"Very good, sir."

  Once the closed library door afforded them the privacy Quentin sought, he commenced without preliminaries. "Did Desmond inform you of Glovers's purpose last night?"

  "Glovers? Oh, the gentleman from Bow Street. No, I assumed he merely had some final details to relay to you and Master Desmond before he could officially close the file on the carriage accident."

  "I wish that were the case." Quentin massaged his temples. "Bentley, Glovers came to advise us that Father's carriage had been tampered with, that one of the axles had been cut."

  All the color drained from Bentley's face. "No."

  "I'm afraid it's true. Ardsley and my parents were murdered."

  It took a full minute for Bentley to compose himself. "Have the authorities apprehended the culprit responsible for this despicable crime?"

  "The authorities aren't even certain who the intended victim was. They have no suspects, no motives, and no clues."

  "I see." A vein throbbed in Bentley's forehead. "I begin to understand your brother's unusual behavior."

  "What unusual behavior?"

  "Master Desmond—His Grace—has spent the past few hours alone in his study, drinking himself into oblivion."

  "I can't really blame him." Quentin sighed deeply. "Everyone copes with shock in his own way. Desmond drinks. I brood. Brandi, on the other hand, wants to apprehend the culprits herself."

  "That sounds like Miss Brandi."

  "Bentley, I've been abroad for four years. I need you to relay things as if you'd been my eyes and ears."

  "Sir?"

  "Did anything transpire these past weeks or months to make you believe that either—or both—my parents' lives were in danger?"

  Bentley shook his head, more in denial than refutation. "A bit of an upheaval took place, yes. You alluded to it the other day. But nothing of the magnitude you're describing now."

  "Upheaval? What are you talking about? What did I allude to?"

  An uncomfortable cough. "You questioned me about Master Desmond and any sudden changes I'd noticed in his alliances. Naturally, I assumed you were referring to ..." A tactful cough, as Bentley searched for the most discreet words. "One relationship in particular."

  "I was. I was referring to his relationship with Brandi.”

  Bentley's jaw dropped. "With Miss Brandi, sir?"

  "Yes. Desmond led me to believe they were seriously involved. I merely wanted confirmation on that."

  "Do you mean romantically, my lord?"

  "That was Desmond's implication, yes." Quentin scrutinized Bentley's astonished expression. "Judging by your reaction, am I to assume you disagree with my brother's assessment?"

  "Thoroughly, my lord. Oh, Master Desmond has been most solicitous of Miss Brandi since the accident. In fact, he's rarely left her side. But, after all, she has no one else to turn to—at least not while you're away. But seriously involved?" A dubious sniff. "I hardly see them as a couple, do you, sir?"

  "No, in truth I don't." Quentin shook his head, unable to ignore the surge of exquisite relief spawned by Bentley's appraisal. Temporarily, he suppressed it, nagged by a greater worry. "Bentley, you just expressed the belief that I was referring to a specific association of Desmond's and the transformation it has undergone. If not his relationship with Brandi, then with whom?"

  Silence.

  "Bentley, my parents are dead. I've just learned they were coldbloodedly murdered. While I normally applaud your loyalty and discretion, I must insist that, in this case, you forsake your principles. If not for my sake, for Father's."

  "Of course, sir." Bentley cast a quick glance at the closed door. "I thought perhaps you had learned of Master Desmond's falling out with the late duke."

  "Another one?" Quentin arched a sardonic brow. "I would hardly call that a change. Father and Desmond have been arguing all my life. Although," he added thoughtfully, "today Brandi mentioned they'd been getting along better these past months. Evidently, she was wrong."

  "At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, Master Quentin, this was no customary spat."

  Something in the butler's tone gave Quentin pause. "What made this falling out different than the dozens that have preceded it?"

  Bentley clasped his hands tightly behind his back, readying himself to do what he must—no matter how painful. "The falling out was much as its predecessors, sir: loud, angry words, exchanged behind Master Desmond's closed bedchamber door. 'Twas what occurred immediately thereafter which alerted me to the seriousness of the dispute."

  "Which was?"

  "Your brother stormed from the room, obviously greatly upset. A moment later, the late duke emerged and demanded that I summon Mr. Hendrick to Colverton for the explicit purpose of altering his will."

  Quentin's eyes narrowed. "Father used that exact phrase?"

  "Yes, sir. Precisely that phrase. He was distraught and agitated."

  "Clearly. Perhaps he calmed down and changed his mind."

  "No. The missive was delivered as per your father's request; I myself sent it off. Mr. Hendrick arrived promptly the following day. He and your father were closeted in the library for long hours."

  "What did they discuss?"

  "I haven't a clue, sir. I wasn't privy to their conversation and His Grace confided nothing further in me."

  "Damn it." Quentin raked his fingers through his hair. "It doesn't make sense. If Father revised his will, why wasn't it reflected in yesterday's reading? No mention was made of either a codicil or a recently amended clause to the existing will."

  "Why indeed, sir."

  "The only logical explanation is that between the time Ellard was summoned and the time he left Colverton, Father experienced a change of heart. But why? What—or who—convinced Father to alter his decision?"

  A heavy silence settled over the room.

  Roughly, Quentin cleared his throat. "From your description of the fierce argument between Desmond and Father, we can safely assume that whatever modifications Father intended were not in Desmond's favor. Nothing short of his own interests would enrage my brother so vehemently."

  "I agree, sir. In fact, Master Desmond spouted something of the kind when he exploded from his bedchamber. I didn't place much credence in it at the time."

  "Probably because he's raved the same nonsensical doubts over Father's allegiance a hundred times in the past. Nevertheless, that preoccupation is all the more reason why our first logical assumption must be that it was Desmond who persuaded Father to leave his will intact."

  "Only your brother can confirm or deny that premise. Will you probe the matter with him?"

  "No." Quentin shook his head adamantly. "He'll only become defensive—just as he always has when faced with an issue concerning either of us and Father. He's bloody irrational, intent on believing Father favored me over him—even though both you and I know that was never the case. No, Bentley, talking to Desmond would yield naught but trouble. Moreover," Quentin continued, exploring the situation aloud, "I'm certain Desmond never considered any ramifications other than those that would directly affect him. But you and I must. For example, we both know that Father and Desmond argued constantly over Desmond's irresponsible business practices. Suppose Father's contemplated will revision was triggered by something Desmond did—something that negatively impacted one or more of Father's business associates or their employees."

  "I see where you're headed, my lord. You're supposing that a disgruntled—and unbalanced—colleague might have retaliated by tampering with the late duke's carriage."

  "Indeed. After all, even if Desmond committed the indiscretion, it was Father who was the head of the Steel family, and thus the target." Quentin rubbed his neck wearily. "I'm groping; I realize that. But someone killed my parents. And until I know who, I have to delve into every possibility—no matter how obscure."

  "Of course, sir. How, may I ask, do you plan to proceed? And in what manner can I be of assistance?"

  "You can keep this discussion confidential—at least for the time being."

  "That goes without saying, my lord."

  "As for me, I think my ideal starting point would be to meet with Hendrick. He, better than anyone, will know what modifications Father contemplated making to his will, and whether, in fact, they were implemented. I'll ride to London at daybreak."

  "A wise decision. Shall I have Wythe pack for you?"

  "That won't be necessary. I'll only be staying the day." Quentin frowned, his own words prompting a new concern—one spawned by tomorrow's unanticipated trip to London.

  Brandi.

  He'd intended to travel to Emerald Manor at dawn to assure himself of her well-being. Between the horrifying news he'd dropped on her, and the raw confusion hovering in the wake of their unexpected kiss, her emotional state was bound to be precarious.

  Doubtless, he was being overprotective. Brandi was a survivor. Nonetheless, he didn't want to leave her atone. And Desmond couldn't be counted on as a reliable substitute—not if he were as foxed as Bentley described.

  So who could be trusted to call on her, to subtly, yet effectively, divert her thoughts until his return?

  The answer was but three feet away.

  "Bentley." Soberly, Quentin met his friend's gaze. "I have a favor to ask of you."

  "Anything, sir. You needn't ask twice."

  "I'll be away from the Cotswolds all day. This might sound foolish, but I'd like you to ride to Emerald Manor and check on Brandi. She didn't take the Bow Street revelation well. I'm worried about her. And Desmond, well..."

  "I understand. Consider it done."

  "Thank you, Bentley. You're an exceptional friend."

  "'Tis no favor, my lord. I worry about Miss Brandi as much ..." A delicate pause. "Nearly as much as you do."

  Quentin blinked, trying to discern if there were any hidden message behind the butler's statement. But Bentley's expression was nondescript; his stance unchanged.

  Whatever he suspected was concealed carefully beneath his dignified veneer.

  And how could he suspect anything when Quentin himself didn't know exactly what had occurred during those precious moments when Brandi was in his arms?

  "Will that be all, my lord?" he vaguely heard Bentley inquire. "Because, if so, I'll return to the search I was in the midst of when you summoned me."

  "Hmm?" Quentin nodded absently, his mind four miles away on the grassy bank of a stream. "Of course, Bentley. Go on as you were."

  "You didn't happen to see your father's strongbox, did you, sir?"

  "Father's strongbox?" He had to forget the taste of her mouth, the perfect fit of her body curving into his. He had to—but how? How could he forget the breathless wonder he'd scarcely tasted, grazing his senses like a tantalizing shimmer of sensation, beckoning him back to drown in its exquisite flavor?

  Brandi—his miraculous Sunbeam.

  How had he been up so close, yet been so blind?

  Abruptly, Quentin realized Bentley was regarding him with an expectant look on his face, presumably awaiting a reply—to what, he hadn't a clue. "I'm sorry, Bentley. What did you ask me?"

  The barest flicker of amusement. "Your father's strongbox, sir. It appears to have been misplaced. I merely wondered if you'd spied it anywhere."

  "No, I can't say that I have," Quentin responded, trying to think of some helpful advice to offer. "Possibly, since the strongbox was willed to Desmond, he's moved it to his chambers."

  "You could very well be right, sir. When I questioned His Grace, he was too deep in his cups to recall what might or might not be in his possession. I'll approach him again tomorrow." With a purposeful nod, Bentley moved to the door and gripped its handle. "Good night, sir. I hope Mr. Hendrick provides you with the answers you're seeking."

  The reminder of what lay ahead acted as a douse of cold water on Quentin's meandering senses. "As do I, Bentley," he concurred. "As do I."

  "Peters, I'm here to see Mr. Hendrick. Is he available?"

  The clerk bolted to his feet, staring at Quentin in dismay. He snatched up his calendar, nervously scanning its pages and shaking his head at the same time. "Forgive me, my lord; either Mr. Hendrick neglected to advise me of your appointment or I neglected to write it down."

  "Neither. I have no appointment. But I'm confident Ellard will see me, given the urgency of the situation—a situation I believe Desmond advised him of yesterday. Suffice it to say, dire circumstances have ensued since our last meeting. I must see Ellard at once."

  "Quentin, come in." Hendrick opened his office door and beckoned, simultaneously nodding to his clerk. "Thank you for your diligence, Peters. But Lord Quentin is quite right. Given the gravity of the situation, no appointment is necessary."

  "Of course, sir." The wiry man whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead, clearly weak with relief.

  "Can I offer you anything, Quentin?" Ellard asked, closing the door behind them. "Or shall we get right to the appalling issue at hand."

  "The latter." Quentin dropped into a seat. "Ellard, I know Desmond met with you yesterday. But he and I didn't cross paths last night, so I hadn't the opportunity to ask him what your reaction was to the authorities' discovery."

  "My reaction?" Hendrick blinked. "I was horrified."

  Quentin shook his head. "That wasn't what I meant. Of course you were horrified. What I meant was, did you—can you—think of anyone who would want to hurt either of my parents or Ardsley Townsend?"

  Hendrick tapped his fingertips together thoughtfully. "No one," he said at length. "Pamela, Kenton, and Ardsley were three of the most well-liked and well-respected members of the ton. Who, in the name of heaven, would intentionally harm any one of them is beyond my comprehension."

  "My sentiments exactly." Quentin frowned at an imaginary speck of dust on his trousers. "I've racked my brain trying to conjure up an answer. Thus far, I've been totally unsuccessful. It occurred to me that I should take your suggestion and glance over my parents' wills."

  "Their wills?" Hendrick inclined his head. "Why would a Last Will and Testament provide any clues to the murderer's identity?"

  "I don't know that they would." Quentin leaned forward. "Ellard, when were my parents' wills drawn up?"

  "When? Why, about a decade ago, I believe. I'll have Peters fetch them so I can give you the exact dates. After which you can peruse them as thoroughly as you'd like,"

  "I'd appreciate that. And while Peters is collecting the wills, are any of my father's other papers on file—business documents, perchance?"

  "Of course. I'll have Peters bring Kenton's entire file." He stood, exiting the office only to issue the brief instructions before returning. "Quentin, may I ask what it is you're searching for?"

  "I have no answer for you, Ellard—not because I'm being vague, but because I simply don't know. All I'm certain of is that the authorities are stymied and I must do what I can to unearth the bastard who killed my mother and father."

  "I understand." Hendrick glanced up as Peters entered, carrying a thick file.

  "This is everything, sir," the clerk advised, setting the file on Hendrick's desk. "The papers are organized chronologically."

  "Thank you, Peters. That will be all." Hendrick opened the file, removing the first document. "Your father's will," he pronounced, handing it to Quentin.

  The instant the will was in his hands, Quentin sought and found the date. "Hendrick, this will is dated the twentieth of May, 1804."

  "As I said, a decade ago."

  "Are there any codicils? Any amended clauses whatsoever?"

  "No, none."

  "Then explain to me why Father summoned you to Colverton last week for the express purpose of revising his will."

  Hendrick sighed, but didn't avert his gaze. "I was hoping you wouldn't learn of that meeting."

  "Then it did occur?"

  "Yes, it occurred. Kenton was determined to alter one particular paragraph of his will. Fortunately, I was able to dissuade him before it was an accomplished fact. And, since the change was never made, I saw no reason to broach the subject and risk upsetting you greatly."

  "Why? What part of Father's will did he wish to modify, and why would the modification upset me?"

  Hendrick drew a slow inward breath, rubbing a quill between his fingers. "Emerald Manor," he said at last. "Kenton wished to alter the provisions he'd made for its future."

  "Emerald Manor?" Whatever Quentin had been expecting, it wasn't this.

  An uncomfortable nod. "Yes. Your father cared very deeply for you, Quentin," Hendrick assured him—a prelude to the oncoming explanation.

  "You needn't mollify me like a child, Ellard. I know my father's feelings for both Desmond and me. Get to the point."

  "Very well." Hendrick folded his hands on his desk. "The original will—the one I read aloud two days past— bequeathed Emerald Manor to you, Kenton and Pamela both agreed that the cottage should be part of your legacy. However, as the years passed, Kenton's concern intensified. You'd shown no interest in choosing a wife, and no inclination of relinquishing your military career, or even of placing it second to marriage and a family. In other words, you were a single man, without heirs, immersed in a life involving daily confrontations with death. What would become of Emerald Manor if you were to die with no heir apparent?"

  "I assume that Desmond, as successor to my inheritance, would then acquire Emerald Manor."

  "Indeed." Hendrick cocked a brow. "And do you think your brother would cherish that gift? Nurture it as Pamela would wish him to?"

  "I see your point," Quentin replied quietly. "So what provisions did Father wish to make for the cottage?"

  "He planned to will it directly to Brandice, thereby keeping it from your brother's less-than-eager grasp."

  "Had Father done that, I would have understood. Brandi loves Emerald Manor as much as I do, and Mother could rest easy that the estate was in the most caring of hands."

  "True. But it would also be wrested from your family forever. Suppose one day you do marry, have a family. Wouldn't you want your children to revel in the beauty that your parents and you held dear?"

  "I hadn't thought about it, but, yes, I suppose I would."