Emerald Garden (45 page)

Both Quentin and Brandi had gaped silently throughout Desmond’s diatribe.

Quentin reacted first.

“You filthy son of a bitch.” He lunged forward, grasping the edges of Desmond’s robe and shaking him. “That’s what you meant the day you told me that if Father left you his legacy, it wasn’t by choice. He planned to change his will … and you prevented it by killing him?”

“I didn’t kill him!” Desmond gasped, shaking his head. “I’d never …”

“You’re lying.”

“Quentin, stop,” Brandi interrupted, coming to her feet. “I don’t think he’s lying.” She inclined her head solemnly at Desmond. “What did you mean when you said you ‘took matters into your own hands.’ How did you stop Kenton from amending his will?”

A wary look crossed Desmond’s face and he shrugged free of Quentin’s grasp. “I convinced him to leave his original will intact.”

“How?”

Silence.

“Desmond, did Kenton truly leave that will intact, or did he actually have a new one drawn up? Is that what we’d find hidden in his strongbox?”

“No.” Desmond raked a shaking hand through his hair. “I mean, I don’t know what’s in the strongbox, but it’s not an amended will. Father’s sole will is the one Hendrick read aloud.”

“Then what is frightening you so?”

“Brandice, I don’t answer to you. Go back to Pamela’s precious cottage with your bridegroom. Learn how to please him in bed—maybe that way you’ll keep him on English soil a month or two longer.”

Quentin’s fist shot out, striking Desmond squarely in the jaw.

Reeling backward, Desmond clutched the chair to right himself. Eyes ablaze, he rubbed his throbbing jaw. “Get out, Quentin. Both of you, get out.”

“Give us your business records and we’ll go,” Brandi offered, her chin raised defiantly.

“What?”

“If you’re innocent, if all you did was argue with Kenton and ultimately win a verbal battle, then you should have no objection if Quentin and I peruse your ledgers. Unless, of course, you were involved in unscrupulous business practices—practices that would have distressed your father. And that you’re unwilling to furnish your ledgers because your dishonesty is clearly documented in them. Or is it that you’re not unwilling, but unable, to furnish the ledgers? Are they the mysterious items Kenton secreted in his strongbox?”

Desmond’s pupils dilated. “Were you mine, I’d have silenced that audacious, brazen tongue of yours. As it is, Quentin is welcome to you.” Abruptly, he veered toward the door. “Sanders!” he bellowed. Turning his head, he shot Brandi and Quentin a withering look. “Sanders will fetch the books. Scrutinize them to your hearts’ content. But at Emerald Manor, not here. Don’t set foot in my home until you’re ready to beg my forgiveness. At which time I suggest you approach me on bended knee. And then maybe, just maybe, I’ll consider hearing your apologies.”

“You summoned me, Your Grace?” Sanders appeared in the doorway.

“Yes. Collect all my business records. And Father’s as well. Give them to my brother.”

“Yes, sir.” The valet darted off.

“Read the other letter, Desmond,” Quentin put in ominously.

“What?”

“The other message.” Quentin pointed to the forgotten page which was clutched, unopened, in Desmond’s tightly clenched fist. “Read it.”

Desmond unfolded the sheet. Scanning and rescanning the two lines, he turned a sickly shade of green. “Dear Lord …” His entire body sagged. “Do you realize what this means?” he muttered, half to himself.

“I do. Do you?” Quentin fired back.

With a trapped expression, Desmond backed away. “I need to think. I need a drink. I …” He broke off, fear glittering in his eyes. “That threat—it was also meant for me.” He licked his lips. “I’m going to my chambers. When Sanders brings you the ledgers, tell him to send a bottle of brandy to my room. Immediately.”

“Desmond …” Quentin stalked toward him.

“Let him go, Quentin,” Brandi said quietly. “He has nothing else to offer us.” She came to stand beside her husband, watching as Desmond bolted—from the room, yes, but from Lord knew what else.

“Don’t tell me you think he’s innocent?” Quentin demanded.

“Of course not. But neither do I think his crime was murder. Someone else is involved—someone whose objectives were far more sinister than Desmond’s. And that someone killed our parents.” Brandi drew an unsteady breath. “The question is, does Desmond suspect who that murderer might be?” She shook her head as Quentin made a move to go after his brother. “You’ll gain nothing by pursuing him right now. He’s paralyzed with fear. To continue grilling him would be a waste of time—time we could be using to scrutinize the ledgers.”

“If Desmond is blithely handing the ledgers over to us, there can be nothing incriminating in them.”

“True. But maybe they’ll provide us with a clue that even Desmond, in his frozen state, hasn’t discerned. Let’s take them home and examine them. My guess is that Desmond’s fear will render him drunk and ineffective for days.”

“Damn it, I want answers,” Quentin ground out.

“I know. So do I.” Brandi laced her fingers through his, strangely moved by the fact that, at last,
Quentin
was turning to
her
for sanity and strength. “And we shall find them. Soon.” She brought his hand to her lips. “In the interim, let’s stop at the burial site and visit your parents before we leave Colverton. My heart tells me that feeling close to them and their love will rekindle our spirit and reinforce our faith. And that the peace with which they infuse us will provide the strength we need to ensure theirs.”

Quentin’s eyes darkened with emotion. “Your knowledge of me is uncanny,” he said huskily. “God, I love you, Sunbeam.” He enfolded Brandi against him, burying his face in her hair. “And I need you. Forever. Always.”

“I’m glad, Captain Steel,” she replied in a broken whisper, very aware that this was the first time Quentin had allowed himself to speak of forever. “Because you have me—always.”

Chapter 20

D
AMN. THE CURSED WALLS
were closing in on him.

Unlocking his private office safe, Hendrick withdrew the missive that had tormented him for a fortnight, scrutinizing it for the umpteenth time. His hand balled into a fist of impotent fury, and he began to pace, clutching the single sheet and racking his brain for a solution. Damn Kenton Steel to hell. Why couldn’t the principled bastard have dispatched his shattering proclamation one day sooner? Just one bloody day, giving him time to beat the truth out of Kenton before eliminating him—and the threat he posed.

Rubbing his throbbing temples, Hendrick stared at the words yet again, their significance burning through him like a deadly poison:

Hendrick:

Consider this letter to be written notice that you are hereby discharged as my family solicitor. Needless to say, the contemptible results of my investigation make any association between us an impossibility. Furthermore, be advised that I plan to notify the authorities of my findings and, with the proof now in my possession, to have you stripped of your credentials and thrown into prison.

Hendrick scowled, regarding the final paragraph of the missive—the one that had been the true thorn in his side since Kenton’s death:

As for your odious threat, I’ve taken precautions to carefully conceal the evidence and, should any harm befall me, it will find its way into the right hands, thus implicating you, not only of fraud and theft, but of murder as well. Rest assured, your crimes will not go unpunished.

Kenton Steel, the Duke of Colverton

Muttering a foul oath, Hendrick stalked across the room, shoved the note back into his safe, and slammed it shut.

If only he’d known that Kenton had not only assembled evidence but secreted it somewhere—right along with Desmond’s ledgers. But he hadn’t known … not until it was too late. Not until he’d killed the only man who knew where the damning proof was, thus sealing his own fate and condemning himself to Newgate.

Unless
Desmond managed to find the evidence before Quentin or the authorities did.

That had been his only hope, and he’d pursued it with a vengeance, using every ounce of cunning he possessed. Of course, Desmond hadn’t a clue that Kenton’s findings went far beyond the paltry doctoring of Desmond’s ledgers.

And that was precisely the way Hendrick wanted to keep it.

Should Desmond perceive even a glimmer of his true crimes, the far-reaching nature of his guilt, it might just penetrate the fool’s drunken haze and trigger the realization that Hendrick had killed his meddlesome father.

“Hendrick! Open the door!”

A violent pounding nearly brought him out of his seat.

“I know you’re in there. Let me in or I’ll tear off the damned lock.”

Gritting his teeth, Hendrick rose, wishing Peters were back from lunch to toss Desmond out on his ear. This was the annoying pest’s third visit in as many days. And all because he’d lost his precious Brandice and Quentin was grilling him about Kenton.

Still, he couldn’t dismiss Desmond entirely. After all, if Quentin were beginning to suspect him, those suspicions might eventually lead to the family solicitor.

Another round of thunderous hammering.

“Hendrick, open this blasted door or I’ll break it down. I swear it.”

“I’m coming, Colverton. Calm down.” Crossing the room, Hendrick unlocked the door and flung it wide. “What in the name of heaven are you bellowing about?”

Wild-eyed, Desmond shoved his way into the office. “Where’s Peters?”

“At his midday meal, I presume.” Hendrick cocked a brow, assessing Desmond’s frazzled state. “Are you drunk?”

“Not this time.” Desmond slammed the door behind him. “You son of a bitch.” He advanced on the solicitor. “How could you do this?”

The depth of Desmond’s fury gave Hendrick pause. “I don’t know,” he answered cautiously, making no move to retreat. “That depends on what you’re referring to.”

“I saw it, you bastard,” Desmond bit out. “I saw that ominous note.”

Hendrick went very still. “What note?”

“Both. But I’m talking about yours. The one where you threatened to kill Father and ruin me. Does that sound familiar?”

“Desmond, you’re not making any sense.” Smoothly, Hendrick crossed over to the sideboard, pouring a tall glass of Madeira. “Here. Drink this. It will help soothe you.”

Savagely, Desmond knocked the goblet from Hendrick’s grasp, wine spraying everywhere, the glass splintering against the wall, shattering to bits.

Hendrick winced, clutching his hand, his eyes blazing as dark stains of Madeira drenched the rug. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Definitely. I’ve also opened my eyes. You killed my father. You threatened his life and then you took it.”

“You are insane.” Hendrick flexed his fingers, trying to ease the sting without calling attention to his still-inflamed wound. Damn, he wished he’d worn his glove. “I don’t know what note you’re ranting about. And why in hell’s name would you think I killed …”

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

Instantly, Hendrick thrust it behind his back, cursing Desmond for choosing this visit to arrive sober. “You just struck it, you fool.”

“Not that hard.” Desmond frowned. “What were those gashes I saw?”

“Gashes? Those were drops of the Madeira you just showered about my office. I think your excessive drinking has begun to affect your vision, Colverton.”

“You’re lying.” Desmond lunged forward, grasping Hendrick’s arm and yanking it forward before the solicitor had time to react. Staring at the deep cuts, Desmond felt his stomach lurch.

And another heinous piece fell into place.

“Christ.” Raising his head, Desmond met Hendrick’s icy stare. “You’re the one who shot Brandice. My God, Hendrick, you planned to kill her, too?”

“Unhand me, you sniveling fool.” In one harsh motion, Hendrick shook himself free. “I’ve had enough of your childish blathering. You want the truth? Fine, I’ll give it to you. Yes, I killed your father. How? It was easy as hell, thanks to you. You apprised me of every move Kenton made, from the instant he confronted you about the ledgers. Daily, you raced to my office like a terrified child seeking protection, reporting the steps Kenton planned to take in the hopes of saving your own cowardly neck. Once I knew he’d engaged Garrety’s investigative services, ’twas elementary for me to forge an urgent note in Garrety’s hand, summoning Kenton to London at precisely the right time. And just as easy, in the dead of night, for me to slip into Colverton’s carriage house and tamper with the coach. So, yes, I killed Kenton. And, yes, I tried to do the same to your tenacious, cherished Brandice. Does that satisfy you?”

Shock and rage converged on Desmond’s face. “Satisfy me? You murdered my father and you want to know if that satisfies me?”

“Oh, save your righteous anger. You got what you wanted. You’re the Duke of Colverton, remember? You have all those precious assets Kenton wanted to wrest away.”

“I don’t give a damn …”

“No? Shall I flourish Kenton’s amended will then? Send for Quentin and tell him the whole estate is his?”

A strangled laugh emerged from Desmond’s throat. “Go ahead. At least it will end this nightmare.” He shook his head in agonized disbelief. “I can no longer remember what I wanted or why.”

“Then let me refresh your memory. You paid me to doctor Denerley’s books so you’d look like a financial genius in order to win Brandice’s hand and Kenton’s respect. Does that sound familiar?”

“Unfortunately, yes. And, ironically, I won neither.”

“Is that what’s bothering you? Well, look at it this way. Brandice is too much of a handful for you, anyway. Find yourself a nice docile chit. As for Kenton’s respect, you no longer need it. You have his legacy, which is far more valuable in the long run.”

“I’m going to the authorities.” Desmond veered about, headed toward the door. “ ’Tis worth forfeiting the bloody title to see you hang. Which, between your note and Father’s, I’m certain you will.”

“I wouldn’t recommend doing that.” The click of a pistol being cocked halted Desmond in his tracks. “I’ve killed three people, Colverton. Nearly four—had Brandice’s blasted squirrel not intervened. I’ve not the slightest compunction about making it five. ’Tis very noble of you to sacrifice your title. But are you willing to sacrifice your life?”