Formidable Lord Quentin

by Patricia Rice

  “And we’ll ask?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, we’ll ask,” he replied dangerously as the carriage rolled down the alley.

  He escorted Bell through her kitchen garden and up the back steps. Her husky young footmen weren’t here to guard the portal. Damn.

  “Lock the doors,” he told the startled butler who hurried to assist them. “Post servants with blunt instruments at the lower windows. Send someone to stay with the lady upstairs until I give orders otherwise.”

  Bell shook off his hold. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just Hiram. I can swat him with a fan and bring him to his knees.”

  “Not if he has hired help. Let me test his defenses first, then you may swat him as much as you like, although I suggest an iron poker.” Leaving Bell still protesting, Quent loosened his neckcloth, handed over his expensive hat, and stalked out the front door.

  He’d grown up wrestling with three strong brothers and a herd of cousins. He regularly worked off his frustrations at Gentleman Jackson’s. Tubby, aging, stable hands didn’t stand a chance against brute strength.

  The man looked startled when Quent marched down the front steps, but he didn’t have the sense to run. Hiram continued picking at his broken fingernails as if he were waiting for someone. Which made Quent hesitate.

  What if he could catch the notorious dollymop as well?

  Deciding a bird in the hand was better than two thugs on the loose, Quent strolled past the lout, flicked open the blade on his walking cane, and spun about. With the knife end at Hiram’s back, he murmured, “You’ll be coming with me, sir. Walk slowly or I might slice out your liver.”

  Twenty-one

  Nervously peering from behind the front window draperies, Bell watched as Quentin marched her father’s former stable boy toward the back alley. Lifting her skirt, she raced down to the kitchen door she’d entered just moments ago. It was all very fine for Quent to say he was taking care of her, but she damned well wanted to know what was happening so she could defend herself. And her family.

  She’d spent her youth protecting her family. The instinct did not go away with disuse, she realized with disgust.

  She was waiting in the tiny garden by the time Quent prodded Hiram through the gate. Hiram fell to his knees at Quent’s shove. He looked startled to see her, but his bulging eyes always looked surprised. He’d apparently tarted himself up in a shiny frock coat and threadbare linen from the second hand store for this visit.

  “My lady, I didn’t do nothin’!” the ruffian pleaded, recovering quickly from his surprise. “Tell this rapscallion to back off, that I’m just an old family friend.”

  “You were never my friend, Mr. Kennedy,” Bell retorted, keeping a stiff distance and wearing the expression of disdain she’d perfected for just such occasions. “You toadied to my father, perhaps, and sometimes Uncle Jim, but never me.”

  “That’s cause you were just a youngster! But it’s different now, ain’t it?”

  “How is it different, Hiram?” Quent asked menacingly, leaning against the gate so his prisoner couldn’t escape. “Threatening the lady’s solicitor sounds like business as usual in the Wexford way.”

  “Didn’t threaten,” Hiram countered mulishly. “The countess just let him know we got the estate in hand.”

  Quent—blessedly—held his tongue and let Bell address this one.

  “The countess, is it?” Bell asked coldly. “And Uncle Jim has filed his papers claiming the title with the English court, all right and proper now, did he? Will he be taking his seat now that he’s a lord?”

  Hiram grew sullen and tugged at his soiled tweed vest, which hung well below his frock coat waist. “He’s like your da, not much on court and such. But that don’t make him no less an earl.”

  “Well, yes, I’m afraid it does,” Bell said with insincere sympathy. “It would have behooved Uncle Jim to stay in touch with my father instead of pretending da was dead all these years and usurping his title. Because my father has an heir, and my brother’s guardian is quite a stickler for legalities. But that doesn’t explain your presence. What do you want, Mr. Kennedy?”

  “Don’t want nothin’,” he protested. “Just standing by, waiting for someone. You got no cause to be treating me like this. There’s laws!”

  Waiting for someone. Bell exchanged a glance with Quent, who nodded to show he understood.

  “Well, no, actually,” Quent offered nonchalantly. “The lady owns the property and if you don’t have her permission to be loitering outside her gates and you can’t show you have business here, then the law will throw you in gaol, not us. So perhaps you’d best start stating your business.”

  Persuading information out of a hired hand was a waste of time. She wanted the real offender. Bell feigned a yawn. “Just tie him up, dear. We’ll wait to see who else shows up. Perhaps we can have a small soiree.”

  “My pleasure, dear,” Quent said with a wicked grin. “Shall we let him shout so the rest of the party knows where to find him?”

  Bell pretended to ponder. “It’s a little late for a tea party in the garden,” she said, noting the darkening skies. “Perhaps we could simply truss him up until morning, and then let him call to his fellows.”

  “A nice night for the stable,” Quent agreed. “We’ll give your family time to show up.”

  Bell hid her grin. So, he understood who Hiram was waiting for.

  “Excellent.” Without a backward glance to the cringing man on his knees in her garden, Bell swept inside.

  Once there, she hurried to the front window again. As suspected, Hiram hadn’t been outside her door to catch some sun.

  She smirked in triumph as she noted a plump female wearing gaudy, wide pink skirts from her mother’s day—possibly from the countess’s wardrobe—standing on the corner, looking puzzled. The woman paced back and forth, peering up and down alleys, ignoring the curious stares she drew from street urchins and passersby.

  Bell didn’t have Quent’s swordstick. Not knowing who might be lurking in the shadows, she didn’t dare make a target of herself. She needed to hire more footmen.

  No, she didn’t, not when she had Quent. Happiness surged through her at the sound of his boots in the back part of the house. She opened the front door and pointed out the figure in pink. “Dolly,” she murmured. “Will you use a sword on her?”

  “Come along.” He caught her elbow and led her out. “Let’s have that tea party.”

  ***

  Not seeing any threat in a pair of brass-faced parvenus, Quent was almost enjoying himself. He hoped Nick and Fitz would find the uncle in Ireland as simple to deal with as Dolly and Hiram.

  The pink-garbed female turned and noted their approach with alarm, but Quent caught her elbow before she could decide which way to run. Bell graciously linked arms on the other side, and they dragged her, protesting, toward the house.

  “Honestly, I can’t imagine what you’re about, accosting a lady just walking! It’s above enough that I can’t stroll down a London street—”

  Bell raised her eyebrows, snickered, but held her tongue.

  Quent followed her up the front steps, where her butler held open the door, his dignity entirely undisturbed by their ranting guest. It may have helped that Quent had greased Butler’s conscience with a purse of coins earlier.

  “Well, I never . . .” the frump was protesting. “It’s not as if I meant to intrude . . .”

  “Then just what did you mean to do, Mrs. Boyle?” Quent asked, relishing the moment as the would-be countess halted to take in Bell’s elegant parlor. “In society, one waits for an invitation before appearing on someone’s doorstep.”

  With her overlarge breasts spilling from an old-fashioned bodice that was meant to be accompanied by a modesty piece, the faded beauty flung back her wilted bonnet. Her once blond hair had lost its luster and looked more haystack than crowning glory, but then, Quent allowed that he might be prejudiced. Next to Bell’s dignified beauty, any woman would fade away.


  “Fat chance that Miss High-and-Mighty would invite me inside,” the blonde declared irately. “Not once did she ask after me or her ailin’ uncle or any of the rest. But now there’s somethin’ in it for her, she sends her sneaks around, lookin’ to see what they can steal.”

  Behind the woman, Bell looked amused. She gestured at Quent to continue.

  “If you’re referring to Lady Belden, might I introduce her?” Quent suggested.

  “Lady Belden!” Mrs. Boyle looked as if she might spit. “That imp from hell ain’t no lady, for all she was born into the family. Who are you and what are you doing in her house? Hires servants to do her dirty work, does she?”

  Quent lifted his eyebrows, understanding Bell’s amusement. He gestured for her to take the next act.

  “Why, Dolly,” Bell simpered, “I’m that hurt that you’ve forgotten me. I hadn’t thought I’d harmed your hard head when I brought that vase down on you. How sorry I am that you’ve lost what little brain you possessed.”

  Bell had smashed a vase over the head of her father’s mistress? Quent would have liked to have seen that. He eyed her with appreciation, realizing the depths he had yet to explore.

  The appalled Mrs. Boyle swung around and glared. “You? That can’t be you. Don’t play me for a fool, girl. You’re no lady. Anyone can see that. Where’s your jewels, I ask you? And look at that gown! It looks no more than something that should be worn to bed. You’re his lightskirt, no doubt. What kind of shady goin’s on am I caught up in?”

  Quent feared Bell might double up laughing. So much for protecting her from fearsome relations.

  “Be that as it may,” Quent said solemnly, “may I present my fiancée, Lady Isabell, dowager marchioness of Belden? Or was there another lightskirt who hit you over the head with a vase?”

  “Izzy?” the creature screeched in disbelief, realizing her error. Then feigning a faint, she staggered backward toward Quent.

  He stepped aside and let her stagger a little further so she collapsed on a sofa.

  “Izzy?” he murmured as Bell wrapped her hand around his arm. “Do I get to call you Izzy when you swat me with a fan?”

  “Calling me Izzy will earn a swat,” she murmured back, admiring the performance on the sofa. “Do you think she will slide off for effect or call for her smelling salts?”

  Quent tapped his finger against her lips to silence her and addressed the problem. “Dear me, Mrs. Boyle, where is your maid? I fear the household isn’t in the habit of carrying smelling salts. My Izzy never suffers from the vapors.”

  Bell pinched his hand but snickered.

  He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in ages.

  The mop-haired Dolly straightened and attempted to regain some of her lost dignity. She tugged at her pink silk and glared. “How’d ye know my name?” she demanded.

  “Providing you actually have a marriage certificate to prove the name is yours,” Bell said with exasperation, “it’s the name you gave my solicitor. It was not very difficult for me to deduce who had come to town asking after me and for me to point you out to Mr. Hoyt. Again, what are you doing here?”

  “I could do with a cuppa tea,” their guest said petulantly.

  “We could put her in the stable with Hiram,” Quent suggested, losing his patience.

  Mrs. Boyle’s faded blue eyes grew wide in alarm. “You ain’t hurt him, have ye? He be the only one worth anythin’ ’round the place now that Jim’s down with the ague and dropsy all the time.”

  “You’re right, this grows tiresome,” Bell said in her world-weary voice, expressing no sympathy for her supposedly ailing uncle. “She’s looking for excuses and doesn’t have any, which means they were up to something nefarious. My guess is that they hoped the house was empty so they could break in and look for Dream’s papers. The horse would be worth considerably more with those. Let’s call the watch.”

  “I’d do no such thing,” Mrs. Boyle said in indignation. “Hiram said he’d just scout about a bit if I’d keep an eye on his back. We just wanted to talk to ye, all pleasant like.”

  This time, Quent snickered. “By Jove, I can imagine how pleasant it would have been for Bell to come home and find the two of you sitting in her parlor. You do know her servants are hired pugilists who use their fists as weapons? Did you think we’d leave my lady alone?”

  Dolly paled more, if that was possible. “Izzy ain’t never been one to need servants,” she complained. “We thought she’d be about the countryside on her horse.”

  “You have my horse,” Bell snarled.

  Which was when Quent finally grasped some portion of Bell’s refusal to ride again. It didn’t make logical sense, but as an eighteen-year-old, she had been deprived of the animal that had been her mother, father, home, and source of income for years. She was clinging to a memory while avoiding any new attachment—just as she avoided attaching herself to him.

  If he considered how she’d turned to Edward and been cast aside . . . her rejection of all emotional connections almost made sense.

  He was finally beginning to understand the woman. He knew she was loyal. He hadn’t understood how deeply her feelings ran. Her defensive tactics had new meaning . . . and the ability to shatter his soul.

  “I’ll sell ye the horse,” Dolly offered. “Just let me and mine have what’s rightfully ours.”

  “And what is that?” Quent demanded. With his new understanding of Bell, he struggled with panic. If Nick didn’t find the mare—he could lose Bell.

  “Jim’s got to be the earl so he can keep the estate. He worked all his life for that bit of rocky land. It’s his. No young upstart can have it.” Dolly crossed her arms defiantly over her ample bosom.

  “That’s impossible,” Bell said in frustration. “The law dictates inheritance, not us. You and Jim can continue living there as always. No one’s denying you that.”

  “If my young ’uns can’t count on that land as theirs, you’ll not ever find your damned horse,” Dolly retorted. “That’s that, and I’ll be leavin’ now.”

  She struggled to rise from the low settee. Quent left her there. He wrapped his arm around Bell’s shoulders, but they were as stiff and unforgiving as fortress walls.

  “You’ve moved the horse?” he asked.

  Dolly pushed herself to her feet and adopted a mulish expression. “You think I’m stupid? The old nag is all I got to bargain with, her and her expensive get we can’t even sell. But I found a Tinker what will take them if you don’t. I’ll guarantee you’ll never find them unless you give us what we want.”

  She stalked toward the door, where Butler waited to let her out.

  Quent held Bell and let the harridan go. Even if Mrs. Boyle was a thief and a blackmailer, he wasn’t in the habit of beating up women.

  Twenty-two

  Bell tried to let Quent comfort her that evening. But as much as she loved him for keeping her company and for distracting her with kisses, the polite lady she’d been had vanished. She could no longer bury years of fury and fear under the artificial dignity of her title, and she couldn’t sit still now.

  Uncle Jim had made his bed. She felt no sorrow over his illness or the probable faithlessness of his choice in wife. And if he’d been passing himself off as earl all this time, she had even less sympathy for his poor choices.

  But dumb animals shouldn’t have to suffer for what their human owners did.

  Her skin stretched tight and thin over all her roiling emotion. She’d wanted to pummel Hiram until he told her where Dream was. Instead, she’d let Quent bribe him—not anywhere near as satisfactory as kicking sense into the clown. She needed to run, to ride, to shout and scream.

  Only it was much too late in the evening to dash across town to verify Hiram’s claim that Dream was here, in London, close enough for her to touch. She’d pleaded with Quent to be taken to the docks, but even she knew it was a ridiculously dangerous idea.

  Instead, they’d sent word to Nick and Fitz to stop them before they sai
led in the morning as they’d planned. Sending messengers just wasn’t enough. She was about to come apart attempting to contain her frustration. After all these years of cool composure, she felt as if she would burst at the seams.

  Bell wrapped her arms around Quent’s broad, comforting chest, and let him carry her off to bed. He made love to her with heartbreaking tenderness, and she clung to him afterward, as she’d never clung to Edward—and Quent let her. With her head resting on his broad shoulder, feeling him breathing evenly, she could appreciate having a partner to lean on occasionally.

  She still didn’t sleep well. She had nightmares most of the night—horrifying visions of Dream breaking her legs trying to escape, of Kit riding off and falling to his death, of her sisters screaming. Even Quent’s comforting arm didn’t protect her from dreams. This was the reason she’d learned to bury fear and anger—they were unproductive. And still, she couldn’t let them go.

  In the morning, she rose at the break of dawn to gather her riding habit.

  “What the devil?” Quent grumbled from beneath the covers when she stumbled over a chair leg and woke him. Looking surly with his square jaw darkened with beard stubble, he surged from the bed in all his naked glory. Seeing that she was already half dressed, he growled and grabbed for his own clothes.

  Bell wasn’t so far gone as not to appreciate the ripple of abdominal muscle when he reached for yesterday’s linen. Nor was she blind to the fact that he had to struggle to don his breeches over his morning erection. She just refused to act on lust when she had other matters on her mind.

  “You’re not going to the docks, Bell,” he grumbled. “I’ll hire a few grooms, bend Hiram’s arm, and we’ll spring the horses from their pens before breakfast. There’s no need for you to dirty your shoes. The wharf is no place for a lady.”

  She continued pinning up her hair. Arguing was pointless. If Dream was stabled in some run-down pen, in danger of being sold at market, Bell would find her. She had been stunned that Dolly would have gone so far as to bring the horses across the Irish Sea to hide them from her. She feared Hiram was lying, but she would take no chances.