Emerald Garden (44 page)

Together, they read the following:

Dear Quentin:

People, like gems, have many facets; some are visible, while others are cleverly concealed. The key to the truth is to learn to see beyond the surface. Then, no one can hurt you. My only prayer is that brotherhood and forgiveness, such significant facets of the man you’ve become, are implanted deeply enough in your heart to flourish over anger, however righteous. My faith in you is limitless.

Your father.

“I don’t understand,” Brandi murmured. “It doesn’t even sound like Kenton; he never spoke in such obscure, flowery language.”

“No, he didn’t.” Quentin scrutinized the page again. “But, in this case, he would.”

“You’ve totally lost me.”

“Father is relying upon me to interpret his hidden message.”

“Are you saying it’s in code?”

Quentin nodded. “Think about it, Sunbeam. You yourself just said Father realized his life was in jeopardy. My guess is that he didn’t want to endanger his family or his findings by exposing the facts on paper. Thus, he concealed them in this message, anticipating that I’d be able to decipher it.”

Frowning, Brandi reread the words. “Can you?”

“Yes and no. I understand Father’s overall message, but there are subtleties I’m unable to perceive without one or two vital, but missing, pieces of the puzzle.” Quentin turned brooding eyes to his wife. “I am certain of one thing. My brother is up to his unscrupulous neck in all this.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Father’s words. Look.” Quentin pointed to the page. “He refers to brotherhood, immediately after which he urges me to supplant anger with forgiveness. Whatever ugly particulars he uncovered, he was protecting Desmond from them. And now he’s asking me to do the same.”

“Are the particulars themselves concealed in this note?”

“I think not.” Quentin’s brow furrowed in concentration. “ ‘People, like gems … gems—gems.” Abruptly, his head came up. “What a cursed fool I’ve been. So bloody preoccupied with uncovering the truth that I missed the part that was staring me in the face. Gems—the strongbox.”

“The strongbox?” Brandi’s eyes widened. “Then ‘the key to the truth’ must be this.” She held up the other object she’d found.

“Agreed. Let me see it.” Quentin took the key, turning it over in his hands.

“Pamela’s jewel case!” Brandi shot to her feet, crossing the room and snatching the ornate box from her dressing table. “Kenton must have hidden the evidence here.”

“I doubt we’ll find anything in Mother’s box but jewels,” Quentin countered. “But I’d like to inspect it nonetheless. As well as the key that opens it.”

“You don’t expect to find anything?” Brandi questioned, astonished. “Very well.” With a dubious expression, she returned to the bed, removing the key from its hiding place and proffering both key and box to her husband. Pensively, she watched as Quentin rummaged through the jewel case.

“As I suspected, nothing,” he pronounced. Moving the box aside, he seized its key and held it up against the one Kenton had concealed.

“They’re identical,” Brandi murmured.

“Not quite. Look closely; there’s a slight difference in contour. If I’m correct …” He attempted to insert Kenton’s key into the lock of the jewel case, without success.

“Then whose strongbox were you alluding to when you said …” Brandi broke off, comprehension illuminating her face. “Kenton’s.” She met Quentin’s assured nod. “I remember, ’twas an identical mate to Pamela’s.”

“Father commissioned them to be crafted that way—which is why the keys are so similar in design.”

Brandi grasped Quentin’s forearms. “Now we know what we must do. We’ll wait until nightfall then sneak into Colverton. No, wait.” She scowled. “Nighttime won’t work. Desmond is now occupying your father’s chambers. Which, I presume, is where Kenton kept his strongbox. We’ll have to wait until Desmond is either away from Colverton or passed out on his study desk in a drunken stupor. At which time we’ll snatch the strongbox and—”

“ ’Tis a splendid idea,” Quentin interrupted. “ ’Tis also pointless.”

“Why?”

“Because Father’s strongbox is missing.”

Brandi gasped. “You know that for a fact?”

“I do. Bentley told me. More than a week ago.”

“And it has yet to be found?”

“In truth, I think Bentley abandoned his search the instant we received the heinous news from Bow Street. Learning that our parents were murdered eclipsed all else—including the strongbox—from his mind. As it did mine, until this very minute. Nevertheless, I don’t believe continuing the search would have yielded any results. Even if we’d ransacked Colverton, room by room, the strongbox wouldn’t have surfaced.”

“Kenton concealed it,” Brandi deduced aloud. “Along with whatever evidence he wanted buried—to be found by you and you alone.”

“I’m as sure of that as I am of the fact that the contents of the strongbox will lead us to whoever murdered our parents.”

Soberly, Brandi regarded her husband. “But how do we find it?”

“Since Father’s message centers around Desmond, we begin by my returning to Colverton and, if necessary, beating the truth out of my brother.”

“You can’t be certain how much he knows.”

“No, but I’m certain he knows something. And I don’t intend to leave until he divulges what that something is.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Quentin was shaking his head before her words were out. “Absolutely not. You were nearly killed once. I won’t risk losing you again.’

“Quentin.” Brandi scrambled to her knees. “Emerald Manor is deserted, save you and me. I’ll be in more danger here than I will if I accompany you to Colverton. Moreover, I don’t believe Desmond murdered your father—and, despite your ire, neither do you. From the threat contained in that first note, it sounds as if your brother were as much a victim as he was a culprit. He’s weak, Quentin. And severely lacking in confidence. But he’s not a killer. He is, however, tortured by something—guilt, perhaps, or fear of discovery. That’s why he’s been drinking incessantly. As for Kenton, you and I both know what an ethical man he was. Do you honestly believe he’d appeal to you to protect a man he suspected was a potential murderer—even if that man were his own son? Absolutely not.” Brandi paused, chewing her lip. “I agree that Desmond is involved. But, in my opinion, he didn’t compose that threatening note nor did he sever the carriage axle. Moreover, we have yet to integrate all we’ve just learned with the mystery of Father’s ledger and the discrepancies it contains. Perhaps both our fathers were delving into something that rendered them targets for the killer—have you ever considered that? There are still a gamut of loose ends. I don’t profess to be able to tie them all together, but I do ask for the right to take part in the process of doing so. Please, Quentin, let me help you.”

Quentin tilted her chin up. “And you call
me
a brilliant diplomat?” he teased with tender pride. “You may lack tact, Sunbeam, but your wisdom is staggering.”

Relief swept over Brandi’s face and she leaned up, brushed her lips to his. “As I’ve stated in the past, my lord, I have the most splendid of instructors—proficient in more areas than even I realized.”

“I don’t want to shut you out, Sunbeam, only to keep you safe.”

“You have no worries on that score, my lord.” Brandi slipped out of bed, opening her nightstand drawer and extracting the pistol Quentin had given her four years past. “My instructor once directed me to protect myself at all times, even provided me with a weapon with which to do so. Since then I have carried this with me, a beloved safeguard from danger.” She stroked the pistol’s ornate handle. “How fortunate that now I have both my instructor’s wondrous gift and his wondrous love to shield me.

“Indeed.” Slowly, Quentin came to his feet. “What a coincidence. I am equally well-protected. As I shall demonstrate in thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes?”

“Um-hum. That’s how much time I’ll need to get ready for our ride to Colverton. Twenty nine minutes to dress, eat, and fetch the phaeton …” A loving grin. “And one minute to slip my knife into my boot.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Quentin? I told you never to show your face at Colverton again.” Tightening the belt of his dressing robe, Desmond slammed into the manor’s yellow salon, shoving unruly strands of hair from his face and blinking to accustom himself to the light. “Moreover, do you know what time it is?”

“Five-thirty,” Quentin supplied from the settee, his hand tightening over Brandi’s. “And I assure you, my business is urgent. Else I wouldn’t have come, much less awakened you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” Desmond’s unsteady hands as he poured himself a drink—sloshing a third of it on the side table—left no doubt as to what he had been doing. “Speaking of bed, your bride must have been a colossal disappointment. You’ve been wed less than a day and already you’ve left her adoring arms to immerse yourself in investigative work?”

“Shut your mouth, Desmond,” Quentin warned. “And open your eyes. Brandi is sitting here beside me.”

Desmond pivoted toward the settee, noting Brandi’s presence for the first time. “Well, well—so she is. The blushing bride. How touching. You accompanied Quentin on his visit to the lion’s den. Couldn’t you bear the hour’s separation? I suggest you learn. Before long, there will be oceans and months separating you.”

“Don’t, Desmond,” Brandi returned quietly. “I’m here because the matter Quentin has come to discuss concerns me, too.”

“And because I won’t leave Brandi alone at Emerald Manor,” Quentin added, watching his brother’s face. “It’s too dangerous.”

A derisive brow rose. “Dangerous? Nonsense. If another oncoming bullet dared pierce the cottage woods, why, Bentley and Mrs. Collins would simply throw themselves in its path just to protect their beloved Lady Brandice.”

“You’re right; they would. If they were there. But, you see, Emerald Manor is deserted save Brandi and me.”

“You’ve alienated the staff and they’ve resigned?” Desmond inquired sardonically.

“No, I’ve simply ensured some time alone for my bride and me by giving the servants a few days off. Which I never would have done had I realized the danger.”

Quentin’s somber tone finally struck home. “What danger?” Desmond demanded, all traces of mockery abandoned. “Has something else occurred?”

“Not yet, no. But I believe we’re on the verge of unmasking the murderer. So there’s a strong possibility he’ll retaliate.”

Desmond rubbed his eyes as if to clarify what he’d just heard. “Father’s murderer? You know who it is? Who?”

“I said, on the verge,” Quentin repeated.

“Does that mean you no longer assume I did it?”

“We never assumed that, Desmond,” Brandi put in.

“Perhaps
you
didn’t, Brandice, but my brother openly accused me.”

“I didn’t accuse you—I asked some pertinent questions,” Quentin corrected. “Questions you refused to answer.”

“They didn’t deserve answers.”

“Well, you’re going to supply them. Now. Like it or not.” Quentin drew a calming breath. “Before we begin, how drunk are you?”

Desmond’s laugh was hollow. “Enough to ease my mind, but not to dull it.”

“Are you sober enough to read?”

“Shall I go to the library and extract a volume of poetry to recite aloud as proof?”

“No.” Quentin vaulted to his feet. “Read these.” He shoved both notes in Desmond’s hand, deliberately positioning the one Kenton had penned on top. “They were written some weeks ago. One is to Father, one from him. They were accompanied by a key. I’m curious what your extraordinarily clever mind makes of all this.”

Desmond opened Kenton’s note, concentrating intently as he read. The lines about his mouth grew grimmer by the instant, until at last he lowered the page.

“How did you come upon this?” he asked hoarsely, his hands shaking—whether from alcohol or fear, Quentin wasn’t certain.

“ ’Twas in an envelope with my name on it. Along with the other note you’re clutching and, as I said, a key. I take it you know something about it?”

“A key you said?” Desmond asked, ignoring Quentin’s query. “What kind of key? Where did you find these things?”

“All three items were in my mother’s jewel case, which Brandi opened for the first time yesterday. As to the details of the key, I believe it’s the one that fits Father’s strongbox.”

“Christ.” Desmond sank down into a chair.

“Go to your chambers and collect the box, Desmond. I’d like to verify my theory.”

Desmond’s head came up, his eyes glazed. “I don’t have it. In fact, I haven’t seen it …” He broke off, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. “I just remembered. Bentley was searching for it. I can’t recall what day it was, but he came to my study asking if I’d seen Father’s strongbox. He must have it.”

“He doesn’t. It was never found. Nor do I think it will be—at least not in any conspicuous place.”

“If you knew it was missing, why did you ask me to get it?” A guarded look crossed Desmond’s face, supplanted immediately by rage. “You still think I had something to do with the carriage accident, don’t you?”

“It was murder. And I don’t know what to think.” Quentin folded his arms across his chest. “It’s time you and I talked. Seriously. And frankly. We both know you and Father had differences of opinion when it came to certain issues—most particularly, money. We also know how often—and how heatedly—you argued over those differences.”

“How would you know? You were away for four years. As I told Brandice, a lot changed during that time.”

“Nothing changed.” Quentin dismissed Desmond’s argument with a wave of his hand. “Stop lying. To me and to yourself. You remained the same weak, frivolous man you always were—trying to buy Father’s respect rather than earn it. Just how low did you stoop, Desmond? What machinations did you effect?”

Something inside Desmond seemed to snap. “It’s that bastard Bentley, isn’t it?” he shouted, bolting to his feet like a bullet. “I knew that bloody butler would ultimately relay everything to you. I was just waiting to see when. Damn him, he never did learn his place. He eavesdropped on that whole last argument, didn’t he? Listened to every word of Father’s threats? And he couldn’t wait to convey it all to you the moment you returned to the Cotswolds. Well, the hell with him. The hell with all of you. You’ll never find what you’re looking for—I’ve taken steps to ensure that there is no amended will. And without it, you have no evidence, regardless of what Bentley overheard Father say. It’s your word against mine and, taking my title and influence into account, you haven’t a prayer in the world. So don’t even consider trying to wrest Father’s legacy from me, Quentin. Because, damn you, I’ve earned it. All of it. The title. The money. The estate. The business. I’ve paid for them in sweat and in guilt. Besides, you’re not suited to be the Duke of Colverton. You’d never stay home long enough to oversee the endless responsibilities. That’s what I kept trying to make Father see. I never succeeded. Regardless of your transience, he was hellbent on changing that bloody will. I couldn’t allow that to happen. So I took matters into my own hands.” Abruptly, all Desmond’s anger drained away. “Ironic that now it’s all I have left.”