What an Earl Wants (22 page)

She sat in the chair opposite him next to the window, where he’d been sitting for the past hour despite her protests for him to stay in bed. “We had it so much when Melinda was ill, now I can’t eat it without thinking
I
am ill. And one of us in the sickroom is quite enough.”

Sinclair flashed her a grin and went back to his soup. He leaned back a short time later after eating distressingly little. “Think I’ll lie down for a bit,” he said, pushing away the tray. “Chilly here by the window.”

Quincy opened her mouth to tell him she thought it was actually a bit warm with the sun breaking through the clouds, but thought better of it. Frowning, she watched him limp to the bed. “Would you like me to build up the fire?”

“No. You’ll get coal dust all over my account books. Have Jack do it.” He sighed, coughed, and settled under the covers. She went back to work.

Lady Sinclair dropped in to see him after her morning calls.

“Mama, what is wrong?”

“Nothing, dear. I just came in to see how you were doing.”

Even without being able to see her, Quincy knew from her too-bright tone that Lady Sinclair was hiding something.

“Fustian, Mama. Something has upset you.”

There was a pause, before Sinclair growled, “Mama…”

“I was at Lady Barbour’s when Dowager Lady Twitchell called. She still blames me for ruining her marriage. She tried to stir up the old scandal again, saying you killed her husband.”

Sinclair coughed. “He did drop dead while I was clutching his lapels. There were plenty of witnesses in White’s when I confronted him about his marked cards.”

Quincy dropped her pen. She had known of the scandal before choosing to work for Sinclair, but only knew the public version. She shouldn’t eavesdrop, but couldn’t stop.

“But you didn’t kill Twitchell, anymore than Twitchell killed your father.”

“The bastard cheated Papa—”

“Benjamin!”

“And may as well have held the pistol to Papa’s head and pulled the trigger himself. And the bas—blighter thought you’d run into his arms after Papa’s funeral.”

“I did love Durwin once, long ago. Long before you were born. But I was happy with your father. You do know I loved your father very much?” She must have touched Sinclair, because Quincy heard him kiss his mother’s hand.

“Yes, Mama. I know.”

“Durwin never forgave my father for rejecting his suit.”

“Some loves you never get over.”

A moment of silence. Quincy stayed still.

“Young Twitchell hasn’t forgiven you for what he perceives as your role in Durwin’s death. Promise me you won’t do anything foolish, like fight a duel. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.”

He coughed again. “At the moment I doubt I could defend myself against a ten-year-old.” Lady Sinclair must not have appreciated his attempt at humor. “I made that promise to you over five years ago, Mama. I haven’t forgotten.”

“I know. Just making certain.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Try not to be such a beast to your secretary. I feel certain Quincy has your best interests at heart.”

The door to the hall opened and closed. A few moments later, Sinclair began snoring.

So. The private version of the scandal wasn’t so different from the public one. How Sinclair must hate having everyone know his business. And poor Lady Sinclair had worn mourning until just a few weeks ago.

Whether Sinclair let her go or not, Quincy would have to leave. Soon. She wouldn’t risk putting them through another scandal. If one footman had seen through her disguise, so could another. Or someone else. She had to leave. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.

Except for Jack popping his head in the door to see if she or the earl needed anything, Quincy worked uninterrupted. She soon finished all the correspondence, signing Sinclair’s name where necessary, and declined all his invitations for the next two weeks. His search for a wife would just have to wait.

Maybe it would wait until after she’d gone. Then she wouldn’t have to witness it.

Sinclair slept through Jill bringing a tea tray. Not wanting it to go to waste, Quincy indulged in a cup and several biscuits. While she ate, she sat by the window, alternating between watching the rain slide down the windowpane and the steady rise and fall of Sinclair’s chest.

She knew what it was like to feel that rise and fall, feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek. She refused to dwell on the fact it would never happen again, that some other woman would be able to do what she could not. She had her moment of joy to remember, to hold close.

By late afternoon she felt caught up enough to read the business section of the newspaper. It was time to return to something she’d dabbled in back when Papa had extra blunt to give her and Mel pin money—investments. Papa had humored her by investing her funds as she directed, and was disappointed but not surprised when she insisted he reinvest her profits rather than spend the money on herself. Lucky for Mel she had been so stubborn—after Papa’s death, Quincy had gradually sold those investments to pay for Mel’s medicine and doctor bills.

If only Papa had listened to her advice regarding his own investments. Everything her family had been through this past year and more, everything that had been taken away from them, or they’d had to give up…

No. She refused to blame Papa for their predicament. Now, thanks to the earl, she had enough money set aside that she could invest some of their funds again. She would have to. Since she was leaving soon, she couldn’t rely on savings alone to buy the cottage.

“Quincy, you still here?” Sinclair’s voice was thick and raspy.

“How do you feel?” she asked, stepping close to his bed.

He pulled himself up and leaned against the headboard. “Damn. Haven’t felt burnt to the socket like this since…”

“Waterloo?” she finished for him.

He nodded. “Few days after, actually. I remember dancing at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Had a skirmish with the French the next morning, and damn near lost my leg. A few days later I woke up in a peasant’s cottage.” He rubbed his right thigh as he spoke. “Sort of woke up, that is. Needed so much laudanum, the days blurred together. Just as well. Damned embarrassing to have a strange Belgian tending to all your needs, and you barely have the strength to blink your eyes.”

With no one else about, she sat on the edge of the bed and took Sinclair’s hand in hers.

“Only thing that made it tolerable was they didn’t speak any English, and didn’t think I spoke any French.” He turned their hands over and raised them, dropped a kiss on her wrist.

Quincy had trouble following the thread of the conversation, what with Sinclair rubbing circles over the back of her hand with his thumb. “Must have made for some interesting eavesdropping. How long did you stay with them?”

Sinclair drank from the glass on his bedside table. “Most of the summer. Regiment had to leave me behind. The leaves were turning color before I could ride in a wagon without passing out. Spilt too much claret on the battlefield.”

Quincy’s stomach did an odd flip at realizing how close Sinclair had come to dying. She’d seen the scar, of course, but hearing about it…She’d add the Belgian peasants to her prayers, to her list of things for which she was grateful.

He patted her hand. “Enough reminiscing. Go home, Jo.”

She faltered in the act of reaching for the bell pull. Warmth suffused her at his use of her pet name. She wiped the sudden idiotic grin from her face and rang for Jill. “Not until you eat more soup, and drink another cup of tea.” She poured a cup and handed it to him.

“You’re a firm believer in this tea for someone who does not have to drink the foul stuff.”

“I have seen it work. Drink.” She answered Jill’s scratch on the door a short time later and set the dinner tray across Sinclair’s lap. “I realize you have no appetite, but you know as well as I you have to eat.” She grinned at him. “Otherwise you’ll waste away and we’ll have to send for that Belgian.”

He saluted her with the spoon, but ate only one mouthful.

Perhaps he’d be more interested in the apple on the tray. She sat sideways on the bed beside Sinclair and sliced the apple into sections, pausing every so often in the task to urge Sinclair to eat more soup. She picked up an apple wedge, intending to offer it to him, until she caught a whiff of its scent, juice glistening at one edge. Her mouth watered. She licked her lips and took a bite. Sinclair’s avid gaze darted from the fruit to her mouth. The last time she’d eaten an apple had been the first time they kissed. Heat spread through her at the memory. She bit into the apple again, slowly, and watched as Sinclair’s mouth fell open. The hunger in his eyes had nothing to do with food.

A tiny thrill coursed through her.

She picked up another wedge, viewed it from all angles, and looked at Sinclair from beneath her lashes. His breath came faster, and his mouth was still open. She took advantage of this and held the fruit to his lips. He took a bite, eyes still on her as he chewed and swallowed, but he made no move to take the apple. She held it for him again, and this time his tongue swiped the juice from her finger before he ate.

Oh, my.

They exchanged not a word. The only sound was the crunch of apple as she fed it to him, one slice at a time. Sinclair seemed to not want to break the spell, and she wanted to make sure he ate as much as possible.

He swallowed the last bite. “Anything more?” Congestion in his chest alone could not account for his deep, husky tone.

Quincy didn’t mistake his meaning for more food. Her stomach fluttered at the memory of the “more” they’d shared at the shepherd’s hut. Tempted as she was by the offer, now was not the time. With greater strength of will than she’d known she possessed, she shook her head. “How about you finish the tea?” Their fingers brushed as she passed him the cup.

He took a sip, reaching his free hand to grasp hers where it rested on her knee. “This isn’t so bad,” he said.

No, not bad at all. With her thumb, she stroked small circles on the back of his hand.

A knock on the door made Quincy jump up. Sinclair squeezed his eyes shut. She was tugging her coat and waistcoat back into position as a maid came in to build up the fire.

Quincy went back to her account books while the maid tidied Sinclair’s room, and soon after she went home, needing cool outdoor air on her flushed cheeks.

She still wasn’t satisfied with the amount Sinclair had eaten, but at least he’d been drinking the willowbark tea. His fever, slight as it was, should break by morning. Thompson had arrived to relieve Jack, so there was someone to watch over the earl through the night. His mother had wanted to stay, but Sinclair accused her of wanting to wrap him in cotton wool, and sent her away.

Grandmère and Mel were sewing Mel’s new gowns when Quincy entered their quarters. She would have offered to help, but since she had a knack for tangling their threads just by being near, she sat on the far side of the room and tried to distract Sir Ambrose by dangling a string.

“I didn’t realize how little I have been here since we moved,” she said, plucking the cat out of the sewing basket. “Where did all these pictures and such come from?”

“Lady Fitzwater has been very kind to us,” Grandmère said. “She claims these were items just gathering dust in the attic, and may as well be put to good use.”

“She has invited us to tea every day,” Mel said, cutting a thread. “James pushes Grandmère’s chair to the front parlor so they can do needlework together in the mornings.”

“James?”

Mel blushed. “Sir Leland’s footman.”

“Sir Leland often joins us for tea, as well,” Grandmère said. “He has asked about you. I believe he thinks you work too hard.”

Sir Leland asked about her? Quincy covered up her frisson of alarm by picking up Sir Ambrose. It was just Sinclair’s friend asking about her. There was no cause for concern. “I think I’ll make an early night of it,” she said, heading for her bedchamber.

“Wrung out from all the activity of the last few days,
ma chère
?”

Quincy couldn’t meet Grandmère’s eyes.

She changed into her nightshirt and stretched out on her feather bed, Sir Ambrose purring beside her, and tried to plan for the future.

Sinclair would recover within a week, two or three at the most, and then she would have to seek another position. She squeezed her eyes shut at the sudden pain of not seeing him anymore. Not working for him was unthinkable. So she wouldn’t think about it. Leaving, awful as it was, would be the less painful option than staying on, watching as he selected a wife.

Thinking of matrimony, there was another problem to consider. If her search for steady work took even half as long as the first one had, it would delay Mel yet again in putting up her hair and seeking a husband. Blast. Away from Hubert, their former landlady’s revolting son, Mel was beginning to notice the men around her. Quincy had even caught her exchanging a wink with Sir Leland’s handsome footman. Papa would never approve of such a match.

But she had to get Mel out of the city before winter returned, or they’d likely be attending Mel’s funeral, not her wedding. While Quincy rarely suffered from more than an occasional sniffle, Mel seemed to catch every illness that came along. This last winter had been her worst ever, including two interminable weeks when her very survival had been in doubt. Quincy clenched her fists. She would get her family out of the city. Somehow.

She would find a husband for Mel, and would not dwell on the fact that she’d never have a husband of her own. Nor would she dwell on the fact that the man she wanted would have someone else for a wife.

She rolled over and buried her face in Sir Ambrose’s fur.

What seemed like only a few minutes passed before she awoke. Her room was still shrouded in darkness when she heard a faint tapping at the hall door.

Sir Leland’s footman was poised to tap again when she opened the door.

“Beg pardon, sir,” the footman whispered. “But there’s a one-legged man in livery at the kitchen door what says Lord Sinclair sent ’im. He says he’s to wait for you.”