Brandi flinched. "There's no need to be sarcastic or insulting. Obviously, I know better than to believe that. But if one of those men did cheat my father, his records will conflict with Papa's ledger. And he won't be able to cast aspersion elsewhere—not with all his colleagues in the same room. Thus, his scheme will be exposed."

  "Just like that." Quentin's scowl deepened. "Tell me, was this Hendrick's idea?"

  "No. 'Twas mine."

  "I don't even know why I bothered asking. The real question is, how does Hendrick factor into this grand plan of yours?"

  "He represents the business interests of every man on that list. He promised to review their files and take the first step in arranging our meeting."

  "First step?"

  "He sent out missives in order to determine a mutually convenient time and day."

  Quentin and Bentley exchanged glances. "When, Brandi? When did he send out those missives?"

  "Last night."

  "Hell and damnation." Quentin averted his head, a muscle working in his jaw.

  "Why does that upset you?" Brandi asked, her brows drawn in question. "And why is your reaction so extreme? I expected you to be angry, but you're more than angry. You're downright cruel. Quentin, what is it? You've never treated me like this before."

  A look of naked emotion crossed Quentin's face. "I've never cared like this before."

  The admission—uttered as much to himself as to Brandi—settled softly about them, traversing an invisible span between past and present, melding the two into one. Their gazes locked.

  Unnoticed, Bentley slipped from the room. Inhaling sharply, Quentin sifted his fingers through Brandi's hair. "Sunbeam . . ."

  "Later." Tenderly, she pressed a silencing forefinger to his lips. "Not now. I want to savor the words the first time you speak them. Not hear them blurted hastily in the midst of a lecture, no matter how loving its intent." She leaned forward, brushed her lips to his. "Later," she repeated softly.

  Quentin's hand slid beneath her burnished mane, caressed the warm skin at her nape. "My beautiful Sunbeam," he murmured. "Why is it that every cherished moment must be eclipsed by dark reality?"

  "Because those moments are meant to stand alone, so that we might properly treasure them." With that, she sat back, inclining her head expectantly. "Now, tell me why you're so enraged about the missives Mr. Hendrick sent."

  "Very well." Quentin weighed his explanation, seeking words powerful enough to inspire caution, gentle enough to preclude fear. "There's a possibility that, evidently, hasn't occurred to you. It's slim, I admit, but viable nonetheless. The reason I haven't mentioned it until now is because it's only speculation, and I didn't want to frighten you. Lord knows, you'd endured enough these past weeks. But maybe it's best that we discuss my theory now, if only to open those extraordinary, willful eyes of yours." He intertwined their fingers. "Not two hours ago, you missed being killed by mere inches and the grace of God. Did you ever think that perhaps the shooting was no accident? That someone might be trying to—" He struggled with the word kill, then abandoned it. "Hurt you?"

  Brandi's pupils dilated. "Hurt me?"

  "Think about it. Let's assume that your premise is correct—that, in fact, Ardsley was the intended victim of the carriage disaster. Take it one step further. Assume the killer wanted to silence your father from revealing not only the fact that he'd been deceived but the identity of the deceiver. And silence him he did, thus eliminating all threat of exposure.

  "Then, without warning, Ardsley's bright, persistent daughter intervenes, delving until she finds a damning ledger. The culprit's anonymity is once again at risk. Brandi"—Quentin's tone gentled, his fingers tightening around hers as if to cushion the blow—"he's already murdered three people to protect himself. Do you honestly think he'd hesitate to do so again?"

  Whatever color remained in Brandi's cheeks rapidly drained away. "Oh my God ... I never even considered that.”

  "Listen to me, Sunbeam. This isn't a certainty. It isn't even a likelihood. It's simply a possibility. But even a possibility is too much when it comes to keeping you safe. Now do you understand why I became crazed at the thought of you dashing about London—or anywhere else—alone?"

  Rather than answering, Brandi stared up at him, comprehension illuminating her eyes. "Now I see why you reacted so violently to the missives Mr. Hendrick sent," she murmured, half to herself. "You believe that one of the recipients is guilty, and that, upon reading Mr. Hendrick's note, he deduced what I had in mind. And that he then tried to ..."

  "I don't want you jumping to conclusions."

  "I'm not. Nor do you believe I am, or you wouldn't even have considered this possibility, much less mentioned it. Moreover, your theory makes perfect sense." Brandi's chin quivered. "Herbert surmised that the man who shot me was probably a trespasser, someone who assumed no one was living at Emerald Manor but servants. I realize now how flimsy that explanation is—doubtless Herbert's attempt to shield me. The fact is, why would anyone believe Emerald Manor to be deserted? Pamela and I spent long hours in the gardens nearly every day, in full view of any and all passers-by. And since her death, I've spent more time in the gazebo than I have in the cottage. No, Quentin. Whoever fired that pistol knew I'd be about." Terror filled her eyes. "He must have waited for me in the woods. He intended to kill me."

  Tenderly cradling her injured head, Quentin gathered her to him. "Stop it, Sunbeam. This is pure speculation. We don't know if there's even a grain of truth to it." He brushed his lips across her forehead. "But until we're certain, no more stupid risks, all right?"

  Dazed with shock, Brandi nodded. "I'm sorry," she managed. "What a fool I've been. None of this even entered my mind."

  Quentin buried his lips in her hair, feeling the chill of her fear and hating himself for causing it. "You're not a fool," he countered, his voice rough with emotion. "You're a beautiful, courageous woman. And I don't want you to be afraid. Nothing is going to happen to you. I won't let it."

  Brandi fought the panic, and lost. "When will you sail for the colonies?" she asked, dreading his response.

  "Not until the murder is resolved. Lord Bathurst delayed my orders."

  She drew back, relief flooding her face. "Thank God. Quentin . . ." That vulnerable look invaded her eyes, permeated his soul. "Stay with me. Don't go away."

  It was the same plea she'd uttered to him a lifetime ago— on the day he'd returned to the Cotswolds. The same plea, a different man.

  "I won't," he heard himself say, offering the unfulfillable promise he'd vowed never to make. "I won't leave you— ever."

  Brandi shook her head adamantly, negating the significance of his response. "That's not what I meant," she clarified in a fierce whisper. "I know it can't be forever. But it can be now. Here. At Emerald Manor. Until this nightmare is over. Please, Quentin. Stay with me."

  Something painful and profound moved within Quentin's chest. "Brandi, I can't."

  "Why?" Tears shimmered on her lashes. "Because it would shatter my reputation? I don't give a damn."

  "No." He framed her face between his palms. "Because it would shatter my control."

  "I don't give a damn about that either. In fact, I would welcome it."

  With a half-laugh, half-groan, Quentin dragged Brandi back into his arms. "Ah, sweetheart, were it only that simple."

  "It is."

  "No. It's not. Damn it, Sunbeam, you can't possibly understand what's at stake."

  "I know what's at stake." Brandi leaned back, searched his eyes. "Do you?"

  "So well that I want to envelop you and free you all at once."

  "What if I don't want to be freed?"

  Silence.

  "Quentin," Brandi murmured, easily interpreting the clashing emotions that warred across his face, understanding them with an intuition as old as time. "No matter what's changed between us, you're still my best friend. You always will be. I want you with me, if only for comfort." A mischievous smile darted across her lips. "And, should your never-failing control falter, mine shall take over. 'Twill be an interesting switch, wouldn't you say?"

  Laughter rumbled in Quentin's chest. "Very interesting. And how, my impulsive hoyden, will you manage that?"

  "I suppose you're too arrogant to believe I'm totally immune to your charms?"

  The laughter faded as quickly as it had come. "To the contrary, Sunbeam, I'm humbled by what happens when you're in my arms. And I'm as helpless as you to prevent it."

  Brandi lay her palm against his jaw. "Emerald Manor is yours. Need I remind you that the cottage includes your own bedchamber?"

  He turned his lips into her palm. "Ah, but will I use it?"

  "That's entirely up to you."

  "You're tempting fate, you know."

  "No, I'm tempting you."

  Another chuckle. "You have no idea how much."

  "I think I do. In fact, I'm counting on it." Brandi's eyes sparkled. "I'm also counting on the fact that you've never been able to say no to me."

  Quentin raised his head, "Nor you to me," he reminded her.

  "True." She gazed up at him, her heart in her eyes. "Stay with me," she repeated quietly. "Mrs. Collins will be here to silence any wagging tongues. Bring Bentley, as well. After all, once news of my accident becomes public, everyone will assume I'll need constant ministrations. Knowing how close our families are, the ton will simply presume that you and Bentley are helping Mrs. Collins take care of me."

  "Which I intend to. In light of what's happened, I don't want you left alone for one bloody minute." Quentin frowned. "Damn. I've got to see Hendrick."

  "He's probably at Colverton. He said he planned to meet with Desmond today."

  "In London, not here. And speaking of my brother, I have a few unresolved issues to take up with him—when he gets his head out of a bottle long enough to listen."

  "So do I. I want to show Desmond the ledger and ask him about Papa's unreasonable losses."

  Quentin's eyes narrowed. "You didn't give the ledger to Ellard then?"

  "Of course not. I told him to copy down the figures so I could show the ledger to you."

  "Excellent. Where is this ledger?"

  Pointing to her gown, Brandi grinned. "Under here. Would you care to fetch it?"

  One dark brow rose. "You're playing with fire."

  "I'm fully prepared to be burned." She nuzzled the bare warmth of Quentin's throat. "Go to London if you must."

  "No." A tremor rippled through him, and his arms closed possessively around her. "I'll ride to Colverton, deal with Desmond. But I'm not returning to London. I'll instruct my brother to bring Hendrick back to the Cotswolds with him following their meeting. At which point, you and I will both have a chance to give voice to our questions. And our concerns."

  "Fine. Then don't leave at all. You can simply send Desmond a missive, telling him to escort Mr. Hendrick directly to Emerald Manor."

  "That won't work. Bentley left instructions with poor Sanders to apprise Desmond of your accident the instant he awakens. You and I both know that, once Desmond hears the news, he'll insist on stopping here en route to London— the dutiful guardian looking after his charge—especially once he learns that I've returned. No, I'd rather deal with Desmond now. Besides"—Quentin gave Brandi a melting smile that singed her down to her toes—"I've got to go to Colverton anyway. To pack."

  Chapter 14

  "Sanders, is my brother awake?" Quentin demanded, crossing the front hallway in long strides.

  "Only just, my lord." The valet finished his descent from the second-floor landing, pausing now and again to glance uneasily over his shoulder. "How is Lady Brandi, sir?"

  "Weak. Shaken. But fine. Have you told him?"

  Sanders had no time to reply.

  With a thud and a curse, Desmond staggered to the head of the steps, tightening the belt of his dressing robe and glaring at Sanders. "What the hell is going on here? I asked for a drink." From the corner of his eye, he spied Quentin. "Oh, I should have guessed. The incomparable Lord Quentin has returned to Colverton. Tell me Sanders, was that the crucial announcement you were hovering about me to make—the one that precluded your following orders and fetching me a fresh bottle of Madeira?"

  "No, Desmond, it wasn't," Quentin said, his tone as stony as his stance. "Sanders was trying to tell you Brandi's been hurt."

  Desmond's surliness vanished. "Hurt? How?”

  "She was shot."

  "Christ—when? Is she all right?"

  "Several hours ago. And, yes, she'll recover. She's dazed and weak, both from blood loss and shock. She's also in a fair amount of pain. But, luckily, the bullet missed its mark and grazed her temple. Any closer would have killed her."

  "Missed its mark? Are you saying someone tried to murder Brandice?"

  "I believe so, yes."

  Desmond swore, raking an unsteady hand through his hair. "Who the hell would want to ..." He broke off, glowering at his valet. "Why didn't someone awaken me right away?"

  "Sanders attempted to," Quentin returned, assessing his brother with utter distaste. "But you were even more uncooperative at that time than you are now. Difficult as that might be to believe."

  "I didn't get to bed until dawn. I was exhausted. But for something like this"—Desmond shot another malevolent look at his valet—"you should have tried harder."

  "Sanders is as splendid a manservant as they come," Quentin inserted, sparing Sanders the indignity of defending himself. " 'Tis hardly his fault that you're too deep in your cups to know day from night."

  "Thank you, my lord," Sanders acknowledged quietly.

  Color suffused Desmond's face. "Evidently, my valet's been talking out of turn."

  "He doesn't have to," Quentin refuted. "I have eyes. You've been perpetually drunk since Father's death."

  Desmond's lips thinned. "We'll discuss my habits another time, Quentin. Alone," he added pointedly. "Right now, Brandice needs me. I'll get dressed and go to her." He turned and headed back toward his room.

  "Don't," Quentin directed Sanders, staying the valet's progress with his hand.

  "He'll need my assistance, Lord Quentin."

  "I'll give him all the assistance he needs. I have a strong feeling he'd prefer to be alone for the conversation we're about to have."

  "Oh, I see." Sanders mopped his brow uncertainly.

  "In the interim, I'd appreciate your finding my valet and asking him to pack a bag for me. And one for Bentley. We'll be moving to the cottage."

  Sanders blinked in surprise, but aloud all he said was, "Of course, my lord. I'll advise Wythe at once. I assume he'll be traveling with you as well?"

  "No." Quentin gestured meaningfully toward the top of the stairs. "I think you'll require Wythe's services far more than I. Should it prove necessary, Bentley can act as my valet for however long we remain at Emerald Manor." A flicker of amusement. "It will help keep him humble."

  Sanders's lips twitched. "For how many days shall I tell Wythe to pack?"

  "I don't know. That depends on what we learn about Brandi's supposed accident, and on how quickly she heals. I won't leave her alone until I'm convinced she's fully recovered—and not in danger."

  "I understand, my lord. I'll instruct Wythe to pack enough for an extended stay. We can always arrange for additional changes of clothes to be sent to the cottage as you need them."

  Quentin nodded. "Thank you for your diligence, Sanders. I can understand why Father proclaimed you to be indispensable."

  Unconcealed gratitude shone in Sanders's eyes. "Thank you, my lord," he said simply.

  Ascending the first step, Quentin paused. "By the way, I'd suggest waiting about a half hour, then delivering that bottle of Madeira to Desmond's chambers. He's going to need it."

  "As you wish, sir." Sanders bowed and hastened off.

  Jaw clenched, Quentin took the stairs two at a time, never slowing until he reached Desmond's chambers.

  He flung open the door.

  Desmond whipped around in surprise, an empty bottle clutched in his hand.

  "I thought you were dressing," Quentin noted with icy derision.

  "I am. There's not even a bloody drop left." Desmond slammed the bottle onto his nightstand and looked past Quentin into the hallway. "Where the hell is Sanders?"

  "Busy. I told him I'd assist you."

  Desmond tensed. "Does that mean you know who shot Brandice—and why?"

  "Not who." Quentin closed the door and leaned back against it. "Why should be obvious, even to a mind clouded by liquor."

  "I'm perfectly sober," Desmond retorted, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. "But if you're implying there's some correlation between the carriage accident and . . ."

  "It wasn't an accident," Quentin interceded. "It was murder. Stop denying the truth by burying your head in a bottle. Glovers made the Bow Street findings quite clear. The carriage axle was severed."

  "Even so, how does that relate to Brandice? Tell me the details of this shooting."

  "She was in the woods at Emerald Manor. Evidently, so was her unseen assailant. He waited, then followed her and fired. She'd be dead had it not been for her squirrel, who attacked and clawed at the intruder until he fled. It's that simple."

  "How do you know it wasn't a trespasser, hunting on the cottage grounds?"

  "I don't. But, on the heels of our parents' murders, I suspect otherwise."

  "I'm still at sea. What connection is there between the two incidents? Brandice wasn't anywhere near Father's carriage when it went off the road."

  "No, but Ardsley was."

  Silence.

  "You think Ardsley was the target?" Desmond managed.

  " 'Tis certainly possible. And, if so, Brandi could now be in danger. She is, after all, Ardsley's daughter and has inherited all that was his."

  "I need a drink." Desmond weaved toward the door.

  Quentin seized his arm. "I'm not finished. In fact, I've barely begun. We have another matter to clear up, which is why I asked Sanders to leave us alone."

  "My Madeira..."