Emerald Garden (25 page)

Still Bentley hesitated. “And if Master Quentin returns before I?”

“Then I’ll fill him in on everything.” Seeing Bentley’s dubious expression, Brandi couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, Bentley, everything. I’ll explain exactly how—and where—we found Papa’s file. In fact, I’ll confess to our Townsbourne excursion on bended knee. Would that be acceptable?”

“Perfectly. I do, however, recommend that you wait until I return to delve into the matter of Master Desmond’s business skills—or lack thereof. He and Master Quentin are already on shaky ground. Perhaps I could broach the subject in a more subtle manner.”

“And I’m anything but subtle,” Brandi translated. “Very well, Bentley, I’ll let you initiate the topic of Desmond. Quentin and I will have more than enough to discuss until your arrival tonight. Besides, this whole conversation could be moot. ’Tis possible Quentin won’t return until morning.” Impatiently, she flung open the carriage door, apologizing to the startled footman as she leaped down and landed solidly on his boots. “Forgive me, Gruthers, I’m in a dreadful hurry.” She waited only until Bentley had alit before sprinting off toward the gazebo.

Bentley met the footman’s gaping stare. “Hold the carriage, Gruthers. I’ll be taking my leave momentarily.”

“Yes, sir.” Turning to stare after Brandi, Gruthers shook his head and resumed his post.

“Truly, you should be accustomed to it by now,” Bentley commented as he strode off in Brandi’s wake. He paused, scanning the oncoming path to determine her whereabouts. A minute later he spied her rounding the first bend, subsequently disappearing from view. “On second thought,” he called over his shoulder to Gruthers, “perhaps one never grows accustomed to a recurring tempest.”

By the time Bentley reached the gazebo garden, Brandi was talking excitedly to Herbert. The gardener was listening intently, wiping sweat from his brow and nodding.

“Hello, Bentley,” he greeted. “Miss Brandi was just fillin’ me in on your quandary.” He chuckled. “I feel for you—needin’ time off. I could use some myself—plan to take it later this week.” He shot Bentley an understanding look. “It’ll be a real pleasure havin’ Miss Brandi help in the garden today. The work’ll go twice as fast, and we’ll be done before the sun sets. Yup, I could sure use the help.” He wandered over to Bentley, ostensibly assessing the last few rows of geraniums. “Don’t worry,” he muttered for the butler’s ears alone, “I figured out your real problem—and it’s as good as solved. Until his lordship shows up at Emerald Manor, I’ll keep an eye on Miss Brandi.”

“I appreciate that,” Bentley returned in an equally subdued tone. “Very well, my lady,” he said in a normal voice. “Seeing you’re in excellent hands, I’ll be on my way.”

Brandi regarded him soberly, gesturing with the file she clutched in her hands. “I hope your day is fruitful, Bentley.”

“As do I,” he agreed. With a half bow, he retraced his steps and was gone.

Gazing after him, Brandi shaded the sun from her eyes and said a silent prayer—although she was entirely unsure for what outcome she prayed. To discover her father was the murderer’s target would be unbearable—but this vacuum of uncertainty was worse.

“These two damned rows still won’t respond,” Herbert muttered.

“What?” Brandi forced Bentley’s mission from her mind, squatting beside Herbert.

“I said, these two damned rows of geraniums near the gazebo are still dyin’,” he repeated. “I’ve tried everythin’ I know, replanted them four times.” He sighed. “Maybe I’m losin’ my touch.”

“You’re doing no such thing,” Brandi chastised. “Why, look at the rest of the garden. ’Tis doing splendidly. Perhaps the gazebo is blocking the sun, preventing it from reaching these flowers in particular.”

“No, they’re gettin’ plenty of sun.” Herbert scratched his head. “It makes no sense.”

“I tell you what,” Brandi suggested. “Why don’t we consult my gardening books? I know you don’t believe they have anything to offer”—she held up her hand to avert Herbert’s protest—”but maybe one of them can provide an answer we haven’t thought of. You must admit, ’tis worth a try.”

He frowned. “If you say so.”

An hour later, Brandi was leafing through the second of her gardening tomes and Herbert was snoring loudly under a neighboring oak.

Brandi smiled, lowering her book to the grass. ’Twas just as well Herbert was asleep. She wasn’t able to summon up her usual empathy for his ongoing geranium plight—not today. Shifting restlessly, she wondered how Bentley would fare in Berkshire. Would his theory prove true? Could someone have swindled her father, then killed him for unearthing the truth? And if so, how had the culprit known her father would be traveling in the Steel carriage the morning of the accident? Was he someone her father confided in? Or was he a mere acquaintance to whom her father had casually mentioned his plans?

Muttering one of her rare profanities, Brandi opened the file and extracted the ledger, perusing, for the umpteenth time, the columns of numbers, as if by poring over them again and again she could discover something she’d previously missed.

She was losing her mind, tortured by unanswered questions, impeded by promises that rendered her helpless.

Quentin was at Whitehall. Bentley was en route to Berkshire. And she? She was sitting beside an oak tree staring vapidly at figures she could practically recite by memory.

She had to do something.

But what?

There had to be someone with the ability to resolve the baffling contrast between her father’s customary success and his sudden, severe losses. Someone other than those who had perished in the carriage—and other than Desmond, who was an unthinkable source, given his lack of objectivity and unconfirmed business acumen. No, the someone she needed had to be impartial, familiar not only with her father’s business ventures but also with the business ventures of those gentlemen whose names appeared in her father’s ledger.

Someone like a solicitor.

Brandi was on her feet before the thought was complete.

Hendrick—that was it. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner?

Swiftly, she brushed the dirt and grass from her gown, careful to remain quiet so as not to awaken Herbert.

She’d promised Quentin and Bentley she wouldn’t place herself in any danger; well, speaking to one’s solicitor hardly qualified as perilous. And what better time to approach Hendrick than today, when both Quentin and Bentley were away and she wouldn’t be missed? She could rush to London and back, returning, hopefully with some much-needed answers.

And what better person to supply them?

Triumph glistening in her eyes, Brandi considered the obvious. Hendrick had handled the Townsend finances for years. Therefore, he doubtless possessed a thorough knowledge of all her father’s investments and could possibly shed some light on the puzzling losses depicted in the ledger, as well as a plan to either prove or disprove Bentley’s theory—somehow weeding out the innocent and, if necessary, converging on the guilty. Moreover, being that he was also the Steel solicitor, he might be able to clear up the perplexing discrepancy over Desmond’s business acumen.

That he’d be willing to help was a certainty—hadn’t he already offered her his assistance the day of the will readings? He’d be discreet, professional, and most of all, swift.

Her decision was made.

Ever so quietly, Brandi slipped away, hearing Herbert’s snores echoing behind her. She dared not stop off at the cottage—Mrs. Collins was bound to intercede with a hearty meal or, at the very least, a nourishing snack. She’d go directly to the carriage house and, in mere minutes, be on her way to London.

’Twas a splendid plan, she congratulated herself—one that even Bentley would have to applaud. After all, it would expedite his search, provide them with answers …

And keep her far away from danger.

Chapter 12

“P
LEASE, MY DEAR, HAVE
a seat.”

Easing back the tufted armchair, Ellard Hendrick waited politely until Brandi had complied.

“Thank you, Mr. Hendrick.” She perched at the edge of the cushion, her father’s ledger clutched tightly in her hands. “ ’Twas very kind of you to see me without an appointment.”

“Nonsense.” Glancing curiously, first at the slim volume Brandi held and then at the empty doorway, Hendrick asked, “You came unescorted?”

“Yes. I didn’t plan this visit—it was totally impulsive.”

“I see.” Hendrick cleared his throat. “Pamela’s jewelcase and silver—I presume they arrived without incident?”

“They did—the very day of the will readings.” A heartfelt sigh. “To be honest, I placed them in my nightstand drawer and haven’t touched them since. I’m simply not ready to confront such tangible memories. Especially the jewel case. It was a gift to Pamela from Kenton—and it meant the world to her.” Brandi’s voice faltered.

“I understand.” Tactfully, Hendrick rearranged a few papers, affording Brandi the opportunity to compose herself. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

“Thank you, no,” she responded in her normal tone. “Only some advice—which is why I’m here.”

“Very well.” Ellard settled himself at the desk, an expectant look on his face. “How might I assist you?”

“First, I want to apologize for bursting in here unannounced. I sincerely hope I’m not keeping you from another appointment.”

“Even if you were, I’d defer it. Whatever is troubling you must be serious if you didn’t even take the time to ask Desmond to accompany you.” A pause. “He does know you’re here?”

“No. As I said, Mr. Hendrick, the decision to call on you was entirely spontaneous—and entirely my own. Once I’ve told you my reasons, you’ll understand.”

“Go on.”

Brandi drew a deep, steadying breath. “I’m not certain where to begin.”

“Does this relate in any way to your father’s death? Have the authorities apprehended the murderer?”

“Unfortunately, no, they haven’t. But, yes, it does relate to the carriage tampering—or, rather, it might.” She fidgeted, staring at the ledger in her lap. “I know you searched through Papa’s documents—at least those in your possession—and for that I’m grateful.”

Hendrick waved away her thanks. “I only wish I’d unearthed something of import.”

“Perhaps
I
have.”

His brows drew together. “You?”

“Yes.” Brandi leaned forward, offering Hendrick the ledger. “I had occasion to be in Papa’s study today. I found this.”

Frowning, Hendrick took the volume and began skimming the pages. “ ’Tis a ledger—an accounting of Ardsley’s recent business ventures.” Glancing up, he gave Brandi a puzzled look. “Why do you find this suspicious?”

“You don’t find it odd for Papa to have concealed this book in his study rather than transferring it to your office?”

“Not in the least. Many of my clients maintain their own ledgers. It is, after all, their money. And while I provide them with interim statements of the profits and losses associated with their investments, some prefer to maintain personal records at home.”

“I see. So you’ve seen these figures before?”

“Of course.”

“And they didn’t surprise you?”

“Why would they?”

Brandi chewed her lip. “Mr. Hendrick, I don’t profess to be an accomplished business person. But Papa was.”

“I agree.” Hendrick toyed with his quill. “Forgive me, Brandice, but I’m not following your line of reasoning.”

“Then I’ll be blunt.” Brandi almost smiled, recalling Bentley’s dry observation about her inability to be anything else. “Given Papa’s splendid business acumen, it seems peculiar to me that nearly all his recent ventures failed.”

Hendrick gave her an indulgent look. “Skill is but one aspect of successful investing, my dear. An equally significant factor is luck. Unfortunately, during the past few months, Ardsley has been severely lacking in the latter.”

“During the past few months.” Instantly, Brandi jumped on Hendrick’s words. “Are you saying that Papa didn’t customarily suffer such losses?”

“No. He didn’t.” Hendrick paused. “If you’re concerned about your inheritance, don’t be. Your father’s investments with Desmond more than made up for …”

“This has nothing to do with my inheritance,” Brandi interrupted. She leaned forward intently. “Mr. Hendrick, suppose bad luck wasn’t the underlying cause of Papa’s losses. Suppose it was something else.”

“Something else? Like what?”

“Before I answer that question, I have one of my own.”

“Very well.”

“Look at Papa’s ledger once again.” Brandi waited only until the solicitor had complied before continuing. “Are you familiar with any of the gentlemen whose names appear there?”

“Yes, of course.”

“In your opinion, could any one of them be a swindler?”

“A swindler?” Hendrick’s eyes widened, the ledger striking his desk with ą thud.

“Yes. It occurred to me that since Papa’s losses were clearly unprecedented, perhaps someone led him to believe their venture had failed, when in fact, that someone was reaping all the profits—profits that belonged to Papa.”

“I hardly think …”

“But it is possible.”

“I suppose so, but …”

“I have to be sure.” Brandi hardly recognized that stern, purposeful voice as hers. “Because if one of those men was cheating my father and Papa learned the truth, that thief could just as easily have become a murderer.”

For a long moment, Hendrick said nothing.

At last he spoke.

“That’s quite a theory, Brandice. A bit far-fetched, wouldn’t you say? Given the respectability of the gentlemen in question?”

“Perhaps. But, in all due respect, sir, ’twas my father who died in that carriage. And I intend to explore every avenue I can—probable or otherwise—to unearth the murderer.”

Another pause. “Have you discussed your theory with Desmond? He is, after all, your legal guardian, and should be advised when you involve yourself with something as potentially dangerous as this. Not to mention the fact that he is responsible for Ardsley’s businesses and should know if anything might be amiss.”

“No. Desmond is—” Brandi hesitated, searching for what she could seldom find—tact. “Overcome with grief,” she finished inanely. “I didn’t think it was the best time to bother him.”