When the Scoundrel Sins

by Anna Harrington

  Quinn disliked the man, instantly put off by his egotism. And by his early arrival. Dear God, did everyone in the north country wake with the bloody chickens?

  “Were you wanting to speak with me?” Agatha inquired of Quinn, straight back to her no-nonsense self, now that pleasantries were over.

  Clearly, this wasn’t the best time to admit that he’d been looking for a bottle of scotch to dull his frustrations over scandalously touching the companion who was like a daughter to her. So he offered instead, “I’ve decided to leave today for the coast and wanted to say my good-byes.”

  An unexpected panic flashed over her wrinkled face. “But—but you’re staying to help Belle. I insist!”

  Quinn grimly shook his head, unwilling to divulge anything more about his sudden decision to leave. “I need to get on to America, if that’s all right with you, my lady.”

  She stared at him silently for a long moment, as if she simply couldn’t fathom him. Then she smiled tightly. “Of course,” she assured him, the lie obvious. “Then your timing is impeccable, that you should be here to meet Belle’s suitor.”

  Bletchley’s thin lips curled with mock humility. “Now, viscountess, you know she hasn’t yet formally accepted my suit.”

  Agatha waved her hand dismissingly. “Of course she will. And may I say how thrilled we are that you’ve declared your intentions? Aren’t we, Quinton?”

  He quirked a brow and drawled, “Ecstatic.”

  If Agatha heard the sarcasm in his answer, she made no reaction, her smile only widening on Bletchley. “Of course, Sir Harold first offered for her two years ago. But I didn’t think she was ready for marriage then, especially given what she’d gone through in her only London season.”

  Quinn rolled his eyes. Would none of the women here let him forget that night? He bit back the offer to fetch Robert from bed so they could have his brother’s help in roasting him on a spit in revenge. “How fortunate you persisted,” he mumbled, drawing a surprised glance from his aunt.

  Bletchley smiled lazily, as if marrying Belle were his birthright. “As I’ve learned, hunting requires patience. All good things take time.”

  “Indeed, they do!” Agatha interjected before Quinn could say something entirely ungentlemanly about his so-called hunting of Belle. “And speaking of time, Sir Harold’s family has been in the area for over five generations.”

  Quinn couldn’t help himself. “Legally?”

  “Pardon?” Bletchley frowned.

  “Sir Harold inherited Kinnybroch nearly twenty years ago,” his aunt hurried on, ignoring that small exchange, “which his family has owned since his great-grandfather received the estate for his bravery at Culloden.” She slid Quinn a deliberate glance. “Isn’t it wonderful that Annabelle might have the chance to marry into a family with such a distinguished history?”

  “Wonderful,” he repeated stiffly. He didn’t give a damn about family histories when what mattered was Belle’s happiness.

  “Lord Quinton is the third son of the late Duke of Trent,” she continued, turning to Bletchley. Then sadly shook her head. “You know the lot of younger sons. So he is leaving for America to start a life for himself there.”

  Quinn stared at her, dumbfounded. Did Aunt Agatha realize the unintended insult she’d just leveled against him?

  But of course she did. The question now was why she’d done it.

  “Yes,” Quinn forced out, his smile never wavering as he pretended her comment didn’t sting, “in the Carolinas. I plan on buying land there.”

  “Tobacco?” Sir Harold asked, amusement touching his lips that Quinn hoped to be what most English gentlemen considered nothing more than a glorified farmer.

  “Rice and indigo, actually.” He’d been working the numbers for the past four years and knew the best use of his money was to invest in those two crops. And not just in the profit from growing them but also in their storage, shipment, and trade, which was why he was fortunate that the land was so close to Charleston. With the help of Asa Jeffers, he could be both landowner and businessman. His father would be proud of the man he planned to become.

  “You’ll have slaves, then.” Bletchley’s words emerged as an arrogant sneer.

  Hell no. Yet Quinn only shrugged. “No more so than any English landowner whose indebted tenants can never be free of the manor.”

  A strangled sound escaped from Aunt Agatha’s throat.

  But Bletchley only laughed. “Then you’ll do well in America, with the rest of the colonists who detest us Englishmen. I only hope you don’t find yourself being detested as well.”

  Oh, he was certain of that. Yet he grinned broadly, just to irritate Bletchley. “I’ll take my chances.”

  A soft knock sounded at the door. “Excuse me, my lady.” Ferguson stepped into the room. “But Cook would like a word with you. She says it is an urgent matter with the ovens, ma’am.”

  She hesitated with a glance between the two men, as if wary to leave them alone together, then sighed, realizing she had no choice unless she wanted to risk burning the house down. “If you gentlemen will excuse me.”

  She scurried out with Ferguson on her heels. An awkward silence fell over the room.

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed as he sized up Bletchley. So this was Belle’s leading prospect for marriage.

  No wonder she preferred to remain unmarried.

  But Aunt Agatha had said she wanted Quinn’s help to keep Belle safe from unsatisfactory suitors. Well, then, no time like the present to start.

  He leveled his gaze hard on Bletchley. “You expect to marry Annabelle.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you plans, then?” He folded his arms over his chest.

  Bletchley smiled at that. “So you’re her guard dog now?”

  Knowing not to rise to the bait, Quinn said nothing as Bletchley went to the tea tray on the table and poured himself a fresh cup.

  “Oh, you can be confident that I have lots of plans,” Bletchley assured him. “The first thing we do is knock down the existing fences to enlarge the pastures and merge the flocks. Then, with the extra money on Glenarvon’s books, we’ll buy a herd of Highland cattle to graze on the slopes to the north.” Bletchley gestured with this teacup between sips. “Close up the shearing and dairy barns on Glenarvon and double the size of the ones at Kinnybroch, renegotiate all the tenant leases and grazing rights.” He glanced disdainfully around the room. “And let out this tired place, if I can find anyone daft enough to take it.”

  Quinn noticed that he never mentioned Belle. Not once. His intentions were purely mercenary. Just as Belle feared. “And the villagers?”

  Bletchley blinked, surprised at that question. “What about them?”

  “What plans do you have to help them?”

  “Help the villagers?” Bletchley laughed as if it were the most absurd thing he’d ever heard, nearly spilling his tea.

  Good God, this man was a completely wrong match for Belle. In every way.

  “My concern is the estate.” Bletchley reached for a biscuit from the tray. “Especially once it’s folded into Kinnybroch. I’ll have twice as much land then and considerable funds. Managing all that will keep me too busy to worry about the villagers. They can tend to themselves.”

  Dread prickled at the back of his neck. “Glenarvon will belong to Annabelle. She wants to run it herself.”

  Popping the biscuit into his mouth, Bletchley waved away his concern. “Once we marry,” he explained between munches, “she’ll come to see how much better it is to let her husband worry about such things. You know how women are. She’ll be thrilled to spend her time enjoying trips to the dressmaker and planning parties, rather than fretting over the account books and getting her hands dirty in the fields. Besides,” he continued with a smug grin, “we’ll need an heir. She’ll be increasing soon enough, and then all her attention will be on our child, where it belongs.”

  A quick stab of emotion pierced low in Quinn’s belly at the thought of Bel
le with child. Of the hot fire in her tempered by the soft glow of motherhood. The sensation hit him so swiftly, so fiercely, that he nearly shuddered with it before he found his control.

  Desperately needing that drink now, he crossed the room to the potted palm and from its fronds retrieved the hidden whisky he’d originally come into the room to find. With no glass at the ready, he poured himself a teacup.

  “Annabelle’s a smart woman,” he commented. Downright brilliant, in fact. He corked the bottle and slid it into his rear waistband beneath his coat, then leaned back against the wall and studied Bletchley over the rim of his cup. Far too brilliant for you. “She’s already running this place well, and she’ll be able to handle both motherhood and the estate’s management.”

  “Well, I’m certain she’ll be too busy to manage once she has another child.” Bletchley chuckled. “Or six.”

  Quinn glared at him. Over my dead body.

  Bletchley smiled blithely. “We’ll be certain to send you news in America when each of our children is born.”

  Quinn’s hand tightened around the teacup until he thought he might shatter it in his palm as he fought back the urge to punch him. Bletchley cared only about the property and talked of marrying her as if he were acquiring a brood mare. Arrogant, pompous, misogynistic—

  A movement at the corner of his eye captured his attention.

  Through the tall window, he caught a glimpse of Belle returning from the fields, the collar of her coat turned up against the drizzle of the cold morning and her hair once more tucked beneath her tweed cap. Silhouetted against the gray clouds hanging low across the sky and the blue mountains in the distance, she looked for all the world as if she’d materialized right there from the mists. A fairy born of glens and mountains. A creature as wild and independent as the land around her.

  Quinton knew then that he wouldn’t allow anyone to take Glenarvon away from her.

  Aunt Agatha swept into the room, nearly breathless in her hurry to return. Her eyes darted between the two men as if checking for wounds. “Disaster averted,” she panted out. “The house won’t…burn down…before dinner.”

  Bletchley smiled dutifully at her labored quip. But Quinn only continued to glare coldly at the man over the rim of his teacup as he took a calming swallow of whisky.

  Fanning herself as she regained her breath, Aunt Agatha sank gratefully onto the settee. “I’m so glad you two had the chance to talk.” She poured more tea into her cup and added a dollop of honey. “It would have been a shame if Quinton had left before you had the opportunity to meet him, Sir Harold. Now knowing that Annabelle and Castle Glenarvon will be in your safe hands, Quinton can happily sail for America.”

  Like hell I will. Belle would be safer with Lucifer himself.

  “Actually,” Quinn announced as he pushed himself away from the wall and stepped forward as casually as if commenting upon the weather, “there’s been a change of plans.”

  “Oh?” His aunt froze, the honey dipper poised in her hand accidentally filling her cup.

  “I’ve decided to stay on as you asked, Aunt Agatha.” He looked squarely at Bletchley, whose face hardened as he slowly realized what Quinn intended. “To help you with Belle’s suitors.”

  “Wonderful!” Agatha distractedly stirred her tea with the dipper as a beaming smile spread across her face. “I mean, it would be wonderful if Belle agrees.”

  “Oh, I think she will.” Quinn watched her raise the cup to her lips. When she made a face at the overly sweet tea, he sent her his most charming smile, although he planned on ruining her scheme to marry off Belle as thoroughly as he’d just ruined her tea. Then he turned toward Bletchley with feigned innocence. “Can’t be too careful, you understand.” He flashed a crocodile grin. “Seems there’s a new fortune hunter dropping by every day.”

  “Of course,” Agatha interjected quickly, as if fearing the two men might yet come to blows, “this is all about doing what’s best for Belle.”

  Bletchley clenched his jaw and dutifully agreed, “Of course.”

  An awkward tension settled over the room. Bletchley glared at Quinn like a lion defending his territory.

  Quinn grinned back confidently.

  And Aunt Agatha had no idea where to look. Setting her tea aside, she cleared her throat and made a desperate attempt to change the direction of conversation. “I hope you two had a good chat about hunting and fishing while I was gone.”

  Bletchley scoffed. “I wish we’d discussed something as entertaining as hunting, but focused on business instead, I’m afraid.”

  “And Belle, don’t forget,” Quinn reminded him, just for spite. “Or is she nothing more than business to you?”

  Bletchley narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps, Carlisle, you should rethink your plans—”

  “Sir Harold is a keen marksman and avid hunter,” Agatha cut in with forced enthusiasm. “Aren’t you, Sir Harold?” When her question failed to draw his attention—and his ire—away from Quinn, she added skillfully, “He keeps one of the best hunting packs in the north.”

  That arrow hit its target, and Bletchley turned toward her, a pompous smile softening his face. “One of my proudest achievements, I’ll admit. Just a few years ago, I had the pleasure of arranging a hunt for Wellington. Said it was one of the best he’d ever experienced.” He flicked his fingers at a piece of imaginary lint on his sleeve. “In fact, I just purchased a new bitch from the Duke of Devonshire. Fine blood lines, that one. She’ll whelp a good pup or two to improve the pack.”

  Quinn couldn’t help himself— “Or six.”

  The glare Bletchley shot him was murderous.

  “And you, Quinton?” Agatha interposed smoothly. “Do you enjoy the sport of hunting?”

  He set down his empty cup on the tea table. “It doesn’t seem like much of a sport to me unless the animals are also armed.”

  Agatha pursed her lips tightly, although whether to suppress laughter or a scolding he couldn’t have said.

  “Hunting takes skill,” Bletchley defended peevishly. “Perhaps your lack of ability prevents you from appreciating it.”

  Quinn shrugged away the insult. “How much skill can it take to shoot a slow bird flushed out of a bush by a beater while a gamesman stands next to you to reload your gun?”

  Bletchley turned red. He sputtered, “Now see here, Carlisle—”

  A lilting laugh drifted from the doorway, musical in its softness. Quinn caught his breath at the sound that fell through him as gently as a warm summer rain.

  Annabelle. He turned toward her, and his gut pinched at the sight of her. Even all wet and dirty from working in the fields, her hair coming loose from beneath her tweed cap, and a streak of dirt marring her cheek, she looked beautiful.

  As she stepped into the room, she smiled a greeting to Aunt Agatha, then sent Quinn a puzzled glance at finding him here instead of upstairs packing.

  “Sir Harold.” She nodded to Bletchley. But her greeting was reserved, and instead of extending her hand to him, she immediately scooped up a cup and saucer from the tea tray so that her hands were full and she wouldn’t have to touch him by presenting her hand.

  Brilliant woman, Quinn noted with admiration. Too brilliant to be unhappily shackled to a fortune-hunting boor like Bletchley for the rest of her life.

  “My apologies for interrupting,” she commented. But a wholly unapologetic smile played at her lips. “So you were having a discussion about the merits of arming prey?”

  Instead of going to Bletchley, Belle retreated a step away from the tea table to position herself beside Quinn, as if seeking protection at his side. The small movement sent an unexpected possessiveness sweeping through him.

  “In my opinion,” she teased as she raised her cup, “it would surely make fox hunting more challenging, although I’m not certain how it would work with larger game. However would deer pull the triggers without their hooves getting in the way?”

  Bletchley stared at her as if insulted by her musings, a
nd Aunt Agatha as if she’d lost her mind. Quinn grinned broadly.

  She tilted her head, feigning deep thought. “Although I suppose we could arm them with bows and arrows.” Then she added brightly, as if the solution were suddenly obvious, “They could draw the bowstring through the cleft in their hooves!”

  Agatha choked on her tea. “Annabelle!”

  She laughed at herself, drawing another smile from Quinn and something else…something deeper and more intense than he’d experienced even when he’d been kissing her. He couldn’t put a name to it. But whatever it was, he liked it. A great deal.

  “My apologies,” she offered. “I was only joking. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  But Quinn saw the unrepentant gleam in her eyes. Oh, she’d meant to do exactly that.

  Mollified by her pretense of an apology, Bletchley nodded at Quinn. “You have excellent timing, Miss Greene. Carlisle and I were just finishing a discussion about future plans for Glenarvon.” His eyes swept over her, and he frowned with displeasure. “I see you’ve been working in the fields again.”

  “Yes.” She smiled, ignoring his silent criticism of her appearance. “After all, the cheapest worker on any estate is always the owner, because he’s—”

  “Already taken his share,” Quinn finished.

  She glanced at him in surprise that he could finish her thoughts, her pink lips parting softly. He held her gaze for a heartbeat in silent connection, and an inexplicable warmth blossomed inside his chest.

  He thought he saw Agatha’s lips twitch, but his aunt had raised her teacup to take a sip too quickly for him to be certain. “What were you doing, exactly?” she asked.

  Belle shrugged dismissingly. “There was a problem with the floodgate.”

  A worried frown creased Aunt Agatha’s brow, and she lowered her cup from her mouth. “More vandalism?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” she dissembled with a forced smile. “Mr. Burns and the men had it all fixed this morning. The sheep will be back in their proper pastures by the end of the week.”