Formidable Lord Quentin (23 page)

“I don’t like it,” she fretted. “I know these people. Nick
doesn’t. I want it ended once and for all. I want my horse back now. Any claim to
Kit’s title is spurious. Dolly simply wants to make trouble and money.”

“I agree,” he said reasonably. “But I think if we simply go
about our normal business, pretending she and her bully don’t exist, we’ll
drive them to commit more foolhardy escapades. We can call in the authorities
once we have all the facts in hand.”

Her scowl disappeared, and Quent almost shuddered in
expectation.

“You’re right! They’ll come looking for me.
Then
I can cut off their heads,” she
said in bloodthirsty delight. “That makes sense, thank you. Let Nick find my
horses. I’ll take care of Dolly and her cohort.”

Quent heroically refrained from bashing his head against the
mast.

Bell clung to her bloodthirsty vow to slay anyone who
stood between her and her horse. The determination helped her stay composed
while Quent assisted her into a rowboat to take them to shore near Whitehall.
With her horse as her goal, she would take on hurricanes. A rickety little
rowboat and filthy water wouldn’t daunt her.

On shore, they parted ways with Mr. Summerby, who hurried
off to his office in the city with his head undoubtedly spinning with all their
instructions about the marriage settlements. Without asking what she wanted,
Quent hired a carriage to take them to her townhouse in Mayfair.

The stomach-churning exhilaration of sailing combined with
Quent’s potent presence and her own fierce resolve succeeded in keeping Bell
too off balance to protest. She didn’t
want
Quent helping her. She didn’t want to be dependent on his aid. But she liked
having his competent assistance. She was a turmoil of confusion.

At home, Butler greeted them stoically, without complaining
that she’d removed all his underlings to the country. Even though they’d left
Aunt Griselda behind, Quent insisted on entering the house with her, and Bell
couldn’t find the wit to argue. He took Edward’s chair in the study, which
should have left her uncomfortable but didn’t. More important matters had
disrupted her orderly life, and she didn’t have time to fret over chaperones and
who sat in what chair.

How odd that small matters disappeared when confronted with
life-changing events.

A decade ago she had lacked the confidence to believe she
could overcome society’s gossip. These days, she knew she could stare down any
biddy daring to criticize her behavior—and They Would Wilt beneath her scorn.

She felt lighter discovering that freedom.

“Do you have anyone to send to Nick in Brighton?” Quent
asked, removing pen and paper from the desk as if it were his.

Scanning through the notes and invitations that had arrived
since she’d left, Bell held one up. “The Athertons are in town. I can send one
of the kitchen boys over.”

“Excellent. Wonder if Fitz would be interested in going with
them to Ireland? He could handle the horses while Nick commands the crew. Do
you know where the mare’s papers are?” He didn’t look up from his writing.

Bell really wanted to resent him taking over
her
study, but she hated this gloomy
bookshelf-lined room. Once upon a time she’d attempted to persuade Edward to share
their correspondence here as she and Quent were doing now. But she’d been a
young country girl, unfamiliar with London society, and he’d disdained her
offer. Since then, she’d used a sunny office on the next floor.

She left Quent to his note-writing. The chest containing all
her father’s possessions had arrived shortly after the girls. She’d poked
around in it and knew what she needed.

She dug out the box in which her father had always kept
important papers. Inside, she located the yellowing document she’d seen earlier
and unfolded it, smoothing her fingers over the fading ink. Little Dream had
been sired by a descendant of Eclipse, one of the greatest race horses of all
time. Her birth had been properly registered in the General Stud Book under the
Wexford title. Once upon a time, her family’s stable had been respected.

She dug further into the papers and found the one wrapped in
faded blue ribbon—the certificate her father had presented to her for her
sixteenth birthday, giving her ownership of the foal she had raised. Tears slid
down her cheeks as she remembered how proud she had been that he’d recognized
her hard work.

She’d raced the two-year-old that day and won her first
prize. The prize had paid the taxes and bought Easter dresses for Tess and Syd.
She had some good memories of home—few, perhaps, but some. She had tried to set
all her memories aside when she’d married and her family had departed. It had
been less painful to look forward instead of backward. But maybe now that she
had her family again . . . she could let herself remember the
good parts.

If she could have Little Dream back . . . her
heart might be whole again.

She carried the documents down to Quent, who studied them
with interest. When he looked up at her, he must have seen the tears she’d
tried to wipe away. He came around the desk and wrapped her in his arms.

“We’ll retrieve your horse,
ma belle
. I’ll send troops to hunt her down, if we must.”

She wept harder then, and buried her face in his broad
shoulder. “It’s just so hard to trust anyone else—”

“Someday, you need to tell me your story,” he murmured,
stroking her hair. “Or maybe it’s better if you don’t because I can’t strangle
the dead. I’ll just show you that I’m not Edward or your father or any of those
other men who failed you.”

Bell lifted her head and shoved away, swiping angrily at her
tears. “They failed me because they wouldn’t
listen
to me! Just once, I want a man who acknowledges I am as
capable as they are.”

She tried to walk away, but he caught her arm and hauled her
back. He was so damned big and competent, and she was small and dressed in
frills. She wanted to stomp her heel on his boot to prove she wasn’t helpless.
She simply froze and looked down her nose at him—an expression that had served
her well these last years.

Impervious to her ire, Quent studied her through serious
dark eyes. “I
am
listening. I am
trying very hard to hear what you aren’t saying very clearly. If I have learned
nothing else from my sisters, it’s that men and women don’t speak the same
language. So if you try to communicate with me, you need to help me out until I
learn what tears and anger really mean.”

Shocked, Bell quit fighting him. “You would listen if I said
I should go with Nick to Ireland?”

“I would listen, but I probably wouldn’t agree,” he said
with a wry smile. “Not because I don’t believe you’re capable, but because I
would die a thousand deaths should anything happen to you. That’s not easy for
a man to admit, so don’t expect to hear it again.”

His admission caused a wriggly, almost pleasant sensation in
her middle and tamped down her temper. “And you don’t think women die a
thousand deaths just
worrying
over
their stupid men who insist on doing reckless things?”

“
Touché
,” he
acknowledged with a nod. “I’ll try not to do reckless things, if you’ll promise
the same. Although what we both deem reckless may not be the same. Will you
explain your anger?”

Forced to examine her reaction, Bell sighed in exasperation.
“I’m not angry with you but men in general. And you do not need to hear the pathetic
litany of very good reasons I have for despising the male of the species. Just do
not deny me in your decision-making is all I ask. If Nick agrees to sail to
Ireland, then I must be present when you talk with him to tell him what to
expect.”

“Very well, I think I can do that. I’m not much accustomed
to allowing anyone—not even my family—into my decisions, so you may need to
remind me.” His eyes danced with an interest that had little to do with the
topic under discussion.

Bell patted his cheek. “Certainly, my dear. If you leave me
out of your decisions, I will leave you out of my bed. Perhaps you will
remember then?”

Feeling oddly comforted by the argument, Bell left him to
his note writing while she sent servants to pick up packages for her family.

Once Quent discovered how much a second family would cost,
he might change his mind about the efficacy of marriage. Until then, she would
enjoy the prospect of another night of sharing her once-lonely bed.

She would be concerned that becoming the Wicked Widow
instead of the Virgin Widow might harm her sisters’ chances with society, but
marrying a Scots tradesman would cause worse damage. She wasn’t worried about
society anymore. She knew how it worked. Money always cast a favorable light,
and she meant to find
good
men for
her sisters, not simple-minded idiots who listened to gossip.

***

The Honorable Nick Atherton and his wife Eleanora—who
refused to use her Mirenzian title of princess—filled Bell’s parlor with their
larger-than-life presences.

Quent had once thought brown-wren-like Nora to be a quiet,
unassuming seaman’s widow—until she’d displayed her talent with swords and
sailing. She’d routed villains and Nick’s demanding father and brought
incorrigible Nick into line, all within the space of a few weeks. If dashing Nick
could find happiness with such a formidable personage, then Quent thought he
should be able to deal with a dignified lady like Bell. He hoped.

Today, the demure princess was wearing a sophisticated blue
silk afternoon gown with a sash that looked as if it ought to hide a pistol.

“Bell, I hope we can help,” Nora said in greeting, hugging
their hostess. “And I want to meet your sisters and brother before we leave for
Amsterdam! I cannot imagine how it must be to suddenly have a family!”

“Since you only recently acquired a few royal cousins you
didn’t know about, I think you have some idea,” Bell said dryly, gesturing for
her guest to take a seat.

“But my cousins don’t live with us!” Nora laughed. “I would
most likely kill them if they did. I’m sure your siblings are much more
reasonable.”

“Only younger,” Quent said grimly. “But it’s not the young
ones causing trouble. It’s the old ones.”

“Shall we take this to the study and leave the ladies to
exchange notes on new family?” Nick suggested. Tall, blond, and garbed in the
height of fashion in his dark blue fitted tail coat, starched linen, and
Hessians, Nicholas Atherton looked the part of genial diplomat and earl’s son.
Only those who knew him well knew the ruthless history concealed behind his
indolent facade.

Quent didn’t have to look at Bell to know her reaction to
Nick’s suggestion. “You really do like living dangerously, don’t you?” he
asked.

Nick chuckled. “It was worth a try.” He bowed over Bell’s
hand. “My lady, we would protect you from the evils of the world. You deserve
only sunlight and roses.”

Bell slapped his hand. “Flattery will get you nowhere. I
would sail with you, if Quent would let me.”

Nick looked mildly alarmed. “That shouldn’t be necessary. My
crew would no doubt faint at the prospect of accidentally flapping their vulgar
tongues in your presence. Even Nora agrees she’s better off staying here. Fitz
has agreed to handle the cattle. We’ll pick him up on our way back to
Brighton.”

“Let the men play their games. We’ll play ours,” Nora said,
comfortably settling on the sofa and taking the teacup Bell handed her. She
glanced up at Quent. “Sit down, sir, and quit hovering. We want to hear Bell’s
side of the story first. She’ll know her family better than you.”

Quent appropriated the cushion beside Bell, establishing his
territory. He felt like a destrier in a ladies’ closet. He was unaccustomed to
sharing tea and discussing business with females.

He’d learn, if he had to crush all Bell’s china in the
process.

“Summerby’s clerks have drawn up notarized duplicates of the
mare’s papers so Nick will be removing the horses with all legalities covered,”
Quent told them. “We just don’t expect it to be as simple as walking in and taking
the animals.”

“They’ll hide them,” Bell acknowledged. “I’m amazed they
haven’t forged papers and sold Dream already. Or maybe they’ve been thinking
about it since she’s growing older and worth less for racing and breeding. You
can offer money for her past upkeep. I know she would have earned far more than
her feed over the years, but I don’t want to dicker. I just want my horse.”

“And your aunt wants your brother’s title,” Quent reminded
her. “You can’t dicker with that. We’ll have to leave horsenapping to Nick and
Fitz and hope for the best.” He could tell she didn’t like it, so he distracted
her. “We need to decide on wedding plans.”

As expected, Nick and Nora exclaimed in excitement, and
Bell’s glare warned he’d feel the brunt of her wrath later. But for the moment,
she was neatly diverted from fretting over the horse.

“Horsenapping, really?” Nick murmured to Quent a little
later while reaching for a tea cake. “How dangerous are these people?”

Bell and Nora were arguing over the advantages of a quiet
ceremony over a public one. Pretending to lean over and choose a delicacy,
Quent bent his head closer to Nick’s. “Boyles are bloodthirsty and reckless,
but I suspect this branch is most likely lazy and incompetent. Threats should
do it.”

Belle leaned over and handed him a wafer with green paste on
it. “Uncle Jim was six-feet tall and burly when I saw him last. He knows how to
use a musket but not a sword. I have good ears, so stop shutting me out.”

“And the doxy?” Nick asked, eyes dancing with amusement.

Quent fumed but let Bell have control of the conversation
again.

“Mary Dolores used to live in the village and make her
living on her back. She’s bigger than I am, but she’s far more likely to use
her blunt wits than her brawn. I doubt she knows which end of a weapon is
which. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t hired people who do.” Bell wrinkled her
nose in thought. “Or seduced them into helping her.”