Formidable Lord Quentin Read online

  You’re in my society now, Bell thought with determination. You’ll not hurt me or mine, if I have anything to say about it.

  Of course, did this fierce protectiveness toward him mean that Quent was hers?

  Camilla nabbed him to escort her into dinner. Bell went in with Syd and Tess, leaving Lady Anne to Penrose.

  “Our numbers are uneven,” Bell said as they took their seats. “Quentin, you need more bachelor friends to call on. Surely there are one or two who haven’t married my protégées yet.”

  Quent didn’t acknowledge her jab about their ongoing wagers over Edward’s unmarried female relations and his group of impoverished younger sons. He merely shrugged and sipped his wine.

  “Too many of us have gone to war,” Penrose explained in his employer’s place. “Our only other choices are vicarages or marriage. There are few available bachelors left in our set.”

  “All Lord Quentin’s friends are younger sons?” Camilla asked after sampling the soup and pushing it away with an expression of disdain. “I should think cultivating men in power would be more practical.”

  “One has no choice with whom one does business,” Quent finally replied in a curt tone. “Real friends are those who care for you, not those who wish to do business with you.”

  Huzzah, Quentin! Bell mentally cheered. She knew she liked him for a reason.

  “Well, some of us do both,” Fitz said cheerfully, stomping through the undercurrents. “If it’s even numbers you’d like, I still have a few bachelor acquaintances. But you must promise to take them with you when you go, or they’ll never leave. They eat like locusts.”

  Bell laughed, and her sisters followed suit. It wasn’t the world’s most comfortable dinner, but with genial Fitz taking the lead, they kept the conversation flowing. Lady Anne was never talkative, although she seemed to enjoy hearing about the horses Tess and Syd were acquiring. Lady Camilla, sitting across from Quent, did her best to fix his attention, but he stoically ate his meal and responded only when addressed directly.

  Bell could already see him making his excuses and fleeing back to London. She ought to be glad to see the back of him. But she was just the tiniest bit afraid of dealing with her instant family in this unfamiliar setting without his aid. She might have to return to London, too, where she was on firm ground.

  She hated to retreat in the face of difficulty, though. She’d prefer cutting off a few heads and staying the course. She pondered her options over the exquisite trout.

  Her brother’s shouts rang down the corridor. Silverware dropped all around the table. Tess hastily scooted back her chair. Alarm surging through her, Bell did the same.

  The boy burst past a footman unsuccessfully guarding the doorway. “Beebee’s sick. She’s crying. She needs you,” he cried—flinging himself into Tess’s arms.

  Tess paled, pried Kit loose, and hurried from the room. Bell caught the boy’s shoulder to prevent him from running after her.

  “What an ill-behaved child!” Camilla commented. “Surely there are servants who might have passed the message more discreetly.”

  Rather than scratch the witch’s eyes out, Bell gestured at Syd to stay seated while she led her little brother after Tess. Beebee and Kit came before cutting off heads.

  Kit was red-eyed and trying not to weep in fear. Bell understood that he’d seen far too much of death in his short life. He needed reassurance, not correction.

  Their hostess followed close on their heels.

  “You don’t need to abandon your guests,” Bell protested as they hurried up the stairs. “I’m sure it is nothing. Tess can handle it.”

  “I’d rather be with the children,” Abby admitted. “I’ll take Lord Wexford back to his bed, if you wish, and you can go back and deal with that horrible woman.”

  Bell managed a small smile. “I would spit and roast her in the fireplace, so I’m probably not the best choice.”

  Abby sent her a grateful glance. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who dislikes her.”

  “For all I know, she gave her wealth to charity and her family adores her,” Bell said, “But she must have been raised in a pigsty. I am trying to be generous.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Abby said with mock approval as they reached the nursery.

  Beebee was, indeed, crying in pain. Tess held her over her shoulder, rubbing her back, while the babe screamed and kicked. Helplessly, Bell left them to deal with the two-year-old. Tense and worried, Kit needed to be tended as well.

  She led him back to her bedchamber, sat in a rocking chair, and lifted his chunky body onto her lap. He sat stiffly at first, but relaxed a little as they rocked.

  “She isn’t going to die, is she?” he asked anxiously.

  “She probably ate something she shouldn’t. Babies cry a lot. I’m glad you told us, though. Beebee needs her mama to make her feel better. Everything must be very strange for her since she came here. How about you? Is it all very strange for you?”

  He leaned against her and nodded. “But I like it here. I got a pony now, and Tess doesn’t cry so much as she did before. Maybe we could get Beebee a pony.”

  If only horses would solve all life’s problems. Bell smiled and stroked his hair. “When Beebee is old enough to run without falling over her feet, we’ll think about it. I’m glad you’re big enough to look after her. But next time, try to tell us without terrifying all the dinner guests, all right?”

  He sniffed and nodded. “I told the nanny to fetch Tess, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  Because the nanny had been trained not to disturb her employers with nursery problems. That wasn’t going to work with her independently-raised family. And it wasn’t a rule with which she was comfortable.

  But once the season was in full swing again, what choice would they have? The nanny couldn’t send for Tess if she was out dining or dancing.

  Bell had known raising a family would be challenging, but she was just starting to grasp the full extent of the difficulties.

  She’d left her chamber door open so she could hear when the nursery quieted. She hadn’t expected Quent to abruptly fill the entrance.

  “I’ll be leaving in the morning,” he announced, wearing a grim expression. “I can take Kit with me. He’ll like school once he gets used to it.”

  Twelve

  Stoically, Quent waited to see if Bell exploded or handed over the boy. By now, she should be tired of dealing with the brat’s impetuous behavior. Most wealthy society women would have taken the boy straight to the nursery and sent the maids packing for allowing such a scandalous breach of polite conduct.

  He tried not to place any importance to her rocking and soothing the young earl—instead of flinging things at Quent or sacking the nursemaid. Bell was smart. She’d soon realize he was doing her a favor by taking the boy in hand so she could return to her normal activities.

  He’d been the one fooling himself to think a wealthy marchioness would have any interest in marrying a Scots merchant so she could keep her family together. Good thing Camilla had come along to remind him of his proper place—or lack of it.

  “He’s not ready for school,” Bell told him coldly, her delicate features freezing into disdain. “Flee to London, if that’s your preference, but he stays with me.”

  He wanted to be relieved that she defended her brother, but knowing Bell, he assumed she merely rebelled because she could.

  “You know perfectly well that you cannot handle him, that he will be a danger to himself in the city—that your life and household don’t have room for him.” As long as she would hate him anyway, he might as well be blunt. “I’ll make the arrangements with the school. He’ll need to be ready by September. You should see by then that I’m right.”

  There, that should partially satisfy his father’s demands, and it was the right thing to do. The boy needed more instruction than Bell—or a tutor—could provide.

  He swung on his heel and marched back to his room to start packing. Quent was accusto
med to dressing himself and traveling light. He had a valet to care for his clothes, but he preferred to leave the man in London. His life required freedom to move swiftly. Marriage would have been a burden. Damn Bell for being right again—although she still didn’t grasp that it was her bed and company he craved, not her money.

  ***

  Tess persuaded enough chamomile tea into Beebee to relieve her cramps, then put her back on her stomach in the cradle. She smiled gratefully at the plump countess who hovered with concern. “I wish I knew as much about babies as you do. No one ever told me how to cure her upset tummy.”

  Lady Danecroft rubbed the toddler’s back. “The twins used to eat green apples every spring. I had to ask questions and learn or just strangle them to put them out of their misery. I fear our nursemaid is still inexperienced. I’m sorry Nanny Mary had to abandon us this week to see to her ill sister. When she returns, I’ll ask if she knows anyone else as skilled as she is with little ones.”

  They had sent the young nursemaid back to bed once Beebee quieted. Tess lingered with the countess, rocking Beebee and the earl’s heir in their cradles until they slumbered soundly.

  “Would it be dreadfully impolite of me not to return to the company?” Tess asked. “I know your cook must be miffed to have his splendid meal so rudely overset.”

  The countess laughed. “We usually let the children dine with us. And Fitz runs to the stables in the middle of the meal if one of his mares is foaling. Our staff is rural and pragmatic and expect such interruptions. Shall I have a maid bring up your pudding so you don’t miss out?”

  “Send Syd up with it, perhaps. She shouldn’t be left alone, unless Bell has returned downstairs.” Tess hoped Bell had been able to settle Kit down. She hadn’t heard any more wails from the schoolroom.

  The countess sighed. “I dread going back down to that woman, but poor Lord Quentin shouldn’t be left to her clutches. I’ll keep an eye on your sister if she isn’t quite ready to retire.”

  Lady Danecroft fluttered off, leaving Tess to the darkened nursery and the two sleeping infants.

  It was obvious that Kit and Beebee would never fit into Bell’s sophisticated household. Tess had only just begun to realize how much Bell had sacrificed by marrying the elderly marquess to save their father from debtor’s prison. She’d always considered Bell happily married and been jealous of her easy life. Instead, Tess understood now that her sister had given up her youth, her love, and apparently the chance for children by marrying a man who had turned into a miserable old miser.

  She simply couldn’t let Bell sacrifice the lovely life she had earned the hard way.

  When Syd arrived bearing a cream pudding studded with blackberries, Tess led her sister back to their shared chambers. Shutting the door, she set the pudding aside. “Does that witch have her claws in Lord Quentin yet?”

  Syd grimaced. “He left early, saying he must pack and leave in the morning on business. I vow, if Lady Frosty-Frou knew where he was going, she would ride after him. You don’t stand a chance against her.”

  “Not if I play by the rules,” Tess agreed. “Anything Bell might grant me as dowry could not compare to the jewels she was dripping tonight. And it’s obvious they knew each other quite well at one time.”

  “You always play by the rules,” Syd said scornfully. “Lady Camilla does not. I overheard her telling Lady Anne that she should arrange to be caught in a compromising position with some gentleman Lady Anne fancies if she wants to catch him, that he’d have to marry her then. What if I do that to Lord Quentin? Then you could come running to my rescue and Bell would make him marry me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t want to marry yet, and Bell would most likely shoot Lord Quentin and lock you in a nunnery. Do they still have nunneries here?” Tess mused, while her thoughts ran rampant. Compromising position? She could do that.

  “I don’t think Anglicans have nunneries,” Syd said dejectedly. “Bell is far more likely to send me to a school with ice baths than to a nunnery.”

  “But she can’t send me to school,” Tess said. “And if Lord Quentin’s father will take me in, if Bell throws me out, I’m the most obvious candidate.”

  Syd looked at her in disbelief. “Candidate for what?”

  “Being compromised,” Tess replied, thinking quickly. “We’ll never have a better opportunity. This is a time for doing, not plotting. Here, help me out of this gown.”

  ***

  Expecting Penrose, Quent answered the knock on his bedchamber door without thinking.

  Bell’s widowed young sister swept past him wearing the barest wisp of a robe and gown. “Lord Danecroft failed to include the best candidate for your wife on his list, my lord,” she announced as she entered. “He can be forgiven, I suppose, since he has not had time to know me.”

  Leaving the door open, Quent leaned against the jamb and folded his arms. “Did Bell set you up to this?”

  “Bell?” She lifted her fine dark eyebrows in surprise. “Of course not. She thinks I’m a child. I’m not. I’ve come to prove that.”

  “Have you now? I’ll still send Kit off to school no matter how you work your wiles. He needs discipline, and you can’t provide it.” Quent gestured toward the open doorway. “I think you’d best leave before you cause untold numbers of problems for all of us. We’ll discuss Kit’s schooling at a better time.”

  “We’re not talking about Kit.” She stamped her slipper.

  Quent had no interest in Tess’s feet. Had she been Bell, however . . . He stopped that thought before it hit the gutter. “We’re not talking at all, not here, not now. You’re leaving, if I have to pick you up and remove you. Perhaps Bell did not explain. I am not a gentleman.”

  “Of course you’re a gentleman,” she said with a casual wave. “But I am not a lady. Close the door and let me show you.”

  Quent rolled his eyes and crossed the room to catch Tess’s elbow. “Out, now.” One hand on her barely-clad arm, the other pushing at her spine, he shoved her impolitely in the direction of the door.

  She wriggled and fought and cried out before Quent had the presence of mind to catch on.

  By then, it was too late.

  A horrified audience had gathered in the doorway.

  ***

  After putting Kit back in the care of the servants, Bell dragged herself down the stairs to her bedchamber. The uncomplicated rural visit she had planned had degenerated into a nightmare. She wasn’t certain how she would manage so many unfamiliar problems on her own—but sending Kit off to school was not a solution. Clobbering Quent over his arrogant head would provide satisfaction but wasn’t the answer either.

  Hearing feminine voices emerging from the gentlemen’s wing, she frowned. Surely that was not Syd shouting in such an unladylike fashion? She truly did not need another outburst of unseemly behavior from her siblings this evening.

  She peered around the corner and saw Lady Camilla—wearing a robe and little else—arguing with a furious Syd, who appeared to be blocking a doorway. A bemused Lady Anne looked on. Where was Tess?

  Bell froze when she heard Quent’s voice raised in anger. He never lost his temper. Was that his room the ladies had gathered around? What on earth . . .?

  And was that Tess’s high-pitched, nervous voice coming from inside his chamber?

  None of the scenarios Bell’s creative mind conjured were pretty. Experienced in house party shenanigans, she tested the latch in the nearest door. These old houses were like rabbit warrens with their interconnected rooms. The long corridor was a later addition, if she was lucky.

  She held her candle up to the empty room she entered and found an interior door. It opened with a squeak, taking her into an antechamber. The door on the next wall led to a small bedchamber intended for a servant. Quent had brought none. She pressed her ear against the next door and heard Tess more clearly.

  “Of course he wasn’t forcing me,” Tess cried in indignation. “Lord Quentin is a gentleman. We were having
a quarrel, that is all.”

  Bell wanted to slap her sister, then shake her, but that would have to wait. As would explanations. Tess in Quent’s room would be the gossip of all London, ruining her sister’s chances of a good match—and Quent’s reputation as well. He placed a great deal of pride in his honesty and integrity. Those were the qualities people of the highest sort respected. Being deemed a rakehell who ruined young women would cost him immense amounts of business.

  Being a man sampling the wares of a bored widow would merely gain him approval.

  And as a titled, wealthy widow with no intention of marrying again—Bell had little to lose in comparison to Tess, who had a child to think about.

  Thinking quickly, Bell dropped her shawl over an old dresser and untied the ribbons of her bodice, letting the sleeve fall loosely off her shoulder. She’d kicked off her too-tight shoes earlier. Now, she stripped off her stockings. She couldn’t reach her back fastenings, so that was the best she could do in haste.

  Opening the interior door into Quent’s masculine chamber, Bell covered her mouth in an exaggerated yawn and stepped into the weak candlelight to get her bearings. Tess was the only one visible. She startled, then had the grace to look guilty.

  The massive tester bed draped in blue curtains blocked any sight of the doorway, but she could see the angry stiffness of Quent’s shirt-clad back separating Tess from their audience.

  Wickedly, Bell crawled up on the bed’s velvet counterpane and peered through the draperies. “What on earth is the commotion, Quentin, dear? Is the house on fire?”

  Quent swung around looking quite marvelously stunned. That instant of shock and discomposure from the eminently assured gentleman was almost worth whatever happened next. She’d forgotten how much fun it was to shock people. With a surge of laughter she hadn’t experienced in much too long, she almost anticipated Camilla’s dropped jaw.

  Obviously, her life had been in danger of becoming too dull. With a seductive smile just for Quent, Bell swung her bare legs from the bed. Quent’s gaze instantly dropped to her ankles, and she rewarded him by pulling her gown up a little before she slid off the bed and walked out where their audience could see her.