Formidable Lord Quentin (3 page)

Quent peeled off his riding coat and headed for his chambers
and a bath. Business could wait a few hours. “Send word round to the lady that
I’m on my way over.”

He ignored Acton’s knowing grin.

***

Bell had settled at her private desk to dash off
correspondence to her circle of friends about the latest developments, when her
maid delivered Quent’s note. Her first reaction was one of relief that he’d
called on her so quickly. And then she scolded herself.

“He’s simply poking his nose where it doesn’t belong. I will
not rely on him or any other man,” she vowed, folding the note into a square.
But she rose and checked her mirror and found a prettier shawl to go with her
gown. It had been a decade since she’d undertaken the study of the most
distinguished ladies in society and learned to create an elegant style and air
of her own. She wasn’t truly worried about her appearance.

She was nervous for reasons beyond her looks. Her father’s
trunks had arrived this morning. She’d had time to peruse his documents before
sending them to Summerby, her solicitor, with queries. She wished Quent had
stayed in Scotland long enough for her to find answers.

She could hope that if she gave him a simple task, he
wouldn’t have reason to look deeper. Yet.

Quent arrived immaculately dressed, as if about to set off
for a night on the town. His blue superfine fit his broad shoulders to
perfection, but the tailored elegance didn’t suit him. London gentlemen needed
shoulder padding to achieve anything half so impressive as Quent’s yeomen’s
shoulders. He stood taller than any man in any ballroom she’d ever attended.
His muscled legs in tight stockinette had caused delicate females to gasp and fan
themselves. He belonged on a destrier, wearing a suit of armor, at the very
least. He always made her blood race a little faster, but she’d learned she
needn’t act on rash urges anymore.

Wearing the cloak of civilization, she knew how to behave.
She doubted that Quent was capable of misbehaving.

Bell led him to Edward’s study, where she could pour him a
brandy. “I see you’re already off to discuss business at Lloyd’s. You didn’t
need to stop by so soon after returning.”

They’d known each other too long to stand on propriety. That
she didn’t require a servant while entertaining him spoke of their
long-accepted roles. She was grateful for her worldly widow status. It
simplified so much. She would never have fared well as a simpering maiden. That
Quent acted as the Hoyt family representative in London gave them a family
connection to quell rumors. That he was the most formidably proper gentleman in
town aided her cause.

“I take it your sisters have gone back to Scotland. Since I
have no protégée to marry off to your bachelor friends at the moment, I cannot
think you needed to hurry over,” she said insouciantly, pretending this was an
informal call.

Quent merely nodded acknowledgment of their ongoing wager. Bell
had dowered Edward’s unmarried female relations so they might have choices
she’d never had. Quent had steered his group of impoverished younger sons in
the direction of her well-dowered protégées. Bell was adamant that her
protégées needn’t marry. Quent’s friends had still swept them off their feet. Bell
had agreed to sponsor Quent’s sisters in society in payment of her losses. Since
she would have done so anyway, she’d been quite entertained and thought the
outcome fair.

“How can I help you?” she asked when he merely accepted his
brandy.

More polite and better dressed than Brummell, with glossy
black hair, rugged cheekbones, and a stubbornly square jaw, Lord Quentin Hoyt
was a man who caused ladies to swoon when they spoke of him.

Unfortunately, all society knew he was a younger son of a
crude Scot and that he’d made his fortune in trade, so the marriageable maidens
swooned in private.

He sipped his drink and studied her. Bell couldn’t tell if
the appreciation in those sinfully lashed eyes was for her or Edward’s French
brandy, but she wasn’t the sort to swoon in any case. Men could be pleasing to look
upon, but she knew their danger and kept her distance, even if this one made
her blood race.

“You think I shouldn’t be eager to gaze upon your rapturous
beauty after so long a time apart?” he asked, his damned whiskey-brown eyes
dancing in amusement.

Quent’s normal mien was businesslike, efficient, and often
impatient. He seldom laughed. That he did so now, however discreetly, stirred
Bell’s wish that he could be anyone but who he was. Lord Quentin Hoyt was . . .
all sumptuous male. He was hard not to notice.

He created urges that Edward had seldom generated. She
resented that.

“If you truly admired rapturous beauty, you’d escort that
bird-brained but gorgeous Lady Edith about town and adorn your home with gilt
and murals,” she retorted. “Do not tease, Quent. I am out of my depth and in
dire need of masculine knowledge. Would you set your circle of friends to
helping me find a tutor? All my friends are either elderly or out of town, it
seems.”

“A tutor?” He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You plan on
learning Latin and Greek?”

“Stop it,” she ordered in annoyance, pouring sherry for
herself. “You collect gossip worse than any old biddy. Fitz will have told you
about my sisters’ arrival.”

She wasn’t entirely certain she should mention Kit, but
Quent would know soon enough, and she had no better way of explaining her need
for a tutor. “My father apparently arranged to keep his title and our wretched
plot of Irish countryside out of the crown’s hands by finally producing an
heir. I’ll not have the boy grow up as ignorant as we did.”

“I had an excellent education,” Quent reminded her,
amusement still flitting about his lips. “But I take your point. I assume
you’re saying that the next Earl of Wexford will be as dependent on Belden
wealth as the last.”

Bell flung up a hand in despair that he still rode this old
argument. “Honestly, I don’t know why I bother confiding in you. Money is the
root of all evil, not the answer to prayers. Wealth exists to help people lead
better lives, and yes, I’ll certainly see that my siblings have a happier one
than I did. Go away. I’ll find a tutor on my own.”

She opened the study door and rudely gestured for him to
depart.

He didn’t move but continued sipping the brandy and eyeing
her with interest. Bell was too furious with him to preen. She’d been walking
on pins and needles all day, frantically trying to deal with the immediate
while fretting about the future. She had hoped for a little support. She really
should have known Quent would strike at her weakness.

“I’ll have three tutors on your doorstep by day after next,”
he said, as if promising a walk in the park. “I trust you have the documents
proving the boy’s legitimacy and will file them in a timely manner. I don’t
expect anyone to be foolish enough to fight his claim, but his future should be
assured at the earliest possible instant.”

Well, yes, there
were
those stupid enough to fight Kit’s claim, if they thought they could do so
without too much trouble. That was beside the point.

Bell sighed in exasperation at his interference. “I am not a
simpleton. My father had his affairs fully documented.” And those damned
documents were the source of her current distress, but she would go to the
courts as soon as her solicitor arranged it. “I merely need help with a tutor,
not my affairs.”

“Summerby is handling them?” he inquired. “He’s a good
fellow. I’ll check in on him to be certain everything is filed appropriately.”

That was the absolute
last
thing she wanted him to do. “I will thank you for the tutors, should they
arrive, but I will not thank you for interfering in my business.” She tapped
her foot impatiently. “I’m quite capable of dealing with my solicitor on my
own, and I do not appreciate you assuming otherwise.”

Just once,
once,
she would like for a man to recognize her intelligence and capability. Why on
earth she expected respect from this domineering horse’s arse made her doubt
her own intellect. Just because Quent was bigger than everyone he knew didn’t
mean he was smarter.

“It’s unusual for a woman to be appointed guardian, that’s
all I’m saying,” Quent said with a dismissive gesture of his snifter. “As legal
representative for the family’s wellbeing, I’m simply trying to look after your
interests.”

Bell swallowed her panic to respond tartly. “No, you’re
worrying that I won’t have time for Sally and Margaret next season. I can
assure you, I am perfectly capable of setting up my sisters and shepherding
yours at the same time. It is only male pursuits that cause me consternation. Kit
needs men in his life, and I have not had a gentleman’s education or experience
to know which tutors are best.”

“Or the example of a good father, understood,” he said, no
longer looking amused. “You scaled the precarious ladder of society at the
delicate age of eighteen and now command the top with the highest sticklers.
Since Edward’s death, you have had to learn how to manage his investments and
households on your own, and you have done so superbly. I only wish to relieve
you of unnecessary burdens. It will be a pleasure to make your family’s
acquaintance. I’ll see myself out.” He set down the empty glass and bowed.

She could smell his rich shaving soap and the clove he must
have chewed after dinner. His muscled arm nearly brushed her breast as he
passed her in the narrow doorway. She had to fight not to inhale sharply at the
electric tingle created by his proximity.

Quent recognized how hard she’d worked to reach respectable
security! She wasn’t certain that Edward had
ever
noticed or appreciated her efforts to become the perfect marchioness.

Lord Quentin was the only man she knew who could unsettle
her just by his existence. She resented that with all her heart and soul. If
she were still the passionate sort, she’d smash the lovely crystal glass over
his head—or fling her arms around his competent shoulders and weep.

She was not that lost child any longer, and she never would
be again.

The solicitor’s stuffy city office reeked of cigars and
old books. Documents in hand, Quent crossed his boot over his knee, aware of
his surroundings and ignoring Summerby’s nervousness. The solicitor’s desk had
once been rich polished mahogany but bore the damage of decades of boot heels
propped upon it—or perhaps angry clients hammering it with their walking
sticks. Shelves jammed with ancient leather-bound volumes and folios of musty
paper created a confining environment, and Quent rolled his shoulders inside
his tight jacket.

The stiff leather chair on its wooden legs provided no
comfort as Quent scowled and perused the will in his hands a second time.

“As legal representative and son of the current marquess,
you have a right to know,” Summerby said anxiously. “But Lady Isabell is
prepared to go to court to keep the guardianship in her hands. Her late husband
and your father were distant relations and not on speaking terms. It is more
than evident that Wexford meant for his children to be returned to their sister
and her husband and not to a man they don’t know. Your father has no family
relationship to her sisters. It would be better if we found a compromise.”

Quent massaged the bridge of his nose and wished he’d never
asked to see Wexford’s will, but he would have heard of it in a matter of time
anyway. “She’ll lose. No court will override a proper will and assign
guardianship of an earl to an unmarried female. She might argue guardianship of
her sisters, I suppose.”

“But the court won’t wish to make an exception. They’ll rule
on the codicil as one act and one alone.
Unmarried
Descendants under twenty-five
, that’s
all they need. Your father, as the current marquess, has acquired the
guardianship of all four children, even the widow and her child, since she’s
still under age and with no other male family. They will not consider a female
as a responsible party.” Summerby looked as uncomfortable as Quent felt.

“My father needs four more responsibilities like he needs
another hole in the castle roof,” Quent said gloomily. “Had the earl left an
estate to support them, that would be one thing, but I assume he died as
bankrupt as he lived.”

“Yes.” Summerby sighed and polished his wire-framed glasses.
“From what I gather, the church collected funds to send them back to England.
The young widow was left a small account after her husband’s death, but that
was exhausted by the time the earl departed this mortal coil. I’m uncertain why
they chose not to send word to the marquess when the earl passed away. Perhaps
they feared he’d refuse the guardianship. It’s all very sad, and if I could
tell you otherwise, I would. The children would benefit from staying with the
lady,” Summerby added with a glimmer of hope.

“Possibly.” Quent pondered all the angles of this new
situation, looking for the one to his best advantage, but seeing only more
unpleasant complications. “But guardians must meet certain requirements, and my
father won’t shirk his duty. The boy needs a tutor, not a nanny. An all-female
household can’t harbor a bachelor.”

“Lady Bell will put up a fight. From what I know of the
family, her sisters won’t abandon their little brother. I do not desire an
adversarial relationship with the marquess, but my duty is to the lady,”
Summerby said stiffly.

“As my father’s man of affairs, my duty is to my father. I
will apprise him of the developments and let you know how he means us to go
on.” Quent rose and returned the will to the desk.

Summerby dragged his portly frame to his feet. “Should Lady
Bell marry, the court could be swayed to change the guardianship to her
husband, especially if the marquess agrees.”