Perceiving her distress, Bentley hesitated, torn between protocol and allegiance. Then he pressed on. "My loyalties were and are with the late duke," he pronounced. "And his were with his family. However, his devotion did not blind him to certain truths—truths he would not want concealed at the risk of hurting you and Master Quentin. No, in this case, I feel certain that His Grace would want me to speak up. Therefore, Miss Brandi, to borrow your phrase, I shall be blunt. The Steel businesses thrived because of His Grace—and only His Grace. Delicately put, Master Desmond's business skills were, at best, dubious. He spent money recklessly and without thought. Despite numerous battles with his father, he showed no intention of altering that vice. 'Twas one of the late duke's major concerns."

  Brandi's tension ebbed. "Thank you for your candor, Bentley. I realize I placed you in a very difficult position, and for that, I apologize. But I had to know the truth." Her brow furrowed. "Of course, now that I know the truth, I'm totally at sea. You claim Kenton deemed Desmond a poor businessman. A few days ago, Quentin implied Desmond was distorting the facts when he spoke to me of Kenton's pride in his accomplishments—both personal and professional. Perhaps the two of you are right that Desmond and his father clashed personally—Lord knows, I myself am not Desmond's most avid fan. But professionally? It doesn't make sense—not according to these figures. See for yourself; Desmond yielded tens of thousands of pounds for Papa—pounds that, according to these other losses, were desperately needed to keep Papa from drowning financially."

  Bentley walked over to the desk, peering meditatively over Brandi's shoulder. "It does seem that way, doesn't it?" he murmured. "A rather odd discrepancy." Briskly, he straightened, putting a definitive end to their speculation. "I'll discuss it with Master Quentin when he returns." Smoothing his sleeves, he sought to change the subject and lighten the mood simultaneously. "Speaking of Master Quentin, we have quite a bit to disclose to him, haven't we? I'm eager to see his reaction when we tell him of our impulsive jaunt to Townsbourne."

  The exasperated expression on Brandi's face proclaimed Bentley's diversion as successful.

  "I haven't forgotten." She rolled her eyes to the heavens. "But I must tell you, not one of my childhood governesses was ever this strict."

  "Which is why none of them ever knew when their young charge was frolicking about," Bentley returned with a wry grin. "Whereas I, on the other hand, did." Decorum reinstated, he gestured toward the door. "Shall we go? I believe we've exhausted every recess and alcove Townsbourne offers."

  "I suppose so." Brandi chewed her lip. "Let's see—" She counted off on her fingers. "We searched Papa's chambers, the library, both studies, the anterooms, and every table and desk in sight. Other than this file, we've turned up only routine copies of documents, the originals of which— according to Papa's notes—are in Mr. Hendrick's office. Yes, 'twould seem our explorations here are at an end." Gathering up her father's file, she paused only to slide the ledger back within. "This is coming with me," she announced, closing the desk drawer and coming to her feet. "I want Quentin to see it." She tossed Bentley a saucy look. "After he berates us for our disobedience."

  "Indeed, my lady. I've already begun quaking."

  "Coward," Brandi teased, sailing by him.

  The carriage ride home was quiet, both occupants pensive as they sought a plausible explanation for the discrepancies they’d encountered, contemplated what their next step should be.

  Just as the carriage rounded the drive leading to Emerald Manor, Bentley made a decisive sound, his head snapping up to meet Brandi's hopeful gaze.

  "You've thought of something?" she asked eagerly.

  "Perhaps. Miss Brandi, would you object to my inspecting the viscount's ledgers once again?"

  "Of course not." Brandi extracted the thin book and handed it to Bentley, waiting with bated breath as he examined it. "Well?" she demanded when she could bear it no longer. "Have you found something?"

  "I don't know. 'Tis possible." Bentley raised his head. "Tell me, Miss Brandi—is Herbert tending the gardens today?"

  Brandi blinked. Whatever she had expected, it hadn't been this. "Is Herbert... yes, why?"

  "Because several of the gentlemen listed here as business colleagues of the late viscount—those who coinvested with him in seemingly futile ventures—make their homes in Berkshire."

  "Is that significant?"

  "I'm not certain. But it just so happens I have an old friend who resides in Berkshire."

  Brandi grinned. "Is he as irreverent as you?"

  "Nearly, my lady—but not quite." A glimmer of humor. "In any case, his name is Smithers, and he is the Duke of Allonshire's valet—an old and trusted friend of the duke and his family."

  "Oh, I recall the Duke of Allonshire—I met him and his duchess, Alexandria, the first Season Papa brought me out. They make a lovely couple—so very much in love."

  "Yes, well..." Bentley actually flushed. "Evidently, that's true, because they are currently on holiday—alone— in a most remote section of Scotland."

  "Alone?" Brandi's lips curved. "In other words, even the duke's valet was not invited on this secluded respite?"

  "Exactly. Smithers remained at Allonshire to enjoy some well-deserved time off. He has an entire fortnight to himself and has expressly asked that I visit. I'm thinking now that perchance I shall."

  "Forgive me, Bentley, but what has all this to do with Papa's ledger?"

  "As I said, several of the gentlemen listed in the viscount's ledger reside in Berkshire—a shire in which Smithers is both well-respected and established. I myself can vouch for his trustworthiness and his discretion. 'Tis no wonder so many servants in the nearby manors confide in him. Why, he's privy to as much gossip in Berkshire as I am in the Cotswolds."

  Dawning comprehension ensued. "You're hoping that Smithers might have gleaned a tidbit of gossip from another servant—a servant who is employed by one of the Berkshire gentlemen on Papa's list?"

  "Not just a tidbit, my lady. I'm hoping Smithers has gleaned news that one of his colleagues' employers has recently been boasting a prosperous outcome to a specific business investment—an investment we know from the viscount's ledger sustained a substantial loss."

  Brandi nodded fervently as she followed Bentley's reasoning through to its obvious conclusion. "And, if such is the case, the gentleman in question is one of two things: a liar or a swindler."

  "Precisely." Bentley cleared his throat. "Moreover, if the alter is true, there's one further possibility we must consider ..." He hesitated.

  "‘Tis all right, Bentley," Brandi reassured him. "Whatever it is, I can withstand it. Tell me."

  "Very well, my lady." His voice took on a soothing note. "So long as you realize this is all speculation."

  "I do."

  He nodded. "If my theory proves accurate and your father were being cheated—and if he happened to stumble upon this fact, wouldn't that supply the gentleman in question with a reason to ensure the viscount's silence?"

  "Oh my God." Brandi turned sheet white, instinctively clutching Bentley's hand.

  For the first time, Bentley didn't withdraw into suitable butler-mode, instead leaving his right hand under Brandi's, covering her cold fingers with his left. "I didn't mean to upset you, my lady. I repeat, this is purely supposition and, very possibly, without a shred of merit."

  "But your conclusion is logical," she managed. "I know in my heart Papa was too clever a businessman to invest as poorly as these ledgers imply. And if you're right—if one of the men on that list was swindling him—and if Papa learned the truth and refused to remain silent..." She drew a shaky breath. "Then it provides us with our first real motive since the murder."

  "Those are numerous ifs, Miss Brandi."

  "Nevertheless, 'tis plausible and must be explored," she replied, the color slowly returning to her face as she called upon her emotional reserves. "By all means, go to Berkshire. Begin with your friend Smithers. And, if he cannot help us, then you and I will delve into the financial status of each and every man on Papa's list until we've either exhausted or confirmed your theory."

  "What you're describing is a dangerous undertaking Miss Brandi," Bentley warned, giving her hand a hard shake. "And I won't have you doing anything rash. So I repeat my original question: Is Herbert tending the garden at Emerald Manor today?"

  "I've already answered: yes. But why is that important?”

  "Because I won't leave you alone. And, being that today is my day off and Master Desmond is not expecting me to return to Colverton until late, 'tis the perfect opportunity for me to slip off to Berkshire. I'll be able to go and come without offering any explanations or igniting any tempers.”

  Brandi's eyes widened. "You want to go today, and you want Herbert to act as my governess during your absence?”

  "I don't think Herbert would take kindly to being referred to as a governess—but, yes. 'Tis the only way I'll go." Bentley frowned. "I'd prefer to await Master Quentin's arrival, so I'd know you'd be in the safest of hands. But I fear that isn't a viable choice, given Master Desmond's aversion to our investigation. So, if Herbert is willing, today it is."

  The carriage came to a halt before Emerald Manor.

  "We're home," Brandi announced, glancing out the window. "And, thanks to our early start, 'tis not even midday, giving you plenty of time to accomplish what you wish to." She took up her father's file, returning the ledger to its place. "Quickly. Deliver me to Herbert—as I know you better than to think you'd take me on my word. Then you can hasten to Allonshire with a clear conscience. As far as my being in safe hands, trust me, Herbert will be elated to stand guard over me—he'll have an able body to assist him in his rock garden, and a ready ear to listen to his complaints about the uncooperative geraniums."

  Still Bentley hesitated. "And if Master Quentin returns before I?"

  "Then I'll fill him in on everything." Seeing Bentley's dubious expression, Brandi couldn't help but smile. "Yes, Bentley, everything. I'll explain exactly how—and where— we found Papa's file. In fact, I'll confess to our Townsbourne excursion on bended knee. Would that be acceptable?"

  "Perfectly. I do, however, recommend that you wait until I return to delve into the matter of Master Desmond's business skills—or lack thereof. He and Master Quentin are already on shaky ground. Perhaps I could broach the subject in a more subtle manner."

  "And I'm anything but subtle," Brandi translated. "Very well, Bentley, I'll let you initiate the topic of Desmond. Quentin and I will have more than enough to discuss until your arrival tonight. Besides, this whole conversation could be moot. 'Tis possible Quentin won't return until morning." Impatiently, she flung open the carriage door, apologising to the startled footman as she leaped down and landed solidly on his boots. "Forgive me, Gruthers, I'm in a dreadful hurry." She waited only until Bentley had alit before sprinting off toward the gazebo.

  Bentley met the footman's gaping stare. "Hold the carriage, Gruthers. I'll be taking my leave momentarily."

  "Yes, sir." Turning to stare after Brandi, Gruthers shook his head and resumed his post.

  "

  Truly, you should be accustomed to it by now," Bentley commented as he strode off in Brandi's wake. He paused, scanning the oncoming path to determine her whereabouts. A minute later he spied her rounding the first bend, subsequently disappearing from view. "On second thought," he called over his shoulder to Gruthers, "perhaps one never grows accustomed to a recurring tempest."

  By the time Bentley reached the gazebo garden, Brandi was talking excitedly to Herbert, The gardener was listening intently, wiping sweat from his brow and nodding.

  "Hello, Bentley," he greeted. "Miss Brandi was just fillin' me in on your quandary." He chuckled. "I feel for you— needin' time off. I could use some myself—plan to take it later this week." He shot Bentley an understanding look. "It'll be a real pleasure havin' Miss Brandi help in the garden today. The work'll go twice as fast, and we'll be done before the sun sets. Yup, I could sure use the help." He wandered over to Bentley, ostensibly assessing the last few rows of geraniums. "Don't worry," he muttered for the butler's ears alone, "I figured out your real problem—and it's as good as solved. Until his lordship shows up at Emerald Manor, I'll keep an eye on Miss Brandi."

  "I appreciate that," Bentley returned in an equally subdued tone. "Very well, my lady," he said in a normal voice "Seeing you're in excellent hands, I'll be on my way."

  Brandi regarded him soberly, gesturing with the file she clutched in her hands. "I hope your day is fruitful, Bentley."

  "As do I," he agreed. With a half bow, he retraced his steps and was gone.

  Gazing after him, Brandi shaded the sun from her eyes and said a silent prayer—although she was entirely unsure for what outcome she prayed. To discover her father was the murderer's target would be unbearable—but this vacuum of uncertainty was worse.

  "These two damned rows still won't respond," Herbert muttered.

  "What?" Brandi forced Bentley's mission from her mind, squatting beside Herbert.

  "I said, these two damned rows of geraniums near the gazebo are still dyin'," he repeated. "I've tried everythin' I know, replanted them four times." He sighed. "Maybe I'm losin' my touch."

  "You're doing no such thing," Brandi chastised. "Why, took at the rest of the garden. ‘Tis doing splendidly. Perhaps the gazebo is blocking the sun, preventing it from reaching these flowers in particular."

  "No, they're gettin' plenty of sun." Herbert scratched his head. "It makes no sense."

  "I tell you what," Brandi suggested. "Why don't we consult my gardening books? I know you don't believe they have anything to offer"—she held up her hand to avert Herbert's protest—"but maybe one of them can provide an answer we haven't thought of. You must admit, 'tis worth a try."

  He frowned. "If you say so."

  An hour later, Brandi was leafing through the second of her gardening tomes and Herbert was snoring loudly under neighboring oak.

  Brandi smiled, lowering her book to the grass. 'Twas just as well Herbert was asleep. She wasn't able to summon up her usual empathy for his ongoing geranium plight—not today. Shifting restlessly, she wondered how Bentley would fare in Berkshire. Would his theory prove true? Could someone have swindled her father, then killed him for unearthing the truth? And if so, how had the culprit known her father would be traveling in the Steel carriage the morning of the accident? Was he someone her father confided in? Or was he a mere acquaintance to whom her father had casually mentioned his plans?

  Muttering one of her rare profanities, Brandi opened the file and extracted the ledger, perusing, for the umpteenth time, the columns of numbers, as if by poring over them again and again she could discover something she'd previously missed.

  She was losing her mind, tortured by unanswered questions, impeded by promises that rendered her helpless.

  Quentin was at Whitehall. Bentley was en route to Berkshire. And she? She was sitting beside an oak tree staring vapidly at figures she could practically recite by memory. She had to do something.

  But what?

  There had to be someone with the ability to resolve the baffling contrast between her father's customary success and his sudden, severe losses. Someone other than those who had perished in the carriage—and other than Desmond, who was an unthinkable source, given his lack of objectivity and unconfirmed business acumen. No, the someone she needed had to be impartial, familiar not only with her father's business ventures but also with the business ventures of those gentlemen whose names appeared in her father's ledger.

  Someone like a solicitor.

  Brandi was on her feet before the thought was complete.

  Hendrick—that was it. Why hadn't she thought of it sooner?

  Swiftly, she brushed the dirt and grass from her gown, careful to remain quiet so as not to awaken Herbert.

  She'd promised Quentin and Bentley she wouldn't place herself in any danger; well, speaking to one's solicitor hardly qualified as perilous. And what better time to approach. Hendrick than today, when both Quentin and Bentley were away and she wouldn't be missed? She could rush to London and back, returning, hopefully with some much-needed answers.

  And what better person to supply them? Triumph glistening in her eyes, Brandi considered the obvious. Hendrick had handled the Townsend finances for years. Therefore, he doubtless possessed a thorough knowledge of all her father's investments and could possibly shed some light on the puzzling losses depicted in the ledger, as well as a plan to either prove or disprove Bentley's theory— somehow weeding out the innocent and, if necessary, converging on the guilty. Moreover, being that he was also the Steel solicitor, he might be able to clear up the perplexing discrepancy over Desmond's business acumen. That he'd be willing to help was a certainty—hadn't he already offered her his assistance the day of the will readings? He'd be discreet, professional, and most of all, swift. Her decision was made.

  Ever so quietly, Brandi slipped away, hearing Herbert's snores echoing behind her. She dared not stop off at the cottage—Mrs. Collins was bound to intercede with a hearty meal or, at the very least, a nourishing snack. She'd go directly to the carriage house and, in mere minutes, be on her way to London.

  'Twas a splendid plan, she congratulated herself—one that even Bentley would have to applaud. After all, it would expedite his search, provide them with answers . . . And keep her far away from danger.

  Chapter 12

  "Please, my dear, have a seat."

  Easing back the tufted armchair, Ellard Hendrick waited politely until Brandi had complied.

  "Thank you, Mr. Hendrick." She perched at the edge of the cushion, her father's ledger clutched tightly in her hands. "'Twas very kind of you to see me without an appointment."

  "Nonsense," Glancing curiously, first at the slim volume Brandi held and then at the empty doorway, Hendrick asked, "You came unescorted?"