What an Earl Wants (3 page)

Quincy had apparently gotten over his initial discomfort of this morning, and made himself at ease at Sinclair’s desk, using every square inch of its surface. Sinclair hadn’t noticed before how slight of stature the lad was, dwarfed by the leather chair and oak desk, his heels not even reaching the floor. Quincy squinted as he tried to make out Johnson’s indecipherable scrawl. His expression soon cleared, as he must have learned the secret cipher.

He even began humming under his breath and swinging his crossed ankles above the carpet, looking more like a child playing make-believe than a young man at work. But it was no child’s intellect with whom Sinclair had crossed verbal swords earlier.

Time for a little reconnaissance. Sinclair rose from the sofa and settled in the chair across from Quincy. It took the lad several seconds to notice him, but he finally looked up with a start.

“My lord?”

Sinclair leaned his elbows on the desk, chin resting on one palm. “Tell me how you learned to forge.”

Quincy’s jaw worked for a moment, then he crossed his arms. “Have you changed your mind about Newgate?”

“No.”

Quincy just looked at him. Sinclair was beginning to think the lad would refuse to answer, but he stayed still, silently awaiting a reply.

“It was by accident,” Quincy said at last. He picked up the pencil, toying with it. “My…last employer was ill for a long time. His hands would tremble, which made it hard to write. One day I copied his signature on a letter.” He shrugged one shoulder. “After a little practice, he couldn’t tell my version from his.”

“You had his permission?”

Quincy looked insulted that Sinclair would even suggest otherwise. “Baron Bradwell didn’t want others to know how far his illness had progressed.”

“Proud man.”

Quincy looked up from the pencil. “Aren’t we all?”

Sinclair examined his fingernails for a moment. “I don’t recall giving you permission to learn
my
signature, or a letter from which to copy it.”

Quincy lowered his gaze. “I needed this job. Notes to merchants or agencies are easy to intercept.”

Sinclair straightened. “You stole a note from one of my footmen?”

“Borrowed. I did deliver it.” He glanced at Sinclair over the top of his spectacles. “Eventually.”

Pieces of the puzzle fell into place, giving him an entirely different picture. Sinclair wasn’t certain whether he felt angry or impressed. And he’d thought Quincy audacious before. “The employment agency didn’t send you, did they?”

Before Quincy could reply, Harper knocked on the door. “Beg pardon, my lord, but Lady Sinclair requests your presence,” the butler intoned.

Sinclair stood. “We’ll finish this later,” he warned, and faced the butler. “Where is she? The drawing room?”

“Her bedchamber, actually.”

Sinclair’s eyebrows raised. The butler gave a slight nod. Odd, indeed. Sinclair shot one last look at Quincy, who had gone back to organizing stacks of papers, and headed upstairs.

Hannah, his mother’s maid, opened the door before Sinclair could even knock. “It’s a miracle, my lord,” she whispered, “a bleedin’ miracle!”

Sinclair stepped inside the door, and froze. His mother was in front of the mirror, performing a girlish pirouette, her skirts flaring out. Her
yellow
skirts. Not black, not gray, not even lavender. Soft, sunny yellow. A color she hadn’t worn in over five years.

“Is something amiss with my appearance, Benjamin?” Lady Sinclair looked at him in the reflection. “Your father used to tell me this dress was flattering on my figure.”

“It was. It is! It’s just that, ah…”

His mother smiled. “You have been after me for ages to put away my widow’s weeds. Now that I’ve decided to do so, you can’t string together a coherent sentence?” She clucked her tongue, then turned to her maid. “Hannah, I think I’ll wear the dark blue. It would only shock everyone senseless if I were to wear bright yellow to Lady Fitzwater’s card party tonight.”

“Yes, m’lady.” The maid sprang forward, gathering up the yards of dresses and fabric strewn across his mother’s bed, setting aside a dark blue mass.

Lady Sinclair nodded. “Now, Benjamin, which ball are you going to squire me to tomorrow night?”

“Ball?” He swallowed.

“You haven’t forgotten our agreement, have you? You promised to attend balls—yes, yes, I know you still can’t dance yet—and look about for a wife, and I promised to dance with at least one gentleman each time we go. Have you picked someone out for me yet? What’s his name?”

Sinclair sank into the delicate-looking chair at the dressing table, grateful it didn’t collapse the way his knees threatened to, and watched his mother walk toward him, hands on her hips. “You spend your days dreaming up ways to set me back on my heels, don’t you?”

His mother laughed.

After a stunned moment, Sinclair chuckled too, from the sheer delight of hearing her laughter. It had been absent so long.

In the dark months following his father’s suicide, Sinclair had often wondered if his mother would suffocate under the weight of her grief and humiliation. She had switched to half-mourning only last fall, at his request, when Sinclair had been brought home to recover from his injuries. He’d suffered nary a twinge of guilt when telling her that seeing her in black made him feel his own death was imminent.

He’d meant the comment as a jest, but quickly realized he’d found a way to bring her back to life, to make her give up her isolation and go about in society again. Hence their agreement. He agreed to do things he’d planned to do anyway, but dragged his feet about them, until she agreed to do things she hadn’t done since becoming a widow.

This was the first time she’d followed through—planning to attend her first ball. He’d have to sort through his invitations, and older gentleman acquaintances, and find someone suitable for the occasion.

“Well, Benjamin? Whose ball?”

He stood up and kissed her cheek. “It’s a surprise, Mama.”

His mother gave an inelegant snort. “You haven’t the least idea whose yet. Why don’t you have your new secretary sort through the mail and pick one?”

“Have Mr. Quincy pick one?”

“Yes, Mr. Quincy. Had a nice chat with him this afternoon. Charming young fellow. I like him much better than Johnson.”

“Well, he certainly smells better than Johnson.”

Lady Sinclair smiled. “I think you chose well, Benjamin.”

Quincy the forger had had a nice chat with Lady Sinclair…and wrapped her around his little finger, too.

Before Sinclair could form a reply, his mother spun him by the shoulder toward the doorway. “Now, shoo! I have to get ready for Fitzy’s card party.”

“Yes, Mama.” He bussed her on the cheek again and set off back to the library. As he struggled to limp down the stairs, he thought back on their conversation, and the sudden changes in his mother. The spring in her step, the sparkle in her eye—if he’d seen that in anyone else, he’d expect mischief.

Sinclair paused to rest on the landing. His mother had seemed her usual self—usual since Papa’s death—at breakfast this morning. She hadn’t gone out, and no callers had come in, either. The only thing that made today different from any other day had been…had been her chat with Quincy.

Quincy?

He remembered his mother’s words.
Charming young fellow.

Had Quincy managed to charm his mother out of the blue devils? In one afternoon? When Sinclair had been struggling to do just that for years? Years!

But how?

His own words came back to him.
I think you bear watching, Mr. Quincy
.

Indeed.

He entered the library, noting that Quincy barely looked up as Sinclair sat on the sofa. He grabbed the folio with the latest report from his solicitor and again pretended to read it as he studied his new secretary. He had every intention of continuing their earlier discussion, but first he wanted more time to think about his conversation with Mama.

The lad was so absorbed in his work that he moved from the desk and knelt on the floor, organizing papers and stacking ledgers. Still kneeling, his back to Sinclair, Quincy stretched to reach another pile, the tails of his coat falling to either side. Quincy was wearing new trousers in addition to a new coat, as Sinclair had requested. The tailor had done fine work, despite any misgivings Sinclair might have had.

But something was wrong.

Quincy sat back on his heels, studying a piece of paper. Then he leaned forward to drop it onto a pile of receipts, his trousers stretched taut across his backside. Normally Sinclair paid little attention to other men’s clothing, other than to confirm that his own attire was appropriate to the occasion. But he couldn’t take his eyes off Quincy.

And then Sinclair recognized what was wrong. Though very circumspect, Sinclair was no monk. His last dalliance had been long before Waterloo, but he hadn’t lost his appreciation for a fine female derrière…and that’s exactly what he was staring at.

Mr. Quincy was actually a Miss.

Without thinking, Sinclair sprang forward, kneeling on the floor beside Quincy, and grabbed her wrist as she set down a receipt. The spasm of pain in his leg made his voice harsher than he’d intended. “What the hell do you think you’re doing,
Miss
Quincy?”

S
inclair heard Quincy gasp. She stared back at him, frozen.

“I ask again, what the hell do you think you’re doing,
Miss
Quincy?”

The fire popped and crackled.

Sinclair made to rise, but realized his leg wouldn’t cooperate. He couldn’t get up without first releasing Miss Quincy, and he had no intention of letting go until he had answers from her.

At last Quincy glanced at her wrist, still held firmly in Sinclair’s grasp, and back up at him. Perhaps a part of him had realized all along that her smooth alto voice was that of a woman, not a young man, but now it was as steely as her gaze when she spoke. “I am doing exactly what you hired me to do, Lord Sinclair.”

“I hired—”

“You hired a secretary.” Her words were clear and slow, as though she spoke to a child. A not-very-bright child. “I am performing the duties of a secretary. Is there a problem?”

Sinclair blinked in shock. “A problem?” He realized he was gaping like a fish just hauled onto the dock, and closed his mouth. She continued to stare at him, the picture of calm, while he tried to gather his scrambled thoughts. “She asks if there’s a problem,” he said, speaking in the direction of the fireplace.

“Because I don’t see that there is one.”

Oh, she had bottom, he’d give her that. And not just the shapely one shielded by her coattails. “How about, for starters, the fact that you lied to me?”

“About what? Everything I’ve told you is true.”

“True?
Mister
Quincy?”

“I never claimed to be a Mister.”

Sinclair felt his jaw fall open again, and closed it.

“I stated my name as J. Quincy. It is. It’s just that it’s Josephine, not Joseph. And I did not give myself a courtesy title.
You
did that.”

“You just didn’t bother to correct my misconception?” He raked her up and down with a glance. “An understandable misconception, given your attire,” he touched the soft, silky strands beside her ear, “short hair,” he used one finger to lift the top of her waistcoat away from her shirt, “and lack of bosom.”

At last he had the satisfaction of seeing her blush. It stole up from below her cravat until it covered her entire face in a delightful shade of pink.

Delightful? Bosom? What the hell was he thinking?

“The clothes fit better this way.” She swallowed, turning even more pink. “And this is appropriate attire for a secretary.”

When he didn’t reply or release her, she pointedly looked down at her wrist again. “Do you intend to hold me all day?”

Abruptly he let go, inwardly wincing at the red imprints he’d left on her pale skin. He half expected Quincy to rise and leave, but she pushed up her spectacles and sat back. Papers rustled beneath her as she crossed her legs.

Guiding his weak leg with both hands, he assumed the same position. Blood began to flow back into the limb. Another minute or two and he’d be able to rise with his dignity intact. Angry, but dignified.

“What now?” She calmly waited. No tears. No wailing.

Damn. He was more disturbed than she was. Well, hell, he was the one who’d been shocked, not her—she knew about her disguise.

Quincy entwined her trembling fingers, the first sign of nervousness he’d observed.

Maybe he had disturbed her after all. He sat up straighter. “What now? Now you collect your things, miss, and leave. Before I send for the Watch.”

She inhaled, intent on arguing, he was sure, but suddenly let it out on a sigh. A sigh of defeat. Now, why did that sting? He should be glad.

“Very well.” Her cheeks suddenly flushed again. “I’ve already spent the ten-shilling advance. You’ll have to wait until I secure another position before I can pay you back. Minus the prorated portion for yesterday and today’s work, of course.”

“Work?” He glanced around the room. In two days, all Quincy had done was sort through his mail. And rearrange his library, organize papers into who-knows-what-for piles, coerce his housekeeper into doing tasks she hadn’t done in years, and…

And make his mother wear yellow. Make her laugh.

Some of his righteous anger melted away, despite his efforts to draw it back around him like a cloak. Quincy had tricked him, had lied by omission.

But she had also made his mother smile. And ask to go dancing.

Damn.

“Yes, my work. I was just about to tell you what I had found. The confusing entries that I mentioned earlier? I solved the puzzle. Well, part of it. We’re sitting on the evidence.”

Sinclair glanced at the piles around them on the floor, and back at Quincy. “Evidence of what?”

“Johnson, your previous secretary, handled all of your accounting?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“He embezzled from you.”

Breath left Sinclair’s chest in a rush. “Embezzled?” The anger returned in full force, centering him, clearing his thoughts. He leaned forward, his voice a growl. “Prove it.”

Quincy didn’t even flinch. “He did it in small increments, so you wouldn’t be as likely to catch on.” She grabbed the top sheet from a nearby stack, and opened a ledger. “Here’s one example. See this receipt for brandy? Monsieur Beauvais delivered two cases, but the ledger shows payment for four.”

“Didn’t Beauvais simply deliver two more cases?”

“There’s no receipt indicating that. How long has Harper worked for you? Is he reliable?”

“He’s been our butler since I was in short coats. Of course he’s reliable.” Sinclair struggled to his feet, needing to move, to do something. “But I thought Johnson reliable, too. No wonder he and his bride were in such a bloody hurry to join his cousin in America.”

Quincy rose, as well. “They’ve left the country?”

Sinclair looked at her sharply. “How much is missing? More than this petty theft?” He gestured at the receipt in her hand.

Quincy paused, obviously choosing her words carefully. “My lord, if I were willing to steal from you in this manner, knowing this ‘petty theft’ was enough to get me hanged if caught, then I certainly wouldn’t hesitate to steal on a grander scale. Hung for a sheep, and all that.”

“Damn!” Sinclair stalked to the door and yanked it open. “Harper!” he shouted. “I want an inventory of—”

“My lord, wait,” Quincy interrupted. “Any items Johnson might have taken would have been discovered by now.”

“Not him, Miss Quincy. The maid, his bride! She had access to the silver, to the entire household.” He finished giving instructions to the butler, then closed the door and began to pace. “Misbegotten son of a—”

“I was thinking more along the lines of your properties, your investments, rather than your household. Johnson had access to your entire fortune, did he not?”

Sinclair stopped. He glared at Quincy.

She stared back. “You need me.”

He shook his head. “How much is missing?”

“So far? I can prove at least ten thousand pounds is gone.”

“Ten…thou—?”

“At least. Probably more.”

Sinclair rubbed his hands over his eyes. This was not happening. Not to him. Not now. Not when he needed his money for…Sinclair lowered his hands. The brazen miss was still staring at him. From across the room, and with her spectacles in the way, it was hard to discern the emotion reflected in her eyes. Pity? No. Desperation? Probably. Determination, certainly.

“You need me,” she said again. “It will take time to go through the rest of Johnson’s records and determine the extent of the damage.”

Sinclair shook his head. Again.

“How long did he work for you?”

“Five years. He worked for my father before that.” Sinclair suddenly felt drained. His physical reserves were still low to begin with, and after today—changes in Mama, the old secretary had stolen from him, the new secretary had tricked him—he just wasn’t up to it. He slumped on the sofa and lifted his right leg onto the ottoman. “A man can do a lot of stealing in that much time.”

“Don’t enact a Cheltenham tragedy for my benefit,” Quincy said, her tone aloof.

Sinclair almost laughed, despite himself. She had bottom, right up to the end.

End?

Absently rubbing his thigh, Sinclair watched her pick up the various piles from the floor and stack them crisscross on his desk, then reach for her coat and hat. She was leaving.

That’s what he wanted, right? Quincy gone. He’d told her to go. Not just once, but three times. His life was chaotic enough without having to deal with a female secretary. And if word got out, it would be disastrous.

A loose paper fluttered to the floor as she pulled on her coat, and Quincy bent over to retrieve it. Her coattails separated, revealing her very feminine backside. Again.

Sinclair raised his gaze to the ceiling, exasperated with himself. He had no business staring at her derrière. Regardless of how shapely it was.

To be fair, Sinclair conceded that she was good at what she did. Bookkeeping, that is. How long might the embezzlement have gone unnoticed, if not for Quincy? He certainly hadn’t figured it out in the three weeks since Johnson had left. And the changes in Mama, those had occurred in just one day. If the two women were to, say, have tea together once a week or so, what other changes might come about?

Quincy buttoned her coat. Pulled threadbare gloves out of a pocket and tugged them on. Started walking for the door, her spine rigid.

“How much time to go through all of Johnson’s records?” Sinclair said, calling himself a thousand kinds of fool even as the words left his mouth.

Quincy stopped, her hand on the knob. “I don’t know. Days. Weeks, possibly.”

Sinclair turned on the sofa toward Quincy, making sure her attention was centered on him before he spoke. “Then that is your top priority. You can begin first thing in the morning.”

“Morning?” For the first time, she looked truly startled.

There was a knock on the door, and Quincy jumped back.

Mrs. Hammond poked her head in. “I was just taking some tea up to her ladyship, my lord, and wanted to know if you’d care for a spot as well?”

Changes, indeed. “Yes, Mrs. Hammond, thank you.”

The housekeeper nodded, smiled at Quincy, and spun on her heel, leaving the door open.

Quincy cleared her throat.

He interrupted before she could speak. “You’ve earned the right to solve the rest of the puzzle. After that,” he rose from the sofa, drawing himself to his full height, “you’re done.” Her eyebrows lifted. “Do we understand one another,
Mister
Quincy?”

She raised her chin, eyes narrowed. Footsteps sounded in the hall, coming closer. For a moment he thought Quincy was going to fling his offer back in his face. But then she nodded, once. “Yes, my lord, I believe we do.”

Grimshaw, the downstairs footman, entered with a bucket of coal, preventing any more candid conversation.

“See you in the morning, then, Mr. Quincy.”

Quincy adjusted her hat. “Yes, my lord.”

He saw her smile, just before she walked out the door.

Sinclair poured himself a brandy and sat down again, his foot propped on the ottoman. It might prove awkward working with a female secretary, but Quincy would certainly continue having a positive influence on his mother. And Quincy’s position was by no means permanent—how long could it take her to finish going through the books? For Mama’s sake, he would just have to make the best of the situation.

And make sure Quincy kept her coat on.

Quincy stepped out the door, nodding a greeting to all the staff she passed, and made it two houses down the street before her knees buckled. She sat down, or rather fell down, at the foot of a statue guarding another town house. Her hands shook, her head spun, her stomach tried to take flight.

He knew.

He’d fired her.

And then he’d un-fired her.

At least temporarily.

She buried her face in her hands, her stores of impudence and bravado utterly depleted, used up in her brazen confrontation with the earl.

So much for her brilliant plan. At least the part about passing herself off as a Mister with no one the wiser. Quincy snorted.

The part about getting a job as Sinclair’s secretary, well that part was still intact. Somewhat. Yes, he knew, but he was letting her stay on, anyway. At least until she found out how much her predecessor had stolen.

Why?

Why had Sinclair un-fired her? Any reasonably competent secretary could go through the records and find the extent of the theft, now that she had pointed it out.

A little detail of their conversation suddenly came back to her. Why was he willing, no, insisting, on still calling her
Mister
Quincy?

Was he embarrassed to let anyone know she had fooled him, even for such a brief time? Quincy raised her head, her breathing returning to normal. Perhaps he was so impressed with her skills, he was willing to go along with her charade? Or was he simply reluctant to risk the scandal of anyone knowing he had a female secretary?

They would be working together closely.

Very closely.

A shiver tiptoed up her spine. A shiver, not of fear, but of anticipation. She cradled her wrist, where he had held her in his firm grip. He had long, strong fingers. Calluses. Small white marks from old and not-so-old scars. Powerful hands.

Powerful man.

And she worked for him. At least temporarily.

And they shared a secret.

If he wasn’t going to reveal her deception, then she certainly would not. Her sister and grandmother didn’t need to know that Sinclair knew. Not telling them wouldn’t be lying. Not exactly. Their knowing that he knew would only cause them undue stress and concern. Right?

Quincy’s head began to swim.

Whatever Sinclair’s true reason for letting her stay, she would find out soon enough. She needed this job, or more specifically, the wages from it, too much to quibble. She dusted off the seat of her trousers and headed for home.

As she traversed the streets alone, she was again grateful for her father’s pragmatic, flexible nature that had let her adopt “Joseph” and leave Josephine behind, irrevocably, when their family moved five years ago. Papa’s failing health had made it impossible for him to care for a household of women. Under society’s ever watchful eyes, “Joseph” handled matters Josephine could not, relieving Papa’s burdens.