What an Earl Wants (31 page)

Mel blushed. “Leland asked me to walk in the park with him. You don’t mind, do you?”

Quincy waved her off. “Enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me. I have to pack, anyway. Our new solicitor, Mr. Hatchett, has already found several cottages for me to look at. I’m leaving early in the morning.”

Melinda gave her a quick hug, then was out the door in a flurry of skirts and ribbons. Quincy watched the door close, then propped her elbows on the table.

“You are certain this is what you want to do, miss?”

Quincy massaged her temples. “This is what must be done.”

Grandmère slowly nodded, looking every one of her sixty-three years.

Sinclair sat on the floor after Quincy left, his anger with her overriding the pain in his leg, the humiliation of his fall. How could she dismiss him, dismiss their feelings? What gave her the right to make the decision for them both?

He suffered through the embarrassment of Grimshaw calling for assistance to raise him from the floor. Still weak from his recent illness and accompanying inactivity, his leg had been taxed last night when he tripped over a bundle of laundry. His sudden movement just now, going after Quincy, had been too much.

Thompson skidded into the room, halting beside Grimshaw. Without a word spoken aloud, the two footmen picked Sinclair up and made the awkward, agonizing trip up to Sinclair’s bedchamber. His useless leg refused to support any of his weight. Without any of the obsequious fussing he used to get from Broderick, Thompson helped Sinclair change into a dressing gown and retrieved the bottle of liniment from the bedside table.

“I’ll do it myself,” Sinclair said, snatching the bottle.

“Yes, my lord. Do you require anything else?”

“No. Get out.” Sinclair flung his arm over his eyes. “Thompson?”

The footman paused at the open door.

“Thank you.”

“It’s been a trying day, my lord.” He left, shutting the door softly.

Sinclair wallowed in his misery a few moments longer, then sat up and began to massage liniment into his leg. The task kept his hands busy, leaving his mind free to race.

How could Quincy think he would ever be ashamed of her? He was damn proud of the way she had pulled her family through rough times. Proud of her ingenious strategy.

Eventually I would be exposed…
What did that signify? And if it ever happened, it would be a nine-days’ wonder at most, until the next bit of gossip came along. Being accused of killing his father’s rival was a scandal; having a female secretary was a flea bite in comparison.

Even if your leg was strong…
Sinclair stared at the spot on his thigh where Quincy had run her fingers. She had jerked her hand back when she realized she was touching his scarred leg. He ran his own fingers over the rough tissue.

The scar had repulsed her.

He sat up ramrod straight. She had it backwards. She wasn’t concerned that he would become ashamed of her, but that she would become ashamed of him.
Your leg is weak
…She would grow to resent being leg-shackled to a cripple. He would cause her pain.

He corked the liniment and put it away, retrieved the half-empty bottle of whiskey in its place, and poured a glass. He swallowed the contents in two gulps. Coughed.

Yes, it was best for everyone if Quincy left now, before his emotions became involved. Before she became deeply involved in his life. Before he needed her.

He grabbed the bottle to refill the glass but stopped, hauled back his arm, and hurled the empty glass against the stone fireplace. The glass shattered into a thousand satisfying pieces, showering the room with shards.

He switched the bottle to his right hand, prepared to throw it, too. He stared at the golden fluid sloshing around inside. Quincy had done them both a favor. Better to back out now, while they could both walk away with their hearts and pride intact.

Walk away. He snorted.

He raised the bottle in a silent toast to his former almost-fiancée, and drank.

He stayed in his bedchamber for three days.

On the fourth morning, Sinclair limped downstairs only because Thompson, the incompetent fool, couldn’t find the last case of brandy. Harper was of no help either, continually closeted in meetings with Mrs. Hammond. Sinclair had unearthed the case in the wine cellar, instructed Thompson to bring the rest abovestairs, and was heading back to his room with a fresh bottle when his mother accosted him in the hall.

“Benjamin,” came the command, “you will please join me in the dining room.”

“No need to shout, Mama,” he whispered, holding his head.

“I was not aware beards were in vogue,” she said as soon as they were seated.

Sinclair ran his fingers over his stubble-covered chin and shrugged. “Ain’t had time to shave.”

Lady Sinclair withheld comment while the footman set a luncheon plate before her. “We’ll need another place setting, Grimshaw,” she said. “My son will be joining me after all.”

Grimshaw scratched his head. “I’ll see what can be done, my lady.”

Lady Sinclair stared at the footman’s retreating back. “Most odd goings-on lately. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Most odd,” Sinclair murmured, wondering if his mother would notice should he slip off the seal and drink straight from the bottle, seeing as how there were no clean glasses on the sideboard.

“Now then, about Miss Quincy.”

Sinclair nearly dropped the bottle. “What about her?”

“I have not seen any of the Quincys in several days. I thought I instructed you to fix things.”

Sinclair squinted, almost uniting the twin images of his mother. “Did fix ’em. She cried off. Said she didn’t want to be leg-shackled to a cripple.”

Lady Sinclair pursed her lips. “I find it hard to believe Jo would say that. I—Yes, what is it, Daisy?”

The maid stood in the doorway, blushing furiously. “So sorry, my lady, but we can’t, that is, there ain’t—”

“Spit it out, child.”

“Beg pardon, my lady, but there ain’t no dishes for another place setting. I could dump out the sugar bowl if you like.”

Lady Sinclair’s brows rose. “What happened to the dishes?”

“Nothing! That is, they’re just dirty, like. All of ’em. There’s a big stack from the party last week, plus what we’ve used since. Alice, the scullery maid, left to go out walking with one of the grooms three days ago, and she ain’t come back.”

“And no one has washed dishes since?”

“Everyone says it ain’t their job.”

Sinclair dropped his forehead to the table.

“Do we think Alice has come to any harm?” Lady Sinclair said, ignoring her son. “Did the groom return safely?”

“Ned says Bart, that’s the groom, he talked about going to work for his cousin what runs a coaching inn. We think that’s where they went.”

Lady Sinclair sighed. “Find Celia, and the two of you start washing. I shall hire another scullery maid right away.”

“Yes, my lady.” Daisy bobbed a curtsy and fled the room.

With a loud clatter, Lady Sinclair set her dishes in front of Sinclair. “Eat.” She sniffed delicately and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t care if you have to chew parsley and spend all afternoon in the tub, but I want you fresh and presentable when you escort me to the Danforth’s ball tonight.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“And Benjamin?”

“Yes, Mama?”

“I never thought I would say this to you, but,” she sighed, “you are an idiot.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Sinclair ate. When no one answered the bell pull, he went down to the kitchen to exchange his brandy bottle for a pot of coffee. One glance at the teetering piles of dishes made him dizzy. He requested hot water for a bath and headed back upstairs.

He had plenty of time to think while he waited for the water, sitting in the chair Quincy had so often occupied while she nursed him. Many parts of her farewell speech had replayed incessantly in his mind over the last three days, but now he heard different phrases.
People I care for very deeply…

Did Quincy really care? He thought of how many sleepless nights she had spent watching over him. Cradling him in her arms. Protecting his mother, lessening her worries about his illness.

A knock on the door was followed by a parade of servants with his tub and buckets of hot water. No one spoke or met his gaze, though Sinclair thought he heard Thompson mumble something about it being “high time” on his way out.

Once he’d scrubbed himself raw and shaved, Sinclair sat back in the now-tepid water and stared at his thigh. He’d grown accustomed to the scar, he realized. The sight of it no longer nauseated him.

Five years ago he’d fled London, shaking with grief and impotent rage. Nothing he did or said convinced the scandalmongers he hadn’t murdered old Lord Twitchell. Leaving meant he couldn’t cause any further humiliation to his grieving mother, and it deprived the scandalmongers of more fodder by the simple expedient of depriving them of his presence.

Brentwood hadn’t been far enough away. Hell, all the way across the English Channel was barely far enough. He’d thrown himself full-tilt into his new life in the army. Couldn’t prove it by his chaotic household of late, but he’d taken an unorganized group of soldiers and turned them into a cohesive cavalry unit. He liked to think his leadership had saved a few lives on the battlefield. And, all right, he’d admit it, he’d hoped news of any acts of heroism he’d be able to perform would get back to London, and buff some of the tarnish from his family name.

But after surviving his first few battles, he’d lost interest in what Society thought of him. What mattered was serving his country, and saving the men of his unit. His disfigured leg was merely a souvenir of doing his duty.

Duty. To country, to family. A word Quincy knew well. She had skipped adolescence to take up adult responsibilities, in the name of duty.

Won’t be the cause of more pain for you…
With a sudden calm, Sinclair realized she had left him, rejected him, in the name of duty. An act of selflessness.
Not
because he limped.

More people could be hurt…
His mother, most certainly, even Lady Fitzwater and Leland, would be hurt by a scandal. Quincy didn’t know them well enough to gauge their reaction to being the object of a scandal, and so had decided to spare everyone the possibility.

To protect them, she had left. He should accept her sacrifice, and get on with his life. As she had said, it was for the best.

Besides, he’d already humiliated himself once by running after her. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

S
inclair stared into the hall mirror and made a final adjustment to his cravat. Before lowering his hands, he discreetly exhaled in front of his palm. Satisfied, he took his last sprig of parsley and tucked it into the vase of tulips on the console table.

“You look much improved, Benjamin,” Lady Sinclair said, descending the staircase in an elegant green gown.

“I pity Lord Coddington, missing such a vision as you are this evening, Mama.” Sinclair kissed his mother’s knuckles and helped her into the waiting carriage. “I hope you two have not had a falling out?” He leaned his walking stick against his knee.

“Of course not.” Lady Sinclair settled her skirts as Elliott set the carriage in motion. “He is expecting to always escort me everywhere, and I cannot in good conscience let him take that for granted. I will, however, save two waltzes for him.”

Sinclair leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. At least someone in the household was happy.

Once through the receiving line, Sinclair saw to it his mother was settled with a group of friends, then fetched her a glass of punch before heading off to the card room. He passed Lady Louisa and Miss Prescott, who both tried to catch his eye, but he pretended not to notice.

Perhaps by the Little Season he could once more contemplate the idea of finding a wife. He would not shirk his duty to marry and carry on the line, but surely it could be put off a few months. He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing footman, hoping it would ease the sudden pain in his throat. It was difficult to swallow around the large lump lodged in his gullet.

“Good evening, Lord Sinclair,” greeted a redheaded young man as Sinclair stepped through the card room doorway.

“Evening, Alfred.” Palmer’s nephew barely had time to nod before Leland joined them.

“Well, if it isn’t the Matchmaking Earl himself,” Leland said, grinning broadly. “Made any more matches lately?”

Sinclair wanted to be angry or even annoyed, but couldn’t muster the energy. Unwittingly, he’d made successful matches for everyone in his household, it seemed, but himself. He tried to shake off his melancholy. “Pleasure to see you too, old chum. And yes, as a matter of fact, I understand my former scullery maid and one of the grooms are quite happy together now.”

Leland let out a bark of laughter, slapped him on the back, and began explaining the joke to Alfred. Sinclair wandered away to find a game to join.

He gave up on the card room after an hour. No sense in losing all the money Quincy had won back for him.

Quincy.

Sinclair felt a sudden need for fresh air. He pushed through the sea of bodies. Where was that damn balcony door?

At last he found it. Just as he stepped over the threshold, he realized there was already a couple shrouded in the shadows, lovers undoubtedly escaping the crush for a stolen moment of privacy. He froze when he recognized Palmer and his wife.

They were not kissing, or even talking. They were simply leaning against each other, forehead to forehead, with Lady Palmer’s arms wrapped around her husband’s waist. Palmer slowly stroked his wife’s back.

The scene felt more intimate than if he’d walked in on them making love. He quickly withdrew, and casually blocked the doorway when another couple headed his way. The man scowled, but Sinclair didn’t budge until they had passed by.

Clutching one hand to his stomach, Sinclair made his way back to the ballroom and circled the dance floor until he found his mother.

“Sit down, dear,” she said, tugging him down beside her. “Whatever is the matter? You look positively ghastly.”

“I think the crab cakes disagreed with me. You don’t mind if we go home early, do you?”

“Evening, old chap,” Coddington said, emerging from the crowd. He handed a cup of punch to Lady Sinclair before taking the seat on her other side.

“I am certain Coddy would see me home if you need to leave.” Lady Sinclair turned to her cicisbeo. “I’m afraid my son isn’t feeling well.”

“Eh, what’s this?”

Sinclair felt his cheeks grow warm. “It is of no concern, truly,” he said. Belatedly he realized he was still clutching his stomach with one hand.

“The crab cakes, eh? Meant to warn you about those. Lord Danforth tends to buy his fish a day late.” Coddington went on to describe several stomach remedies, and their results, in excruciating detail.

“Oh look, dear,” Lady Sinclair said at last, interrupting Coddington’s monologue. “Isn’t that your friend Lord Palmer? He looks so happy. She must have told him.”

“Told him what?” Sinclair watched Palmer and his wife glide past in the waltz. Oblivious to several stares, Palmer held his wife with his left hand, his empty right sleeve tucked in his pocket, as they moved gracefully across the floor. The look on his face could only be described as rapturous, matching Lady Palmer’s expression. In a room filled with ennui, their joy stood out like a beacon.

“Their timing is perfect. They should be able to enjoy the rest of the Season before heading to the country for her confinement,” Lady Sinclair added with a smile of her own. She turned to face her son and stared at him expectantly.

Sinclair felt her gaze, but remained focused on the Palmers, reliving a memory from France.

In the aftermath of a battle, he’d found Palmer in a field hospital, his right arm a bloody stump just below the shoulder. Palmer refused medicine and food, repeatedly telling everyone within earshot he was better off dead. At last Lady Palmer arrived. She threw herself across his chest, weeping copious tears, for precisely three minutes. Then she ordered him a meal, a bath, and a shave, barking commands like a general. And like a general’s, her orders were promptly obeyed, even by Palmer.

Palmer had recuperated quickly, if the muffled noises from his tent at night were any indication. With his wife at his side, he calmly faced a future that would be far different from the life he had planned.

With his beloved wife at his side, Palmer could face anything.

Sinclair wanted Quincy at his side.

Duty be damned. Scandal be damned.

He wanted Quincy beside him, beneath him, on top of him. He wanted her in his library, in his carriage, in his bedchamber.

He wanted Quincy. In his life.

The music ended. Sinclair stared back at his mother.

“Well?” she said. She reached for his hand, which he was again clutching to his stomach. “The stomach remedy you need…”

Sinclair stared down at his whitened knuckles and unclenched his fist. His tight expression relaxed into a smile. “I know just what I need. Good night, Mama.” He kissed her on the cheek, then left so abruptly his chair teetered before settling.

“I knew I had not raised an idiot.”

“What’s that, my dear?”

“I said I believe you requested this dance, Coddy. Shall we?”

The street was clogged with carriages. At just past midnight, it seemed everyone in Town was traveling at once.

Sinclair stood on the Danforth’s front steps and pulled up the collar of his coat to keep out the cold rain. He calculated how long it would take Elliott to reach the front of the line, then navigate the crowded thoroughfares. Damn. Sparing a glance for the cloudy sky, Sinclair crossed the street, dodging between carriages and ignoring a coachman’s curses, moving as fast as he could with his cane.

After four blocks his leg throbbed. After eight blocks, he was limping badly through the downpour. By the twelfth block, he grabbed on to walls and lampposts and railings for support. Anything to remain upright and moving forward. His eyes stung and his legs felt on fire, but he didn’t stop until he reached Leland’s house.

He let himself in through the kitchen door, startling a scullery maid on her pallet before the fire. When she took a deep breath to scream, he tossed her a coin and kept going out to the hall.

The sound of his squelching shoes echoed off the walls, as did his labored breathing. His coat dripped with every step. He vaguely thought about leaving a generous vail for the maids.

At last he reached the Quincys’ door. He took several deep breaths and ran a hand though his soaked hair, pushing it out of his eyes, before he softly knocked. A minute passed. Just as he reached to knock again, the door creaked open a few inches and Melinda’s sleepy face appeared.

“Yes?” A moment later her eyes flew open in recognition and she let out a startled “Oh!” Sinclair heard a soft murmur, and Melinda spoke over her shoulder. “It’s Jo’s earl!” she whispered.

The door swung wide open and Lady Bradwell pushed Melinda aside, gesturing for Sinclair to come in. “What is it, my lord?” Lady Bradwell said as she tied the sash on her dressing gown. “Is your mother all right?”

“Yes, she’s fine, thank you.” Sinclair stepped into the doorway, looking past the two ladies to the door of Quincy’s room. “I’m terribly sorry about the lateness of the hour, but I must speak to Quincy right away.”

The ladies exchanged a glance. The hairs on the back of Sinclair’s neck rose.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, my lord,” Lady Bradwell said.

Sinclair adjusted his wilting cravat. “I know it’s late and this is highly improper, but—”

“But she isn’t here!” Melinda interrupted.

“Not…at this hour?” His voice rose. “Where is she?” The ladies exchanged another glance, making Sinclair swear under his breath. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“She left three days ago with her new solicitor to look at cottages,” Lady Bradwell said.

All the breath left Sinclair’s body at once. “Three days?”

“You know how fast Jo proceeds once she has a plan,” Melinda said proudly.

Sinclair leaned against the doorjamb and closed his eyes. He snapped them open when an idea occurred. “You must know where the properties are located. Did she leave you a list?”

Lady Bradwell shook her head. “I haven’t been able to tell that girl what to do since the day her mother died. We don’t even know when she’ll be back. She was in a hurry to be gone.”

Sinclair’s leg gave out and he slid to the floor. If only he had come to his senses three days ago. Or not let the love of his life leave his library in the first place.

“Oh!” Lady Bradwell rested her hand on his shoulder. “I just remembered the name of the solicitor.”

Hope flared in his chest. “Yes?”

“His name is…it’s…Mel, help me. The solicitor that the butcher recommended.”

“Hatfield? Hallett?”

Sinclair groaned and struggled to his feet.

“Hatchett!” the ladies cried in unison.

“Thank Juno,” Sinclair muttered. “Thank you, Lady Bradwell,” he added, louder. “I shall pay a call on him in the morning.”

“Godspeed finding my granddaughter,” she said as he left, “and good luck once you do!”

Sinclair had to open the door himself when he arrived home a short while later. Not a servant was in sight. His footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the hall as he made his way toward the kitchen. Turning the corner, he almost bumped into the housekeeper, just exiting the butler’s pantry. Mrs. Hammond’s face was flushed, as was Harper’s when he appeared a moment later.

Eyeing the pair, Sinclair stood still. Mrs. Hammond blushed even brighter. The awkward silence continued. Nobody moved.

“Are you two in love, or just cuddling in the corners?” Sinclair said at last.

Harper stepped forward, inserting himself between Sinclair and Mrs. Hammond, and raised his chin. “Yes.”

Sinclair nodded. “I’m going to obtain a special license tomorrow. If I get one for you, too, will you make an honest woman of her?”

“I—I that is…” the butler stammered.

“Oh my. Oh my lord.” Mrs. Hammond stared at the floor.

“We’ve discussed the possibility, neither of us is getting any younger, but—”

“My offer comes with one condition, however,” Sinclair interrupted. “Take a week’s honeymoon, and report back here in eight days. And make sure every blasted servant who works for me knows I have no objection to married employees. Is that clear? I don’t care how many more matches are made, as long as they damn well stay here!”

“Yes, my lord!” Mrs. Hammond gushed.

“Thank you, my lord,” Harper said. He took his intended’s hand and squeezed it, then gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Does this mean Miss Quincy will soon be joining the household permanently, my lord?”

Sinclair couldn’t hold back the grin that spread across his face. “I hope so, Harper. I certainly hope so.”

Resuming his walk toward the kitchen in search of food, Sinclair heard the unmistakable sounds of kissing, and grinned again.

“What do you mean, you can’t find them?” Sinclair dropped his feet to the floor and glared at Wooten across his desk. It had been three days since he’d hired the Bow Street Runner again, charged with the task of finding Quincy and/or her house-hunting solicitor, Hatchett.

Wooten switched his wool cap to his left hand to plow his right through his greasy hair. “I said I ain’t found them
yet
. Just need more time. I’m only here because you told me to report today.”

Sinclair groaned in frustration. “Go. Leave. Find Hatchett, or Miss Quincy, and don’t come back until you do. Just send me written reports on your progress.”

“Aye.” Wooten bowed and left the room.

Thompson knocked on the library door a moment later. “Beg pardon, my lord.”

“What now, Thompson?” Sinclair made an effort to keep from shouting. With the butler, housekeeper and Quincy all gone at once, the household was in shambles. This morning his coffee had been served in the sugar dish, and sugar served in a salt cellar. Heaven only knew where the salt now resided.

Even Lady Sinclair had given up on creating order from the chaos. Yesterday she had decamped for Lady Fitzwater’s home with two trunks and the parting words, “Fix it.” And the highly recommended Bow Street Runner hadn’t found so much as Hatchett’s office.

“Couldn’t help overhearing that you’re looking for a solicitor named Hatchett.”

Sinclair stopped pacing. “You know of him?”

“That runner’s looking in the wrong places. Hatchett works for common folks. His office is above a dressmaker’s shop. You have to go through the fitting rooms in back to get to it.”