What an Earl Wants (27 page)

“How does he do it?” Mr. Chadburn asked her one afternoon several days later. He had just delivered the news that their latest series of moves had netted a profit of ten thousand pounds for Sinclair, and five hundred for Quincy. She barely kept from dancing a jig of joy in front of the solicitor. “How did he know just when to buy and when to sell? We’ve been two days ahead of the newspaper, and all other investors, all week. Has he a Gypsy with a crystal ball?”

Quincy returned the solicitor’s smile. “Let us just say Lord Sinclair listens very carefully to everyone he meets.”

Chadburn nodded as though Quincy had just imparted great wisdom, and left with her new instructions, whistling a jolly tune. Likely he had made the same investments.

This profit meant she now had enough to buy the cottage she and Mel and Grandmère had wanted for so long. Just a little longer, a few more transactions, and she would have enough funds to comfortably furnish and stock it in plenty of time to get Mel out of the city before winter arrived. Her sister’s life would be saved.

The door to Sinclair’s room was open when she returned to her desk, and he was sitting up. Still bubbling with joy, she grabbed several folios from her desk and sat across from him.

“This came for you.” She handed him the monthly report. “You great looby.”

The swift change of expression on his face, from confusion to understanding to bashful, almost made her laugh aloud.

“They’re doing quite well, but I agree, they still need Chadburn’s monthly visits. Soon you’ll be able to cut those back to quarterly, as the men are quick learners.” Before he could say anything, she handed him the other folios. “Manchester is the best choice of these three. Better cash flow, better location, more forgiving while new innkeepers learn their trade.”

“You think you know all my secrets now?” Sinclair leaned toward her, his voice low and husky.

Quincy licked dry lips. “You talk in your sleep.” She watched with satisfaction as he considered what he might have revealed. She had no intention of telling him all he’d said was her name. Over and over. And over. “I told you when you hired me that my actions would be in your best interests. You should know that while you’ve been ill, I—”

The hall door burst open and Lady Sinclair entered in a swirl of burgundy skirts. “Benjamin, dear, tell me you’re feeling much more the thing.”

While Sinclair assured his mother she should indeed go out that evening with Lady Fitzwater and Leland as her escorts, Quincy scurried back to her desk. Her intent to tell Sinclair of his change in fortune was thwarted when he fell asleep immediately after his mother left, and he did not awaken before Quincy went home for the day. Tomorrow she’d tell him.

The next morning, Harper greeted Quincy at the door and informed her his lordship was dining in the breakfast room with his mother. “Leaning heavily on his walking stick, and had to rest on the landing when he came on to coughing,” Harper said, “but ’tis good to see him do justice to Cook’s meals again.”

Quincy murmured agreement and hurried upstairs. She could put it off no longer. It was time to tell Sinclair of her efforts to repair his finances. And if he was well enough to take his meals downstairs, he no longer needed her care. There was no longer a need to subject him to the risk of scandal by her remaining in his employ. Thompson still had not collected on his wager, but there was no telling how long keeping her secret would amuse him.

Alone in Sinclair’s sitting room, she sagged against the wall, blinking back a sudden tear. She should be happy. The goal she had worked so hard for, for so long, was now within her grasp. Her investments were now worth more money than she’d ever possessed, and the profit for Sinclair was even greater. She could move her sister to the country, where Mel would be safe and healthy.

But it meant leaving Sinclair.

No! She couldn’t. Not yet. But Thompson knew her secret, as did a footman at Brentwood. So would others, if she stayed too long. She would not subject Sinclair and his mother to more scandal than they’d already been through. It was time for her to leave.

She railed at fate a minute more, then wiped the tears from her eyes and moved on. She would concentrate on one step at a time, and avoid thinking about the empty years, alone and without Sinclair, yawning before her. She enlisted Thompson’s help in moving her account books and other accoutrements from Sinclair’s sitting room back down to the library.

“I’m about to give notice, so you can collect from Grimshaw soon.”

“You’re leaving?” Thompson dropped the books on her desk. “I’ll miss you, m’dear.” Quincy looked up in surprise as he patted her shoulder.

His hand was still on her shoulder when Sinclair walked in.

“That will be all, Thompson,” he said, scowling.

“Yes, my lord.” The footman bowed to Sinclair and backed from the room.

“May I say you are looking much improved, my lord?” Quincy said, pushing up her spectacles. This was the first time she’d seen him fully dressed since the day they’d ridden back from Brentwood. He was still pale, and his clothes hung a little loose, but he looked worlds better than he had that terrible night when she thought he was dying.

“You may.” He gave her a grin as he dropped into his chair and unfolded the newspaper he’d carried tucked under his arm, and began to read.

Quincy mentally rehearsed what to say. Sinclair might be upset at first when she told him what she’d done with his investments while he was ill, but that was sure to pass when she told him of the profit. She had completed the task of investigating Johnson’s thievery, the reason he’d kept her on. And after she confessed that at least two servants knew her secret, he would agree that it was best if she left his employ immediately. She cleared her throat.

“Bloody hell!” Sinclair shouted.

Quincy shut her mouth without saying a word.

Sinclair dropped his feet to the floor and leaned across his desk, his eyes fixed on the paper before him. “Quincy, you aren’t going to believe this. Here, read it for yourself.” He handed her a folded section of the newspaper, his finger stabbing an article.

It was a tiny notice, almost buried among the advertisements, concerning a ship headed for Boston that had gone down in a storm in the Atlantic. All hands were believed lost.

“My lord?”

“That’s the ship Johnson and Florence sailed on. I watched them board just before she lifted anchor.”

Quincy looked from the paper, her gaze locked with Sinclair’s as they registered the loss. The thieving secretary was truly beyond their reach.

She swallowed, still determined to confess before she lost her nerve. “Sinclair, I need to tell you about something I did while you were ill—”

“My lord?” Harper tapped and opened the door. “There’s a, ahem, person to see you. I’ve put her in the drawing room.”

Sinclair took the card from the silver tray Harper handed him. He let loose a string of expletives and tossed the card on the fire. “I suppose seeing her is less trouble than trying to avoid her,” Sinclair said at last. He reached for his walking stick. “If I don’t return in five minutes, come rescue me,” he tossed to Quincy over his shoulder as he left.

She and Harper exchanged puzzled glances, then the butler closed the door behind him. Quincy tried to turn her attention to the morning’s mail, but accomplished little as she kept glancing at the clock.

“M
y dear Lord Sinclair,” Serena, Duchess of Warwick, gushed as Sinclair entered the drawing room, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

She stood and stretched out her hands for him to kiss. “I vow, I cannot tell you how concerned I have been. First you disappear from polite company, then you decline the invitation to my little soiree. I had to assure myself nothing unfortunate had happened to you.”

“Didn’t you just?” Sinclair murmured as he kissed the air a good six inches above her gloved knuckles. The invitation must be what Quincy had tried to tell him about.

Serena’s perfume clogged Sinclair’s lungs. He tried to step back, searching for breathable air, but Serena tugged him down on the sofa beside her. “Actually, I have been feeling under the weather,” he said. Perhaps if she thought what he had was catching, he would soon be rid of her.

“So it was not just me you were ignoring? But of course. I feel so much better now.”

Sinclair coughed, a heavy, wet sound. Serena looked alarmed, so he repeated the exercise.

“Sinclair, are you all right? Shall I summon someone?”

He continued to cough. Serena held her scented handker-chief to her mouth and scooted away from him on the sofa. Ah, clean air at last. But she remained in the room, so he continued coughing. He had to look away; her expression of distaste and near panic almost made him laugh.

“My lord, I—” Quincy broke off as she stood in the doorway, gaping at Serena. Sinclair glanced at the clock; she was right on time. Quincy shook herself and hurried forward, and grasped Sinclair’s arm as she helped him to his feet. “I warned you about overtaxing yourself, my lord. Forgive us, your grace. Lord Sinclair is not yet himself.”

Sinclair leaned heavily on Quincy’s shoulder as he limped from the room, still coughing. He was about to give up the fatiguing ploy when they reached the staircase, but he glimpsed Palmer and Leland handing their hats to Harper at the front door. If he stopped and visited with them, he’d have to endure more of Serena’s company.

He gave them a jaunty wave and bent his concentration on climbing the stairs with his stiff leg, still leaning on Quincy.

Quincy glanced over his shoulder at the visitors. “I will take care of everything, my lord,” she said quietly.

“Never had any doubt,” Sinclair replied between gasps. Quincy always took care of everything. She’d become the one constant in his chaotic household.

Perhaps this pretend fatigue was not much of an act after all. His chest ached from coughing. He should have thought of a different ploy.

Quincy helped him into his bedchamber and summoned Thompson to attend him, then scurried away. Sinclair heaved a sigh of disgust and sat on the bed, rubbing his thigh. In addition to the usual ache, it was also stiff. Too much time in bed and not enough walking had undone much of his work. He’d been sleeping entirely too much lately, but at the moment he wanted nothing more than another nap. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

In that gray area between sleep and awake, he relived the moments of Quincy caring for him, holding him, doing her damnedest to make sure he lived through the night.

He’d been ten when his six-year-old brother had become ill. He’d been at his side when he coughed and wheezed, there when the wheezing turned to a tortured struggle to breathe. Still there when he went silent, never to laugh or play again.

He’d relived that panic as fluid filled his own lungs, certain he would soon join him in the hereafter. But Quincy, his angel of mercy, had been at his side, ordering him to breathe, to cough, to clear his lungs. As a good soldier, he’d followed her orders, and been rewarded with her embrace. She’d stayed at his side all night, ready with whatever he needed, even if it was just her comforting presence.

When he’d kissed her hand, the temptation to tug her closer until she sat on his lap was almost overwhelming. He wanted to embrace her as she had held him, to massage her stiff muscles, to smooth the creases of concern from her face. He wanted to kiss her sweet lips, but not at the risk of sharing his illness, and had settled for kissing her fingers. The dazed look on her face had been priceless. He should have realized no one had ever done that to her before. What other things had she missed out on that he could rectify? He would make a list and check them off, one at a time, after they were married.

The next morning Sinclair paced his bedchamber. Much to his disappointment, he’d slept so long the previous afternoon, Quincy had already departed for home before he awoke. He’d wanted to quiz her about her reaction to the duchess. Her look of venom at seeing Serena, however brief, was unmistakable. Quincy couldn’t be jealous, could she?

It was also high time he left the house. He hadn’t ventured farther than the garden in over a week. Time to go for a long walk, and see his solicitor. Quincy had been right about the property in Manchester. He would tell Chadburn to make an opening offer on the inn.

But first he’d join his mother for breakfast. He nicked himself shaving, and made a mental note to get on with finding a new valet. He cursed as he tossed the second ruined cravat on the floor. He would
not
call for Thompson or Harper. He could get dressed by himself. It might take until noon, but he would damn well tie his own neckcloth.

His mother knocked and poked her head in the door while he was mangling the fourth cravat. “Coming downstairs, dear?”

“As soon as I finish this.” He yanked the wrinkled linen from his neck.

“Why don’t you just have Quincy tie your cravat again?” She smiled. “I shall see you downstairs.”

Reaching for a fifth cravat, Sinclair froze. “Again?” How did Mama know…?

He finally got a knot tied to his satisfaction—seven was always a lucky number—limped downstairs, ate breakfast with his mother, who beamed at him, and called for Harper to bring him his hat, gloves, and walking stick.

Sinclair was about to walk out when he thought he heard voices from his library. Another visitor? He opened the door. The voice belonged to Quincy, who was alone, pacing before the window with the morning’s mail in her hands, thinking aloud.

“Good morning,” Sinclair called.

Quincy jumped and threw the mail in the air. “G-good morning, Sinclair.” She pushed her spectacles up, then bent down to retrieve the mail.

“Nice rescue yesterday,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. He watched Quincy reach for letters with shaking hands. Heavens, she was skittish this morning.

“M-my pleasure, my lord. Are you feeling better?”

“Without Serena’s perfume polluting the air? So much so, I’m off to visit my solicitor.”

“Solicitor? But…”

“What is it?” He watched Quincy’s shoulders slump as she stood up, the mangled mail in her hands.

“I’ve been trying to tell you, that while you were ill…”

“Yes?” He stepped farther into the room, a sudden sense of foreboding heavy in his gut.

Her words tumbled out in a rush. “I bought and sold mining shares in your name. A lot of shares.”

He raised his eyebrows when she paused for breath. The sense of foreboding hadn’t eased.

“Chadburn has all the details if you want to review them, but you made a tidy profit, enough to replace all the money Johnson stole. With interest.”

Profit? Interest?

He wanted to whoop with joy, to catch her up and swing her off her feet, even if his damn leg would probably give way and they’d end in a heap on the floor. But something in her expression gave him pause.

How did Quincy know about trading mining shares? More importantly,
this
is what had her quaking with trepidation? She should be pleased with her accomplishment, not looking like she was on her way to her own execution.

The imp of mischief made him at least tease her. “You forged my signature to do the buying and selling?”

She stiffened. “Of course.”

He grinned. “Living up to your promise? Everything you do is in my best interest?”

The smile she gave him contained more sadness than joy. She nodded. “There’s more, but…it will keep until you return.”

Sinclair waited a moment in case she changed her mind, then left, that feeling of foreboding returning, stronger than ever.

The clerk ushered Sinclair into Chadburn’s office right away.

“Lord Sinclair!” Chadburn fairly shouted, standing up to greet the earl. “How good to see you up and about. I did not expect to meet with you until this afternoon. Let me see if my assistant has drawn up the papers yet.”

Sinclair held his hand up. “What papers?”

Chadburn’s bushy eyebrows snapped together. “Authorizing the sale of your tin mine shares, of course. Aren’t those the instructions you gave your secretary to pass on to me?”

“Ah.” Sinclair sat down, relieved he had not forgotten something. “I have not been myself lately, and do not, er, clearly recall giving instructions for you. However, Quincy assured me that things have gone well.”

Chadburn gave a short bark of laughter. “If these decisions have been made under the influence of your illness, you may not wish for the return of good health, my lord.” He chuckled.

“Care to elaborate?”

“Thanks to your incredibly fortunate timing and action, you have added over thirty thousand pounds to your coffers in the last se’ennight. You may not recall doing so, but I have the papers with your signature right here.”

Chadburn showed him the documents, complete with his forged signature, which outlined the series of buying and selling actions Chadburn had undertaken, per the earl’s instructions as given by Quincy. “I admit I thought the moves odd at first, but after the first profit, I started investing a little of my own, as your secretary had done. Thanks to your knowledge and daring, we’ve each earned a tidy sum, too.”

Sinclair let the news sink in, resting his chin on his fist. As Quincy had said, all the money Johnson had stolen was replaced, and more. True to her promise when Sinclair hired her, her activities with her illicit skill had indeed been in his best interest. But how had she known about the changes at the mining companies near Birmingham?

Then the thought hit him—Chadburn said Quincy had invested, too. He sat up straight. Had she earned enough to buy her cottage? If so, she could even now be planning to leave him, to move her sister to the country. Is that what she had been trying to tell him?

The offer on the property in Manchester could wait. He had to get back to Quincy. He made excuses to Chadburn and hurried out to the street, headed home, shivering with a sudden chill. She could leave his employ at any time.

Leave him.

He couldn’t allow that.

He cursed his limp, slowing him down even more than usual after so many days abed. He had gone only a few steps when Elliott drove around the corner and pulled the team up beside him. With all the changes in the household staff, it was good to know at least Elliott had not been affected. “Impeccable timing, as always.”

“Yes sir, Cap’n.”

Sinclair climbed into the coach. “Home, Elliott, and spring ’em.” He braced himself against the squabs as the coach set off as quickly as traffic would allow. There was nothing to distract him now, as his thoughts tumbled over each other.

Quincy had bathed his fevered brow, shared the warmth of her body when he was half frozen, and put him to bed when he was foxed. She had seen him at his worst, and not run screaming into the night. She had rescued his household from chaos, extracted his mother from her mourning, and restored his lost funds. Josephine Quincy had become indispensable to his well-being.

She had taken over his heart just as assuredly as she had his account books.

Beneath her starched cravat and masculine coat lay a very warm and real woman. Intelligent, witty, a delightful companion, someone he could look forward to meeting at the breakfast table every morning for the next fifty or sixty years. And as for the nights before…He wanted to untie that cravat, slide her coat from her shoulders, and caress her lemon-scented skin. Kiss her senseless. And then he’d get serious about making love to her. That morning in the hut, delightful as it had been, was only a taste, a mere hint at the pleasures that awaited them.

But he was a man of honor, and there was only one way to have the Honorable Miss Josephine Quincy. One sure way to prevent her from leaving him.

He had assumed that she knew he intended for them to marry, didn’t need to actually say the words aloud. Knowing the hand that fate had dealt her so far, he now realized Quincy would make no such assumption. He smacked his forehead.

In fact, after living as Mr. Quincy the last few years, she might even resist his proposal, in a misguided sense of not wanting to blemish his family name or some such nonsense. It should be easy enough to dissuade her, though, once he started kissing her.

All his problems faded in memory, solved. Now he just had to figure a way to explain to Mama that he was going to marry his secretary. And get the secretary to agree…

Quincy paced the library, methodically shredding a handkerchief. Sinclair would return from his solicitor’s any moment now.

She should have told him, should have given notice before he left, gotten it over with. She shouldn’t have told Thompson to collect on his blasted wager. Now she feared word about her true identity would spread among the staff before she could warn Sinclair.

What a coil. She tossed the fragments of her handkerchief onto the fire.

Perhaps she could draw on Thompson’s sympathy for Melinda’s plight, convince him to hold off a while longer. Even though a footman knew, perhaps Sinclair would let her stay on long enough to reach her goal, to provide for her sister. She just needed a little more money, to furnish the cottage. And she didn’t want to leave his employ. Didn’t want to leave
him
. Not yet. Soon she would have to, but not yet.

But even if Sinclair did not make her leave, how much longer would Thompson keep quiet? How much longer would she put Sinclair at risk for scandal? Now that Sinclair’s strength was returning, he didn’t need her.