Page 43 of When the Scoundrel Sins

“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 tothat.

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 donotinvolve 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 onhim, 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 arealmarriage. 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.”