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 alone. 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,
“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 alone. 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,
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