Formidable Lord Quentin by Patricia Rice Read Free Book Online

seen the glint of potential gold, and his resentment toward the late marquess
raised its ugly head. Quent growled and a mangy dog dashed out of his way.
    Send the wenches and
the new earl of Wexford here, the letter had commanded. Quent could
practically hear the glee in his father’s voice. We’ll marry the girls off to your brothers and betroth the earl to your
niece. The dowager can afford to dower them handsomely.
    If her hand were forced, Bell would no doubt tie any dower
funds up in a trust so tight that his father couldn’t lay hands on it. Not that
his father cared as long as more of his liabilities were bartered off and
provided for, whether they liked it or not.
    The marquess thought in terms of assets and liabilities when
it came to family members. Bell would tear the old man limb from limb if she
knew.
    In resentment that his request for compromise had been
ignored, Quent had dashed off his own demand: Give Bell the guardianship or
the manor won’t be seeing a new roof. He could almost hear the old man
weighing the coins on either side of that argument. Their battles always ended
in a counting of coins. Quent almost preferred swords.
    A drunk in disheveled tail coat returning home from an
evening’s revels staggered into Quent’s path, then righted himself and nearly
fell onto an elderly lady. With a snarl, Quent grabbed the fellow by his wilted
linen and yanked him upright, daring him to take offense.
    The drunk obliged and swung his fist. Quent caught it, twisted
his opponent’s arm behind his back, and shoved him on his way. The drunk
yelled. The lady cooed. The altercation didn’t provide satisfaction. He stalked
on.
    Belle had not called on his aid once in the past week—an
ominous sign on top of the disaster in his pocket. Reaching her door, he rapped
with his walking stick, harder than entirely necessary. Behind him, the drunk
still staggered and shouted aimlessly.
    Quent had a need to beat someone, but even he must admit
that complete strangers might not be the best target. Bell’s drunken father
would be his preference, but digging up a moldering corpse might be considered
a bit odd.
    And he understood his own father’s desperation too well to
consider taking a stout stick to the old man.
    Wondering what was taking Bell’s servants so long to answer,
Quent stretched his shoulders in his close-fitting jacket in a futile effort to
relax.
    He twirled his stick and promised himself that in a moment
he would be holding a snifter of the late marquess’s best brandy. The servants
knew his preference, and he could settle into the handsome study with the
latest newssheets until Bell deigned to acknowledge him. The late marquess
might have been a pathetic old miser, but Quent respected his penchant for fine
furniture and valuable books.
    Still, no one answered his knock. Quent twisted his
neckcloth in the heat. The whole household could not have taken a day off. He
rapped again, more sharply. This time, a harassed looking footman answered,
gazed at Quent in dismay, and offered entrance. The Chippendale tables in the
foyer lacked the luster they’d possessed last week. The tall clock didn’t seem
to have been wound.
    Howls of fury and outrage echoed from the normally tranquil
upper stories. The footman raced off to the nether parts of the house.
    Before Quent could find his own way to the study, a savage
war whoop erupted on the stairs above him, accompanied by a clatter of boots.
Unprepared to be assaulted in Belle’s normally serene haven, Quent held his
stick at readiness and braced himself for whatever descended.
    He set the stick down again when his four-foot high attacker
appeared on the landing clothed only in knee-length shirt and riding boots.
Smears of red adorned his chubby cheeks, a bedraggled peacock feather hung from
a braided lock, and he wielded what appeared to be a wooden kitchen mallet.
    The brigand leapt from the last few stairs squalling war
cries. With the benefit of experience,