Emerald Garden
Authors: Andrea Kane
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Regency, #General
Emerald Garden
Andrea Kane
To happily-ever-after, and to all of us who, by believing in it, make it possible.
Acknowledgments
To my brother-in-law-but-more-like-my-brother Bob, whose scientific knowledge, and patience in sharing it with nonscientific me, made
Emerald Garden
’s mystery possible
And to my sister Myrna and niece Sherri, for their ongoing love and pride. (By the way, Myrn, you still owe me the Japanese talking yo-yo you promised me when I was ten!)
Contents
Prologue
Cotswold Hills
Gloucestershire, England, 1810
“I
THOUGHT I’D FIND
you here.”
Lord Quentin Steel mounted the steps of the white lattice gazebo, pausing beside the bench’s occupant. “I stopped by your estate first. But, as I expected, your father said you’d left Townsbourne just after dawn. So I rode directly to Emerald Manor.”
“Where else would I be at a time like this?” Head bent, Brandice Townsend’s mournful reply was swallowed by her lap. “Emerald Manor holds my happiest memories. ’Tis only fitting for it to hold my saddest ones as well.”
Tenderly, Quentin ruffled her cloud of cinnamon hair, smoothing it back to coax her chin from her chest. “Smile, Sunbeam. The world hasn’t ended.”
“Yes. It has.” Without raising her head, she scooted over, silently inviting Quentin to sit beside her.
He complied, unbuttoning the decorated coat of his uniform to settle himself, gently taking her hand in his. “I won’t be gone forever.”
“That depends upon your definition of forever.”
“Look at me, Brandi.” Hooking a forefinger beneath her chin, Quentin forced her gaze around to meet his. “I’ll stay in Europe only until we’ve defeated Napoleon and ended the war.”
Brandi’s dark eyes misted. “That’s hardly a comfort. The war is interminable and throughout its countless days you’ll be right alongside Lord Wellington, at the very heart of the fighting.”
“That’s where I’m needed,” Quentin acknowledged quietly. “The lieutenant-general cannot lead us to victory if no one is able to successfully decipher French messages.”
Brandi nodded, her slender brows knit with worry. “For once I wish you weren’t so brilliant. Then you could remain in England, safe, rather than Lord knows where, endangering your life with every battle.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I’ll miss you.”
“You’ll scarcely notice my absence,” Quentin assured her, his knuckles caressing her cheek. “You have a legion of others to spoil you—your father, my parents …”
“Desmond,” she added with pointed derision.
A shadow crossed Quentin’s face. “I realize that my brother’s more”—he paused, searching for the right word—“traditional nature upsets you.”
“Traditional?” Brandi reiterated. “Desmond is a relic!”
Quentin’s lips twitched. “I shudder to think what that makes me. After all, Desmond is but three and thirty, a mere seven years my senior. Do I border on antiquated as well?”
“Never.” Her denial was immediate and fierce. “You and Desmond are as unlike as a knight and a dragon.”
“Ah, but which am I, knight or dragon?”
Brandi shot him a don’t-patronize-me look.
“Very well, Sunbeam.” Abandoning all attempts at diversion, Quentin reverted to a candor he seldom required, save with Brandi. “I won’t deny your statement. Desmond doesn’t understand you, nor can he fathom your unorthodox behavior. But, in his defense, he
is
concerned about your future, albeit in his own way.”
“Everyone is concerned about my future!” Brandi burst out, vaulting to her feet. “Everyone means well. Everyone is anticipating my impending coming of age—everyone but me.” She crossed her beloved gazebo, clutching its entrance post and gazing restively over the vast manicured gardens of Emerald Manor, the fairy-tale cottage that, though built and owned by Quentin’s family, had become Brandi’s haven over the years. “As for understanding me, no one understands me but you. Not Papa, not your father, not even your mother. I adore them, Quentin, truly I do. Heaven knows they try to make allowances for my unruliness. But your parents are the Duke and Duchess of Colverton, and Papa, the Viscount Denerley. For generations, their families have thrived on the same rigid values. So it follows suit that they share Desmond’s opinion that, as a soon-to-be woman grown, I’m to adopt the role of a proper lady.”
Quentin stifled a chuckle. “Well, you are nearly sixteen. ’Tis only natural for your father to expect—”
“The Season after next he plans to bring me out,” Brandi interrupted, her small hand tightening its grip on the post. “Then my life truly will be over.”
“Aren’t you being a touch dramatic?”
“No.” She pivoted to face Quentin. “I’m not. And you know it. The moment I make that magical Court appearance, all I adore most will be wrested from my grasp. No more fishing in the cottage stream without stockings, tearing through the woods astride Poseidon, or honing my shooting skills. Instead, I’ll be transformed into a pianoforte-playing, needlepoint-stitching ninny, a procurable prize to be flourished before the
ton.”
Throwing back his head, Quentin shouted with laughter. “You certainly make it sound dismal, Sunbeam. Although, if your description is accurate, you’ll need every bit of these next two years to prepare. Currently, your needlepoint is abysmal and your pianoforte playing, obscene.”
“Neither of which I plan to rectify.” Brandi’s retort was adamant. “I’ve dreaded my coming-out for as long as I can remember. My only consolation, until now, has been the knowledge that you’d be here to comfort me in my misery.”
Quentin rose, sobering as he met her gaze. “I’ll return to the Cotswolds the instant I’m able. I wish I could promise—”
“Don’t,” Brandi interrupted. “Don’t promise. We’ve never broken a pledge to each other, Quentin. Don’t alter that by offering me a vow you might be unable to keep.”
Whatever Quentin intended to say was cut off by the sound of his carriage driver calling out to a coachman, and the horses whinnying their impatience.
“Is it time?” Brandi asked, a lump forming in her throat.
“Soon.” Abruptly, Quentin reached into his coat pocket and extracted a pair of intricately carved pistols. “But not quite yet.”
“Quentin!” Her anguish temporarily forgotten, Brandi’s eyes widened with surprised delight. Impulsively, she darted forward, reverently touching one polished barrel. “How exquisite! Did you just purchase them? You must have. I’ve never seen them before. Where did you ever find them? The workmanship is magnificent!”
With an indulgent grin, Quentin offered her a closer look. “I discovered them last week when I was in London and, keeping us both in mind, I purchased them on the spot.” He pressed the pistol Brandi was caressing into her outstretched hand. “Go ahead, take it.”
Brandi needed no second invitation. Her trained fingers closed around the ornate handle, exploring the weapon while carefully avoiding its sensitive trigger. “It truly is splendid,” she breathed, stroking the gleaming wood and brass.
“Might I interest you in a farewell shooting match?” Quentin inquired with a knowing twinkle.
Instantly, her head came up. “You might.”
“Choose our target.”
Cheeks flushed with excitement, Brandi walked down the steps and into the garden, pivoting to survey the surrounding woods. A resolute tightening of her jaw told Quentin her decision was made. “That towering oak,” she instructed, pointing. “The one standing alone.”
“Quite a distance, Sunbeam,” he drawled, strolling down to the garden and squinting to assess the designated target. “You’re proficient at spans of nearly fifty feet, but that tree must be ninety feet away. Are you certain you don’t want to reconsider?”
“I’m certain,” Brandi returned, eagerly embracing the challenge. “Whichever one of us cleanly strikes the center of the oak’s trunk—shall we say, just below the first row of branches—will be declared the winner.”
“Agreed.” Grandly, Quentin gestured for her to proceed. “Ladies—” A teasing pause. “Pardon me. Hoydens first.”
“On the contrary,” she teased back. “Soon-to-be-great war heroes first.”
“As you wish.” Quentin cocked and raised his pistol. An instant later, his shot rang out, whizzing through the air and striking the oak a mere inch or two from the designated spot.
“Excellent,” Brandi commended. She appraised the tree before raising her own weapon. “But I’ll surpass it.”
“Such faith in your skill, Sunbeam.”
She tossed him a saucy grin. “No, my lord. Such faith in my instructor.” Taking careful aim, she fired.
Her bullet flew to its mark, piercing the oak a fraction to the right of Quentin’s shot—dead on target.
Triumphantly, Brandi turned to her opponent. “Well?”
Quentin whistled his appreciation. “It seems your instructor is worth his weight in gold.”
“Oh, he is.” With a sunny smile, she offered him her pistol. “In fact, he appears to be a better instructor than he is a marksman.”
Laughter erupted from Quentin’s chest. “Touché, my victorious pupil.” Still chuckling, he began cleaning his own gun, ignoring her outstretched hand. “What will you claim for your prize?”
All humor vanished from Brandi’s face. “Your well-being. ’Tis all I ask.”
Quentin ceased his task, raising his head to regard Brandi with gentle understanding. “I’ll be fine, Sunbeam. You have my word, contest or not.” His gaze fell to her proffered weapon. Now, as for your prize. It must be worthy of that imposingly accurate shot of yours.” He pretended to ponder his dilemma until, all at once, he appeared struck by a brilliant notion. “Your pistol!” he proclaimed. “ ‘Tis the perfect prize.” So saying, he pressed Brandi’s fingers more lightly about the handle, urging the gun toward her. “It’s yours.”
“Mine? To keep?”
“Yours. To keep. As I shall keep its mate.”
Brandi turned captivated eyes to her gift. “Oh, Quentin, I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing. You won our match—and the pistol.” Savoring Brandi’s exhilaration, Quentin was abruptly seized by a sense of impending loss, an innate perception that all he loved would be somehow changed when next he walked English soil. Silently, he admonished himself, fighting off the unsettling premonition, dismissing it as a reaction to the imminent bloodshed that loomed ahead.
Still, it persisted.
“Keep the pistol close beside you,” he instructed, focusing on something he could control. “Then
I
can be assured of
your
well-being during my absence.”
“Oh! That reminds me.” Oblivious to Quentin’s emotional turmoil, Brandi sprang to action, leading him back up to the bench and carefully laying aside her cherished prize to gather up a small parcel. “This is for you.” She placed the box in Quentin’s hands, “A going-away gift.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did. And you’ll soon see why.” Brandi’s grin was impish. “I have a feeling my motives and yours are much the same.” She gestured impatiently toward the package. “Open it.”
With a puzzled expression, Quentin complied. A moment later, he lifted out a thin, exquisitely crafted knife.
“You’re an incomparable marksman, my lord,” Brandi explained with a maturity as disconcerting as it was atypical. “But guns alone cannot protect you. What if you should be caught by surprise, attacked at close range? No pistol is small enough to remain unerringly concealed. A proper blade is. Especially one as thin as this. I had it fashioned just for you. Keep it with you at all times, hidden in your boot. Then, no one can harm you, whether in battle or out.”
“ ‘Tis the finest blade I’ve ever owned.” Quentin stared intently at the onyx handle. “Thank you, Sunbeam.”
“Now both of us will assuredly be safe, will we not, Captain Steel?”
He found his smile, sliding the knife inside his Hessian boot. “Indeed we will, my lady.”