When the Scoundrel Sins Page 14

  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?”