Formidable Lord Quentin

by Patricia Rice

  Quent massaged the bridge of his nose and wished he’d never asked to see Wexford’s will, but he would have heard of it in a matter of time anyway. “She’ll lose. No court will override a proper will and assign guardianship of an earl to an unmarried female. She might argue guardianship of her sisters, I suppose.”

  “But the court won’t wish to make an exception. They’ll rule on the codicil as one act and one alone. Unmarried Descendants under twenty-five, that’s all they need. Your father, as the current marquess, has acquired the guardianship of all four children, even the widow and her child, since she’s still under age and with no other male family. They will not consider a female as a responsible party.” Summerby looked as uncomfortable as Quent felt.

  “My father needs four more responsibilities like he needs another hole in the castle roof,” Quent said gloomily. “Had the earl left an estate to support them, that would be one thing, but I assume he died as bankrupt as he lived.”

  “Yes.” Summerby sighed and polished his wire-framed glasses. “From what I gather, the church collected funds to send them back to England. The young widow was left a small account after her husband’s death, but that was exhausted by the time the earl departed this mortal coil. I’m uncertain why they chose not to send word to the marquess when the earl passed away. Perhaps they feared he’d refuse the guardianship. It’s all very sad, and if I could tell you otherwise, I would. The children would benefit from staying with the lady,” Summerby added with a glimmer of hope.

  “Possibly.” Quent pondered all the angles of this new situation, looking for the one to his best advantage, but seeing only more unpleasant complications. “But guardians must meet certain requirements, and my father won’t shirk his duty. The boy needs a tutor, not a nanny. An all-female household can’t harbor a bachelor.”

  “Lady Bell will put up a fight. From what I know of the family, her sisters won’t abandon their little brother. I do not desire an adversarial relationship with the marquess, but my duty is to the lady,” Summerby said stiffly.

  “As my father’s man of affairs, my duty is to my father. I will apprise him of the developments and let you know how he means us to go on.” Quent rose and returned the will to the desk.

  Summerby dragged his portly frame to his feet. “Should Lady Bell marry, the court could be swayed to change the guardianship to her husband, especially if the marquess agrees.”

  That was Quent’s thinking, but he seldom revealed his hand—especially when he wasn’t certain he wished to play it. He nodded, slapped his tall hat on his head, and proceeded out of the aging edifice that had probably sat on this narrow medieval street since London last caught fire.

  One did not go up against the unyielding majesty of centuries of English law without a great deal of ammunition. Bell had wealth on her side. Quent had his own wealth, his father’s title, the earl’s will, and his gender. The grimy stone buildings around him had been built on centuries of law that favored men, titles, and wealth. She would lose.

  He would lose any chance of winning her bed if he fought her.

  He damned well didn’t want to recommend she marry anyone else.

  He’d sacrificed his youth for his family. How much more of his hard-won freedom was he willing to sacrifice for Bell’s relations?

  He feared he was about to learn how a condemned man felt.

  ***

  The modiste had strewn the Aubusson carpet of Bell’s newly-refurbished upper salon with bolts of silks, muslins, buttons, bows, and sample books. The delicately curved blue-and-gold sofa Bell had so carefully chosen last spring was buried under boxes of feathers, lace, and ribbons. The girls had jigged around excitedly with the bounty until the once-serenely elegant chamber now resembled an explosion of colorful plumage in an exotic zoo.

  Bell allowed their delight to assuage her frayed nerves. She’d heard nothing from Quent or her solicitor. She was about to come apart at the seams with worry. Perhaps Quent really had gone hunting tutors instead of interfering where he shouldn’t.

  Even if Quent had behaved himself, Summerby would still be obligated to notify the marquess in Scotland. That gave her a little time to prepare, she hoped.

  “Really, Bell?” Tess asked in wonder, stroking an elaborately woven fine cotton. “This is what you call muslin? Ours is so much coarser! And ladies wear fabric like this in public? It is almost . . . unseemly.”

  Since Bell was sitting there in the lightest muslin in her wardrobe in respect for the August heat, she spread the skirt over her palm to display it. “One wears petticoats, naturally, but muslin is all the rage. And Syd really cannot appear in anything else. If innocent young girls may wear white muslin, then widows certainly can.”

  Tess glanced sadly at her dark skirts. “Shouldn’t we all be wearing black? It’s only been six months since Father died.”

  Bell frowned. She had mourned the loss of her father a decade ago, when he’d still been alive but not to her. “It is very hard to think of him dead,” she admitted. “I have been picturing him happily riding broader fields. Do you miss him terribly?”

  Both girls looked more uncomfortable than distressed. Tess finally spoke with a sigh. “We were living in the boarding house that Jeremy’s parents owned. We did not see Da much these past years since our step-mama died.”

  There was the earl Belle knew. She might paint pretty pictures of her handsome, laughing Irish father, but they were just that—the wishful images of a child who missed her home and family. She was certain he’d loved his family as best as he was able, but he’d spent more time with his drinking cronies than with his children. That was what he’d been brought up to do.

  And judging from their work-roughened hands, her sisters had paid their own way—as Wexford women were taught to do to survive.

  “I must write and express my gratitude and sympathy to your husband’s family,” Bell decided, already planning a substantial donation to them and their church. “I suppose you might wear lavender or gray out of respect, if you wish, but it’s not wholly necessary. And white is also perfectly respectable mourning wear, plus absolutely necessary for an ingénue.”

  “If I must wear white, then I want the dotted one,” Syd said with a defiant tone, holding up the fabric to her face and glaring at it. “With lavender ribbons all over.”

  “Syd!” Tess scolded. “Ribbons are far too expensive. You will not be going anywhere to be seen.”

  “Why can I not be seen?” Syd asked. “You were seeing Jeremy when you were my age.”

  “There is no one in Town to see you,” Bell said, diverting the impending argument. “But there is no reason you can’t have ribbons and sashes. We haven’t been to the milliner’s yet, so you may want to wait and choose your colors after that.”

  Grasping the opportunity, the modiste produced a rich white satin. “For the young lady’s presentation, yes? With the lace and pearls . . .”

  Both girls fell speechless as the modiste’s assistant held up examples of how the gown would be adorned in seed pearls amid the lace.

  Bell had adored dressing her protégées and Quent’s sisters, but they had all been pragmatic young women, experienced in pinching their coins. Tess and Syd, however, had no concept of what materials could be had, much less their cost. Bell understood she should be careful not to over-indulge, but she loved shocking them. They deserved a little pampering after years of desperation.

  “First, morning and walking gowns,” Bell corrected the modiste, wielding her fashion authority. “Once they are dressed for the shops, we can explore and see what colors and fashions appeal most. They need a little town bronze before choosing more expensive garments.”

  “Very wise, milady,” the modiste acknowledged, setting aside the luxurious fabric and returning to sturdier broadcloth. “Will the ladies need habits?”

  “Naturally. Boyles are born on horseback. That forest green . . .” Bell realized her sisters hadn’t resumed chattering, an unusual state if she’d ever hear
d one. She glanced at them questioningly.

  “We lived in town and didn’t have a horse,” Tess murmured apologetically. “Daddy sold the mares he took with him.”

  The mares that had been Bell’s life and soul for her first eighteen years. At the time, the pain of their loss had been as great, if not greater, than losing her family. “Even Little Dream?” she asked, trying to hide her horror. He father had promised to take care of her mare . . .

  “No, we learned Dream was with foal before we left. He left her with Uncle Jim in payment of debts he owed,” Tess acknowledged, lovingly folding a piece of lace over her hand, not recognizing the blow she’d just dealt. “Might I have some of this for a new gown for Beebee?”

  Bell nodded, unable to speak through her despair. Dream, the mare she’d raised from birth, in Uncle Jim’s ignorant care? How had she not known this? She’d been told their father had been allowed to keep his horses to set her sisters up in the new world. For all his faults, her father was an excellent horseman and would never let harm come to his animals. She’d thought Dream would be in good hands. She’d wept and pleaded to keep her mare, but Edward had refused, saying the valuable horse had been part of the bargain.

  So she’d consoled herself thinking Dream would provide an excellent dowry for her sisters, and then she’d shut the memory and the pain out of her heart. She had turned her mind to learning to be the best wife and marchioness in existence, and done her best never to think of her horses again.

  And now to learn that her Dream could still be alive . . .

  She suffered the despair of an adolescent all over again, only this time with a mature woman’s sense of responsibility . . . a deadly combination.

  She wanted to rip off heads, and these days, she had the power to do so.

  She’d have Summerby send a groom to Ireland—immediately.

  Still stunned, Bell tried to imagine a world where her father did not proudly sit one of his Thoroughbreds. He’d sold them all? Tess had been a daredevil on horseback before the age of eight. Syd had already known how to groom her pony and ride like the wind when she’d been younger than Kit. The true awfulness of their circumstances finally sank in.

  “Kit?” Bell asked in dismay. “An earl of Wexford who cannot ride?”

  Looking a little surprised that Bell stuck to the topic, Tess bit her lip and nodded. She clung to the soft white muslin and lace she’d chosen for Beebee. “Horses are expensive to keep,” she explained. “We had no land and no stable.”

  At the age of six, Kit couldn’t even ride a pony? That would not do at all. Bell didn’t know how she would rectify the omission, however. She hadn’t touched a horse since she’d left Ireland. She didn’t want to touch a horse, she reminded herself. The wound had healed. She refused to reopen it. But she knew her duty.

  “That must be corrected at once,” Bell said, hoping she hid her frown. Just because she would never ride again did not mean the children shouldn’t. Turning back to the modiste, she gestured at the broadcloth. “Habits for both of them. Can you recommend a good tailor for boys?”

  She jotted down the names but knew she must consult with Quent or his friends about suitable clothing for a young boy. She had no familiarity with male accoutrement. Fashionable Nick Atherton would have been an ideal adviser. He wouldn’t harbor ulterior motives like Quent. And with four sisters, he was accustomed to shopping. But he and Nora were still on their wedding journey aboard Nick’s ship.

  She would think of someone besides Quent to ask.

  When Jocelyn Montague sent up her card a little while later, Bell smiled in relief at the solution. Blake Montague, her husband, worked with the Duke of Fortham. He knew everyone. “Bring her up at once and fetch some tea, please,” she told the maid. “Syd, clear some room on the sofa, will you? If you are to take the town by storm, you will need sponsors, and Mrs. Montague is one of the best.”

  Moments later, statuesque Jocelyn Montague swept into the sitting room in all her golden glory. Bell watched in amusement as her sisters gaped. Jo flung off her gold-embroidered pelisse to reveal a stunning blue Grecian gown that flattered her generous figure. The lady sailed her feathered hat to a table, set her hands on her curvaceous hips, and studied Bell’s guests.

  “All these years and you’ve been holding out on me, my lady! I should turn around and stomp back out in utter outrage at the insult. You have sisters! Why did you never say so?”

  Amused at this performance, Bell gestured for her stunned sisters to rise. “Mrs. Blake Montague, may I present Mrs. Jeremy Dawson and Lady Sydony Boyle, daughters of the late earl of Wexford. Girls, Mrs. Montague is the wife of a rising politician and related to Viscount Carrington.”

  Both girls bobbed polite curtsies. Jocelyn tapped a gloved finger to her cheek, nodded approvingly, and took the seat cleared for her. “Raise them like peas in a pod in Ireland, do you? They’ll be as stunning as you, once you have them coiffed and gowned. Where have you been hiding them?”

  Bell hid a smile at Jo’s bluntness. Her former protégée might be young, but she wore authority with the ease of a duchess born and bred.

  “It’s a long story,” Bell said with a tilt of her head, indicating the hovering modiste. “We’ll explain later. Madam Evangeline, if you’ll leave the samples and start on the walking dresses, we’ll call on you again to complete the order.”

  Dismissed, the modiste and her assistant hastily gathered their supplies. Pretending to pick up around Bell’s chair, Syd whispered, “Lady Sydony? I am a lady?”

  “Of course you are, silly. As is Tess. But I assumed she preferred her husband’s title. It is her choice. Women wield so little power, we must take advantage where we can.”

  “Women are the power behind the throne,” Jo said solemnly, stripping off her gloves. “Blake and I will be holding a small dinner party in a few days, just a few of his boring officials and their wives. If the three of you would be so kind as to attend, you’ll liven the dull summer, and we’ll gain an advantage over the biddies for being the first to provide grist for the gossip mill. The whispers are already rampant.”

  “A private dinner party would be an excellent introduction,” Bell agreed. “Perhaps just Tess, though. Syd would be bored faint.”

  “No, I wouldn’t, honestly,” Syd said in eagerness. “I love parties!”

  “You have not suffered through a political dinner,” Bell said firmly. “I assure you, you would slide under the table. We should contain gossip and direct it to anticipation of society meeting you.”

  Jo grinned. “Devious, milady. I bow to your better strategy.” She turned to Syd. “We will think of a more interesting affair for your introduction, something that includes more young people. Will you be attending finishing school in the fall?”

  Syd looked appalled.

  “We’ve not had time to discuss anything but infants and clothes,” Bell said apologetically. “And just now, horses. It has come to my attention that the earl of Wexford cannot ride. I have been debating inflicting the lot of them on Fitz and Abby or repairing to Belden Hall in Essex and buying my own stable.”

  The latter made her faint heart quail, but for her siblings, she would provide Paris, France, if required.

  “Fitz and Abby, definitely.” Jocelyn poured her own tea and helped herself to a biscuit. “Fitz can help you choose a stable should you decide to improve that distressing manse in Essex.”

  “You are right, of course,” Bell agreed with a sigh. “I just hate imposing on their good natures.”

  She really needed to enlist Jocelyn’s well-connected husband in her cause, but she had yet to tell the girls that their “guardian” was actually a crotchety old Scot who never left his northern hills.

  Fortunately, a maid arrived with a message from the nursery, and Tess excused herself. Belle waved Syd after her. “Go. We’ll just gossip about people you don’t know.”

  Bell mentally commended the girls’ Irish nanny stepmother when both performed correct curtsies
and farewells before departing.

  “They’ll do splendidly once we polish their accents,” Jo said in approval. “I take it they weren’t entirely raised by wild Indians as rumor has it.”

  Bell gave an unladylike snort. “Not entirely, although I suspect the Indians may be more civilized than my father was. I have Summerby investigating the girls’ circumstances. They claim Kit’s mother was a nanny, but I suspect she was a governess. She seems to have taught them more than I knew at that age.”

  Jo sipped her tea and raised knowing eyebrows. “So, then, tell me what is troubling you and how can I help?”

  Belle didn’t hesitate. “You can ask your husband to speak with the duke to see if he will support me when I sue for guardianship.”

  Four

  “I talked to a duke,” Tess was still exclaiming the morning after Jocelyn’s dinner party. “And a viscount . . . That’s less than a duke, isn’t it? But he was so charming!”

  Syd hung on to every word, crumbling her toast over the breakfast table. “Were any of them young? Handsome? What did they talk about?”

  Tess wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Montague was handsome, but he was the youngest, and he must be in his thirties. And they talked politics and said terrible things about the American government.”

  Bell reached over and patted her hand. “I hope you do not have holes in your tongue this morning. You did an excellent job of smiling prettily and stabbing them with your eyes. I am very proud of you.”

  She was bursting with pride. Even Jocelyn had agreed that Tess would do well once she’d learned enough about society to actually converse instead of just giving speaking glares. At least, Bell hoped Tess would learn to speak up. Right now, her sister spent most of her time assessing the situation—probably as a result of their unfortunate upbringing.