"Then, how fortunate for you that we're going nowhere." Piling mounds of chicken, potatoes, asparagus, and biscuits on a plate, Bentley poured a glass of punch and gathered some utensils before descending the gazebo steps to place both glass and dish firmly before Brandi. "Isn't that right, Herbert?"

  "Right indeed, Bentley."

  Bentley's lips curved a fraction as he handed Brandi her fork. "Now, partake, my lady. As Herbert has just confirmed, he and I will remain to relentlessly tyrannize you. Therefore, you have one less dilemma to resolve."

  Touched beyond words, Brandi studied her friends, silently vowing to ease their distress as they were so diligently trying to ease hers. Later, when she was alone, she'd plan her course of action—with regard to the murder and to Quentin. But for now, seeing Bentley's furrowed brow and Herbert's troubled frown, she resolved to conceal her anguish, even if it killed her.

  "Do you know," she stated brightly, spearing a slice of chicken with great enthusiasm, "I hate to admit it, but you're quite right. I suddenly find myself ravenously hungry."

  "Excellent, Miss Brandi," Bentley commended.

  "It sure is," Herbert concurred.

  Silently congratulating herself for a successful deception, Brandi proceeded to devour her meal.

  Herbert resumed his digging.

  Bentley returned to the gazebo to pour himself some punch.

  Neither man was fooled.

  "I've been awaiting your return, sir."

  Bentley stood directly inside Colverton's entranceway doors, a regal bloodhound poised for the hunt.

  The frustrating outcome of Quentin's unproductive meeting with Hendrick vanished in one lightning worry. "Is it Brandi?" he demanded. "Is something amiss?"

  "No, my lord. I was merely eager to hear the results of your trip to London. Miss Brandi is fine. Pale, a bit more subdued than usual, but well." Scrutinizing Quentin's rigid stance, Bentley astutely elaborated. "Or, to be more precise, she is holding up, given the circumstances. She's upset and confused—by the murders, of course—and, if I'm to be honest, a tad disappointed that it was I who called upon her rather than you." Bentley cleared his throat, "In any case, I rode to Emerald Manor at three o'clock, where Miss Brandi and I spent the better part of an hour together. Herbert and I badgered her until she agreed to eat—a great relief to us both. She's lost a noticeable amount of weight over the past fortnight—for obvious reasons."

  Tersely, Quentin nodded. "Did you explain to her where I'd gone? Why I wasn't able to visit?"

  "I said only that you'd ridden to London to see Mr. Hendrick and would return by nightfall. She understood at once what that meant, just as I'd intended. Hopefully, it will keep her from racing off on her own impulsive quest to resolve the crime ... at least until she hears from you."

  Quentin blanched. "You don't believe she'd do something foolish, do you?"

  A sigh. "You know, Miss Brandi, my lord. She will not remain passive while you rush about investigating the tragedy alone."

  "Lord, I never even considered ..." Quentin took an inadvertent step toward the door.

  "I don't think you need worry tonight," Bentley assured him swiftly. "I made certain not to take my leave until Miss Brandi was immersed in helping Herbert arrange the rock garden. Herbert understands her quite well, sir, and knows just what he must do. He'll keep her occupied until dusk, when she's worn out and ready to retire. Mrs. Collins will take it from there. I spoke to her myself. She will oversee Miss Brandi until she is safely abed. So, rest assured, Miss Brandi is going nowhere tonight."

  "Thank you, Bentley." Quentin's shoulders sagged with relief. "You've thought of everything."

  "My pleasure, sir. However, might I suggest you plan an early morning visit to Emerald Manor?"

  "I'll go there at dawn. Although I don't have one blasted thing to tell Brandi, reassuring or otherwise."

  "Your visit with Mr. Hendrick yielded no results?"

  Quentin hesitated, glancing toward the study.

  "Master Desmond is abed, sir." Bentley gave a pointed cough. "He was a trifle out of sorts today. As I recall, he mentioned something about a pounding headache and a persistent bout of nausea. He skipped dinner and retired directly. But, to ensure our privacy, shall we talk in the library?"

  "A wise idea." Quentin led the way, closing the heavy door firmly behind them. "Bentley, I looked through every bloody document in Father's file. There is nothing even remotely suspicious there."

  "What about the late duke's will, sir? Did you learn anything about the existence of a codicil?"

  "There is no codicil. Oh, Hendrick confirmed precisely what you'd already told me: that Father summoned him to Colverton for the express purpose of amending his will. But ultimately he convinced Father to reconsider, and the will was left intact."

  "Did Mr. Hendrick mention the specific modification your father wished to make?"

  "Yes. Evidently, the clause in question pertained to Emerald Manor."

  "Emerald Manor, sir?" Surprise laced Bentley's tone.

  "Yes. The whole issue is rather complex. To sum it up, Father was apparently distraught over the future of Emerald Manor, or, more specifically, over my inability to safeguard it—given that I'd made no overtures toward marrying and siring an heir. Therefore, while he truly wished for me to inherit the cottage, Father felt he had no choice but to consider willing it to Brandi, who, he knew, would not only cherish it but one day pass it on to her children."

  "I recognize the late duke's reasoning, sir. What I fail to recognize is how his decision would affect Master Desmond. Certainly your brother didn't hope that he would be named the cottage's recipient, not with his resentment toward the duchess and the cottage your father built for her. The late duke would never consider bequeathing Emerald Manor to a man who . . ." Discreetly, Bentley broke off.

  "Who coldly rejected my mother from the day she and Father wed," Quentin finished. "You're right; he wouldn't."

  "Then there was no reason for Master Desmond to pressure your father about the clause in his will involving Emerald Manor."

  "You're wrong, Bentley. There was every reason."

  Bentley frowned. "I see only one other possible motivation and, if I'm to be frank, sir, I highly doubt its validity."

  "And what is that?"

  "That Master Desmond was arguing with your father on your behalf, that he rushed forward to convince the late duke not to bequeath Emerald Manor to Miss Brandi."

  A harsh laugh erupted from Quentin's chest. "Not bloody likely. Not when Desmond resents me nearly as much as he did Mother." Quentin shook his head adamantly. "No, Bentley, I'm convinced that Desmond desperately wanted Father to alter that clause."

  "But why? Simply for the smug sense of satisfaction he'd attain by depriving you of your heritage?"

  "No," Quentin refuted. "For the smug sense of satisfaction he'd attain by acquiring Emerald Manor in my stead."

  "I thought we just agreed, sir, that the late duke would never bequeath the cottage to your brother."

  "We did. But if Desmond's personal plans came to fruition, Father's willing Emerald Manor to Brandi would be just as effective. It would become Desmond's the day he and Brandi wed."

  Bentley stared. "Wed?"

  A terse nod. "I told you Desmond claimed he and Brandi had grown close during my absence. What I didn't mention was that he informed me they were on the verge of becoming betrothed, that, had it not been for the accident, he'd have asked Ardsley for her hand—and received it."

  "Forgive me, sir, but I suddenly need to sit down." Bentley sank into an armchair, drawing a slow inward breath. "Either I've been residing elsewhere these past years, or your brother is blatantly lying to you."

  "Is he? I'm not altogether sure," was Quentin's quiet reply. "My instincts scream out that you're right, that the thought of Brandi and Desmond together is inconceivable. But Ardsley did entrust her into Desmond's care. And Brandi does seem far more tolerant of my brother's overbearing manner than she was in years gone by. Maybe there is a grain of truth to Desmond's claim."

  Bentley gave an indignant sniff. "That is rubbish, sir. Tolerance and gratitude, perhaps, but nothing more."

  "Ardsley might have thought otherwise. For whatever reason, he trusted Desmond. And trust, with what he doubtless perceived as a growing companionability between his daughter and Desmond ... perhaps that was enough."

  "Enough for the viscount, possibly, but what about for Miss Brandi?"

  A muscle flexed in Quentin's jaw. "She accepts Desmond for who he is. And, to an extent, she relies upon him—hell, she should rely upon him." Quentin scowled. "He's always here for her."

  "Is he?"

  Quentin's eyes narrowed, "What does that mean?"

  "It means, my lord, that trust can be earned, or it can be falsely elicited. Companionability, too, can be an illusion. And even when genuine, it does not in itself constitute devotion, any more than gratitude necessarily leads to love." Bentley held Quentin's gaze. "And love, Master Quentin, is still quite important—at least to those who seek it."

  "When did you become a philosopher, Bentley?"

  "Not a philosopher, sir—just a vigilant friend. A friend who, I'm told, Ofttimes understands you better than you understand yourself."

  "Really?"

  "Indeed. I have it on the highest authority."

  "Brandi?"

  "Brandi, my lord."

  A wistful smile curved Quentin's lips. "My insightful Sunbeam," he murmured, half to himself. "So you don't believe she'd be well off with Desmond? That his constancy would make her feel settled? Secure?"

  "I believe you know the answer to that, my lord. Miss Brandi would be inundated with the wrong things and severely lacking the right ones."

  "He'd crush her spirit," Quentin agreed in a low troubled tone. "He'd break her will in order to control her. And he'd strip all the simple joys from her life."

  "I would say that's accurate, sir."

  Again a flash of memory accosted Quentin: the pond, Brandi's lips parting sweetly under his ... "Bentley," he blurted out. "Would you deem me insane if I told you that since my return to the Cotswolds I've been feeling . . . wanting—" Abruptly, he broke off.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Never mind." Wearily, Quentin rubbed his eyes. "Pay no attention to my rambling. I'm so tired I'm not even sure what I'm saying."

  "Of course, sir." Bentley came to his feet. "You are tired. You're also baffled and frustrated—which you doubtless will remain until you uncover the truth." A pregnant pause. "All of it."

  Quentin's gaze narrowed. "Why do I get the feeling you're implying far more than you're actually stating?"

  "I repeat, you're tired, my lord." Bentley opened the library door and gestured for Quentin to precede him. "Get some sleep. Perhaps the essential answers will find you."

  Chapter 7

  "All right, Hendrick, I'm here."

  Desmond closed the door behind him, leaning back against its solid veneer. "What do you want?"

  "Sit down, Desmond," Hendrick advised calmly, shuffling some papers around on his desk. "Or shall I say, 'Your Grace'?"

  Paling, Desmond crossed the room and dropped into a chair. "I'm listening."

  Hendrick closed the file he'd been perusing and folded his hands on his desk. "You're not looking at all well, Colverton. Have you, by chance, been drinking?"

  "Don't toy with me, Ellard. I don't like it. Now, why did you send for me?"

  "Your brother was here yesterday. He had numerous questions to ask."

  Desmond went rigid. "Like what?"

  "It seems he's taken it upon himself to investigate your father's death. In the process, he discovered the circumstances surrounding my final visit to Colverton, presumably from your attentive butler."

  "We surmised that might happen."

  "Indeed we did. Quentin's appearance in my office came as no surprise. Nevertheless, I thought you should know he asked to see your father's will—which he scrutinized, together with all the other documents in Kenton's file."

  "Damn it!" Desmond slammed his fist on the desk. "I knew he'd ask questions, but I didn't think he'd actually examine Father's papers. Did he detect anything that aroused his suspicions?"

  "He detected only that which I intended him to," Hendrick responded with a triumphant air. "As I said, I've been expecting Quentin's visit. Hence, I made certain to place the appropriate document in an equally appropriate—and visible—spot. Which reminds me, you have yet to execute my retainer. You do recall the terms we agreed upon, do you not?"

  "Yes, of course I recall them. What the hell does your retainer have to do with Quentin?"

  "Ah, Your Grace, you're not using your gift of perception. My retainer has everything to do with Quentin. After thoroughly examining the will, your brother was especially curious to scrutinize the contents of the document you and I were allegedly reviewing the afternoon of the will readings."

  Desmond's pupils dilated. "You didn't show him . . ."

  "Of course not. I'm not stupid. I told him we were finalizing my retainer—the one Kenton insisted I draw up to protect my own interests. Then I showed Quentin the agreement. He approved; in fact, he suggested that it be executed at once." Hendrick leaned back in his chair with a self-righteous smile. "Which eliminated his questions, and your dilemma."

  "Don't look so damned smug," Desmond returned, vaulting to his feet. "'Tis not just my dilemma; 'tis yours as well—so long as you wish to continue receiving the lavish payments I'm currently providing. Moreover, this is only the first step. I know Quentin—and he doesn't give up that easily." Desmond's gaze swept the office. "Where the hell is your brandy?"

  "It's not even noon."

  "I'm thirsty," Desmond snapped.

  "Open the sideboard. You'll find what you need there."

  Desmond's hands shook as he tossed off two glasses in rapid succession. "What else?"

  "Quentin asked me to go through Denerley's file as well. My instructions are to search for any possible clue and to alert you, as the appointed overseer of Denerley's businesses, to my findings."

  "And have you searched Ardsley's file?"

  "Yes. Ostensibly, nothing is amiss."

  "Thank God." Desmond poured another brandy and leaned heavily against the sideboard. "The last thing I need is for Father's or Ardsley's business dealings to be connected with the murders. Still, we're far from safe. Quentin won't stop until he uncovers something. Heaven only knows what my wretched butler has divulged, and where his revelations will lead my brother."

  "If Bentley offends you so, why not dismiss him?"

  "Are you insane? I'm trying to elude suspicion, not arouse it. I might loathe the meddlesome pest, but Quentin sings his praises. So did Father. Further, Bentley has been with my family for ages. No, Hendrick, I have to keep Colverton running precisely as Father did, making absolutely no major changes that might give Quentin pause. Firing Bentley would be the most foolhardy step I could take."

  "I suppose that's true." Hendrick frowned thoughtfully. "And I do see your point about Quentin; his prying is a bit disconcerting."

  "His entire presence is a bit disconcerting," Desmond retorted, staring darkly into his drink. "I was making fine progress with Brandice before her bloody hero returned to the Cotswolds—damn him to hell." With a sharp snap of the wrist, Desmond tossed off half his brandy.

  "Oh?" Hendrick's brows rose. "Is Quentin interfering in your betrothal plans?"

  "You know bloody well how Brandice worships my brother. We could erect a blasted statue in his honor on the grounds of Emerald Manor." A bitter laugh. "So far as Brandice is concerned, when Quentin is home, no one else exists."

  "Then maybe it's best for Quentin not to be home."

  Desmond's head whipped around. "What does that mean?"

  "You're the Duke of Colverton, my friend. Have you any idea how much power that position yields?"

  "So?"

  "So you know people in the highest of places; you have influence in areas others can't even approach—such as the War Department, for example."

  A glint of understanding flickered in Desmond's eyes. "Go on."

  " 'Tis the simplest of plans. Merely use your ducal power to have Quentin recalled by the army. After all, General Wellington holds him in such high regard. Surely, he could utilize Quentin's brilliant tactical abilities in Paris? Let's say, to intercede in our very delicate controversy with King Louis over his slave trade? I needn't provide you with fabrications. You're quite good at inventing them yourself. The point is that if Quentin leaves England, he can neither pry into our business nor occupy Brandice's time and thoughts. Now am I making myself clear?"

  "Clear as a bell." Desmond downed the remainder of his drink. With a flourish, he set his empty glass on the sideboard. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Hendrick, I have an unexpected meeting with the War Department."

  "Of course." The solicitor took up his quill. "I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor. Oh, Desmond?" He held up his retainer. "Haven't you forgotten something?"

  Desmond crossed the room in three strides, snatched the quill and document from Hendrick's hands, and dashed off his signature. "There."

  "Excellent." Hendrick nodded his satisfaction. "I'm pleased we'll be continuing our association ... Your Grace." Methodically, he slipped the retainer back into the file. "By the way, when you return to Colverton tonight, tell Quentin I summoned you for the express purpose of reporting that, after an exhaustive review, I discovered nothing amiss in Viscount Denerley's papers."

  "I shall indeed." Halfway to the door, Desmond paused, giving Hendrick a mock salute. "Good day, Ellard. Soon this nagging complication will be eliminated."

  Calmly, Hendrick resumed his paperwork. "I never doubted it for a minute."

  "Hello, Sunbeam."

  Quentin approached the quiet gazebo, unsurprised to find Brandi here at dawn, staring off into the dimly lit woods. "Are you all right?"

  Slowly, Brandi turned, her wide dark eyes filled with painful questions. "I don't know."