Formidable Lord Quentin Page 14

  Bell pattered after them, ominously silent. Kit whooped with glee at his upside-down position and tried to swing from Quent’s arm. Quent almost grinned at the boy’s incorrigible high spirits.

  Stalking through the upper warren of doors and rooms while holding a wriggling six-year-old, he searched for anything resembling a schoolroom. Muffled cries emerged from behind a closed door in the center of the attic. Quent waited for Bell to reach him, set the boy down so she could wrangle him, then turned the ancient key in the lock—on the outside of the door. Maybe the Hoyts once locked mad aunts up here.

  Inside, the tutor was half-tied to a chair, tangled in yards of frayed gold braid from the draperies. He was still pulling off the last tangle when they entered.

  “I resign,” Mr. Thomas said with as much dignity as he could muster, dropping the braid on the floor and rising from the chair. “There aren’t enough demons in hell to control the boy. Without servants and under these primitive conditions, it’s utterly impossible.”

  “Is he ready for school?” Quent demanded. Bell still said nothing but she was keeping a firm grip on Kit’s shoulder.

  The tutor blinked in disbelief from behind his wire glasses. “The question is, is there a school ready for him? I believe the answer is no. He will develop a reputation as difficult, and in a year or so, no good school will have him.”

  Quent grabbed the boy’s chin and forced him to meet his eyes. “And what do you have to say for yourself, my lord?”

  “Geography is boring. I don’t like books. I wanna go riding.” His glare was defiant and not the pout of a week ago.

  “Tying your tutor to a chair doesn’t look like geography. Would someone care to explain?” Bell asked in a faint voice.

  Quent could have told her. He and his brothers had pulled this feat more than once. One more reason she needed his help. Women would never understand. He waited expectantly.

  “I was using a history text to explain the differences in societies and cultures of different lands,” Thomas said stiffly. “Combining subjects is a very effective learning technique.”

  Quent rolled his eyes at this explanation and translated. “He let the demon lord talk him into practicing sailor knots.”

  “It was apropos of discussing how sailors reached the Americas,” Thomas asserted.

  The boy giggled, not in the least ashamed or afraid. Quent squeezed Kit’s small shoulder to catch his attention. “You’re a worthless knot tier. You’ll have to do better than that if you’re to sail with me. Now get down on the floor and do twelve floor-dips.”

  The boy glared. “I don’t know what they are.”

  “And I’m not dirtying my knees showing you. Get down on the floor and I’ll tell you when you get it right.”

  Apparently intrigued by the opportunity to explore under the furniture, Kit obligingly dropped to the floor. Once the boy was on his knees, Quent returned his attention to the tutor. “Obviously, you were never a small boy. If you wish to resign, I’ll send for the next man on the list. If you wish to learn how to actually teach, start by finding ways of keeping him occupied and thinking one step ahead of the brat. He’s not stupid. He needs activity.”

  “I should show him how to do floor-dips?” Thomas asked dubiously, watching the boy sprawled under their feet.

  Quent put his boot on Kit’s back and forced him to lay still. “Push up on your arms,” he ordered.

  Bell murmured a puzzled protest, but already thoroughly frustrated, Quent swung his glare to silence her, before answering the tutor. “Never let him bring you down to his level. You are the authority in this room. Unless you descend to corporal punishment, which we won’t allow, you have the right to demand obedience at all times. And the authority to enforce it. Use your wits, man. Think like a boy but don’t behave like one. He can learn to lead after he’s learned to obey.”

  The tutor shoved his glasses up his nose and watched as Quent let up his boot and Kit attempted to push up on his skinny arms. “He needs to be challenged physically as well as intellectually?” the tutor asked.

  “That’s a start.” Quent turned back to Bell. “Exactly how primitive are the conditions here?”

  She gestured with despair. “The flues don’t draw, the plumbing is inadequate, the rodent problem is horrendous. The schoolroom must have been abandoned in the middle ages, as was the kitchen. If you want to spit your cow, we have the equipment. A delicate cream sauce and a good yeast roll, however, are beyond our capacity. I am having difficulty hiring anyone decent willing to work in this ruin.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Quent turned back to the tutor. “Make a list of what the schoolroom needs to bring it up to standards. I’ll not inflict society with any more drunken Irish earls if we can prevent it. He needs discipline and education. If you can’t provide it, we will find someone else.”

  “Yes, my lord. I’ve already started a list. Shall I mention the flues and plumbing or if the lady is already aware of the problem . . .”

  “Major improvements will take time,” Quent said curtly, “but we’re aware of the problems. Just tell us what books and so forth are needed. And keep his lordship occupied in the meantime.” He hesitated and glanced at the cracked plaster ceiling. “We used to fill bags with barley and hang them from the rafters to pummel. That would probably bring down the roof here. Have the stable hands put something together in the barn. He can learn how to box.”

  Bell gasped, but Quent caught her elbow and dragged her from the room, pocketing the crude key while he was at it. It probably locked every door up here.

  He hurried her toward the stairs, occasionally flinging open panels to see what hid behind them.

  “You are being arrogant and obnoxious,” she protested.

  “Some of my better qualities,” he admitted, finding nothing but moldering draperies and child-sized beds and servants’ quarters. Nothing good enough for ravishing Bell. “Thinking on my feet is another one. Bringing the lad here was an excellent idea. Pity the place is a cesspool.”

  “This is your family’s estate,” she protested. “I am not responsible for its condition.”

  “Understood. My father despises all things English and won’t waste an eye-blink on this place. He collects the rents and lets it rot. Edward did the same, mostly because he didn’t grow up here and despised the country.”

  They reached the front stairs, and he tested the walls. “Sound structure, though. Just needs improvements.”

  “A fortune’s worth,” she said in exasperation. “I was hoping to keep my siblings reined in for a while, until I could civilize them a little. My townhouse is simply too busy and too small, as you said. But punching bags in a barn . . .” She apparently didn’t have the words to express her horror.

  “Better than tying up tutors. I was thinking Syd and Kit belonged in school instead of the city, but this way, we can bring school to them.” The stairs were just wide enough for the two of them to walk side by side, so Quent continued to hold her arm.

  He needed to feel her delicious curves next to him while he pondered the next step. Just smelling her enticing perfume encouraged him to stay the course. He required all the incentive she could provide to deal with the idea of setting up his own nursery with Bell’s hellion brother in it.

  “They’ll still need school,” she argued. “I simply wanted them to go in with a little experience first. I don’t want them labeled as American oddities and bullied. Not that I think anyone could bully Kit,” she added with a sigh.

  “No, I rather think your siblings would lead revolts and end up expelled, but I take your point. They need the knowledge to fit in, if they want, and right now, they don’t, like my sisters when they’re in London.” Quent started opening doors on the next level down, until he heard the girls. He hurried Bell past that chamber.

  “Your sisters are gems,” she argued. “Any sensible gentleman should see their value. But yes, they are independent thinkers. I don’t intend to change that!”

  Sh
e stopped and held out her hand. “The key, please.”

  Knowing these ancient locks were easily picked, Quent surrendered the bit of metal with a questioning look.

  She locked the door they stood beside, pocketed the key, and sailed off down the corridor toward the front stairs. “You haven’t agreed to my terms yet. Until you do, you will have to sleep elsewhere.”

  Well, at least he now knew which chamber was hers. Quent grinned at the challenge. Apparently, he didn’t want an easy woman.

  ***

  Lord Quentin Damnable Hoyt left Bell in such irrational humor that she didn’t know whether to fling the candlestick in her hand or polish it. She’d never done either. Well, perhaps she might have done when she was a child, except the candlestick would have been pewter, at very best.

  He’d meant to carry her off and ravish her!

  And then, he hadn’t.

  She rubbed the rag over the silver in frustration and tried to decide if she was disappointed or not but couldn’t. She’d never been so unreasonable in her life. She’d always known just exactly what she wanted and gone after it.

  She’d never had the tables turned and been relentlessly pursued, though, unless one counted the absurd duel a couple of penniless bachelors had fought over her after she’d first been widowed. She’d quit flirting after that. Like all the others, the duelists had had more interest in Edward’s wealth than her. Quent, on the other hand . . . was a complex man with complex goals.

  Quent was a man who knew how to handle Kit.

  Her ridiculous, absurd, irrational heart wanted that man, a man who cared enough about children to see they were taught well and raised properly. As a child, she’d longed for an adult to step up and take charge and ease some of the responsibility from her small shoulders. No man ever had—unless there was something in it for him.

  That’s where her reasoning bogged down. Even her father’s family . . .

  She shook off that unpleasant memory. Uncle Jim and his family had nagged at the back of her mind ever since the children’s return. She could only hope they’d continue to leave her alone, but Summerby still hadn’t reported back on the horses. She’d thought she’d succeeded in suffocating the dreamy adolescent inside her—but the child still longed for her horse. Dratted tears lined her eyes at all the years she’d unwittingly left Dream to her lazy uncle’s neglect.

  She shook off what couldn’t be changed. Experience had taught her that everyone wanted to take. Very few wanted to give—not even when all she asked was a little love or kindness or simple understanding.

  She slapped the gleaming candlestick on the table. Her protégées had appreciated what she’d done for them, even when she’d hidden the source of their financial good fortune under the pretense that miserly Edward had actually remembered them in his will. They’d enjoyed her hospitality and her introduction to society. So she wasn’t a total failure or totally unlikable. She had friends. She didn’t need more.

  Yes, she did. She wanted love, like some mooncalf adolescent.

  Unwanted tears returned to her eyes, and she hurried down to the kitchen to avoid thinking about lonely nights and empty days. She had her family now. Really, she didn’t need more—unless the marquess won and took them away.

  Reaching the cold stone floor of the cellar kitchen, she nearly tripped over a man-sized mountain. She blinked in disbelief at Quent’s long frame sprawled across the stones while he examined the kitchen chimney. Even the old country cook she’d hired had protested the poor draft in this horrid hall. Bell had sent out word for a sweep, but she worried the chimney would crumble once centuries of soot was removed.

  “More birds’ nests,” Quent called from his position on the filthy hearth.

  “Add them to the soup we were having for supper,” she said acidly, kicking his boot sole. “The kitchen staff are standing about, waiting to prepare our meal. What are you still doing here?”

  “Taking charge.” He scooted out of the fireplace, leaving a trail of ash. His face and traveling clothes were blackened, with the whites of his eyes and teeth a striking contrast to his begrimed face. “Someone needs to.”

  She kicked his boot again. “I’ve hired as many good people as I can find. It’s not as if I can turn the place around in a few days. And you’re enjoying yourself entirely too much.” She added that last because his grin didn’t diminish. He really was enjoying himself—fastidious, dignified Quentin Hoyt liked playing in dirt.

  The staff very properly looked appalled as he dusted himself off. Quent made no apology. He merely pointed at one of the young boys standing around. “Take a broom up there. No more fires until the nests are cleaned out. We’ll have to have a cold supper.”

  Bell glared and pointed at the back door. “Leave that way and wash. I’ll have someone bring you clean clothes. Then be on your way.” She turned to the cook. “Have the staff use the old linens that Lady Sydony gathered to cover everything thoroughly before anyone attempts to clean nests.”

  The cook looked relieved and sent a scullery maid running to find the housekeeper.

  Quent shrugged. “I can fix things. I didn’t say I’d keep them clean.” He trailed a cloud of dust out the back door.

  She couldn’t fix things or keep them clean. But she knew how to tell others to do it.

  Thirty years on earth, and all she was good for was ordering people about.

  She couldn’t order Quent about. She didn’t know how she felt about that.

  Sixteen

  The groom in the stable eyed Quent askance when he appeared in all his sooty glory, but the stoic man pointed out the well and pump and the barrel the stable boys used for a cold shower. Quent admired their ingenuity as the water sluiced over him. Even though the skies had clouded over and started to mist, the August heat was still oppressive. Besides, the shower was just the thing to cool off his ardor.

  He needed to strip Bell down to her bare self as she had done to him, he decided. But he had to do it in a way she enjoyed. He whistled happily as he scrubbed his face.

  He ought to feel guilty for not raising the cash for his father’s roof. His family shouldn’t suffer for his father’s sins. But if Quent was forced to choose sides, he would choose Bell, he had to admit. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but for now, he ignored the castle roof.

  Besides, the Hall needed work too. He could feel the coins trickling from his pockets—and he still whistled. Chasing after Bell was even more interesting than steam engines, although considerably less profitable.

  A footman—thoughtfully provided by Bell, he assumed—carried his valise into the stable. Once dressed, Quent refilled the water barrel so the men could enjoy it at the end of a weary day.

  Undeterred by Bell’s admonition that he remove himself from the house, he talked to the groom, examined the new horses Bell had bought for her siblings, and determined that this part of the estate was almost in decent order. Stables were simple in comparison to houses. Feed could be bought, hands could be hired. The roof could be repaired, but a little rain wouldn’t harm a dirt floor in the meantime.

  Wickedly, he gave permission for the head groom to hire a roofer and buy canvas to protect the feed. He’d been slow to realize the leverage he could employ if Bell truly wanted to redeem the family manse. The estate belonged to his family. He had a responsibility to aid with the repairs. He added another negotiating point to his side of the ledger.

  His pursuit of Bell damned well surpassed his father’s demands. Choosing his own path instead of his family’s for a change felt good, as if a small planet had been lifted from his shoulders. He could almost taste freedom.

  He’d never realized he’d felt like a beast of burden until he’d shaken off part of the load. Rebellion had its positive sides. What could his father do—cut off his non-existent inheritance?

  Well, the old man could take him to court over the guardianship, but a lot could happen in years of fighting. He’d take his chances. He’d made his fortune by taking calc
ulated risks.

  Knowing the servants wouldn’t lock the doors until dark, Quent entered the side door of the house without knocking. Now that he knew where Bell’s chamber was, he could find his own. He slung the hand with his valise over his shoulder and began exploring.

  The house had two enormous wings off the main medieval hall. Bell had apparently chosen the east one for her family. He remembered from a brief visit last spring that there had been several decent chambers along this corridor. Apparently his ancestors had updated this wing at a later period than Fitz’s, because the warren of rooms on this floor didn’t interconnect so usefully. He couldn’t find a side entrance into Bell’s chamber.

  Syd materialized while Quent was examining a large tester bed in a chamber next to Bell’s.

  “Are you moving in?” she asked with adolescent curiosity.

  “No, Bell tossed me out. Says she’s not ready for company yet.” He deliberately confused her. He hadn’t quite forgiven either of the two conniving females for tricking him into that embarrassing incident at Wyckersham.

  “Is it proper for people who are only betrothed to live together?” she asked.

  Well, hell, now he had to give lessons in etiquette and morality. He could see Bell’s difficulty. “Generally not, no.”

  He’d had to arrange with the duke of Fortham to send Camilla away before her tart tongue cut a swath through London. Quent was fairly confident that Bell’s respectability would win over Camilla’s crassness, but he saw no reason for gossip to tarnish his intended.

  Of course, marriage to an untitled tradesman would reduce her status. She hadn’t used that as a negotiating point, so he assumed that didn’t cause her concern—another reason why Bell was perfect for him.

  “But Bell is a wealthy widow and well established in society and she has you and your aunt for chaperones,” he continued. “She doesn’t have the same limitations as a young girl. And someone should look after her,” he added righteously.