Emerald Garden (36 page)

Quentin threw back his head and howled with laughter. “Oh, Sunbeam, I wish I’d been there to see his face. What did he say?”

“Not a word. He simply stared at me as if debating whether to choke me or take me at my word. Evidently, he opted for the latter.” Brandi’s brows knit as her mind focused on something Quentin had said earlier. “Quentin, you mentioned that you scanned Papa’s ledger yesterday and that you, too, were puzzled by the severity of the losses—given what an exceptional businessman Papa was.”

Instantly, Quentin sobered. “I was.”

“You also mentioned being baffled by the enormity of Papa’s profits on those ventures Desmond selected and controlled—implying, I presume, that in your opinion Desmond isn’t proficient enough to make such shrewd and lucrative investments.”

“That’s exactly what I meant.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve intimated that Desmond’s business skills are questionable. As I recall, the last time the subject arose, you suggested that he incorrectly perceived your father’s approval of his abilities in business matters.”

Quentin’s brows rose. “So you did absorb all that when I mentioned it. I thought perhaps it hadn’t penetrated—given that, at the time, you were preoccupied with how to tactfully …” A twinge of amusement accompanied Quentin’s particular choice of terms. “Instruct Desmond to relinquish any notion of wedding you, now or ever.”

“I was. But I heard you nonetheless. ’Twas merely that the inconsistency didn’t matter at the time. I assumed that, if Desmond had exaggerated his business aptitude, it was simply to impress me. But now I’m not so sure.” Brandi’s stomach clenched as she forced herself to continue. “When Bentley and I read Papa’s ledger, his reaction to Desmond’s apparent financial talents was much the same as yours. I pressured him until he explained why he was so astounded.” Anxiously, Brandi searched Quentin’s face. “Please don’t be angry at Bentley. I backed him into a corner until he had no choice but to tell me the truth.”

“I’m not angry,” Quentin replied in a hollow tone.

Swallowing, Brandi continued. “In any case, after Bentley elaborated on how recklessly Desmond squandered funds and how apprehensive Kenton was about entrusting him with business matters, I felt totally confused. So I sought Mr. Hendrick’s opinion of Desmond’s business acumen.”

“And?”

“Mr. Hendrick believed—based upon Desmond’s total involvement in the family businesses—that Kenton applauded his investment skills.”

“Which sustains Desmond’s claim.”

“Ostensibly, yes,” Brandi acknowledged. “Now let’s get to Papa. He, too, must have had faith in Desmond’s abilities; why else would he have entrusted Desmond with his financial interests? More importantly, why would he have bequeathed the pivotal role of overseeing the entire Townsend business domain to Desmond?” Brandi chewed her lip pensively. “All that, combined with the iron-clad evidence of Papa’s ledger, certainly leans favorably toward Desmond and suggests that you and Bentley are wrong. However, in here”—Brandi pointed to her heart—“I know you’re right. So where does this disparity lead us?”

An odd expression came over Quentin’s face. “Ever since you told me about the contents of your father’s ledger, those very thoughts have been running through my head, plaguing me. Frankly, Sunbeam, I don’t believe I’ve allowed myself to see them through to completion. Because if I do, they’ll lead me to a conclusion I’m not certain I’m able to face.”

Pain flashed in Brandi’s eyes and, instinctively, she caressed Quentin’s jaw. “I thought perhaps that was the case,” she said quietly. “Quentin, I’m sorry. I loathed addressing this possibility, but …”

“It must be addressed.”

“Then we’ll do so together, just as together we’ll face the outcome—if, in fact, our speculation has any merit.”

Nodding tersely, Quentin gave voice to the unendurable prospect he longed to dismiss. “What we’re both wondering is, could Desmond have ‘persuaded’ someone to tamper with Ardsley’s profits and losses in order to show Desmond in a more favorable light? My answer—as his recent tactics with the War Department established—is a resounding yes. Oh, didn’t I mention how he arranged the dispatch of that missive from Whitehall? He blackmailed one of Bathurst’s aides—if the lad wished to retain his position—to report how urgently I was needed in the colonies. Now the question is, did he do the same with one or more of the businessmen in whose companies he invested on behalf of himself and Ardsley?”

“Did he?” Brandi murmured, digesting Quentin’s explanation. “I don’t know. Could he? Yes. Desmond would abandon ethics and pride to secure what he constantly sought to attain: Kenton’s recognition and respect.” She shook her head sadly. “No one could convince him that his father loved both his sons equally.”

“Lord knows we all tried.” A muscle flexed in Quentin’s jaw. “But in this case, it wouldn’t be just Father’s approval at stake, ’twould be Ardsley’s as well. How else could Desmond hope to acquire both you and the Townsend businesses?”

“I hadn’t considered that.”

“Well, I had.” A painful pause. “Now we’ve reached the part I can’t abide. Was that the full extent of Desmond’s crime, or is the truth far more heinous? Is it possible that Ardsley discovered Desmond’s scheme? And if so, wouldn’t he have threatened to sever all ties with Desmond, denying him the privilege of marrying you and of controlling the Townsend money? Worse, wouldn’t he have proclaimed his intentions to go to my father with the truth?”

“Yes,” Brandi admitted in a small voice. “At which point, Desmond would have become frantic.”

“How frantic, Brandi?” Quentin demanded hoarsely. “Frantic enough to make certain Ardsley wasn’t alive to carry out his threats? Frantic enough to murder him in cold blood?”

“No.” Brandi tightly gripped the lapels of Quentin’s coat. “Desmond is greedy and weak. But I don’t believe he’s inhuman enough to kill someone. And, Quentin, you’re forgetting one crucial detail. Even if I’m wrong, even if Desmond is capable of all you surmised, he would never, ever arrange to harm Papa at a time when Kenton was present. Desmond worshipped your father. He’d never endanger his life. Never. No, if Desmond wanted Papa killed, he’d arrange it for when Papa was alone, not traveling to London in Kenton’s carriage.”

A flicker of hope lit Quentin’s eyes. “That’s true. And there’s one other inconsistency. Desmond couldn’t have been the culprit who shot you because he was at Colverton when the incident occurred. Had he attempted to sneak away, either Sanders or Wythe or one of the other servants would have spotted him.” Quentin gave a hard, self-deprecating shake of his head. “Listen to me. I dislike and distrust my brother, yet I’m fervently hoping he’s innocent.”

“You’re a wonderful, compassionate man,” Brandi answered softly. “And, regardless of what else he may be, Desmond is your brother. You needn’t explain—to me or yourself—why you feel as you do.”

Bleakly, Quentin nodded. “Since you understand my misplaced loyalties, perchance you’ll also understand why, although I realize it’s necessary to determine the truth, Desmond’s guilt or innocence is my responsibility to establish.”

“Out of respect for Kenton.”

A faint smile. “You know how fiercely Father protected his family. Were he alive, there’s not a doubt in my mind how he’d handle this adversity. Even if he personally denounced Desmond and condemned his actions as despicable, he’d do his best to shield Desmond from exposure—simply because he’s his son.”

“I agree.”

“Hence,” Quentin concluded soberly, “I cannot discuss my suspicions with anyone, save you and Bentley, of course. Nor can I involve anyone else in this investigation. That includes Hendrick, although Lord knows how much easier my task would be if I could ask him to approach Desmond, to question the businessmen in whose companies Desmond invested, even to supply me with the names of those companies in order that I might investigate them on my own.” Quentin sighed wearily. “But, Hendrick is not family. So it appears I’m on my own.”

“Not entirely,” Brandi reminded him, aching for the torment etched on his face. “You have Bentley and me.” That precipitated a thought. “Why not begin by talking to Bentley?” she suggested. “Remember, he had the advantage of living at Colverton during the time all this was transpiring, while I was at Townsbourne and you were in Europe.

Perhaps, once you mention your theory, he’ll have something to add.”

“Good idea. I’ll do that. Tonight.” Quentin held Brandi’s gaze. “And then tomorrow I’ll confront Desmond.”

“You seem especially preoccupied tonight, sir,” Bentley commented from the center of the morning room.

Out on the terrace, Quentin gazed up at the night sky, grinning wryly. “You can surmise that from one glance?”

“I know what to look for.”

“Such as?”

One brow arched. “Your dinner is sitting on the side table, uneaten, your tea is ice-cold, and you’ve been standing on the terrace overlooking the gardens for nearly an hour now.” Strolling closer, Bentley inquired, “Is it Miss Brandi, sir? Are you still worried over her injury?”

“Yes and no. I’m no longer worried about the wound itself, but I am still concerned about who fired that shot and if he intends to try again. Not to mention that I’m mulling over my conversation with Hendrick, wondering where the common thread lies in this tangle of deception.”

“Are you ready to discuss Master Desmond now, sir?”

Quentin’s head snapped around. “What?”

Bentley shrugged. “I merely asked if you were ready to share your concerns with regard to your brother’s involvement. If you’ll forgive my intruding, sir, I believe it would do you a world of good to discuss it.”

“Have you been chatting with Brandi?”

“Pardon me, sir?”

Quentin stepped into the room. “Did Brandi relay our discussion to you?”

“Actually, I haven’t seen Miss Brandi all evening. She was exhausted from her hectic afternoon of splintering that elm tree. Mrs. Collins arranged an early dinner and a warm bath for her, after which, I presume, she fell asleep.”

“Then how did you know of my concerns about Desmond?”

Bentley gave an exaggerated sigh. “Really, sir, this conversation is becoming tiresome. Need I repeat my innate knowledge of you yet again?”

“No.” Quentin waved his hand. “You needn’t. I’ll do my best to remember that nothing I think or feel can remain a secret from you.”

“Thank you, sir. Now, about Master Desmond …” Bentley inclined his head thoughtfully. “You and I both know how distraught the late duke was over Master Desmond’s lack of principles. Frankly, everything your brother does is motivated by a desire for personal gain. So I do indeed fear—and have from the moment Miss Brandi showed me that ledger—that Master Desmond somehow arranged to have those figures altered. However, I find it inconceivable that he would harm his father, despite all that transpired just before the late duke’s death.”

“As do I.” Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “Bentley, think back to Desmond’s behavior just before this chaos ensued. Is there anything—anything at all—that stands out in your mind? Anything that would shed light on this madness?”

“I’ve racked my brain, sir. Other than what I’ve told you—the heated battle between Master Desmond and your father, followed by the late duke’s decision to change his will, a decision prompted by reasons Mr. Hendrick has already clarified—I can think of nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Damn.” Quentin clenched his fists. “What about Ardsley? Was he agitated during any of his final visits to Colverton?”

Bentley frowned. “Not in the least. Actually, I believe the viscount only dropped by once during that final fortnight—other than the day of the tragedy, that is.”

“Was that unusual?”

“ ’Twas customary for Viscount Denerley and your father to spend several afternoons a week together, whether for business or sport. Their friendship, as you know, went back many years. However, the last weeks of his life, His Grace was deeply troubled—presumably as a result of his row with Master Desmond—and chose not to receive guests.”

“Not even Ardsley?”

“The viscount was always welcome. But he evidently sensed your father needed time alone and diplomatically elected to stay away. He was, in fact, the only visitor His Grace received at all those final weeks. With the exception of …” Bentley broke off, stunned recall erupting on his face.

“Whom, Bentley?” Quentin demanded. “With the exception of whom?”

“Mr. Garrety.” Bentley’s brows knit in fierce concentration. “ ’Twas my day off, which is why I’d nearly forgotten. But he definitely visited your father some ten days before the accident. I remember seeing him climb into his carriage and ride off just as I returned to Colverton that evening.”

“Garrety? The investigator?” Quentin’s gaze grew dark, speculative. “As I recall, the only time Father employed his services was when there was a delicate business matter to delve into.” He paused, features taut. “You don’t suppose Father guessed what Desmond was about on his own?”

“ ’Tis possible, sir. As I said, your father was not himself that last fortnight.”

“Nonetheless, that doesn’t follow suit.” Quentin shook his head. “We just concurred that Desmond would never harm Father. So how could Father’s investigation—whatever it concerned—have been connected with a discovery that would threaten Desmond?”

“How indeed, my lord.”

“We can’t keep talking in circles,” Quentin concluded, with quiet resignation. “I have but one recourse—to confront Desmond. And to pray that all our suspicions are for naught.”

“With so formidable a challenge looming ahead, you should get some rest, sir,” Bentley suggested.

“That’s out of the question. I couldn’t possibly sleep.”

“Apparently, you’re not the only one.”

“Hmm?” Quentin gave Bentley a quizzical look.

Bentley gestured beyond the terrace, where a lone figure was strolling among the gardens. “It seems you’re not alone in your inability to sleep.”

Quentin turned, following Bentley’s gaze. “Brandi.” He shook his head. “I thought you said she was abed.”

“I stand corrected, sir.”

A faint smile touched Quentin’s lips. “As restless as a firefly,” he murmured.