When the Scoundrel Sins by Harrington, Anna (7)

Belle glanced out the drawing room window as another gentleman departed quickly from Glenarvon’s front door. Her stomach knotted. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Another gentleman arriving?” Lady Ainsley looked up from the desk where she was scratching out notes for the upcoming party.

“No.” She frowned, suspicion niggling at her. “Another one leaving.”

Something was definitely not right here. Lady Ainsley’s insistence that Quinton and Robert be put in charge of greeting potential suitors was surely leading to nothing but trouble. They were supposed to have been interviewing the callers to suss out the men’s intentions, sorting the blatant fortune hunters from the true gentlemen. But from Belle’s count as she watched the men come and go, the two Carlisles were sending away nearly all the men who’d arrived. Today, she’d estimated that a dozen gentlemen had ridden up the drive to call on her. Although it couldn’t be possible, she was certain she’d counted thirteen who’d left.

None of the departing men appeared to be happy. Including the last one, who turned to cast a dark scowl at the manor house before mounting his horse and riding away.

“A good sign, is it not?” The viscountess pushed her reading glasses up the bridge of her nose. “It means Quinton and Robert are doing their jobs.”

“Perhaps.” Or perhaps they were only adding to her headache.

And what a headache this past week had given her! With no other choice now but to marry, Belle had allowed Lady Ainsley to surreptitiously spread the information that her dowry was the estate and that she was looking for a husband. There was no mention of the birthday deadline, now only three weeks away, but there didn’t need to be if the number of men who began to call on her was any indication of the scheme’s success. Dressed in their finest, with hats in hands, they’d descended upon the estate like a swarm of locusts, where the two Carlisle brothers were waiting for them. Apparently, in ambush.

It was clear after only a few days that putting those two rascals in charge of approving suitors was like letting foxes guard the henhouse.

No—like a couple of foxes who refused to let the henhouse be built in the first place.

“It will all be fine.” Lady Ainsley turned her attention back to the to-do list for the house staff in preparation for the party. “I trust Quinton to do the right thing.”

Belle silently arched a dubious brow at that.

“After he has exhausted every other possible avenue,” the dowager added beneath her breath.

Disheartened, Belle turned away from the window and began to pace the length of the drawing room. Oh, why couldn’t Quinn have simply done what she wanted for once and accepted her proposal? Short of being given Glenarvon outright, it would have been the answer to her prayers.

Two weeks ago, she would have laughed at that notion. Married to Quinton Carlisle, of all men! She never would have countenanced such a thing. But now, not only would it be the solution to her dilemma, it might actually be pleasant to have Quinn for a husband.

And that realization nearly tripped her in mid-pace.

It was true. Although she was loath to admit it, at times the pest could be…enjoyable. During the past sennight, the most aggravating man in the world had become her friend and confidante, and her best ally in this inheritance mess.

She’d enjoyed spending time with him, playing chess in the evenings and talking long into the night, hearing stories about his wild youth with his brothers and all the pranks he’d pulled at university which nearly got him expelled. She enjoyed the habit she and Quinn had started of taking afternoon walks around the property and the village, when she confided her problems with running the estate and he offered sensible solutions. She’d even found herself looking forward to their debates over the news in the London Times during breakfast and respecting him for his mind.

Quinton Carlisle had a mind…Whoever would have thought it?

“If you keep pacing like that, my dear,” Lady Ainsley called out, “we shall have to replace the rug.”

Belle stopped where she was, halfway across the room, and with a heavy sigh, she turned to face the viscountess. But her uneasy fidgeting couldn’t be suppressed. Not today. Not with Quinton and Robert doing God only knew what downstairs. And certainly not since she was stuck spending the day inside with Lady Ainsley, planning out the last details of the party, which should have been a happy occasion but now filled her with dread.

What had originally been planned to celebrate Belle’s birthday had now turned into a de facto engagement party, when Belle would have to announce the name of the man she’d chosen to marry. With only one week to spare, it was the latest moment when she could make her decision and still have time to hold a proper wedding in the parish church. Anything past that…well, it was the anvil or nothing, and if she waited that long, she feared she’d end up with nothing.

Unable to pace, she nervously bit at her thumbnail.

“And then we shall have to replace your thumb, as well.”

She scowled and dropped her hand to her side.

“I think we can find enough oranges to have sugared orange peels for the refreshments table,” Lady Ainsley mused almost to herself as she scratched out a note in her planning book. “Six dozen oranges, then?”

“Whatever you think best.” Belle paused at the window to look down at the front drive, just in time to see yet another gentleman arriving.

“I think three cakes for the party, don’t you?” Lady Ainsley commented and added another note to her list. “Lemon, cinnamon, and chocolate.”

“Whatever you think best.” She couldn’t help craning her neck to take one last glance outside the window, hoping against hope that the Carlisle brothers had found a good husband for her. One who would let her run Glenarvon without interference.

“What I think best,” Lady Ainsley repeated with a trace of pique, “is that I would like your input on these decisions. This is your party, Annabelle. It should be exactly as you want it.”

“It will be.” A lie. None of this was how she wanted it.

She began to pace again, not giving a fig about the rug.

She’d resigned herself to having to marry. She’d given up on a love match; now she simply hoped for an innocuous marriage that did no harm. Such a life wasn’t at all what she wanted, but Glenarvon would be hers, which was more than her mother ever had. In that, at least, she should have been happy.

So why did she feel like crying?

“The musicians have already been hired.” The viscountess ticked off another item on her list. “I’ve requested that they play several waltzes.”

Belle wrung her hands as her heart began to race and her breathing grew shallow. With the passing of each day, it seemed more and more likely that she would end up with Sir Harold. Would that be so awful, all things considered? He wasn’t someone dashing and strong like Quinton, but was it fair to compare them? After all, not every man had Quinn’s knack for land management, his skill for dealing with tenants and villagers, his foresight with accounts and repair lists…his extraordinary ability to turn a kiss into heavenly bliss.

“Also the extra footmen to serve the trays of champagne when the announcement is made.”

And then there was Glenarvon to worry about. A woman running an estate was far from the norm, but this place was her life and all she wanted. She couldn’t imagine what her existence would become if she couldn’t do that.

“Of course, there will scotch for the men and punch for the ladies.”

Her heart thumped harder and faster with each quick step she paced across the room, as if the floor would open up and devour her if she stood still. What would she do if she could no longer run the estate? Other things would fill the void, certainly. Overseeing the household staff. Being hostess for parties and soirees. Having babies that weren’t created in love or passion—

“What do you think, Annabelle?”

“I don’t want to marry!” Blurting it out before she could stop herself, she gasped, and her hands flew up to cover her mouth as she stared at Lady Ainsley with mortification.

The viscountess froze, her quill in mid-scratch. Then she slowly looked up at Belle, and the look on her face—was that happiness? Or was the woman simply stunned into disbelief?

“You don’t want to marry Sir Harold?” Lady Ainsley repeated in a whisper.

“No,” Belle breathed out between her fingers.

The dowager rose slowly, a look of hopefulness lighting her face. Or perhaps it was alarm. “Then…whom do you wish to marry?”

“I don’t,” she admitted. Guilt overwhelmed her because she didn’t want to wound the viscountess or have the woman think Belle was ungrateful for all she and Lord Ainsley had done for her.

And that was an undeniable look of disappointment as her wrinkled face fell. “Not anyone?” She paused, as if waiting to be contradicted. “Not ever?”

“I don’t want to lose Glenarvon,” Belle amended in a breathy whisper. “But I don’t want to be forced into marriage, either.”

She knew the prison a marriage could be. The moment a woman married, everything she possessed—including her body—became the property of her husband, for him to mete out affection or punishment as he saw fit. Including taking away her property. Including beating her, if she failed to do as he wanted. There was nothing the law or the Church would do to stop him.

It was silly, she supposed, how much she wanted in a marriage. Like something from a fairy tale, she wanted to love and be loved. She wanted to share Glenarvon with her husband and create a loving and happy home for their children, all of whom would be created and raised with love. She wanted a husband she respected, one who respected and cared for her in return.

Now all those dreams were slipping through her fingers.

“Your situation is far from ideal, I admit,” Lady Ainsley said gently, setting her quill and glasses aside. “But many women marry because they seek property or position, or because they need the help of their husbands.”

She shook her head. “I’m capable of running Castle Glenarvon myself.”

Lady Ainsley crossed the room to her and took Belle’s hands in hers, the affection and concern the viscountess held for her visible in her eyes. “You are very much capable of running this estate. No one could ever love this place more than you, my dear, and no one knows its heart and soul better than you.” She paused, her expression softening. “But with whom will you share your success?”

Belle couldn’t answer around the knot of emotion choking her throat, because in her heart she knew the truth, that the only man she wanted to share it with was Quinn. He was the only one who understood how much work she put into running the estate, how much sweat and tears.

But he wouldn’t be here. He was bound for America. Already her heart grieved at the impending loss of him.

Lady Ainsley cupped Belle’s face. “A husband provides support in so many intangible ways. Without a husband, who will be there to laugh with you and cry with you, to share all your frustrations and all your joys?”

Who, indeed? Belle didn’t doubt the veracity of Lady Ainsley’s words. Just having Quinton here for the past sennight had eased her burden, giving her someone to talk with and to lean on for help. It made obvious a gaping hole in her life she didn’t know existed until he was there, filling it.

She swiped at her eyes. Oh, the devil take him! Quinn always managed to cause problems for her, even when he wasn’t in the room.

“You do not have to marry Sir Harold. You do not have to marry at all, if that is what you wish.” With an empathetic but faint smile, the dowager placed a motherly kiss to Belle’s forehead. “I will always love you and do the best for you that I can.” Belle’s heart leapt at Lady Ainsley’s quiet concession…until the viscountess sadly shook her head. “But I cannot save Glenarvon for you if you do not.”

Numbly, Belle nodded and blinked back her tears. She should be grateful for all that Lady Ainsley was offering, that she would be able to stay with her in the dower house in London and continue on as they had…lady and companion, the daughter and mother neither possessed. It was more than Belle should ever have had, given her past. But knowing how fortunate she was didn’t lessen the sorrow over all she’d lose if she didn’t marry.

So she was back to where she’d begun. Having to marry a man who didn’t love her so she could stay in her home.

Lady Ainsley kissed Belle’s cheek. “Do not lose hope yet, my dear. If I have my way, everything will work out well in the end. Time will bear it out.”

But time was the one thing Belle didn’t have.

“You will find a good man to marry, I know it.” Lady Ainsley gave her a conspiratorial smile.

Belle returned her smile, even as her hopeless heart sank to the floor, not at all certain of that herself.

Shouts rang out from downstairs—male voices raised in anger, followed by the sounds of stomping boots and slamming doors. She exchanged a worried glance with Lady Ainsley.

Oh no.

The viscountess bit back an unladylike curse. “What have those two done now?”

They hurried downstairs toward the commotion, arriving in the entry hall just in time to see one of the gentlemen callers turn to shake a fist at Robert and Quinton as they followed the man toward the front door. The same man Belle had seen ride up less than fifteen minutes earlier. His face was nearly as scarlet as his fancy silk waistcoat.

He saw Lady Ainsley and straightened his spine with an expression of pure righteous indignation. “You—” He snatched his hat, gloves, and walking stick from Ferguson as the butler stoically held them out. Then he gestured angrily with his stick to indicate the two Carlisle men. “You would condone this—this outrageous behavior, my lady?”

Quinton and Robert stiffened in response. The amusement Belle thought she’d glimpsed on their faces when they’d entered the entry hall had vanished, replaced by hard-set jaws and narrowed gazes. Two nearly identical mountains of men as they stood shoulder to shoulder, their feet wide and their muscular arms folded across their chests.

Belle bit her bottom lip, worried that one wrong word from the visitor would get him pummeled before she could stop them.

Lady Ainsley imperiously lifted her brow, as if offended. “Sir, my nephews have never behaved outrageously in their lives!”

Belle nearly choked at that whopper of a lie. But Robert and Quinton simply exchanged silent glances, then returned their stares to the man.

“They are acting at my behest.” The viscountess leveled that comment with all the authority of her position. Belle could almost feel the iciness in her voice, as well as the unspoken dare for the man to contradict her.

“Then you need to speak with them. The things they had the nerve to ask me!” He jabbed his stick at them, and Belle caught her breath, wondering which of the two Carlisle men would first let fly his fists. “About my intentions, my net worth…if I’d ever seek a divorce— Surely you didn’t authorize that!”

The dowager’s eyes flicked curiously to Quinton, then narrowed on their visitor. “Did you think I’d so easily hand over my companion to the first dandy who arrived at my doorstep with posies in hand?”

At her subtle accusation, the blood drained from his face. His lips parted, as if to fling back some cutting reply. Then he clamped his mouth shut, wisely thinking better of leveling an insult at the viscountess beneath the Carlisle brothers’ watchful eyes. Except to trade glances, the two hadn’t moved an inch during the exchange. Like life-size copies of the Colossus of Rhodes.

He stalked toward the door. “I came here to pay my respects to Miss Greene. I did not come here to be insulted.” He flung open the door without waiting for Ferguson to come forward and stomped outside. “Good day!”

Quinton closed the door after him. “And good riddance.”

Momentary silence fell over the entry hall, then Lady Ainsley blew out a hard sigh and shook her head. “What on earth did you two do to that man?”

Quinton shrugged. “Exactly as you asked of us.”

“Keeping the wrong men away from Annabelle,” Robert clarified.

Then both men folded their arms over their chests again and leaned back against the wall. Belle blinked. It was like seeing double.

“But that man wasn’t here long enough for you to find out anything about him,” the viscountess scolded.

Quinton shook his head. “He was here long enough to answer our questions about his intentions toward Belle.”

“And about the state of his finances,” Robert added stepping forward. “I know businessmen, Aunt Agatha. I’m one of them. So I know when a man is pretending to know more about financial matters than he actually does.”

Lady Ainsley tossed up her hands. “You cannot fault a man for wanting to improve his lot in life through marriage!”

“No,” Quinn replied. “But we can fault the man for not knowing what to do with the financial gain once he possesses it. And for exaggerating his current business interests and fortune.”

“Lying,” Robert corrected bluntly.

Quinn summarized quietly, “He wasn’t worthy of Annabelle.”

Belle’s startled gaze darted to him, and their eyes met. He held her gaze for several long heartbeats, long enough for butterflies to flutter inside her. And not just at the dark flicker in his eyes as he stared at her hungrily, as if he wanted to do nothing more at that moment than pull her into the library and kiss her senseless.

No—it was the protection he was offering, however misguided, that filled her with warmth and happiness. She hadn’t expected that. And she liked it. Far more than she should have.

“You asked the man about divorce.” Utter bewilderment darkened the viscountess’s face. “What does that have to do with whether he’s a fortune hunter?”

“We asked if he could ever foresee a situation in which he would seek a separation or divorce from Belle,” Robert clarified.

Their aunt stared at the two as if they’d just sprouted a third head between them. “Why in heaven’s name would you ask him that?”

“Not just him. We’ve asked all the gentlemen that,” Robert said. “A determinate test to judge their character.”

“But divorce is nearly impossible to obtain,” Lady Ainsley reminded them. “Especially if the wife protests, which I am certain Belle would do.”

Belle wasn’t so certain of that herself.

“But separation isn’t.” Quinton said quietly, his gaze returning to Belle, “Under the law, the estate would become his, and he’s no longer shackled to a wife he never wanted in the first place.”

“Not if it’s contracted in the dower,” Lady Ainsley reminded them. “And it will be. I’ll make certain of it.”

“Which was going to be the next question put to him,” Robert informed them.

“‘Would you sign a marriage settlement in which all of Miss Greene’s property remains hers to oversee and the profits held in trust for her alone?’” Quinton’s gaze never moved from her, and the warmth that his possessiveness had flared inside her was now downright blazing.

“But he didn’t make it that far.” Robert had the good sense to look sheepish beneath his aunt’s imposing stare.

“Obviously,” Lady Ainsley muttered.

“He did the same as all the other gentlemen when we put the question to him.” Quinton tore his gaze away from Belle to answer his aunt, and Belle palpably felt the loss of its heat. “Adamantly swore he’d never petition to divorce her, no matter what happened between them—”

“Became righteously indignant that we’d dare ask such a thing—”

Instead of finishing his brother’s sentence, Quinn hesitated. He looked at Robert before saying thoughtfully, “Except one.”

“One?” Belle asked, unable to keep the dejection from her voice. They’d spent the entire week interviewing potential husbands, and they’d only found one man they’d deemed suitable for her? The warmth inside her chest vanished, replaced by a cold misery. With no other solution in sight to save Glenarvon except marriage, Belle didn’t have much time left to find a good husband, and they’d wasted an entire week. “Who?”

“George Smalley.”

“George…” She choked on the name. A freehold farmer to the north of Braeburn, Mr. Smalley was a widower thrice over and over two decades Belle’s senior. Her hands drew into helpless fists at her sides as she demanded, “Why him?”

“He’s the only one so far who answered the question correctly. When we asked him if he would ever divorce you, he shrugged.”

“He shrugged?” Lady Ainsley’s shrill voice echoed through the entry hall in astonishment. “That was the correct answer—a shrug?”

Robert explained, “Or at least not to protest so vehemently what they would do in the unseen future. Any man who protests that much has certainly considered doing just that.”

Lady Ainsley stared hard at Quinton. “And is that the only reason you’ve been chasing away the men who have come to call on Annabelle?”

The question hung in the air for several silent heartbeats before Quinn answered, “Yes.”

The viscountess’s eyes narrowed, as if she suspected he’d just lied to her.

But Belle could have told her he hadn’t. He was doing exactly what his aunt had asked of him—to sort out the men who weren’t fit for her. Unfortunately, Quinn’s opinion of who would make her a proper husband set standards so impossibly high that few would ever be able to meet them.

“Stop asking those foolish questions, and stop chasing the gentlemen away,” Lady Ainsley scolded. “We have two weeks until Belle has to announce her intended, one week after that to have her married.” Despite her anger, her eyes glistened with tears at the prospect, and Belle’s heart broke to see it. “I am doing everything I can to help her. Can you two say the same?”

Quinn clenched his jaw, remaining silent. There was no good answer to that question, and all of them knew it.

Lady Ainsley turned on her heel and began to climb the stairs. “Annabelle, come. We have an engagement party to plan.” She shot an icy glare over her shoulder at her two nephews. “If we have anyone left to betroth you to.”

Instead of following, Annabelle remained. So did Quinn, although Robert wisely excused himself to return to the library.

“Divorce?” Belle bit out, adding frustration to the riot of emotions swirling inside her. “You thought asking about divorce was a good way to find suitors for me?”

“I’m protecting you, Belle.” His blue eyes were steely hard with resolve. “It’s a valid question.”

“It’s a terrible thing to ask, and you know it. A question no man could answer properly.” She gestured her hand at him. “And what about you, Quinton? If someone put that absurd question to you, what would you—”

She froze in mid-sentence as an impossible idea struck her.

He frowned with sudden concern, reaching out to take her elbow to steady her. “Are you all right?”

“That’s it, that’s the answer,” she whispered, almost afraid to speak it aloud.

“What is?” he asked warily.

“Divorce.” Her heart had been so beaten and bruised in the past few weeks over the idea of marriage that she’d never thought to consider the exact opposite solution. “You’ll marry me and then divorce me. You said you wouldn’t leave a wife behind. This takes care of that.” For the first time in four years, the weight of the world lifted from her shoulders, and she felt as if she could breathe again. “The will stipulated that I had to marry in order to receive Glenarvon. It never said I couldn’t divorce and keep it.”

He shook his head. “We cannot.”

Desperation colored her voice, but she simply didn’t care. This was the answer she’d been hunting for weeks to find—years, in fact. “I know it’s not ideal. But it could be done if—”

“No.”

The force of that single word silenced her cold. She stared at him, her heart stopping as all the hope she’d felt only moments before ripped from her.

“Divorce takes an act of Parliament,” he bit out. “You know that. And it’s only granted on grounds of adultery.”

She stepped back from him as the familiar hopelessness returned, this time so fiercely that she pressed her fist against her chest to keep from shuddering.

“I don’t care,” she whispered. She was now despairing enough to consider going through hell in order to remain here in heaven.

“I do.” Heaving out a breath, he shook his head. “Damnation, Belle! What you’re asking of me…”

His broad shoulders slumped in frustration. For the first time, she realized with a piercing clarity that he was just as aggrieved by all this as she was. Especially if he meant what he’d said about wanting to protect her.

But that didn’t solve her problem.

“It would put you into an impossible situation,” she finished quietly, dropping her gaze to the floor. She didn’t have the strength to look at him.

“Both of us,” he acknowledged firmly.

“But if we—”

“I won’t ever get a divorce, Annabelle,” he ground out, silencing her. “I won’t have either of us publicly labeled as an adulterer, no matter that we both know the truth. Six years ago, your reputation was ruined partly because of me. I won’t allow that to happen again. Certainly not like this.”

Her heart beat so hard that she winced with each jarring thud. Leave it to Quinton to be noble. She would have found it endearing if it didn’t leave her once more without a solution. “But it’s the only way left,” she whispered.

“Not the only way.” He stepped into the hall and bellowed toward the library, “Robert! I’m leaving for a few hours. Take over the interviewing, will you?”

Robert’s muffled reply was inaudible, but Belle was certain that whatever he’d said was not charitable.

“You’re a businessman, for God’s sake!” Quinn shouted back. “Sniffing out fortune hunters is surely the domain of a businessman.”

Belle’s eyes widened. She clearly heard Robert’s reply to that.

But Quinn only laughed and snatched up his gloves, hat, and a satchel sitting on the floor beside the side table, where he kept them since his arrival, to make escaping on afternoon rides across the countryside more convenient. Then he headed toward the door.

“I won’t marry you, Belle, just to leave you behind. No man in his right mind would do that.” As if to prove his point, he paused to rake his gaze over her, and heat seared her everywhere he looked. “But if this divorce loophole exists, then there must be other solutions, ones we haven’t thought of yet.”

Through the open door, Belle could see Sir Harold’s curricle pull to a stop in the drive. He threw the ribbons to one of the grooms who came bounding up at his arrival, then jumped to the ground. When he saw Belle, he smiled, only for it to fade when he realized that Quinn stood next to her.

Quinton threw a resolute glance back at her before leaving. “Solutions which do not involve you marrying and losing control of Glenarvon.”

Oblivious to Sir Harold’s irritated scowl, Quinn slapped him good-naturedly on the back as they passed on the front steps.

Quinn glanced around at the local solicitor’s office in Braeburn, the same village where Belle wanted to improve the school and hire a doctor. He wondered if she shouldn’t first start with hiring a new solicitor.

The tiny, first-floor room was filled nearly from floor to rafters and overrun with piles of papers, stack of books, and ledgers in all states of mid-use, with a quill and inkwell located near each, although most likely half of those dozen or so inkwells hadn’t seen a drop of fresh ink in years. All of them possessed a light tracing of dust to prove it. Maps covered what stretches of walls weren’t blocked by pieces of heavy furniture too large for the room. A globe perched precariously free of its stand on the corner of the desk. Quinn couldn’t be certain from his vantage point, but he thought he saw a Scottish claymore leaning behind the tall cabinet in the corner.

Which proved he’d been right in leaving Belle behind at Glenarvon. The damnable woman most likely would have used the bloody thing on him, if given half a chance.

He didn’t blame her. He must have seemed like Lucifer himself to refuse her after she’d seized upon the loophole of divorce. But for God’s sake, what other choice did he have? He’d nearly laughed aloud at that ludicrous notion, until he’d seen how serious she was about it.

But he was just as serious in refusing.

He hadn’t lied to her. He would protect her. He would do anything he could in order to keep her safe and in control of Glenarvon, but he wouldn’t marry her only to leave her. Intelligent, beautiful, and strong, with a kind heart the size of Scotland and a laugh that danced on the air like music—how could a man give that up once he possessed it?

In the past sennight, since the night Belle proposed, he’d let himself wonder what marriage to her would be like. Not those ridiculous propositions she’d made, but a real marriage. The kind his parents had. To spend days working the estate by her side, evenings talking quietly before the fire, and nights in each other’s arms…It would be just as wonderful as he imagined.

Which was the problem. Because anything that wonderful was bound to lead to love. And love led to grief. Always.

The door opened.

Quinn rose to his feet as a paunchy, balding man in a brown wool jacket and matching waistcoat, knee breeches, and buckled shoes thirty years out of fashion shuffled into the messy office. Spectacles perched on his nose beneath a tricornered hat. Taken as a whole, he looked like an ideal banker for the late King George.

“No need, no need!” He gestured at Quinn to remain seated and walked the only clear path across the floor to circle behind his desk. “We don’t stand on formalities here in Braeburn. Of course, we’re too small a village to stand on anything!” He laughed at his own joke and introduced himself. “John Bartleby.”

Quinn held out his hand in greeting. “Quinton Carlisle.”

“Ah, the infamous Lord Quinton! All the village is abuzz about you and your brother. My apologies for not calling at Castle Glenarvon to welcome you to our little stretch of the borderlands.” He leaned forward to shake Quinn’s hand, then settled back into his chair, drawing a groan of protest from the wood frame beneath him. “It isn’t often we get visitors of any kind in Braeburn, let alone a duke’s brother—one set on voyaging to America, no less! And what be your plans, then?”

With a grin, Quinn reached into the satchel he’d brought with him and withdrew the bottle of Bowmore he’d liberated from Aunt Agatha’s hidden stash in the music room, this one tucked within the pianoforte. The house was turning into a veritable treasure hunt of the best kind.

“Right now, I plan to raise a glass with one of Braeburn’s most-respected residents.” He set the bottle onto the only clear spot on the cluttered desk. “Unless you think it’s too early in the day for a glass of fine scotch whisky.”

“As I said,” Bartleby commented as he examined the name on the bottle, then reached into a nearby cabinet to find two clean glasses hidden within, “we don’t stand on formalities here.”

Quinn grinned and splashed two fingers’ worth into each glass. Braeburn was quickly growing on him.

“Your plans, then?” Bartleby pressed as he raised the glass to take a large swallow. “Forgive my curiosity, but it isn’t often we get such interesting visitors to our High Street. Gives us the chance for vicarious living.”

He nearly told the man not to bother, especially given the current confused state of his life. Instead, he settled back in his chair, prepared to spend all afternoon racing the man to the bottom of the bottle, if necessary, to find out what he needed in order to save Belle.

“I’m sailing to Charleston in a few weeks.” He smiled, watching as Bartleby took another sip while he had yet to touch his own drink. “I’ve an offer in for a patch of land there, to grow rice and indigo.”

“Ah, good! Very good.” The solicitor smiled appreciatively at the quality of the scotch. “Good land, then?”

“Rich bottomland along the Ashley River.”

Quinn took a small swallow of whisky, seeking comfort in the golden liquid. Bartleby’s innocent curiosity served only to remind him that he needed to leave soon, or Asa Jeffers would have to sell the land to someone else. And he would break his promise to his father. He should have left two weeks ago, in fact.

Bartleby shook his head. “’Fraid I can’t help you with anything in the colonies regarding your property.”

“I’m here for local matters, actually.”

“That’s a different matter entirely, then.” The man smiled, pleased to be of help. “What services can I provide to you, Lord Quinton?”

Quinn refilled the man’s glass. “I’m curious about Annabelle Greene’s inheritance from my great uncle, the late Lord Ainsley.”

“Ah, protecting her, are you?” Bartleby leaned back in his chair with a knowing smile. “We’re all quite fond of her—a good and kind lass, even if her choice in dress is a bit…unconventional at times.”

Good Lord. Was there no one who hadn’t seen Belle dressed in men’s clothing? He answered casually with a patient smile, “She is unconventional, I’ll admit.”

“Yet we all think highly of her. I, myself, think of her with as much fondness as I do my sisters.” He gestured his glass at Quinn. “You must carry the same affection for her yourself.”

Quinn grimaced inwardly. The affection he carried for Annabelle was far from sisterly. “So you understand my concern. Are you familiar with the terms of the will?”

“Of course! I was the one who helped the late Lord Ainsley fifteen years ago when he wrote it.”

There! There it was. The reason he’d come here this afternoon with Aunt Agatha’s best scotch in hand. If anyone could find a way to help Belle, it was Bartleby.

“The stipulation was my idea. Even then I knew marriage was the right path for her.” The solicitor smiled proudly, and Quinn resisted the urge to plow his fist into the man’s face in retribution for what he’d inadvertently done to Belle. “Glenarvon isn’t a demanding property to manage, but estate oversight isn’t fit for a woman’s gentler sensibilities.”

Quinn remembered how Annabelle had gotten into the mud with the men at the irrigation ditch and fought back a smile. No gentler sensibilities there.

He toasted Bartleby’s legal abilities, knowing the man wouldn’t notice the angry contempt behind it. “A fine inheritance clause, from what I understand.”

“Indeed!” His chest puffed with pride. “Quite a legal maneuver, I must say.”

“But my family has an attorney who swears that all legal clauses have loopholes.” He casually offered the dare to be proven wrong. “Surely, even your clause has one.”

“Ah yes.” He nodded, and Quinn’s heart skipped with hope. “A very large one, indeed.”

Quinn leaned forward. “Which is?”

“Was. The loophole died with the late viscount,” Bartleby corrected with a wave of his finger, the unsteadiness of his hand showing the immediate effects of the scotch. He smiled, taking Quinn deeper into his confidence. “The late viscount was the loophole!”

“Because only he could change it,” Quinn supplied glumly.

The solicitor hesitated, his eyes gleaming, as if he had some great secret poised on his lips. Then he said, “Exactly.”

A suspicion nagged Quinn that Bartleby had been about to say something else. “So there’s no method for voiding the inheritance requirement?”

“None. Rest assured, she will be married.” Then he laughed as a new thought struck him. “Which I’m certain Sir Harold Bletchley thanks God for with every day that passes closer to her birthday!”

Quinn didn’t find that amusing. “So you’ve heard that Sir Harold Bletchley is courting her?”

“It’s a very small village.” He chuckled in amusement, the movement straining at the buttons of his waistcoat.

Quinn refilled both glasses although he’d barely touched his, then eased back in his chair as if they were two old friends who imbibed together regularly.

“I’ve heard rumors,” he ventured casually with the blatant lie. He hadn’t heard one whisper, but he knew men like Bletchley and what motivated them. “Grumblings from workers who aren’t being paid, merchants whose bills are refused…Kinnybroch is in debt.”

“Not just in debt,” Bartleby informed him with a conspiratorial air, brought on by too much whisky. Then he countered in his attempt to better Quinn, but only letting slip more information than he realized, “Mortgaged to the rafters!”

Quinn wasn’t surprised. But if Bletchley was that far in debt, it was worse than he and Robert suspected. He forced a scoff of disbelief to lure more information from the solicitor. “On whose authority?”

Bartleby leaned forward across the desk to confide, “I’m not just the resident lawyer but also a district officer for the Bank of England, per recognized right of the crown.” He raised his glass in toast. “To King George!”

“King George,” Quinn toasted back, starkly reminded that he sat in the middle of the borderlands where allegiance to the English king was still questionable.

Bartleby held up a finger for dramatic effect, and Quinn fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Then he reached down to his desk drawer, riffled through it, and withdrew a sheet of paper. He placed it onto a pile of ledgers covering the desk.

“What’s this?” Quinn frowned.

“An advertisement.” Bartleby grinned at it as if sharing a secret prize. “For Kinnybroch!”

Quinn lowered his eyes to the small sketch of the house and description of the property, followed by details of how to make contact to…Mr. John Bartleby, Esquire, Official Conveyancer for County Cumbria.

He crooked a brow. Apparently, Bartleby was Braeburn Village.

The solicitor leaned forward across the desk and tapped a finger on the paper. “The bank gave notice of foreclosure last year,” Bartleby confided, “but as the accountant for Kinnybroch and the Crown’s official conveyancer—”

“Also the bank agent,” Quinn reminded. “And the solicitor.”

Bartleby’s eyes shined with pride at his arrangement. “As all four, I agreed with myself to give Sir Harold a reprieve from the auction block, confident that he would marry Miss Greene and gain the money to repay his debt.” He finished off his glass. “So there you are. The perfect match!”

Quinn blinked, having lost the thread of this churning, whisky-confused conversation. Yet he was just as certain that the man would talk in the same broad leaps of thought if he were sober. “Pardon?”

“The perfect match,” he repeated, as if it were obvious. “Marry each other, and all is right. But if she doesn’t marry Sir Harold, they both lose their estates!”

“Sounds more like the perfect irony,” Quinn muttered, glancing down at the advertisement.

“But of course they will marry,” the eccentric man hurried on, kicking his feet up onto the corner of his desk. He waved his hand in the air. “She’ll marry him, he’ll marry her…and we’ll all have a grand time dancing at their wedding!”

“Yes,” Quinn forced out. “A grand time.”

“And if they don’t…Well, make an offer to pay the mortgage, and you can have your own estate.” He picked up the advertisement and tucked it safely back into the desk drawer, then shook his head. “Ah, but you’re bound for America, aren’t you? What would you want with a place like Kinnybroch?”

What, indeed? Except that Glenarvon’s worth was similar to Kinnybroch’s, and if Belle didn’t marry, the Church might very well offer it up on the auction block next to Kinnybroch.

That stirred a desperate idea. “I’m curious. What amount do you expect the winning bid to fetch?”

“Twenty thousand pounds.” He reached for the bottle and refilled his own glass. “Of course, that’s only if it goes to auction, you understand.”

“Of course,” Quinn repeated, trying to hide his stunned reaction at the sizable amount. Twenty thousand pounds…Good Lord. The momentary fantasy he had of buying back Glenarvon for Belle vanished like smoke.

Even if he wasn’t set on America, buying Glenarvon would still take every penny he had—and ten thousand more. He knew only one person with that kind of money. And turning to Sebastian for help when he’d made such a point of leaving to become his own man, free from his brother’s duke-shaped shadow, was almost as distasteful as letting Belle marry Bletchley.

Quinn tossed down the rest of his scotch in a gasping swallow to chase away the helpless frustration nipping at his heels.

“To Castle Glenarvon.” Bartleby lifted his glass in a belated toast to follow Quinn’s lead in finishing off his glass. But he stopped himself, his hand raised halfway to his lips. A melancholy expression flitted across his face. “Although only for a few short weeks more, I’m afraid.”

“Miss Greene plans on keeping the estate.” One way or another, he thought grimly. “If she marries”—and he was doing his damnedest to make certain that wouldn’t happen—“under the law, her husband cannot mortgage nor sell any land held as part of the dower.” He was certain that Aunt Agatha would have a marriage contract drawn up to keep it safely away from both her husband and any heir of his who might turn on her.

“You are correct, sir.” Bartleby raised a finger for emphasis as he noted, “Post hoc, ergo propter hoc is fallacious, of course, yet ergo hoc sequitur quod does occur, indeed!”

Quinn blinked blankly as the man laughed half-drunkenly at his own play on words. For the only time in his life, he wished he would have paid more attention to Latin lessons at Oxford. “Thus then,” he translated from the far dark corners of his brain, “after something…follows something…”

“Therefore, this follows that!” He lifted his glass in a happy toast to Latin, then caught Quinn’s bewildered stare. “Under the law, as well as Church doctrine,” he explained patiently, “the wife becomes the property of her husband. Ergo hoc sequitur quod…her property becomes his.”

“Not if she doesn’t give her permission.” He knew Belle well enough to know that she would rather die than sign over her home.

“Inconsequential, in my experience.” Bartleby waved away his argument. “Even the most independent-minded woman eventually sees the folly of her ways and succumbs to her husband’s wishes.”

Quinn thought of the women in his family. Bartleby had never been married to the likes of one of those independent-minded women if he thought succumbing was a natural evolution of marriage.

“You don’t know Miss Greene very well,” Quinn muttered.

Bartleby laughed. “Does any man ever truly know a woman?”

In the past sennight, Quinn had come to know Belle quite well. The woman she’d become was simply amazing.

And one in desperate need of his help.

He reached into his jacket breast pocket and withdrew several bank notes. “I want to hire you, Bartleby.”

The sight of the blunt instantly sobered him. “As I said, sir, I cannot help with—”

“To find a legal loophole in that clause you helped Lord Ainsley write into his will.”

His face paled, but his eyes stayed on the money. “’Fraid it cannot be undone. I wrote it to avoid all loopholes.”

“Divorce,” Quinn bit out.

The man blinked. “Pardon?”

“Divorce is a loophole, isn’t it? If Belle marries a man who agrees to not protest a divorce and contracts the estate into her dower.”

“Well…I…” For once, the solicitor was at a loss for words. “I cannot imagine anyone who would willingly…And—and then the Church, of course…”

“But it is possible,” Quinton pressed. “And she would get to keep Glenarvon.”

Bartleby paled. “Yes, I suppose she would.”

“If that loophole exists, then there must be others.” Quinn placed half the notes onto the middle of the cluttered desk. “Find one.”

“I—I cannot guarantee anything,” he stammered out. “In fact, I doubt I can find—”

“But I’m sure you’ll try.” He set another note on top the stack. “Hard.”

“Of course, sir.”

Quinn nodded toward the money. “Failing that,” he added, putting down another note, “then I want you to find out how to go about buying the estate back from the Church. Who will be responsible for assuming responsibility for it.” Another note. “And how to go about approaching the man to purchase it.” One last note. “Understand?”

“Very well, sir.”

Quinn had no doubt that he did. But as he settled back in his chair and began to return the remaining notes to his jacket pocket, a new concern struck him. “It’s my understanding that Lord Ainsley put in that marriage stipulation in order to protect Annabelle from her father.”

The man hesitated. “From Marcus Greene, yes.”

“Find him.” He placed one last note onto the stack. “I want to know where he is.” The very last thing Belle needed right then was for her father to arrive on Glenarvon’s doorstep and cause even more problems for her.

“Yes, sir.” Bartleby reached for the stack of blunt.

Quinn raised his glass to his lips. He wasn’t any more optimistic about finding a solution now than when he’d stalked out of Glenarvon. But at least now the cogs were in motion. And when it came to Annabelle, he would take his victories wherever he could get them.