Emerald Garden (38 page)

“That’s impossible.” Quentin averted his head, tenderly kissing her hand. “For I have yet to ask the question.” He turned back to gaze into her eyes, framing her flushed face between his palms. “Brandice Townsend, will you marry me?”

“Will I …” She broke off, unable to speak the words lest they vanish.

Quentin smiled tenderly. “I love you, Sunbeam. I need to know that all I ever wished for you has come to pass—a husband who will rejoice in your spirit, awaken your passion, and take care of you for the rest of your life. So, if I’m blessed to be that lucky man, tell me. Because the only way we can have the ‘all’ we both crave is with a ring on your finger.”

“Oh … Quentin.” Her breath caught. “Am I dreaming?”

“Dreaming, yes—but awake. As am I.” He caressed her face, savoring her expression of joyous wonder. “But I repeat, our future rests in your disarming hands. I want to join my heart, my soul, and my body with yours. Will you give me that gift—do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Radiant fireworks erupted in Brandi’s eyes. “I never thought this day would come. Quickly, tell me again that I’m awake.”

“You’re awake,” he solemnly assured her.

“Thank God.” She launched herself into Quentin’s arms. “Yes.” She kissed the warmth of his shoulder. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes, I’ll be your wife. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Quentin enfolded her against him, burying his face in her hair. “God, I love you, Sunbeam. How could I pretend otherwise—to either of us?” He grinned. “You were right. I am a bloody fool. No one but you could ever make me feel like this—so incomparably, unbearably happy.”

Brandi drew back, giddy with exhilaration. “You’re wrong on both counts, my lord. You’re no longer a bloody fool, and I have yet to make you feel incomparably, unbearably happy—at least not to the extent that I soon shall. But consider yourself duly warned; I intend to rectify that, to make you happier than even you can imagine. And one thing more. Armed with my now-complete education—thanks to the wonder I just discovered in your arms—I plan to decimate every iota of your iron control, Captain Steel.” Quentin grinned, a seductive smile Brandi felt to the tips of her toes. “I can hardly wait,” he murmured huskily. “As for your education—trust me, Sunbeam, ’tis far from complete. But consider yourself duly warned.” He traced the fluttering pulse at her neck, giving her back the very words she’d just uttered. “I intend to rectify that, to make you happier than even you can imagine.” He brushed her lips in a slow heated caress. “And that, my love, is a promise.”

Chapter 17

“Y
OU LOOK LIKE HELL.”

Lounging in the doorway of Desmond’s study, Quentin assessed his brother’s disheveled state and red-rimmed eyes—eyes too glazed to focus on anything save the goblet in his hand.

Slowly, Desmond raised his head. “What d’you want, Quentin?”

“We need to talk.”

Quentin strode into the room, closing the door in his wake.

“About what, your quest for th’ truth or your Sunbeam?”

“Both.” Quentin lowered himself into a chair. “Sanders is on his way in with a pot of strong black coffee. I’m going to wait patiently while you down cup after cup—as many as it takes to convince me you’re capable of having a coherent discussion.”

Desmond massaged his temples. “I’m not in the mood for coffee. I’m less in the mood for chatting. And I’m least in the mood to see you.”

“Have I mentioned how impressed I am by this new show of honesty you’ve been displaying lately?” Quentin stretched his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. “I hope it continues when I get to the topics we need to confront after Sanders and I have sobered you up.”

“Why the hell is Sanders delivering refreshment trays? He’s my valet, not a bloody footman.”

“He’s also the only member of Father’s staff who dares to cross your path these days. Given that fact, he was kind enough to offer his services.”

Before Desmond could reply, a tentative knock sounded at the door.

“Come in, Sanders,” Quentin called. “His Grace is awaiting his coffee with bated breath.”

Sanders entered timidly, his eyes darting from Desmond to Quentin and back. Then he scurried across the room and deposited a tray of coffee and scones on Desmond’s desk. “I wasn’t sure if you’d had breakfast, my lord,” he addressed Quentin, cringing beneath Desmond’s black scowl. “So I took the liberty of providing an additional cup and saucer, should you wish some coffee, as well as a second plate, should you wish a bite to eat.”

“That was very considerate. Thank you, Sanders.” Quentin gave him a reassuring nod.

“You can get out now, Sanders,” Desmond snapped, once the valet had filled two cups to the brim. “I assure you, I’m perfectly capable ’f swallowing my own coffee without assistance—foxed or not.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Needing no second invitation, Sanders hastened from the room.

“Drink,” Quentin commanded, when Desmond did no more than stare sullenly at the tray. “Or it will be I, not Sanders, who assists you. And the experience won’t be a pleasant one.”

Mumbling an oath, Desmond took a gulp, shuddering with distaste.

“Keep going. I’ll let you know when to stop.”

Four cups later—dispersed by several angry outbursts—Desmond shoved the tray away. “Enough. I’m disgustingly sober. What do you want?”

Meticulously, Quentin sized up his brother’s overall condition. Satisfied, he nodded. “Very well. This won’t take long. After which, you’re welcome to drown yourself in as many bottles of Madeira as your stomach can tolerate.” His casual posture abandoned, Quentin sat up straight, leaning forward in the chair. “Let’s begin with Brandi. This is the portion of our conversation in which I do the talking and you do the listening. Those roles will shortly be reversed.”

“Save your breath with regard to Brandice.” Desmond’s hand sliced the air. “With her customary display of unladylike bluntness, she informed me of her feelings, both for you and for me. It appears that, once again, you emerge the victor, my oh-so-fortunate brother.”

Quentin cocked a brow. “Think about what you just said, Desmond—the way you described Brandi. Would you really want to spend your entire life
attempting”
—his emphasis was intentional, a reminder of the improbable outcome of such a task—”to break her to your will and transform her into a demure and proper duchess?”

“What I want or do not want no longer matters, at least not to that stubborn hellion you’ve created. All that matters to Brandice, at the cost of all our reputations, is what—rather, whom—she wants. And whom she wants is you.”

“As I want her—exactly as she is,” Quentin said pointedly.

“How romantic.”

“I wasn’t seeking your opinion, nor your approval. In fact, let me stress that the following is not a request, but a statement of fact, proffered only because you are Brandi’s legal guardian. The sole effect you can have is to determine, by way of your reaction, the avenue I take to enact my plan.”

“What are you leading up to?”

Quentin held Desmond’s gaze. “From Colverton, I’m traveling directly to London—for several reasons, the rest of which I will address in a moment. But the main purpose of my trip is to obtain a special license. I intend to wed Brandi by week’s end.”

Desmond sucked in his breath.

“You have two choices, as I see it,” Quentin continued, ignoring his brother’s stunned expression. “You can be genteel and gracious, giving Brandi your consent and, thus, avoiding gossip and scandal among the
ton
—who, incidentally, never knew of your intentions to wed Brandi, so you’ll remain untainted in their eyes. Or, you can oppose the marriage, at which point I will spirit Brandi out of England, return with her as my bride, and ensure that—what were my incomparable betrothed’s words? Ah, yes. Ensure that you are rendered the laughingstock of the
ton.
And, trust me, Desmond, I have more than enough ammunition to do so, between your excessive drinking and the reckless squandering of Father’s money I’m sure I’d uncover if I probed deeply enough. The choice, dear brother, is yours.”

Desmond’s eyes glinted with jealous enmity. “Our father—and
your
mother—are barely cold in their graves. We have a full year’s mourning period to observe—a period that has scarcely begun. How can you consider …”

“Shut up, Desmond,” Quentin interrupted in a lethal tone. “Don’t even try using that particular tactic on me. The admiration and esteem I felt for my father and mother were immeasurable, rooted in something far more profound than protocol, and, therefore, impervious to public scrutiny. Recalling the love and respect they shared, I unequivocally know that nothing would grant them greater peace than the knowledge that Brandi and I are joining our hearts and our lives in the same manner as they did. As to the wedding itself, Brandi and I have decided to keep the ceremony quiet and private—not for the sake of appearances, but for the sakes of us and our parents—because we want only to be surrounded by those we love, and the spirits of those we love. Festivities will be deferred until the murderer has been unearthed and the year of mourning has passed.” Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “That should satisfy even you. Now, I’m waiting for your answer.”

“You certainly have everything worked out, don’t you?”

“All but the final detail, which your response will now determine.”

Desmond gave a hollow laugh. “If this weren’t so ironic, it might even be funny. Everything I risked …” He broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind. None of it matters anymore. In truth, I’m too bloody tired to give a damn. Fine, Quentin. Marry Brandice. Take her with you when you sail to the bloody colonies, for all I care. My life, my plans—they’re all unraveling anyway.” He slouched in his chair. “I’ve put myself through hell for nothing.”

Put myself through hell. Everything I risked.

The words triggered a memory in Quentin’s mind, and abruptly he recalled the last time Desmond had chosen those particular phrases to describe his attempts to win Brandi’s hand.

Finally, after putting myself through hell, risking things you couldn’t possibly imagine, I’d very nearly won her over.

An inner voice urged Quentin on. “What hell did you put yourself through? What is it you risked?”

“Nothing that affects you. You have my consent, and your revered Sunbeam. What else do you want?”

“Answers.” Quentin’s jaw tightened. “Which brings me to the second part of this discussion—my quest for the truth, as you put it. Desmond, I’ve seen Ardsley’s ledger. And I found its contents strangely troubling.”

A wary look crossed Desmond’s face. “In what way?”

“Frankly, Ardsley was too good an investor to incur such drastic losses. But that alone wouldn’t bother me. What bothers me is that you’re too ineffective an investor to earn such overwhelming profits.”

‘Who the hell are you to …”

“There’s no one here but us now, Desmond,” Quentin interceded quietly. “There’s no
ton
to impress, no fortunes to acquire, nor women to woo. So let’s not insult each other by spouting nonsense. Your business skills are moderate to poor. So is your judgment. Couple those realities with the fact that your half-hearted attempts to reform were constantly subverted by reckless side ventures that cost Father a fortune. What I want to know is, did you tamper with the numbers listed in Ardsley’s ledger?”

Desmond bolted to his feet. “I don’t have to sit here and take this.” His eyes blazed. “How dare you accuse me of stealing money?”

“I didn’t accuse you of stealing it. I asked if you’d altered the distribution of it to make you appear the consummate businessman.”

“And just how would I do that? I never even saw this notorious ledger, nor did I provide the figures designated in it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Desmond’s lips thinned into a grim line. “Then your contemptuous suggestion is stupid as well as offensive.”

“At least not directly, you didn’t,” Quentin qualified. “But did you goad someone into doing it for you?”

“Goad someone? As in, beat them into compliance?”

“No, as in blackmail them into compliance. You’re extremely good at that—as we both know.”

Desmond shot Quentin a poisonous look. “I’d hardly liken hastening your departure with blatantly falsifying records.”

“I fail to see the difference. Nevertheless, your ethics, however dubious, are not at issue here. Your honesty is. So I ask again, did you arrange for someone to redistribute those numbers?”

A heartbeat of a pause. “No.”

“Good. Then you wouldn’t mind providing me with a list of all the companies in which you invested, both for Ardsley and for Father.”

Dead silence.

“I’ve already asked Hendrick to gather that data for all the other investors listed in Ardsley’s ledger, and then to investigate the companies funded by their ventures. During the course of our exchange, I, of course, never mentioned your name and it goes without saying that Hendrick would never consider including you as a suspect—after all, you are my brother and Kenton’s son, right?” Quentin’s eyes glittered. “Lest you wonder, Desmond, those are the sole reasons I’m speaking to you directly rather than turning my suspicions over to Hendrick or Bow Street: because of the blood we share and out of respect for Father.”

“You have me tried and convicted,” Desmond muttered. His agitated gaze darted about the study, settling on the bottle of port that graced the side table.

“Suspicion and conviction are worlds apart,” Quentin amended. “Now, as for that list …”

“Let me understand this.” Desmond licked his suddenly parched lips. “You want a list of all the companies in which I invested so you can verify if I hired someone to misrepresent the profits and losses in order that I appear a hero?”

“Yes—and I want it before you take that drink.”

“Go to hell, Quentin.”

“I’m there right now.” Quentin rose slowly, walking toward his brother, anguish reflected in his eyes. “Tell me, Desmond. Did Ardsley find out what you’d done? Did he discover your deceit and threaten to tell Father, or to deny you his money and his daughter? Is that what happened?”