What an Earl Wants (15 page)

“I, um…” He cleared his throat again and decided to take pity on poor Quincy, who stood with her back against the wall, looking like she wished the floor would open up and swallow her. “I would like nothing better, ma’am, but I only stopped by to tell Quincy here that I have decided to visit Brentwood, after all.” Was that disappointment he saw on Quincy’s face? He stepped aside as Melinda returned to the tiny room. “I shall be leaving tomorrow morning, and won’t return until late Monday, so you can have an extra day off. Get settled.”

“But you can’t go without me!” Quincy appeared as shocked as her sister and grandmother once the words had left her mouth. “I mean…the whole point of going to Brentwood is to inspect the books, talk to the merchants, see if Johnson also played his tricks there, right?”

“Of course.” Did the little minx
have
to remind him of his failure? In front of witnesses?

“Would you know what to look for?”

“I think so, since you’ve pointed out his methods.”

Quincy shook her head. “But what if he did things differently there?”

Now it was Sinclair’s turn to feel trapped. He was trying to be a gentleman, but Quincy was making that impossible. She was right about the books, and they both knew it. Sinclair might recognize some tricks, but what if he missed something?

Faced with her damning logic, if he refused, Grandmère and Melinda might become suspicious of him. Should he risk possible damage to her reputation later, or reveal that he was aware of her deception now?

The little imp of mischief returned, reminding him how much he’d enjoy the time alone with Quincy. And how miserable he’d be if she left his employ, which she’d have to if her family found out that he knew her true identity.

Unthinkable.

He ran his fingers through his hair, hoping to come up with an alternative tactic. Nothing.

Mrs. Quincy kept looking from him to Quincy and back. She was assessing him, assessing his relationship with Quincy, he felt sure. Any other employer, any other secretary, and there’d be no question of them taking the trip together.

He sighed. “You’re right. I’d like to travel while the weather is still dry. Can you be ready by Saturday morning?”

Quincy nodded.

“I promise to have Quincy back by Monday night, ma’am.”

“Three days?” Mrs. Quincy said. “Yes, that should be enough time.”

“His lordship is taking Jo for three days?” Melinda said from the foot of the bed, disbelief in her voice and on her face.

“That will be fine,” Quincy said quickly. “We should be settled in our new home by then.”

“Good. I’ll call for you at Leland’s, then. Good day, ma’am, Miss Quincy.” He bowed quickly and headed for the door, escaping the undercurrents in the tiny flat.

They were right to be concerned about Josephine going with him to the country, and under any other circumstances he would never even consider it. But Quincy had forced him into a corner.

Besides, it was quite proper to take his secretary to inspect his country estate. And they did share the goal of protecting Quincy’s secret. What could go wrong?

“Are you serious, Jo?” Grandmère said as soon as the door shut behind the earl.

“Why not? We can reach his estate in one day, spend a day inspecting the account books and talking to merchants, and travel back in a day. Nothing scandalous in that, is there?”

Grandmère fell back on the bed, her arm draped over her eyes.

“He wants to get Josephine alone,” Melinda said solemnly.

“He wants nothing of the sort!” Quincy shot back. “I’m perfectly safe with Sinclair. He is a gentleman.” He had resisted any temptation to kiss her when they were alone in his library after dinner. Even when she was on his lap, practically begging him to kiss her, he had been a perfect gentleman. He had no interest in her, at least not in that regard.

Melinda looked horrified. “Maybe he wants to get
Joseph
alone.”

Quincy tossed a pillow at her.

Grandmère sat up. “Jo, why did he not simply send a servant with a note to tell you he was leaving? Why did he deliver the message in person?”

Quincy shrugged. “He was probably just out on one of his walks.”

“Not unless he was walking his horse, too,” Grandmère said. “He has a pleasant scent, but he’s definitely been on a horse since he bathed this morning.”

Mel giggled.

Quincy squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t need to think about Sinclair in his bath. “His leg is getting stronger. He must have gone for a ride, and while out he decided to go to Brentwood after all.”

Grandmère narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure he does not suspect anything?”

“Did he seem suspicious to you?” Both women opened their mouth to speak, and Quincy raised her hand to cut them off. “Oh, never mind.”

“Mel, please go see if the tea is ready,” Grandmère said.

Quincy flopped onto the little cot. Three whole days, alone with Sinclair! She covered her face with her arms to hide her grin.

“The earl is a handsome man,” Grandmère said.
“Très virile
.”

Quincy silently agreed.

“A man of the world.”

Undoubtedly. He’d traveled to France and Belgium, probably farther.

“A very open-minded man, would you not agree?”

Quincy moved her arms so she could see. Grandmère was propped up on one elbow, staring at her, her eyes bright.

“Do you remember what I told you,
ma chère
? Such an open-minded man would give you what you want, what you need. A few moments of joy, with no consequences.” She smiled. “Perhaps many moments, depending on his stamina,
n’est-ce pas?”

Quincy’s cheeks heated. At last she understood what Grandmère had given her carte blanche for. Good thing she was already lying down, for she felt decidedly weak in the knees.

“S
inclair, so good to see you,” Sir Leland called as Sinclair strolled, unannounced, into his study the next morning. “Care for some sherry?”

“No, thank you. Just need a respite. I hoped your household might be a little less topsy-turvy than mine at the moment.” He settled on a sofa that looked a little worse for wear. The Turkish carpet beneath his feet was threadbare in places, but it was a carpet. The only floor covering in Quincy’s flat had been a scrap before the fireplace, covered with cat hair.

At Leland’s raised eyebrow, Sinclair told him about the latest changes in his staff.

“Another match! Oh, this is wonderful! And twins, you say! Wait until I tell Palmer!”

“It’s not that funny, damn it!” Sinclair grinned in spite of himself. He started to speak again, but heard what sounded like a small army marching through the back of the house.

“Mama’s new tenants must have arrived,” Leland said, rising.

Grateful he wouldn’t have to be crass enough to suggest they go have a look, Sinclair followed his host’s lead.

“Do please bring your grandmother in here, Mr. Quincy,” Lady Fitzwater called from the front parlor doorway. She smiled politely at her son and Sinclair, then returned her attention to the activity in the hall.

Sinclair stared at the line of people marching up the hall. Quincy pushed her grandmother in her Bath chair, their gray tabby perched on Mrs. Quincy’s lap like a king on his throne. They were followed by two fellows with bloodstained aprons, obviously father and son, carrying the mahogany wardrobe. Behind them came four boys of varying ages, carrying pieces of furniture and belongings. Melinda trailed at the end of the column, her arms full with a small crate.

Quincy directed the troop into the appropriate room, while wheeling her grandmother close to Lady Fitzwater.

“One more trip should empty the cart, Mr. Quincy,” the big man boomed. “You stay here with your womenfolk.”

“Thank you, Sam. I don’t know what we would have done without your help. Or your boys.”

Sinclair coughed to hide his smile. Quincy’s ability to wrap people around her finger was not limited to his household.

“Yes, thank you,” Melinda said. The eldest boy blushed. His father gave him a playful punch that almost knocked him off his feet, and they set out for another load.

“Lady Bradwell!” Lady Fitzwater gushed to Quincy’s grandmother. “It’s so good to see you again!”

Bradwell?
That name seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Sinclair looked at the two older women, then across to Quincy. It took a moment to recognize the expression in her eyes.

Panic.

“My goodness, is that you, Fitzy? When Jo said—I never imagined!”

Lady Fitzwater bent down to kiss Mrs. Quincy, no
Lady Bradwell’s
, cheek. They clasped hands. Quincy looked torn between the desire to flee and for a hole to open up in the floor.
You’re not going anywhere, my dear. This is just getting interesting.

“I haven’t seen you since…goodness, since before your confinement, Fitzy.”

Lady Fitzwater beamed, and gestured for her son to come near. Leland left Sinclair’s side and submitted to a kiss from his mother. “Leland, Lady Bradwell introduced me to your father. Such a matchmaker you were in those days, Dominique!”

Quincy’s panic eased enough to show surprise at the revelation about her grandmother.

Leland bowed over Lady Bradwell’s hand, and they exchanged greetings.

“You already know my Jo,” Lady Bradwell said, patting Quincy’s hand where it rested, white-knuckled, on the back of the Bath chair. “Allow me to present my granddaughter, Melinda Quincy.”

Quincy’s grandmother continued the charade without actually lying. Nicely done.

Melinda came forward and curtsied. Leland’s mouth fell open. His mother had to nudge him in the ribs before he performed the niceties.

Lady Fitzwater suggested they move into the parlor to catch up. Quincy pushed her grandmother’s chair into place beside the sofa, then excused herself, saying she had to check on her helpers. Already deep in conversation, the ladies paid scant attention to her departure.

“Until tomorrow, Mr. Quincy?” Sinclair called as she dashed out of the room.

“Tomorrow,” Quincy repeated.

With a thoughtful glance at Lady Fitzwater and “Lady Bradwell,” Sinclair invited Leland to be his guest for an early luncheon at their club, and they left the ladies to their coze.

“Who’s here already?” Quincy sat up despite her aching body’s protest, forced her other eye open, and tried to bring Mel’s face into focus.

It must have been after midnight before she finally dropped onto her straw pallet, exhausted from a day of packing, carrying, and unpacking. Now, living in Sir Leland’s house, she had to keep up appearances even in sleep, for it would spell disaster if anyone discovered Melinda and “Joe” shared a bed, as they had in their old flat. Their private flat, where no coal-carrying maids came and went unannounced.

With the money Sam had saved her by not having to hire a carter, she’d buy another bed as soon as she returned from—“Sinclair’s here? Now?” She threw back the covers, jumped up as fast as her aching muscles allowed, and yanked her nightshirt over her head. “Go make him some tea or something. I’ll be right there.”

Melinda nodded and closed the door behind her.

Quincy dressed and tied her cravat with all the speed she could muster. She ran the brush through her short hair and tossed it in the portmanteau she’d packed the night before, and opened the partition door that led to the main section of the parlor. Grandmère’s and Mel’s bedchambers were on the far side, also separated by partitions that could slide back to reveal an area large enough for a modest ball.

“Good morning,” Sinclair said, sitting at their pitifully small table in the big room, Sir Ambrose draped over his lap. Sinclair scratched behind the cat’s ears and took a sip of tea.

“Sorry I’m late. The clock stopped yesterday, and this street is much more quiet than—”

“You’re not late. I’m early.” Sinclair pulled out his watch and showed her it was only half past six. “Sit. Eat. Your sister makes wonderful scones.”

Dreaming. Yes, she must still be in her bed, thinking the Earl of Sinclair sat in their quarters, sipping tea, stroking her cat, with her sister looking on, wearing her night rail and dressing gown. Quincy lowered herself into a chair and held up the cup Mel set on the table. Hot tea splashed on her wrist as Mel poured.

No, not dreaming. Blast.

“I confess to finding myself eager for the ride out to Brentwood,” Sinclair said with a sheepish grin. Mel flashed her a triumphant look over his head. “Leland and I have run tame in each other’s houses for years, so the cook thought nothing of letting me in. I was prepared to wait in the front parlor, until the most delicious scent of freshly baked scones reached me, and your sister took pity on me.”

Quincy sipped her tea. “Yes, Mel’s quite good at cooking up things,” she said. Mel glared at her.

As if sensing undercurrents, Sinclair set Ambrose on the floor and rose. “I’ll leave you to your breakfast and goodbyes. The horses are in the mews; I’ll wait for you there.”

“Horses?” she said blankly.

“Yes. You do ride, don’t you?”

“Of course. Just not, um, recently.” Not since she was thirteen, and never astride, at least not with a saddle. “I’ll be along shortly.”

“Good. And thank you again, Miss Quincy.” The earl bowed and let himself out before he could see Mel blush.

“Well, does this prove to you he has no nefarious plans in mind?” Quincy asked her sister, while they searched through the stacked crates for boots.

“How do you mean?” Mel dug Papa’s worn leather boots out from the back of the wardrobe.

Quincy stuffed a stocking in the toe of each boot. “He could hardly have his wicked way with me if we’re both on horseback, instead of riding in a closed carriage.”

Mel chewed on her bottom lip. “I don’t know. In some of the Minerva Press novels I’ve read, the villain—”

Quincy threw a scone at her. After changing footgear, stowing her shoes in her portmanteau and saying a quick good-bye to her sleepy grandmother, she headed out for the mews.

“I thought it may have been a while since you rode, so I chose a gentle mount,” Sinclair said, holding the reins of a gray gelding. “Meet Clarence.”

Quincy grinned and stepped forward to stroke the horse’s forehead. “Hello, Clarence.” The horse whickered and raised his head to nibble on her hat brim. “Hey, I need that!” When Quincy pulled her hat out of his reach, he sniffed around her neck, his long whiskers and warm breath tickling her, then moved on to nuzzle her pockets.

“Here,” Sinclair said, pulling several lumps of sugar from his pocket. “He has a bit of a sweet tooth. My mother has spoiled him horribly.”

Quincy chuckled as she took the sugar, and was careful to hold her fingers flat while Clarence inhaled the lump from her palm.

“Climb up, and we can be on our way before the rest of the city is out of bed.” Sinclair swung up into the saddle of his bay mare with a grace and ease Quincy enjoyed watching.

It was his movement she admired, she told herself, not his form. Not the way sitting astride made his trousers hug his muscular thighs. With a sigh of pleasure, she turned back to her own horse before Sinclair noticed her staring at him.

The saddle was a long way up from the ground. The stirrup barely reached down to her hip. She couldn’t possibly get her foot in it, let alone use it to jump up into the saddle. As a child, when she’d ridden the neighbor’s horses running loose in the pasture, she hadn’t needed saddle or stirrups to get up on those enormous creatures. And now she wasn’t even hampered by skirts.

While Sinclair spoke to Sir Leland’s only groom, Quincy patted Clarence once more and took a few steps back. With a last glance to make sure no one observed her, she hopped up, bracing her hands on the horse’s back. She forgot to keep her arms stiff and almost went too far, and ended up slung over Clarence’s back. The pommel dug into her ribs, knocking the breath from her lungs.

Muffled noises told her she had an audience. She raised herself up and swung her leg over. At least she faced the horse’s head and not his tail.

She glanced over at Sinclair, who was valiantly trying not to smile. The groom bent over to brush dirt off his boot, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “I did say it has been a while since I rode,” she said stiffly. She thought of the absurd picture she must have made and grinned. “Now that I’ve provided you with your laugh for the day, would you hand me my bag, please?” she asked the groom.

“Yes sir,” he said, his grin nearly splitting his face. He helped her tie the portmanteau to the pommel, and she and Sinclair trotted out into the street.

She let Sinclair lead the way, weaving between the farmers’ carts and dodging the street vendors. They soon left the city behind and he nudged his mare into a canter. Quincy kept Clarence to the side and a little behind, the better to watch how Sinclair rode and controlled his horse. She mimicked Sinclair’s motions, moving in rhythm with her horse’s stride, and soon stopped feeling like a sack of potatoes jouncing along in the saddle.

Once she was no longer in imminent danger of falling off, she relaxed and began to enjoy the ride. She felt the horse’s power between her knees, his muscles flexing and shifting with each stride, carrying her swiftly, high above the ground. The wind whistled past, its chill bite dispelling any traces of fatigue, stinging her cheeks and ears, leaving her exhilarated.

Sinclair set the paces, from a walk to a canter to a gallop, then down again, preventing the need to change horses at any of the inns they rode past. Quincy easily kept up, thanks more to Clarence following the mare’s lead than to her own skill.

A mail coach passed them, three boys riding on top whistling and cheering as the coach left them in a cloud of dust. Not long after, the coach reached a mail stop and Sinclair whistled at the boys as they overtook the coach. They galloped for several minutes. For the first time that day, they were alone on the road, with no traffic visible in either direction. Sinclair slowed the horses down to a walk.

“So your grandmother is Lady Bradwell,” Sinclair said without preamble.

Quincy almost fell out of the saddle. Clarence whickered in protest as she pulled on the reins, righting herself. She’d been hoping Sinclair hadn’t paid attention yesterday. Drat the man.

“That would make Baron Bradwell your previous employer, as well as…?”

“Father.”

Sinclair nudged his horse to the other side of the road, away from a muddy rut. She couldn’t read his expression.

Quincy followed suit. How bad could this be? He already knew her biggest secret, and had kept her on anyway. He wouldn’t use this latest information as grounds to terminate her employment, would he? They were getting along so well. She hadn’t discovered the full extent of Johnson’s thievery yet, and Sinclair had promised she could stay on at least until then.

And she was making progress on her main goal. Even with moving, they still had funds saved toward their cottage. Every day in Sinclair’s employ meant the chance to set more money aside. She had to get Mel out of the city before winter came again.

Practical considerations aside, she liked working for Sinclair. Liked Sinclair.

“So Baron Bradwell, the man who signed your reference, was your father.”

They rode side by side now. She nodded.

“A
glowing
reference, by the way.” Sinclair looked at her sideways.

“He did say those things about my skills. I just wrote them down for him.” She tried to keep her tone light, but heard the defensive note creeping in.

“After he died?”

Quincy shrugged.

“And his signature?”

“I never said it was
not
a forgery.”

Sinclair tilted his head to one side. “True.”

She took his wry grin as a good sign. When he pointed out a clump of tulips blooming beside the stone wall bordering the road, she tried to relax and enjoy the ride again. She didn’t realize how far they’d traveled or how much time had passed until her stomach growled.