"Later." Quentin's grip tightened. "After I've said what I came to say."

  A muscle flexed in Desmond's jaw. "What do you want, Quentin?"

  "Answers. Explanations. Admissions."

  A glimmer of uncertainty flashed in Desmond's eyes. "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about the War Department." Crossing the room, Quentin yanked open the drawers of Desmond's chest, tossing a shirt and cravat on the bed. "Start getting dressed. You have an appointment in town."

  "How the hell do you know that?" Desmond snapped. Abruptly, he held up his palm. "Never mind. The ever-efficient Bentley." He ignored Quentin's command. "What about the War Department?"

  "That's where I spent the last few days. You do recall that, don't you?"

  "Of course. I'm not feeble. My memory is intact." Desmond casually fingered his shirt. "So, when will you be setting sail for the colonies?"

  "Your memory is indeed splendid," Quentin commended with a mocking smile. "Considering I never mentioned the details of my meeting at Whitehall."

  "Y-you told me you'd been summoned."

  "Did I? Evidently, my memory is not nearly as reliable as yours. In either case, I am certain I never specified the reason for my summons. Nor where the War Minister intended for me to travel."

  Silence.

  "Tell me, Desmond." Quentin cocked an inquiring brow. "Does the name Lathrop mean anything to you? What a foolish question. Of course it does. You just told me your memory is intact. Therefore, how could you forget a discussion you had not one week past with one of Bathurst's aides?"

  "Very well." Resentment flashed in Desmond's eyes. "Yes, I recall Lathrop. And, no, I've forgotten neither our discussion nor our arrangement."

  "Excellent. Then tell me, are you so eager to have me gone that you'll resort to blackmail in order to ensure my departure?"

  "I'd resort to worse if it would drive you away." The vehement admission hung in the air.

  Quentin drew a slow inward breath. "Ironic, isn't it? This is, I believe, the first honest conversation we've ever had. Bearing that in mind, and at the risk of endangering our new brotherly bond, might I ask why you're so eager to rid yourself of my presence? Is this all because of Brandi?"

  "Yes. No. Damn." Desmond flung his shirt to the bed. "You're in favor of honesty? Fine. Here it is. I've wanted Brandice forever. But in her worshipful eyes, no one's ever existed but you. Finally, after putting myself through hell, risking things you couldn't possibly imagine, I'd very nearly won her over. Then you came home. And suddenly all my plans were for naught. She's bloody infatuated with you all over again. And what's worse is, now you want her, too, despite all your claims to the contrary. Do you think I'm blind? Damn you, Quentin, haven't you taken enough of what was mine?"

  "Brandi was never yours, Desmond."

  "She could be. If you'd stay the hell away from her."

  "That's impossible."

  "Why? Because of your supposed friendship?"

  "No. Because I'm in love with her." Somewhere in the back of his mind, Quentin wondered who was more stunned to hear the words spoken aloud, he or Desmond.

  A timid knock sounded. "Your Grace?" Sanders opened the door a mere crack. "I have your Madeira, sir."

  "It's about time." Desmond stalked across the room and yanked open the door, snatching the bottle from Sanders's hands. "Now get out."

  "Yes, sir." Sanders backed away, glancing briefly in Quentin's direction. "Your bag is packed, Lord Quentin. As is Bentley's."

  "Thank you, Sanders. I'll manage from here."

  "Very good, sir." The valet nearly bolted down the hallway.

  "So, you're leaving for the colonies after all," Desmond said with great satisfaction. "And how touching for Bentley to see you off." He poured a glass of Madeira, lifted it in tribute. "Farewell, dear brother. I trust a few months overseas will cure this ill-fated love you feel for Brandice." He downed half the contents of his goblet.

  "I'm sorry to disappoint you, dear brother, but I shan't be going overseas—at least not as immediately as you'd planned. For the time being, I intend to stay very much on English soil."

  The glass paused on its return trip to Desmond's lips. "Then where the hell are you packing to go?"

  "To Emerald Manor."

  The glass slammed to the table. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You heard me. Brandi's life might well be in danger. I refuse to leave her alone."

  "What a ridiculous pretense of an excuse. I'm her legal guardian. If she needs overseeing, I'll do it. I'll arrange for her to be brought to Colverton posthaste—which, if you recall, was where I initially suggested she stay. 'Twould be best for Brandice."

  "You mean it would be best for you. Brandi hates it here," Quentin corrected. "Besides, the point is a moot one. She's too weak to be moved. She's staying at Emerald Manor. And so are Bentley and I."

  "You've lost your mind. How can you consider such a thing?"

  "Because Brandi asked me. And because I choose to."

  "And, as Brandice's guardian, do you honestly think I'm going to permit it?"

  "Try to stop me," Quentin said in a voice so low it was barely audible. "Try to interfere with my feelings for Branch. I'm warning you, Desmond. If you want a real reason to despise me—just try."

  With a measured look, Desmond assessed the unprecedented rage emanating from his brother. Unsteadily, he refilled his glass and tossed off the contents. "The ton will talk."

  "Let them."

  "Brandice's reputation ..."

  "Is my problem."

  "And when you rejoin the army?"

  "That's between Brandi and me."

  Caustically, Desmond delivered his final blow. "You're going to bed Ardsley's daughter under your precious mother's roof?"

  An ominous silence.

  "I could break your neck for that," Quentin ground out. "But, out of respect to Father, I won't. You're pathetic. You've wasted your whole life resenting my mother and me. And for what? Whatever it is you think we stole from you is all in your mind."

  A bitter laugh. "You don't know what you're talking about, Quentin."

  "Are we back to Brandi again? Let's stop pretending. You don't care for her; you never did. You just want to possess her, mold her into the perfect Duchess of Colverton. Well, hundreds of women would be thrilled to play that part. Think of the power that affords you." With an expression of utter contempt, Quentin watched Desmond gulp down another drink. "That knowledge alone should fill whatever void your liquor isn't potent enough to reach. In truth, Father inadvertently left you all you truly crave: his money, his estate, and his bloody dukedom."

  "If he did, it wasn't by choice."

  "Don't be a fool, Desmond. If Father didn't choose to bequeath his title to you, you wouldn't have it."

  A bitter smile. "Get out, Quentin. Go to your precious Sunbeam. As you announced earlier, I've got an appointment in town."

  "Speaking of which, when you return to Colverton, bring Hendrick with you."

  "Hendrick? For what purpose?"

  "You'll understand once the two of you have concluded your meeting. I haven't the time, nor the inclination, to elaborate. Which is just as well, being that you've tossed off three glasses of Madeira in just as many minutes and are hardly clear-headed enough to absorb details of any great significance." Quentin grasped the door handle. "My suggestion is to put down that bloody bottle, get dressed, and leave for London. The sooner you meet with Ellard, the sooner you can bring him to the Cotswolds. And, Desmond." Quentin's tone, his stare, were as lethal as death. "Remember what I said. Forget any notion you have of controlling Brandi's life. Or of sharing it."

  "I see you got my message. Good. We have a great deal to discuss." Hendrick leaned forward in his chair, watching Desmond make his way unsteadily into the office. "You've been drinking again."

  "A brilliant observation. And I plan to continue drinking throughout our meeting." He poured himself a brandy and began to pace.

  "Has something happened?"

  "Yes. Brandice has been shot."

  "What?" Hendrick's jaw dropped. "Is she hurt?"

  "From what Quentin said, she’ll be all right. Apparently, the bullet grazed her head. But my brother is convinced someone tried to kill her."

  "Quentin was with Brandice when this occurred?"

  "No. She was alone. In the woods at Emerald Manor. Quentin dashed to her side the instant he arrived from London—the legendary knight in shining armor." Desmond's eyes narrowed. "You don't seem particularly shocked by Quentin's suspicions."

  "I'm not. Doubtless, Brandice told him what she and I discussed when she came to see me yesterday. That in itself would be cause for speculation."

  "Brandice came to see you?" Desmond started. "Here?"

  "Indeed." Hendrick gestured for Desmond to take a seat. "As I said, we have much to catch up on." He waited until Desmond had dropped heavily into the chair and placed his goblet at the edge of the desk.

  "Brandice arrived at my office late yesterday afternoon," the solicitor continued. "She brought a most interesting file with her—a file she'd found at Townsbourne. In her father's desk," he added pointedly.

  "I don't believe this." Desmond gulped down his drink. "Brandice actually went to Townsbourne and searched Ardsley's desk?"

  "Apparently. Did you know of this file's existence?"

  "I..." Desmond massaged his temples. "It seems to me I did. 'Tis a bit unclear in my mind."

  "Damn it, Colverton, everything is unclear in your mind. Now think."

  Desmond frowned. "Yes, upon reflection, I do recall Ardsley mentioning something about a drawer housing personal papers."

  Hendrick slammed his fist on the desk. "Then why the hell didn't you remove them right after the will readings? How could you be so careless?"

  "Why? What was in them?"

  "A ledger, you fool. A line-by-line accounting of all the viscount's recent business transactions—as he perceived them—depicting the monumental losses he supposedly incurred."

  "Christ." Desmond's pupils dilated. "And Brandice came straight to you with this ledger?"

  "Her choices were nil," Hendrick's tone emanated undisguised censure. "You were, as she correctly assumed, drunk. Quentin was away. So, yes, she came directly to me."

  "That was a stroke of luck." Desmond visibly relaxed.

  "Well, Quentin's back now. So let's destroy the ledger at once."

  "What good would that do? Brandice has already seen the damning evidence."

  "Then let's modify the numbers to agree with the ones you have on file. Quentin will think Brandice read them incorrectly."

  "You underestimate Brandice's intelligence."

  "She's a woman, Hendrick. Exceptional or not, she doesn't possess the business aptitude of a man."

  "Really? Well, she was clever enough to insist on taking the ledger with her."

  Desmond stared. "And you let her?"

  "What would you have had me do—wrest it from her hands?"

  "You could have convinced her to leave it with you." Desmond leaped to his feet, circling the chair restlessly. "For Christ's sake, Hendrick, you are her solicitor."

  "And Quentin is, as you put it, her knight in shining armor. If you can't combat his importance in Brandice's life, how the hell should I?"

  "Quentin." Desmond seized his empty glass and sent it crashing to the wall. "Quentin. Quentin. Quentin. Every direction I turn, he thwarts me. I can't take a bloody step without tripping over my paragon of a brother Quentin."

  "Have you finished having your tantrum?" Hendrick inquired icily. "Because, if so, we have a problem to address. And the ledger is only part of it. Brandice's plan is another."

  "Plan?" Desmond veered to face him. "What plan?"

  "The plan Quentin undoubtedly assumed I alluded to in the missive I sent you—the one that brought you charging to London." Frowning, Hendrick watched Desmond return to the sideboard, then glance bewilderedly about. "Where the hell's my glass?"

  "You smashed it just minutes ago," Hendrick reminded km in a frosty tone. "Against my wall. Which, incidentally, I must instruct you never to do again. This is ray place of business, not a London pub. Had today not been Peters's day off, we'd be forced to explain your childish outburst to him. As it is, I'll simply add the cost of the goblet to your bill."

  "Very amusing."

  "It was my intention to caution, not amuse, you. I suggest you take my advice to heart. Believe me, Desmond, the last thing you need is another drink. Now sit down."

  Ignoring the admonishment, Desmond helped himself to another goblet, sloshing brandy nearly to its rim.

  "I want to hear about this plan Brandice is devising," he reiterated, dropping back into the chair.

  Hendrick cast a distasteful look at the brandy, but didn't comment on it further. "Brandice has deduced that Ardsley was far too shrewd a businessman to invest as ineffectually as the ledger implies. Which, as we know, is true."

  Desmond's head shot up, his fingers tightening about his glass. "You didn't confirm that to Brandice?"

  "I'm not an ass, Colverton," Hendrick retorted dryly. "Nor am I foxed." His gaze flickered pointedly to Desmond's drink. "I assured her that her father was indeed suffering a stretch of bad luck. She was dubious. Her suspicion is that one of Denerley's coinvestors swindled him. She intends to question each and every one of them, together, in a group meeting. Here. In my office. This week, if possible."

  With a muffled curse, Desmond tossed down his drink. "When did she plan to mention this to me?"

  "Probably when you took your head out of the bottle." Hendrick waved away Desmond's irritated look. "Did you believe Brandice hadn't noticed the frequency of your drinking? She was terribly concerned about you—and your perpetually inebriated state. However, I did manage to convince her that you should take part in this meeting of hers. I reminded her that, as her legal guardian and overseer of Denerley's businesses, you would be doubly concerned— first, for her safety in a potentially dangerous situation, and second, for ensuring the security of her inheritance as well as the future of Ardsley's investments."

  "Splendid," Desmond muttered. "So I am now invited to my own undoing."

  "Don't be a fool. I have no intentions of allowing that meeting to occur."

  "And just how did you explain that to Brandice?"

  "I didn't. I simply bought us some time. I promised her I would peruse the files of all the men listed in that ledger— all of whom, luckily, happen to be clients of mine—then send out preliminary missives alerting them to the seriousness of the matter at hand, and arranging the best date and time for our meeting."

  "And you don't intend to do that?"

  "To the contrary. I did both before leaving my office last night—in a modified manner, of course. My notes were far more benign in tone than I'd implied they would be. Not to mention I happen to know for a fact that at least three of the gentlemen in question are currently abroad, while two others are vacationing in Brighton. So we have several weeks to change Brandice's mind."

  "And how are we going to do that? Brandice is not easy to maneuver, in case I haven't made that clear."

  "You're not going to maneuver her. You're going to convince her."

  "I?"

  "You," Hendrick fired back. "At the same time I am going to speak with Quentin. If we both do our jobs right, the idea of this meeting will soon be abandoned."

  "I suppose you have a way of accomplishing that?"

  "Of course. Brandice is bound to have questions for you—questions pertaining to her father's ledger. After all, who worked more closely with Denerley than the man to whom he entrusted his businesses? All you have to do is admit to her—with the proper degree of reluctance—that the figures in Denerley's ledger are accurate. That, so as not to appear ineffective in his beloved daughter's eyes, he never told her how badly his investments were doing nor how necessary you were to his financial security. That will put a damper on her theory."

  "I suppose I could manage." Desmond shook his head to clear it. "But how does Quentin factor into this?"

  "Brandice obviously told Quentin, not only about our meeting yesterday, but about the missives I sent. Why else do you suppose he believes Brandice to be in danger?" Desmond stared blankly.

  "Think, Colverton," Hendrick commanded impatiently. "Your brother believes my missives alerted the killer to Brandice's intentions, that the culprit was threatened by the realization that she means to unmask his identity."

  Abruptly, Desmond's cloudy mind made the connection. "He suspects one of the men in that ledger really did cheat and kill Ardsley—and is now after Brandice?"

  "Very good" was the sardonic reply. "And it only took twice as long as it should have. Acceptable, I suppose, after—how many drinks today?"

  "Not nearly enough." As if to prove his claim, Desmond started to rise; then, assailed by a wave of dizziness, he changed his mind, sinking back into the chair. "Now I know why Quentin wants you to return to the Cotswolds with me. He wants to question you on the prudence of this meeting."

  "He's sent for me? Excellent." Hendrick slapped his palm on the desk. "Then I shan't need to fabricate a reason for summoning him. I'll ride to Colverton with you and express my extreme concern over Brandice's safety. That should dissuade him from pursuing the matter."

  "You won't find Quentin at Colverton."

  Hendrick's brows rose. "Oh? Was your visit to the War Department a success then? Is Quentin leaving England?"

  "Hardly. He unraveled my entire plan, persuaded Bathurst to delay his orders. No, Hendrick, the only place my brother will be leaving is Colverton. He—and my nosy butler—are moving to Emerald Manor. To be with Brandice."

  "I see." Hendrick grew thoughtful. "Your plan to prevent Quentin and Brandice from becoming involved is looking rather dim, I fear. Although, I must say, you're well rid of Quentin and Bentley. The less you see of them, the less likely you are to let something slip. As for your plans to wed Brandice, I'd suggest that, during your oncoming talk, you declare your deep and abiding devotion, as well as your concern for her safety and well-being—both of which you could ensure were she your duchess. Emphasize what would be hers: title, wealth, security. This might be your last chance."