"Emerald Manor. Of course." Abruptly, Hendrick's eyes narrowed. "By now, Quentin has undoubtedly torn the cottage apart and discovered the box."

  "To the contrary. I'm sure he hasn't." Desmond's denial erupted with a will all its own.

  "How can you be so certain?"

  "That's what I meant by my earlier statement that, given the circumstances, Quentin missed a good deal of the note's significance." Desmond pushed on, painfully aware that, were he unable to convince Hendrick of Quentin's ignorance, the unthinkable would happen. Hendrick would explode into Emerald Manor, possibly killing both Quentin and Brandice—a reality Desmond could not abide. Not with the shocked guilt of his father's death pounding at his skull.

  "Explain yourself," Hendrick commanded.

  "You're right about Quentin's interpretive skills," Desmond expounded, forcing his gaze away from the pistol. "However, in this case he only deduced that Father's carefully chosen phrases relating to gems alluded to the strongbox, overlooking the double meaning entirely. Which, considering the facts, makes perfect sense. Quentin knows nothing of Father's amended will. Not of its existence nor of its terms. If he did, he'd realize Father meant for him to be living at Colverton, rendering Emerald Manor relatively uninhabited, save Quentin's visits—the ideal spot to conceal something for his eyes alone. As things stand, Quentin believes Father intended the cottage to be his home—the very definition of which suggests a host of residents, including not a meager staff of servants but a thriving one. Hardly the deserted spot Father would choose to conceal his strongbox. Thus, it would never occur to Quentin to ransack Emerald Manor—nor even to deem it a possibility."

  "Excellent." Hendrick's evil gleam told Desmond he'd been lucid enough to be convincing, rendering him weak with relief. "I'm impressed, Colverton. Perhaps there's hope for you after all. If 'you behave yourself and keep your mouth shut."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "What I should have done from the first. Relieve you of this unwanted task and shoulder it myself." Hendrick lowered the pistol. "I'm going to take a little jaunt to Emerald Manor and tear it apart, bit by bit, until I find Kenton's strongbox."

  The very thing Desmond had feared. "And Brandice and Quentin?" he asked hoarsely.

  "What about them?"

  "Are you going to harm them?"

  "Would you care?"

  Irony coupled with bleak resignation. "Would I care? Yes. I resent the hell out of my brother. I've wished him away from Father, from Colverton, and from England. But I've never wished him dead. And Brandice—I still don't understand why you're so threatened by her. Is the prospect of her stumbling upon your involvement in altering Ardsley's ledgers daunting enough to shoot her?"

  "Ardsley's ledgers?" A crack of sardonic laughter. "That's the least of my concerns. Your Brandice is determined to unearth her father's killer. And, should she succeed, I'd be convicted of murder."

  "But how could she succeed? The only step she's taken is to try to arrange a meeting with a dozen investors. How would that lead her to conclude you're a murderer?" Desmond broke off. "The dozen investors. They're all your clients." Comprehension struck, hard. "There's more to your monetary bleeding than just me, isn't there? Just like there's more in Father's strongbox than my records, which in themselves would never incite you to murder."

  "Again, I'm impressed." Hendrick slipped the pistol into his coat pocket. "However, for your own sake, stop your speculations where they are. Suffice it to say, I prefer not to have all my clients congregate in one room. As to your father's strongbox, I intend to recover it posthaste. Your brother and Brandice are expendable. If they interfere, they'll be dealt with, as will the servants."

  "The servants are away," Desmond blurted, his mind racing as he attempted to protect Quentin's and Brandice's lives without sacrificing his own.

  "Pardon me?"

  "Quentin sent them to an inn for several days so he and Brandice could be alone. But now, with the emergence of these notes, the two of them are probably dashing off in search of the strongbox, either to Father's Somerset estate or to his equally modest manor in Essex. Both are unoccupied save a handful of servants and are, hence, well-suited for concealment. Moreover, even if Brandice and Quentin remained at Emerald Manor, they'll doubtless be devising the best course of action while gallivanting in their favorite place: the woods. Why not survey the cottage until you see them leave? Then, you can slip in while the house is deserted and accomplish what you intend without any more bloodshed."

  "And what will you be doing during all this?" Hendrick asked suspiciously.

  "What I've been doing for a fortnight," Desmond replied with self-deprecating bitterness. "Drinking. And drowning in guilt. Because the truth is, I'm not acting out of decency—much as I might tell myself otherwise. I'm acting out of cowardice. I don't want to die, so I won't interfere. Nor do I want to go to prison, so I'll do all I can to keep us both from being discovered."

  "At least you're honest." Hendrick took out his timepiece and glanced at it. "I'll head for the cottage at once."

  "I beg you, don't kill anyone else, Hendrick." Desmond executed his final—and most potent—ploy. "Bow Street is already heatedly investigating the carriage disaster. If other members of Ardsley's or Father's families should be murdered, the authorities will delve into every person associated with them—business and personal. In which case, you'll be found out and hanged."

  "As will you," Hendrick reminded him. "You had as much motive as I to kill Kenton. And if I'm apprehended, you can be sure I'll produce the amended will and all the altered records, declaring you the murderer and myself no more than an accomplice in your twisted scheme."

  "I expected as much," Desmond returned somberly. "So let's make certain that none of this comes to pass. Find the strongbox. Ransack Emerald Manor to your heart's content. But ensure that its occupants stay alive."

  Chapter 21

  “Thus far, every one of these investment figures match up."

  Brandi shut both her father's and Kenton's ledgers, shoving them aside and leaning her head against the chair cushion. "I feel like I've pored over these figures for hours, yielding nothing more than a throbbing headache."

  Quentin rose from the sitting-room settee and walked over to his wife. "I feel much the same." He caressed her cheek, frowning at how pale she looked. "Sunbeam, we've been examining these books all morning. The sun is shining; the woods are beckoning—let's saddle the horses and go for a ride."

  Instantly, Brandi's head came up. "Really?"

  "Really."

  "I'll don my new breeches."

  "By all means." Quentin gestured toward the door. "So long as your pistol is tucked in your boot."

  "Fear not. I'll be back in five minutes." Brandi dashed from the room, the sound of her racing footsteps echoing behind.

  With an indulgent smile, Quentin chastised himself for not having insisted upon a diversion before now. The answers hovered just beyond their reach—and they would find them. But they'd also only just found each other. And, investigation or not, he intended to take time with his bride.

  Four and a half minutes later, Brandi burst into the sitting room, tying back her burnished tresses as she ran. "How do I look?"

  Quentin's gaze drank her in, lingering on the soft curves of her waist and hips, clearly defined by the breeches. "Seductive as hell."

  "Seductive?" Stunned, Brandi glanced down at herself. "I look like a boy."

  "Hardly." Quentin reached around to tie the hair ribbon Brandi was struggling with. "In fact, given that your attire offers you a distracting advantage, I'm officially conceding our race before we begin. I'd prefer to ride behind you and watch."

  Brandi's eyes sparkled. "How terribly improper of you, my lord."

  "If you wish to see terribly improper behavior, wait until after the race."

  "That sounds most intriguing. I can scarcely wait." Brandi's gaze fell on the ledgers, and a shadow crossed her face. "What about the records? We haven't finished perusing them."

  "They'll wait."

  She hesitated, chewing her lip.

  "I have an idea," Quentin proposed spontaneously. "Why don't we bring them to the gazebo? That way, later— much later—we can continue scrutinizing them, but in the garden rather than the sitting room."

  "Wonderful." The shadow vanished. "Let's go."

  The ride never took place.

  Ten minutes of walking through the woods, withstanding the exquisite agony of watching Brandi move, her breeches clinging to her hips and bottom, was all Quentin could bear.

  His own breeches stretched to the breaking point, he came to an abrupt halt. "I don't think riding is feasible any more," he got out through gritted teeth.

  Brandi blinked in surprise. "Why not?"

  "Because of your breeches. And the way they affect mine."

  Slowly, her gaze slid down her husband's torso. "Oh," she whispered, focusing on the rigid evidence of his claim.

  Quentin bent, his lips finding the pulse point in her neck. "I have an alternative. Unless, of course, you object."

  "No." Brandi shivered, her breath lodging in her throat. "Since you've conceded the race, there's no point in holding it."

  Her words ended on a moan, as Quentin dragged her against him. "I've conceded, yes," he said raggedly. "But I demand my prize nonetheless." Anchoring her head, he covered her mouth with his. "Now."

  With a tiny whimper, Brandi flung herself headlong into the kiss, twining her arms about her husband's neck and parting her lips to his tongue. "Oh ... Quentin." She shivered, pressing closer to his fiercely aroused body.

  "Make love with me," he commanded. "In our woods. Here. Now." His fingers were already dispensing with her shirt buttons. "Christ, I want you, Sunbeam." He groaned as her breasts spilled into his hands, budding beneath his urgent caresses.

  "Yes. Quentin." Brandi's voice was urgent now, too, her body arching up to him of its own accord.

  He tore himself away, stripping off his coat and stretching it out on the ground. Then he undressed in quick, unsteady motions, flinging his clothes haphazardly about and turning his attention to his wife.

  Brandi was naked in a heartbeat.

  Drawing her down to the soft wool, Quentin blanketed her with his body, kissing and caressing her with a wild, feverish urgency that pounded through them both like great crashing waves.

  "Are you ready for me?" he rasped, moving between her thighs, opening her to his touch. "I've got to be inside you." A harsh sound ripped from his chest, as his fingers found and stroked the satiny wetness that was his answer.

  He entered her in one hard inexorable thrust, burying himself deep, deeper still, until she sobbed his name, wrapped her arms and legs about him as if to bind them together forever.

  Forever.

  Quentin would accept nothing less.

  "Brandi. . ."

  It was both passion and prayer, a harsh rasp of sound that penetrated Brandi's soul as profoundly as her husband penetrated her body.

  Enveloping him, sharing his frenzy, Brandi met Quentin thrust for thrust. Her body coiled tighter with each powerful drive of his hips, her own body trembling with the need for release. She sobbed his name, her nails digging into his shoulders, feeling his muscles go rigid as he increased his rhythm.

  Quentin knew nothing, felt nothing, but Brandi. He threw back his head, gripping his wife's bottom and lifting her into his thrusts, possessing her totally, inside and out. Wildly, he hoisted himself higher, stroking on her and in her, propelling them over the edge and hurtling them into completion.

  Brandi screamed, shuddering in his arms as her body reached its peak and toppled over the other side. Her contractions clasped at Quentin's throbbing length, clenching spasms that hurled him into a climax so shattering he wasn't sure he'd survive.

  Survival, he decided, delicious moments later, was severely overrated.

  "Do you know," Brandi murmured, snuggling against her husband's chest, "I believe I finally have grown up."

  Quentin's lips twitched, the irony of Brandi's announcement, given the past minutes' sensual abandon, too humorous to ignore. "Really?" He cradled her to him, threading his fingers through her tangled tresses. "What makes you say that?"

  "The fact that I've abruptly lost interest in all my unladylike diversions. Riding, fishing, even shooting—not one of them seems nearly as exciting as it once did."

  "A fascinating observation." Quentin kissed the bridge of her nose. "And does that upset you?"

  "No." Brandi's eyes sparkled. "As Pamela promised, maturity brings other diversions to take their place— diversions, I'm finding, that are even more exhilarating than their predecessors."

  "I agree." With a wicked grin, Quentin glanced about the deserted woods. "But, in the opinion of most, your scandalous approach to these diversions render them even more unladylike than those that preceded them."

  "Is that so?" Brandi arched one delicate brow, looking distinctly unimpressed. "Who invented these absurd rules, anyway?"

  All teasing vanished. "Unfortunate souls who will never know the magnificent beauty we just shared," Quentin answered solemnly. "A beauty I intend to last forever."

  "Quentin . . ." Doubt clouded Brandi's face. "Don't promise . . ."

  "Forever, Sunbeam," he repeated fervently. "'Tis a vow to myself as well as to you—one we'll discuss the instant this investigation is behind us. But, in the interim, you have my word." Tenderly, he brushed her lips with his. "Forever, my beautiful wife."

  A sharp object dropped from above, shattering the poignancy of the moment as it struck Quentin atop his head.

  "What the . . ." He jerked to a sitting position, rubbing the stinging pain and glaring at the tree overhead.

  Lancelot blinked solemnly down at him.

  "I believe our romantic interlude is at an end," Brandi determined, casting a disdainful look at the branches. "Apparently, Lancelot is more possessive than I realized."

  "If he hadn't saved your life, I'd end his," Quentin muttered, coming to his feet and pulling on his clothes in brusque, angry motions. "Blasted squirrel."

  "In a way, Lancelot's interference is a reminder that we have work awaiting us at the gazebo." Brandi rose as well, dipping into her shirt and breeches. "Besides, husband," she whispered, handing Quentin his blade as she tilted back her head to gaze up at him. "We have forever."

  A look of profound emotion crossed Quentin's face. "You're right, Sunbeam." He slid the blade into his Hessian, then bent to scoop up her pistol and tuck it into her boot. "We do."

  Straightening, he surveyed the magical glow on Brandi's cheeks, and a pang of guilt accosted him. "Sweetheart, are you sure you want to continue reading the ledgers now?"

  "I'm sure." Brandi reached up to finish buttoning her husband's shirt. "Along with the pleasures of maturity come the responsibilities." She lay her palm against his jaw. "Let's make our way to the gazebo."

  Ten minutes later, they settled themselves on the white lattice bench, the records spread out around them.

  "Where do we begin this time?" Brandi questioned. "We've covered every investment Papa and Kenton shared during the last six months of their lives. And there's not a single discrepancy."

  Peering down at the array of ledgers, Quentin frowned. "As I said earlier, I didn't expect there would be. Remember, Desmond has handled Father's books since the murder. For all I know, he had access to them even before that. Either way, he knows what's in them. And, rest assured, were there a single inconsistency, he never would have offered them to us."

  "Then what are we looking for?" Brandi asked in utter frustration.

  "Something subtle. Too subtle for Desmond to notice. I haven't a clue what that might be. Nor will I until I see it." Quentin's brows knit. "In the meantime, there's another detail plaguing me. Something Desmond babbled during this morning's confrontation."

  "About Kenton's death?"

  "No, about Father's decision to amend his will."

  "According to Desmond, that change never occurred. He convinced Kenton to abandon the entire notion."

  "That was the explanation Desmond gave us after he'd regained control and had enough presence of mind to modify his response. During his tirade, however, he phrased it a bit differently."

  "I remember." Brandi nodded. "His assertion—that he'd taken steps to ensure there was no amended will— disturbed me, too. That's why I asked him to clarify what he meant."

  "Given that more truths are revealed in anger than devised in contemplation, let's assume Desmond's outburst betrayed his true actions. What 'steps' could he have taken to ensure that no amended will existed?" Quentin held up his fingers, counting off. "The way I view it, there are three avenues Desmond could have taken: silencing Father, persuading Father, or subverting Father."

  "Silencing? I thought you and I were in agreement that Desmond didn't kill Kenton. Are you changing your mind?"

  "No. I still believe my brother is incapable of anything so violent as murder—especially when it came to Father. Which eliminates silencing. Let's explore persuasion. Do you honestly think, knowing all we do about Desmond's lack of ethics and competence, that he could influence Father about something as important as his legacy?"

  "Not influence him, no. But that doesn't mean Kenton wouldn't agree, out of that fierce sense of familial loyalty he had, to defer his decision in the hopes that Desmond would change."

  "Change—Desmond? After seven and thirty years? Father might have been unduly loyal, but he wasn't stupid or unrealistic. If his belief in Desmond were as shattered as Bentley described, and if his intended will revisions were spawned by their last angry quarrel, why would he reverse his decision and compromise his estate simply to placate Desmond?"

  "You've lost me," Brandi inserted, inclining her head quizzically. "What quarrel? What did Bentley tell you? Does this pertain to whatever it was Desmond was raving about this morning?"

  A terse nod. "Evidently, Father and Desmond had a falling out—a bad one—some days before the accident. Bentley couldn't help but overhear their shouting, nor could he fail to comprehend the quarrel's severity. Especially in light of the fact that, immediately thereafter, Father instructed him to summon Hendrick to Colverton for the express purpose of revising his will."