Formidable Lord Quentin (8 page)

“Because they are carriage horses. I have told you we are
going to look at ponies, but if you don’t behave, I’ll assume you don’t want
one. Read one of the books we brought.”

“We could tie his feet,” Syd suggested helpfully. “How much
longer before we arrive? I’m perishing of thirst.”

“Me, too,” Kit shouted, bouncing in his seat.

“You need a baggage wagon to put him in,” Tess said, digging
through their lunch basket for the last of the cider.

Bell hadn’t wanted to ask Quent if she might borrow his
carriage to transport tutor, maids, and wiggly six-year olds. He’d accuse her
of absconding with his father’s wards. Bell preferred to think of it as
strategic retreat until she heard from Blake Montague, or better yet, Blake’s
mentor, the Duke of Fortham, about her chances of winning guardianship.

She had heard nothing from Summerby about Little Dream. She
told herself that no news was good news.

Disturbed by Tess’s movement, Beebee woke from her slumber
and began to whimper. Bell lifted her chubby niece into her lap and hummed a
lullaby. At least the babe was easily pleased. She leaned against Bell, sucked
her thumb, and drooled down Bell’s spencer. Bell twisted the babe’s fair curls
around her finger. She had no idea what she was doing, and her doubts were
piling higher than the sky.

“Isn’t that the large gentleman who visited the other day?”
Tess asked, glancing out the window after putting away the empty jug. “The
handsome one who shouted at Kit?”

Bell thought a foul word and dipped her head to look out the
far window. Muscled legs and narrow hips in tight breeches might be anyone, but
the stunning black Friesian gelding was all Quent’s. A smaller bay bearing a
more slender man rode along side of him.

Bell gestured at the driver’s door and Syd. “Tell the driver
to halt, please.”

She transferred Beebee back to Tess and unsuccessfully tried
to wipe the drool from her spencer.

“Exchange seats with me,” she demanded, indicating that Tess
scoot over as the carriage pulled to a halt.

The horses obligingly stopped with the carriage. Bell
lowered the window glass. She was far more comfortable flirting than scolding
like a fishwife, but she would learn to shout if that was what it took to reach
through a man’s thick head.

Quent lifted his hat in greeting. “Good morning, my lady. Warm
day for a drive.”

“Equally warm for riding, I should think. I do not remember
asking for an escort.” There, that seemed respectable and polite without a fishwife
in sight.

“I have business with Fitz and heard you were heading that
way also. We thought it might be pleasant to keep you company.” Quent’s dark
eyes danced with mischief.

“Certainly, my lord, most pleasant. I do not believe you have
formally met my sisters.” Once Quent had dismounted and opened the carriage
door, Bell made the introductions, leaving Kit for last.

He was kicking the seat as hard as he could, chanting “pony,
pony, pony.” Bell grabbed him beneath the arms and shoved him out the door in
Quent’s general direction. “Here. Wexford would like a horse ride. I’m sure
that will make the journey more pleasant for all concerned. Have a good
gallop.”

Startled, Quent grabbed the young earl. She almost laughed
at his stunned expression.

Relieved of her burden, Bell found a grip on the door and
yanked it shut, then signaled for the driver to resume their journey.

Sitting back in her seat, she couldn’t see Quent’s reaction,
but she imagined it with great satisfaction.

“Lord Quentin is quite handsome,” Tess said warily. “Does he
court you?”

“He courts my money, and I will not have him. Men take away
all our rights and treat us as porcelain figurines for their sideboards. They
despise it when a woman has a mind of her own and power to go with it.” Bell
crossed her arms and glared at the gelding side-stepping nervously outside the
window. Kit was probably kicking the unfortunate animal.

“Is he poor?” Syd asked with interest, dipping her head to
watch the struggle between man and boy.

“No, he’s wealthy in his own right, but he supports his
father’s large family. Big houses and big families are a constant drain. They
all need to marry well.”

“But Tess and I are poor,” Syd pointed out. “Why would any
of the men in his family be interested in us?”

“You’re not poor. You’re my sisters. They know I would
provide you with a handsome settlement.” As she had her other protégées. She
would never let her friends or her sisters do without—which meant their
husbands benefitted. “Perhaps I shall have Quent tell his greedy father that I
will not settle anything on you if you marry into his family.”

“That would start a very unpleasant fight with the family
with whom we might have to live,” Tess said reasonably.

So it would. Of course, suing them would have the same
effect.

In less than a fortnight, her tranquil life had descended
into turmoil and conflict. She might as well have never left Ireland.

***

John Fitzhugh Wyckerly, seventh earl of Danecroft, and
Abigail, his countess, lived in the run-down family estate in Berkshire. The
huge towers and ponderous, sprawling silhouette of Wyckersham impressed new
arrivals, until they were close enough to notice boarded-up windows, unmown
lawns, and deteriorated gardens.

Considerable improvements had been made in the time since
Fitz had taken possession of the family manor, but even the king would lack the
fortune necessary to correct generations of neglect.

Quent decided it was just the sort of medieval atmosphere
for pondering his father’s latest irascible demands. The marquess now threatened
to send Syd and Kit to school as charity students if Bell didn’t pay their
tuition.

Lachlann Hoyt did not understand women who chose to disobey
his orders, and his temper was not ameliorated by his son’s refusal to jump
instantly to his command. Quent lived in fear of a carriage-load of Hoyts
arriving on his doorstep, demanding the truants and freeloading off his
hospitality until he produced them.

He held his mount and the sleeping earl steady as the
carriage pulled up to a halt at Wyckersham’s front stairs. He needed to see
Bell again to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing in defying his
father’s orders for a woman who had just rejected his suit. At the moment,
escaping on his yacht sounded preferable, but he wasn’t a coward.

Before Bell’s footman could pull out the carriage steps, the
front doors of the house exploded open, and children, servants, and the
countess spilled down to greet them.

“I am so glad you have come! Here, let me have Beebee. What
a precious doll! Look at your new bib!” Lady Danecroft cooed at the toddler. At
the same time, she directed servants to relieve Quent of his sleeping burden
and sent children scampering back up the stairs with bags and parcels.

Quent admired her efficiency. “Wellington should hire you,
my lady,” he said, dismounting to aid the ladies from the carriage. “Your
troops respond instantly to command.”

“The trick to children is keeping them interested and busy.
They’re all agog at having visitors.” Lady Danecroft returned to oohing and
ahhing over new travel costumes as the girls emerged from the carriage.

Bell glared as Quent helped her out—possibly because he
glanced down to catch a glimpse of her trim ankle. He was developing an
unhealthy obsession with the lady’s limbs.

“Perhaps the trick to children is hiring tutors to keep them
interested and busy,” Bell said sweetly.

Well, maybe her glare was for other reasons. Quent shrugged
off the barb. “You’re the one who left without tutors and maids. Fortunately,
you won’t need to buy another carriage to transport them. My father can handle
that. He’s quite adept at dealing with rambunctious boys.”

That remark earned him an even blacker glare, and he bit
back a smile. He’d badgered, negotiated with, and twisted the arms of far
wilier businessmen than Bell. He knew how to achieve what he wanted, and his
spirits rose in anticipation of the challenge.

He just needed to be more certain of what he wanted. He’d
wanted
Bell for ten years. He’d never
wanted marriage. Or children. He’d moved to London at first opportunity to
escape his chaotic, noisy family and enjoy the ordered serenity of a bachelor
life. It would behoove him to study the lady’s preferences—did she
want
the chaos of family disrupting her well-organized
household? He couldn’t fathom it.

Assuming her stiffly dignified marchioness posture with nose
in the air, Bell swept after the countess and the children without a second
look back.

“She’s not the chatty sort, at least,” Penrose said,
following Quent’s gaze. “A bit like you, actually, subtle and clever.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t discover her weak spots. Let’s find
Fitz.” He strode after the stable lads leading his Friesian, knowing Danecroft
was far more likely to be working with the horses than his account books at
this hour. John Fitzhugh Wyckerly had been
Fitz
for so long, and the title so unlikely to be his, that his friends had
difficulty recalling his recent acquisition of the earl of Danecroft title.

“Shouldn’t you tell the lady that your carriage will be
arriving tomorrow? She could send for the rest of her servants.” Penrose limped
to keep up with him.

“I’m thinking about it. Is it better to let her learn how
family oversets everything so she might finally surrender and send them to my father?
Or will she be more grateful for my aid and give me what I ask if I solve all
her problems?”

“If you’re asking me, she’s most likely to take a dirk to
your gullet if she learns you’re pulling her strings as if she were a puppet in
a Punch and Judy show, but I’m just a soldier, not a lady’s man.”

“We’re both bachelors. We need the advice of a married man.
And there’s one now.” Quent hailed the slender earl.

Fitz Wyckerly only bore a slight resemblance to the refined
man-about-town who’d once gambled at the best tables wearing silk and lace.
Today, his riding coat sported worn elbows, his linen had mysterious spots, and
his once-polished boots appeared ready to part from their soles.

But beneath his cow-licked mop of light brown hair, he still
wore the unmistakable grin that had charmed his way into London’s parlors.
“Quent! Acton! You’re sights for sore eyes. I thought I was about to be
inundated with petticoats. What brings you here? Not my wine cellar, I’m
certain.”

“We have come for a professional consultation. And to see
the horses, of course,” Quent said. “I’ve heard you’ve expanded the stables.”

“Horse acquisitions are a question of balance. Come along,
I’ll show you.” The earl loped back toward the horse barn. “Since this building
is the only decent thing my father left, it’s served me well.”

Quent remembered the enormous edifice with high oak ceilings
and polished stalls that stretched nearly as far as the eye could see. The late
earl had been a spendthrift, a gambler, and a drunkard. Fitz was probably still
paying the debts on the construction of this monument to selfishness. But Quent
admired his friend’s eye for good horseflesh, so at least the expense was now
being put to good use.

“The balance?” Penrose asked when Quent didn’t. He’d gone to
school with Fitz.

“The craze for perfectly matched Cleveland Bays as carriage
horses has been replaced with a need for speed now that London has seen
Prinney’s Yorkshire Coach horses. I already have a Thoroughbred stud and rights
to half a share of another over in Newmarket. I bought a couple of excellent
Cleveland Bays at bargain prices when we first began the stable, so I bred them
last year to the Thoroughbreds. I already have a start on a stable of speedy
carriage horses.” He gestured at a couple of stalls with bay foals.

Quent admired their sturdy flanks. “Even I can see the
beauty of these. And they will be speedier than my Bays?”

“On good road, they will practically fly. My mares have bred
two colts and a filly and I’m looking for more. Those are my future profit. The
balance comes in not putting all my coins in one basket. For now . . .”
He led the way down the aisle. “I have current profit on my Welsh ponies and
Irish hunters, basic breeds everyone wants. If I were richer, I’d start
developing another Thoroughbred stud, but they cost the earth.”

“Lady Bell is in need of several good mounts and a pony. She
can afford any price you name, so start planning your next generation,” Quent
advised.

Fitz laughed. “I don’t bite the hand that feeds me. She
sends me most of my buyers. And she only sends good ones, not the ones who
damage their cattle. I am learning the value of loyal patrons.”

“The lady knows everyone worth knowing and is a good judge
of character, admittedly. I hadn’t realized she kept up with the horse market,
though. She’s had those same carriage horses for as long as I can remember.”
Quent strolled through the stable, marking the horses most likely to suit her
sisters.

“The marquess bought them,” Fitz said with a shrug. “Lady
Bell has never bought an animal of her own. Since she seldom leaves town, she
doesn’t really need a mount. Perhaps that will change now that she has her
sisters.” Fitz studied his own inventory with interest, evidently sizing them
up for the lady’s needs.

“I believe she mentioned that Boyles lived on horseback, but
I’ve never seen her on a horse. Did the marquess keep her from owning her own?”
Quent wondered aloud.

“That wouldn’t stop her. Perhaps you misheard. Or she is one
of the Boyles who don’t ride. It happens every generation or so,” Fitz said
cheerfully. “I never had the funds to appreciate animals before, but I’m caught
up in them now.”

“I couldn’t afford to join the cavalry, but I know the men
cherish their Irish hunters. Sturdy and reliable the times I’ve ridden them,”
Penrose said, almost wistfully.