find the passages. I tried reading the plays he was working on so I’d know more, but I didn’t have his education, didn’t understand the language, and he looked at me with disgust if I asked questions. So after a while, he forgot I existed. I don’t think he missed me when I quit sitting with him.”

  “And you think that’s what I’ll do?” Quent asked, shaking his head in amazement. “I can’t even imagine seeing those folios with you in the room, much less concentrating on the text! I’m not certain I could accomplish anything meaningful with you to distract me. That’s what worries me.”

  Bell wanted to preen a little at that admission, but she was determined to be practical. Edward had turned her silly head with his initial attentions, but she knew better now. “Lust wears off,” she reminded him. “You’ll be doing business in my drawing room and forgetting my existence in no time at all.”

  Quent walked beside her silently for a few minutes, apparently mulling that over. Then he grabbed her arm as they reached the shops on Bond Street and steered her down an alley. “I have the remedy for inattention.”

  She wanted to laugh, but he seemed quite serious. With Quent . . . it was so very hard to know what to expect. She respected his intelligence, though, so she followed.

  He stopped at what appeared to be a small wholesale shop, the sort of place where milliners might purchase their feathers or shoemakers might go for leather. Opening the door, Quent waved at a clerk behind the counter, who nodded as if he knew him. Without explanation, Quent drew her deeper into the shop, amid crates and bolts of fabric, until he reached a dark corner in the very back. He shoved boxes and barrels aside until he found what he sought.

  “Here,” he said in satisfaction, holding a container out to her. “Every time you fear you’ve lost my attention, you may hit me with one of these. I’d much prefer that over denying me your bed.”

  In the dim light from a single dirty window, Bell couldn’t tell what she was holding, other than that it was gritty with dirt. Grimacing at what the dust would do to her gloves, she pried open the top, and still wasn’t entirely certain what she held.

  Quent grabbed an item off the top and spread it open for her.

  “A fan!” she exclaimed. “You want me to hit you with a fan?” She handed him the box and tried to study the delicate silk and fragile wood. “It’s so light! It would shatter to pieces.”

  “Exactly,” he said in satisfaction.

  Carrying the entire box, he steered her toward the front of the store where there was more light. “They’re worthless. We can’t even give them away, so why not shatter them for a good cause? I thought they would sell fabulously, but they’re Chinese. Ladies didn’t take to the foreign designs.”

  Bell halted by the front window and studied the watercolors on the cream silk. “Are these cherry blossoms? The tree looks ancient and gnarled, but the pink is so lovely!” She looked closer, then carried it outside where she could see the odd figures more closely. “Look, they are wearing the most wonderful tunics. The detail is exquisite! I can see the dragons on his . . . skirt? I wonder what that’s called. Kimono? And look, she’s hiding behind a tree and laughing. And who is this gray beard on this round mountain? How clever! I want to know the story!”

  “That was my reaction,” he said, pleased. “But everyone else turned up their noses. They’re not terribly costly, so if you smack me with one, it will hurt my pride more than my pocket.”

  Bell laughed in delight, opening and closing the fan, making the figures peer from behind bushes and bridges depending on how far she unfolded it. “I’d rather smack you with my hand than break this.”

  With the box under his arm, he took her elbow and steered her toward the shops. “Your hands are for more pleasant purposes. That is the reason nannies use switches. One associates pain with switches and pleasure with hands. Unless you wish to carry a switch about the house, use the fan.”

  “I shall wrap the string around my wrist,” she assured him, laughing. His mention of her hands producing pleasure thrilled her and inspired wicked images of how she could touch him. She was eager to return home to show him just exactly what her hands could do.

  Her heart lightened that he’d actually considered her complaint, thought it valid, and produced a solution, no matter how silly. Unlike Edward, he was listening to her worries.

  She feared that wouldn’t last past the honeymoon period, but it was so very refreshing to know that he was trying. No man had really tried to consider her opinions before. Perhaps she needed to try equally hard to consider his.

  “I think I shall start carrying my fan about and create the sensation of next season,” she declared. “Let us take this box to my modiste and make them exclusive, so very rare and precious they can be found in only one place. We’ll pay for my sisters’ wardrobes with the sale of fans by this time next year.”

  “Save several for shattering,” he said wryly. “Because I’m now kicking myself and wondering if I should have consulted you about the fans earlier. Your knowledge of fashion and society might sell the rest of my unsalable stock and raise cash for my father’s roof.”

  “That’s the solution!” she crowed in delight. “Let me help you sell your strange shipments, and we’ll have things we can talk about together.”

  She let the mention of his father’s need for a roof sail right past her.

  Instead, she basked in the way Quent looked at her as if she were a goddess descended from the skies. It wouldn’t last, she knew, but she could enjoy the novelty while it did—and while keeping her family safe.

  ***

  Quent sent for his own carriage to transport the packages that Bell accumulated at the shops. The sun was low in the sky by the time he assisted her into the interior.

  He’d never been a man who enjoyed shopping. His tailor knew his size, and he simply sent for a new coat when he needed one. The man came to his house and fitted it, and the package arrived the next day—no wasting time idling in shops.

  But perhaps he’d been wrong to avoid this part of Bell’s world. For hours now, she had been teaching him things he hadn’t known. The fans had been a fascinating revelation. Her modiste had instantly seen what Bell had seen and had started matching the various fan colors with bolts of fabric in dramatic fashion. Customers had begun to inquire as he watched.

  He usually dealt in wholesale goods like grains, wool, and spices. He was a trader and an investor, not a merchant. Selling bulk wasn’t the same as retail.

  His captains sometimes suggested oddities li
ke the fans, but Quent didn’t have much patience with selling to shops. His tastes were not that of the general public. Indomitable Bell opened new possibilities.

  Once inside the carriage, he tugged her closer and pressed a kiss to her temple. “You are the epitome of public taste, you know, the grand dragoness of society.”

  She tilted him a puzzled look. “Am I? I’ve always thought myself quite ordinary.”

  Which was one of the reasons he admired her. Despite the dignity with which she carried herself in public, she was approachable, as many women in her position weren’t. And, he realized, that’s what made her successful.

  “I’ve lived in London for the same amount of time as you have,” Quent tried to explain. “In all that time, I never learned how modistes create fashion or why ladies follow it. You, on the other hand, have spent your time studying what makes society work. That is the key to how a rural Irish girl became an effective marchioness and leader of the ton. You are quite astonishing.”

  “Well, it only makes sense to learn the rules of the realm in which one lives,” she said crossly. “I see nothing astonishing about that. You have done much the same in your man’s world.”

  Quent bent to kiss away her frown but a glance out the window caused him to hesitate. The carriage was just rolling past the stately mansions on Bell’s street. He brushed his kiss across her brow and touched a finger to her lips. “Shhh, do you recognize that tubby fellow leaning against the lamppost?” He indicated a disreputable character who looked out of place among fashionable ladies and nannies walking their charges to the park.

  Bell looked where he pointed and paled. “Hiram,” she whispered. “What can he gain from watching the house?”

  Hiram, her father’s stable hand, the one who had been making demands of Summerby, Quent recalled. He would have a word with the fellow and not a polite one.

  Quent knocked on the driver’s door and ordered him to go around to the mews before he sat back and addressed Bell’s question. “One assumes he’s looking for you. It’s hard to say until we ask.”