"Therefore, what I recommended to Kenton accomplished both purposes: retained Emerald Manor as your legacy and simultaneously ensured its future."

  "How?"

  "I convinced him to leave his will intact, in exchange for my solemn promise to speak with you upon your return to the Cotswolds—which I thoroughly intended to do, after the trauma of the accident subsided."

  "And what was it you intended to speak with me about?" Quentin asked with a touch of dry humor. "The virtues of matrimony? Or did you simply intend to drag me to the altar, some unsuspecting young lady in tow?"

  "Certainly not. I merely meant to explain the situation to you—as I am now doing—and to suggest that you make provisions for Emerald Manor in the event of your death."

  "Father could have accomplished that directly by bequeathing the cottage to Brandi, should I die without an heir apparent."

  "Yes, that was Kenton's next suggestion, too. But, as I explained to him, that would be hasty and unfair to you. He and Pamela fervently wished for Emerald Manor to be yours; therefore, the arrangements for its future should, by all rights, belong to you as well. And, while I would strongly urge you to bequeath the cottage, first and foremost, to your heirs, I also believe it should be you who ultimately determines Emerald Manor's fate."

  "And Father agreed?"

  "Yes. In my opinion, Kenton never truly doubted you'd make the appropriate provisions. In truth, I think his worry over your safety temporarily eclipsed his reason, else he never would have considered altering his plans for the cottage. In any case, once he and I had spoken—at length— Kenton realized that, given the war was ended and you'd soon be home, it was both unjust and unnecessary to revise his will. He agreed to wait, trusting that you would faithfully see to the manor's future. All he asked is that you do so in writing, quickly and expediently, before the military has reason to recall you."

  "I see." Quentin contemplated Hendrick's words. "In other words, I'm to resolve Emerald Manor's fate by deciding whether or not I intend to marry and ultimately sire children. And, in the event that I don't, by bequeathing the cottage to Brandi."

  "That would be my recommendation, yes." Hendrick gave a self-conscious cough. "Of course, I reiterate, the decision is ultimately yours. And it goes without saying that, even if you agree, my drawing up the pertinent document should wait until this heinous crime is resolved."

  "Definitely." Quentin came to his feet, placing Kenton's will atop the desk. "Moreover, until my parents' murderer is exposed, the problem is nonexistent. Because, until that time, I have no intention of returning to the army. So, there is no danger of my life being snuffed out by gunfire, and Emerald Manor is, thus, quite safely and legally mine."

  "Of course." Hendrick pointed to the file. "Didn't you wish to peruse Kenton's remaining documents?"

  "Yes, I did." Reseating himself, Quentin tugged the file toward him, flipping through the pages in the hopes of finding even the smallest of clues. But all he found were numerous business contracts, all straightforward and innocuous, with no foreboding overtones or detrimental terms for either party.

  "Is that everything?" he asked, glancing down at the final document.

  "It is. The agreement you're holding has yet to be executed. Kenton and I had just negotiated it when ..." Hendrick's voice trailed off.

  The solicitor's words triggered a memory, and Quentin lifted the draft for closer inspection. "Is this what you and Desmond were reviewing two days past when I arrived at your office?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "When I walked in that day, Desmond mentioned that you and he were finalizing a business contract. Is this that contract?"

  "Actually, yes." Hendrick shifted forward in his chair. "'Tis the draft of a retainer agreement between your father and myself."

  "So I see." Quentin skimmed the document, quickly assessing it as a standard retainer which provided that Hendrick continue as the Steel family solicitor for a period of five years, during which he would receive the sizable but not outlandish sum of ten thousand pounds per annum. "This seems in order," Quentin said, returning the document to Kenton's file. "Which clause was it that Desmond needed to review?"

  "The clause pertaining to my wages." Sorrow clouded Hendrick's gaze. "If you'll notice, that unsigned agreement is the only contract between Kenton and myself in his entire file. The reason for that is because, in my opinion, the whole idea of requiring your father's signature on a written retainer was absurd and unnecessary. Kenton was a fine and ethical gentleman, and I'd represented his business interests for years. Also, to be blunt, he was already far too generous with my wages. So, every time he broached the subject of a contract, I dismissed it. But Kenton was not to be dissuaded. He insisted that, just as I protected his interests, I should protect my own. At last, I relented. Hence, the agreement. Evidently, Desmond—who was present in my office when Kenton outlined the terms—wanted to be certain your father's wishes were carried out as initially discussed. But, if you feel otherwise, I'd be happy to renegotiate the particulars or tear up the whole bloody retainer."

  "Absolutely not." Quentin closed the file and placed it on Hendrick's desk. "As I said, the retainer seems in perfect order, and I concur with Desmond's resolution to execute it just as Father would have, had he been alive. With regard to your wages—you're right. Father was an inordinately generous man. He was also a superb businessman. Therefore, if he deemed your services deserving of that sum, then they are obviously worth no less." With that, Quentin rose. "Thank you for your patience, Ellard. I won't take up any more of your time."

  "Nonsense." Hendrick stood, waving away Quentin's contention. "My time is inconsequential. What's crucial here is learning who murdered your parents. I only wish I could have been of greater help."

  "As do I. But at least we've ruled out the majority of Father's business associates as potential culprits." Quentin paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

  "What is it? Have you perceived something we might have missed?"

  "No, not really. It just occurred to me that we've only explored Father's file."

  Hendrick's brows arched in surprise. "I kept no separate file for Pamela, if that's what you mean,"

  "I wasn't referring to Mother. I was referring to Ardsley." Quentin held up his hand, anticipating Hendrick's ethical dilemma. "Ellard, I'm aware I have no legal rights to view Ardsley's file. Nor am I asking to do so. But I'd deem it a great favor if you would examine the contents—immediately, if possible—and advise Desmond, in his newly appointed role as administrator of the Townsend businesses, should you discover anything even remotely suspicious."

  "Consider it done," Hendrick replied soberly. "I'll peruse Ardsley's papers at once and discuss my findings with Desmond. You have my word."

  "And you have my gratitude," Quentin returned. "Good day, Ellard."

  "Good day. And please, keep me apprised of any developments that occur—any at all."

  "Of course."

  Hendrick stared after Quentin's retreating figure, his thoughts consumed by the immediacy of the task ahead. Vaguely, he heard Peters bid their guest good day, after which the quiet click of the outer office door signified Quentin's departure.

  Rousing himself from his reverie, Hendrick stood, crossing the room in five long strides and walking out to Peters's desk.

  "Can I do something for you, sir?"

  "Yes, Peters, you can. First, get me the entire file on Ardsley Townsend. Then send a missive off to the new Duke of Colverton. Tell him I need to meet with him posthaste. Tomorrow. At eleven o'clock. In my office."

  "And if that's inconvenient for him, sir?"

  Hendrick was already halfway back to his desk. "It won't be."

  Chapter 6

  Brandi trailed her forefinger through the stream, watching the gentle ripples her motion left behind.

  Stretched out full-length on the damp bank where yesterday Poseidon had tossed her, Brandi propped her chin on her opposite hand, oblivious to the heat of the sun's late afternoon rays. She'd been here since noon, pelted by conflicting emotions, inundated and empty all at once, thoroughly, incomprehensibly overwhelmed.

  Murder.

  She couldn't fathom it. Some faceless, nameless assailant had brutally, premeditatedly taken the lives of three people she loved. The truth was beyond bearing; the part that remained unknown, worse.

  Who in God's name had killed them? Why? Who was the intended target? Or was it targets?

  Brandi squeezed her eyes shut, two tears seeping from beneath her lids, sliding down her cheeks. She hadn't slept a wink all night, each doleful chime of Emerald Manor's grandfather clock reminding her of the passing hours, each one as futile as the last. She'd arisen at dawn, hoping a morning of digging alongside Herbert would alleviate some of her anguish. But the noon hour had come and gone, and she'd abandoned her gardening, still as tormented and muddled as she'd been at first light.

  And equally determined.

  She'd meant every word she'd said to Quentin. She would find the animal who had killed their parents; she wouldn't rest until she did.

  Quentin.

  He'd laced through her nighttime reflections like a ribbon of warm honey, lingering through her morning hours in a sensual spell more potent than the gardens of Emerald Manor. Sweet, savory, the memory of being in his arms soothed her tortured senses in its healing balm.

  And awakened something inside her she'd never known existed.

  Quentin.

  Like a summer storm, the enchantment had struck yesterday without warning, whirling her into its core, leaving her breathless and shivering. Why hadn't she seen it, when it had always been there—even when Quentin himself was away?

  Pushing herself to a sitting position, Brandi absently brushed clinging grains of dirt from her gown, then wrapped her arms about her knees.

  So this was what ladies whispered about behind closed doors; why Pamela had glowed whenever Kenton was near. She, too, must have felt this dizziness, this swooping sensation in the pit of her belly, this liquid warmth that turned her limbs to jelly. She must have known what Brandi had only just discovered.

  And now?

  Brandi stiffened, recalling the aftermath as clearly as she did the embrace. Quentin had pulled away, not only physically, but emotionally. How much of that had been spawned by the need to protect her, and how much by his own unaffected response to their kiss?

  Oh, but he had responded. She'd felt his urgency, his almost desperate need to absorb her into himself. Had it merely been comfort he sought? Dear God, it had felt like so much more.

  Brandi slammed her fist down in frustration. For the first time, she found herself wishing she had more experience, that she'd encouraged the advances of all the foppish, arrogant men she'd met these three Seasons past. Maybe then she'd be able to distinguish passion from tenderness, desire from friendship. Perhaps then she'd better understand what had transpired between them.

  Of one thing Brandi was certain. For her, there was no turning back. She cared not what Quentin claimed. To return to who she'd been before yesterday? To pretend the wondrous transition inside her had never occurred? To deem meaningless those breathless moments in Quentin's arms?

  Impossible.

  "Miss Brandi?"

  Brandi started, her head whipping around in response to the tentative greeting.

  "Hello, my lady." Bentley's smile was genuine, and he waited patiently as Brandi collected herself and scrambled awkwardly to her feet.

  "Bentley." She brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt in its wake. "I never heard you approach."

  "You were lost in thought. I didn't mean to startle you." Hands clasped behind him, he studied her face intently. "Are you all right?"

  "Quentin sent you." It was not a question, but a statement.

  "Yes. His lordship rode to London at daybreak, and shan't return before nightfall. He was concerned about you and asked that I drop by for a visit. I hope you don't mind."

  "You know I'm always delighted to see you." Brandi inclined her head. "Quentin never mentioned any plans to travel to London today."

  "His decision was sudden."

  "Why has he gone, Bentley?"

  "I believe he intends to meet with Mr. Hendrick, my lady."

  "You know, don't you." Again, a statement. "Quentin told you."

  "About the carriage accident being intentional? Yes, Miss Brandi, he told me." Bentley made no attempt to disguise his compassion. "I'm so terribly sorry."

  "Thank you." Brandi's lips trembled. "As am I." She swallowed, regaining her composure. "I promised Herbert I'd assist him in the rock garden later today, after he'd finished restoring the geraniums. I'm to meet him at the gazebo; doubtless, I'm late already. Why don't you join me there? I'll fetch a pitcher of something cool and we can talk."

  "I'll collect the refreshments, my lady. I'm certain you've eaten nothing today. I'm equally certain, knowing Mrs. Collins, that she has prepared a full tray, laden with foods meant to revive you—if you are strong enough to carry the ponderous weight in one trip." Bentley's eyes twinkled. "I'll fetch the feast and bring it to the gazebo straightaway."

  Emotion formed a tight knot in Brandi's throat. "You're a wonderful friend, Bentley," she whispered tremulously. "I'm so glad Quentin has you."

  The slightest of smiles. "I believe he has both of us, has he not, my lady?"

  "Yes." Brandi nodded, her eyes damp. "He has."

  Bentley's perceptive gaze seemed to delve deep inside her. "Be patient with him, Miss Brandi," he counseled. "He has much to understand, and more to reconcile. As for you, be strong, be discerning. And most of all, be yourself. 'Tis the greatest gift you can offer Master Quentin."

  Brandi blinked away her tears. "Sometimes I think you understand us better than we understand ourselves."

  "Indeed. For example, I understand that Herbert is expecting you and will never forgive your failure to appear. I also understand that you'd best eat, else you'll never have the strength to assist him, much less solve a crime or win a heart. Hence, I'm off to fetch our sustenance."

  Impulsively, Brandi leaned up and kissed Bentley's weathered cheek. "Thank you," she acknowledged softly. Then she turned, scooting off toward the gazebo.

  Hearing her racing footsteps, Herbert looked up from where he knelt alongside the geraniums and tossed her a disgruntled look. "Well! It's about time you got here," he muttered. "I was beginnin' to think you'd fallen into the stream."

  "I apologize for my tardiness," Brandi returned, undaunted by Herbert's intentionally—and misleadingly— brusque facade. "As for my falling into the stream, I swim like a fish—and you know it. Further, the water there is ankle-high, hardly a formidable depth." She paused, frowning as she peered over Herbert's shoulder. "Pamela's geraniums are wilting! Why?"

  Herbert snorted, shaking his head at the crumpled flower he'd been tending to. "Damned if I know. I've tried everything I can think of. It's only these two rows closest to the gazebo. The rest of 'em look fine." He scowled, scratching his chin. "But not these."

  "What could be causing them to—ouch!"

  Brandi's question was interrupted by a sharp whack on the head. Her hand flew to her injury just as a hard acorn shell rolled to her feet. "Lancelot, that hurt!" Her chin jerked upward, but she knew precisely what she'd find.

  Her scrutiny yielded no surprises.

  The red squirrel stared serenely back at her from his comfortable perch in the oak tree. Nibbling on the succulent remains of his acorn, he paused only to scratch the white quizzing-glass patch about his left eye before returning to his midday snack.

  "One day I'm going to empty every tree in Emerald Manor of its goodies," she warned him. "Acorns, berries— everything. Then you'll have nothing with which to attack."

  "He'll find something, Miss Brandi," Bentley advised calmly, climbing the gazebo steps and placing a heaping tray atop the table. "The last time 1 was here, your rodent friend pelted me with berries, tossed an annoyingly painful stone at my shoulder, and toppled a sharp branch to my brow. Not only was I injured, my uniform was torn in three places and hopelessly stained with berry juice. I considered finding a pistol and ending his wretched life then and there. I most likely would have, were it not for the fact that I know how fond you are of the scoundrel. Although heaven knows why." With a scathing look at the overhead branch, Bentley turned away from the oak. "Good day, Herbert," he greeted the gardener.

  "Hello, Bentley." Herbert rose, mopping his face with a handkerchief. "And, by the way, I agree with every word you just said. That miserable troublemaker torments me all the time. Only in my case, he doesn't throw things, he steals 'em. So far this week I've lost a handkerchief, two shillings, and nearly half my food. I've half a mind to . . ."

  "But you won't, will you, Herbert?" Brandi asked anxiously. "I know Lancelot is a bit of a mischief-maker, but he means no harm. Do you, Lancelot?" She gazed hopefully upward.

  The squirrel continued eating.

  "That was convincin'," Herbert grumbled. His eyes narrowed. "I wonder if that squirrel is doin' something to ruin my geraniums."

  "Herbert, how could he do that?" Brandi reasoned. "He is, after all, only a squirrel."

  "Humph."

  "We've wasted enough time pondering the actions of your rodent friend, Miss Brandi," Bentley announced. "'Tis time for you to eat."

  "Good thing you brought her a meal, Bentley," Herbert commended with an approving nod. "I can't get her to eat a thing. If she's not gardenin', she's worryin'. Pretty soon, she's gonna waste away." Roughly, he cleared his throat, averting a gaze filled with concern. "And then who'd help me with that blasted rock garden? No one else knows how to keep it up but Miss Brandi."

  "I understand. And I quite agree." Bentley indicated the array of food with a grand sweep of his arm. "Sit, Miss Brandi. You and Herbert can discuss your afternoon project—while you eat."

  A trace of the old Brandi emerged as she erupted into spontaneous laughter. "And men claim women are the ones who nag." Dutifully, she sank down on the garden bench, her laughter fading into tenderness as she looked from Bentley to Herbert. "You're two of the most relentless and tyrannical men imaginable. And I don't know what I'd do without either of you."