What an Earl Wants (4 page)

A few snips of the scissors to her hair, a few tucks to secondhand trousers and coats, and the transition was complete. Final. Giving up any girlish dreams about her future had been worth the peace of mind her new role gave her. She hardly ever imagined herself wearing a gown, and instead enjoyed the freedom of movement allowed by wearing trousers.

She had to focus on the positive, on the gains. Because the losses were just too great to bear.

Living in a small cottage and leasing out their manor house had generated enough money to pay bills and keep food on the table. Everything had been fine until Papa’s death last spring. With no male heirs, by law his title and entailed property—everything—had reverted back to the crown. Stupid laws.

Quincy kicked a pebble, watched it careen off a lamppost, then with grim satisfaction saw it squashed under the wheels of a passing hackney into a pile of horse droppings.

To distract herself from her own problems, she thought about the earl’s. Surely Johnson could not have done too much damage? Not enough to beggar the earl. Not enough for him to exercise strict economies, like cutting back on his staff. Not when she was so close to getting her family out of dun territory, and moving her sister out of the city.

“Jo, you’ll never guess what Madame Chantel gave me today!” Melinda greeted Quincy when she walked in the door.

Quincy pasted a smile on her face. “What did she give you?”

Melinda held out her upturned palm, showing a shiny new guinea. “A bonus! She said Lady M was so pleased with the embroidery on her ballgown, she paid her a bonus, so Chantel gave us a bonus, too!”

“I’ll wager Lady M paid Chantel a great deal more than a guinea.”

“Don’t cavil! Every penny helps, you said so yourself.”

Quincy exhaled. “I did indeed.”

“Haven’t you put that away yet, Mel?” Grandmère called from her chair by the window.

“I’m doing it now. How much have we got, Jo? You know I have no head for sums.”

Quincy picked up a jar from the top shelf without disturbing the gray cat sleeping there, took out the paper twist of tea on top, and poured the coins onto the table. “Give me a moment, please. I can’t think with someone leaning over my shoulder.” The image of the handsome earl, as he towered over her this afternoon, rose in her mind. Even when sitting on the floor, he had been formidable. Their knees had touched, and for several seconds she’d been unable to move, stunned by the unexpected intimacy.

Melinda sat at the other side of the table, her hands demurely folded, and watched Quincy stack the coins.

“I’ve already paid Mrs. Linley the rent, so I think we have enough to buy food and coal until next quarter day,” Quincy said at last. “I just hope summer comes early, so we can cut back on the coal soon.”

“You really didn’t need to buy this length of muslin,” Grandmère said. The fabric lay across her lap as she transformed it into a dress.

“Yes, I did. Now that she’s getting better, Melinda is growing so much her gowns are almost indecent.” She looked at Mel. “I’ve seen Mrs. Linley’s son watching you get water from the pump. The way he follows you around, he should at least offer to help you up the stairs with the bucket.”

Mel blushed. “He does, sometimes. Sometimes he walks behind me up the stairs, to catch me should I fall.”

Quincy and Grandmère exchanged glances.

“See that he doesn’t ‘catch’ you
before
you fall, miss.”

“Yes, Grandmère.”

“With my salary and the wages you two earn from Madame Chantel, barring anything unexpected, this summer we should finally be able to start saving to buy our cottage.” And barring her un-firing being only temporary, she silently amended. She would just have to make herself indispensable to the earl. Make him need her. Make him keep paying her a salary.

Even with her new job, if they relied on savings alone, she’d die of old age before they had enough money to buy a cottage. Quincy needed to scrape up enough to get back into the Exchange. Buying and selling investments on the ’Change was their only hope. She scooped the money back into the jar and covered it with the tea.

“Our own cottage? You really think so, Jo? Sometimes I can’t remember what it was like to live in the country.”

Quincy’s heart twisted at the wistful expression on her sister’s face. “We’ll get there yet, Mel.” Just so long as a certain prior secretary hadn’t beggared the earl.

She fervently hoped they wouldn’t need to repeat the process of finding a new employer. Grandmère had agreed to Quincy’s scheme only after Melinda nearly succumbed to lung fever during the winter. Though they’d never say it aloud, neither of them thought Mel would survive another winter in the city. The cost of the apothecary and medicines had depleted their meager savings until Quincy had to sell the last of Grandmère’s silver plate to buy coal. And this was after she’d been forced to sell out her investments at their lowest last summer, after rumors hit that Wellington had lost at Waterloo. If only she’d been able to hold out a few more days—stock prices went back up with the news that he had in fact been victorious.

She and Grandmère had spent the last month poring over newspapers and
Debrett’s Peerage
. Grandmère tried to remember anything about the families that would help determine the character of Quincy’s potential employer, and who would also be likely to kick up less dust should he discover Joseph Quincy was actually Joseph
ine
.

Well, they’d guessed right on
that
point. So far.

Their list had shrunk until only one acceptable peer was left who hadn’t been killed, lost his fortune, or left for an extended tour of the Continent now that Bonaparte was incarcerated on St. Helena. And he’d had a thieving secretary.

Not anymore. Tomorrow she would perform her duties, discover the extent of the damage, and become indispensable to the earl. Her sister’s life depended on it.

Q
uincy followed the butler into Sinclair’s library the next morning, breathing deeply to calm her nerves. Aristocrats were much like large dogs—best not to let them see one’s fear.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Quincy,” Sinclair said from his seat on the sofa, surrounded by folios and papers. Her papers—those she’d stacked on his desk the day before—had not moved.

“Good morning, my lord.” She accepted Harper’s offer to take her coat and hat, then tugged her waistcoat back into place. Adjusted her cravat. Had she tied it too tight? Realizing she was fidgeting, she locked her elbows to her sides.

Harper shut the door as he left, leaving Quincy alone with Sinclair. She swallowed.

“Sleep well, Miss Quincy?” Sinclair stood, gesturing for her to be seated at the desk.

“Yes, thank you. And you?” The impertinent words were out before she could stop them.

Sinclair raised one eyebrow. “Like the dead, thank you.” He shook his head when she tried to sit at the smaller, drop-leaf desk. “Your stacks are here, and won’t fit over there. You don’t want to spend another day on the floor, do you?” Ignoring her flushed cheeks, he pointed at the leather chair behind his own desk. “Sit.”

“But—”

“Sit.”

She sat. Her initial refusal had only been a token protest. From sitting here yesterday, she completely understood why he liked this chair. Butter-soft leather. Cradling her. If only her feet could reach the floor.

“We should get something clear right from the start, Miss Quincy,” Sinclair began.

“Yes, my lord. You have to choose.”

He started to speak, stopped, then spoke. “Choose?”

She nodded. “Whether you are going to address me as Mister or Miss. You can’t do one in private and the other in public. Too easy to use the wrong term. Or be overheard.”

Sinclair folded his arms. “I see your point. Wouldn’t want to make a faux pas.” He propped his chin on one fist and studied her in silence so long she felt the urge to squirm. “Why not drop the courtesy title altogether? I’ll just address you as Quincy.”

“That would be most improper, my lord.”

Their gazes met, an ironic smile curving Sinclair’s mouth.

Quincy felt herself flush. “That is, it would imply a, ah, familiarity that does not exist.”

Still studying her, Sinclair tilted his head. At last he spoke. “I hired
Mister
Quincy.”

She squashed an unexpected, illogical stab of disappointment. “Then the matter is settled.” Quincy pushed her spectacles up, pulled a pencil out of the top drawer, and reached for the top ledger.

Sinclair’s hand pinned hers to the book. “And as I was saying before you interrupted me, Mr. Quincy,” Sinclair leaned toward her, close enough for her to note, before she stopped breathing, his warm scent of bay rum, “you may stay in my employ only so long as you adequately perform the duties for which you were hired—namely, discovering how much Johnson stole.”

Quincy opened her mouth to correct him, since he’d known about the embezzlement only
after
he’d hired her. But with her hand still trapped beneath his—his very large, very powerful hand—she decided to let the matter rest. For now.

A knock on the door was followed by the appearance of Mrs. Hammond, carrying a tray of tea, scones and jelly.

Sinclair straightened, surreptitiously releasing her hand. Not a mark on it. Circulation hadn’t even been interrupted, though she’d felt enough heat from his touch to leave a burn. She opened the ledger and went to work. After the intimacy of their earlier exchange, Quincy didn’t trust her knees enough to stand and get a cup of tea. She ignored Mrs. Hammond’s idle chatter and Sinclair’s monosyllabic responses.

She was startled a few moments later to realize Sinclair was addressing her. Mrs. Hammond was gone. They were alone again.

“I said, milk or sugar, Mr. Quincy?” Sinclair held up a cup.

“Yes, please.”

She thought he muttered “should have known,” but couldn’t be certain. She was too surprised that he was waiting on her. She thanked him when he set the cup and saucer on the desk, but his only reply was a grunt as he limped back to the sofa, to the folios he’d been reading before she entered. Someday she’d get a peek at those papers he was always studying.

He shuffled papers for a moment, but abruptly dropped them to his lap and stared at her. “Mr. Quincy?”

Her stomach knotted. “Yes?”

“Why?” He waved his hand, his gesture encompassing a great deal beyond just her short hair and masculine clothes.

Quincy pushed her spectacles up. “I had no other choice.” When he looked ready to press her further, she cut him off. “Which is more important for you to know—my life history, or how much money Johnson stole?”

At first Sinclair looked like he was going to argue, but then he nodded and picked up his papers. His expression, however, left no doubt the topic was not closed. Merely delayed.

After a few tense minutes, Quincy’s nerves began to settle. Her awareness of Sinclair eased just enough to let her work. She felt in her element, deciphering the entries, making the numbers tell their story, creating a picture of Sinclair’s finances. Time passed unnoticed.

Until Lady Sinclair entered the library.

“Benjamin, dear,” she called out, sailing into the room in a swirl of russet skirts and jasmine scent.

“Yes, Mama,” Sinclair said, rising stiffly.

Lady Sinclair paused, looking around the library, smiling at Quincy. She took her son’s hand and made him sit beside her.

Quincy tried to keep her attention on the books, but couldn’t help overhearing.

“I met the most charming gentleman at Hookham’s. Lord Graham. Oh, don’t frown like that. He’s an acquaintance of Fitzy’s and she introduced us. Anyway, he’s coming to call in, oh, a few minutes, and you’re going to join us for tea. He’s bringing his daughter, Cecilia. She’s making her come-out this Season.”

Was that sound Sinclair groaning? Quincy turned the page.

“And Mr. Quincy?”

Quincy looked up, meeting Lady Sinclair’s dazzling smile.

“Lady Cecilia will be bringing her companion, Miss Ogilvie, so you’ll join us too, won’t you? Just to keep the numbers even.”

“I don’t think—”

“Mr. Quincy will be delighted to join us,” Sinclair interrupted her, his look clearly conveying that if he was going to suffer through this, then so was she.

“Excellent!” Lady Sinclair clapped her hands once and left.

After a moment, Quincy found her voice. “I’d like to point out that socializing is not part of the job duties for which—”

“It is now.” Sinclair’s tone brooked no argument.

Quincy grimaced. At the prospect of having tea with his mother, an aging Romeo, a simpering debutante and her companion, Sinclair looked even less thrilled than Quincy felt.

Then it hit her. Lord Sinclair’s mother was matchmaking, and Quincy was going to have a front row seat. The simpering debutante would practice her feminine wiles on the earl, and Quincy would get to watch him try to fend her off.

This could be fun.

Accompanying Grandmère to the tooth drawer last year had been more fun than this.

After the introductions were made, everyone sat, and Lady Sinclair poured. Quincy was squished on a tiny settee next to Miss Ogilvie and her voluminous skirts. The skirts were so full, Quincy was half surprised there were no panniers beneath the woefully out-of-date gown. Obviously the clothing budget was all used up on Lady Cecilia.

Sinclair looked to be faring no better, seated across from Quincy, on another tiny settee next to Lady Cecilia. Her skirts were so narrow and thin they left little to the imagination about her figure, which was, essentially, narrow and thin.

Lady Cecilia’s lips were full and pouting, however. She was staring at Sinclair as intently as Quincy’s cat stared at a mouse. And yes, the little hussy was even batting her long lashes at Sinclair, too. He smiled at the fluttering lashes.

Hmph.

“Are you all right, Mr. Quincy?” Miss Ogilvie whispered.

Quincy hadn’t realized she’d made a sound. “Perfectly, Miss Ogilvie. And yourself?”

“Yes, thank you. Very kind of you to join us. I, ah, I usually end up sitting by myself.” Miss Ogilvie blushed.

“My, um, pleasure. Cake?” Quincy passed the plate of cakes. Miss Ogilvie took the plate, and Quincy took a sip of tea. The clock ticked. Another minute gone.

It had been so long since Quincy had made or received a social call. Had forgotten how mind-numbingly boring they could be. How long did these things last? Grandmère or Mel would know. Over the last few years, Quincy had learned a great deal about impersonating a Mister. But as Lady Sinclair chatted with Lord Graham, Quincy realized with regret that she’d forgotten much of what she had been taught about being a Miss.

As Sinclair glanced at her over the rim of his teacup, she reminded herself she had made peace with her self-imposed station in life a long time ago. Sinclair put down his cup and gave his attention back to Lady Cecilia.

Odd, though, that it had never caused her a twinge like this before.

The last time she’d sat sipping tea across from a handsome young man, there had been a different twinge. That man had been a suitor, someone she’d known since childhood, had considered a friend. Until he’d come to retract his marriage proposal.

The polite chatter faded to the background as Quincy recalled Nigel, in his fine tailcoat, explaining how he’d realized they just wouldn’t suit. It wasn’t even her short hair or even her trousers he’d objected to so much, but her business activities. He wanted a wife who could sew and cook, and the only stock Quincy could manage came not in a cooking pot but on paper.

Quincy shoved away the memory. She had made peace with that a long time ago, too. In fact, she should be grateful to Nigel. He’d taught her a valuable lesson, one she would never forget. In taking on a man’s role, she had made herself unsuitable to be a man’s wife. Ever.

The fact that marriage was impossible for her was a small price to pay, she reminded herself, for being able to save her sister’s life. Quincy pasted a smile on her face and glanced at Miss Ogilvie, who smiled back. Quincy’s face began to ache.

Lady Cecilia laughed at something her father said, and glanced from beneath her eyelashes to check Sinclair’s reaction. Sinclair bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile.

“They make a charming couple, do you not agree?” Miss Ogilvie whispered, her nose almost in Quincy’s ear.

Quincy mimicked Sinclair’s bared-teeth grimace. “Charming.”

Sinclair replied to a question from Lady Cecilia, and the hussy placed her hand on the earl’s knee. He dropped his walking stick, and in leaning to reach it, slid his knee out from beneath her hand. Strategic retreat, no confrontation. Impressive.

“May I confess something to you, Mr. Quincy?” Miss Ogilvie’s nose was almost in Quincy’s ear again, reminding her of an overgrown puppy. Without waiting for a response, Miss Ogilvie continued. “I have hopes of finding a match for myself. I cannot remain Lady Cecilia’s companion forever, perhaps not even to the end of this Season. She is quite intent on becoming betrothed. Soon.”

Quincy had been only half listening, absorbed in trying not to stare at Sinclair’s interactions with Lady Hussy. Miss Ogilvie earned her full attention, though, when Quincy realized it was not just the companion’s full skirts that were encroaching on her half of the settee, and on her person. Miss Ogilvie had placed her hand on Quincy’s knee.

Quincy choked on her tea.

Sinclair glanced over. Raised his eyebrows in silent question.

“Miss Ogilvie, I—I cannot tell you how flattered I am,” Quincy said, setting her cup down and reaching to extricate the woman’s hand. Too bad she didn’t have a walking stick of her own to drop. “But I must confess I am in no position to be anyone’s suitor.” She moved the hand, only to have it turn and grasp hers, so that, through threadbare gloves, they held hands.

Quincy felt her cravat constrict, her cheeks flush. Sinclair was still watching.

Miss Ogilvie squeezed her hand. “There’s nothing wrong with a little, shall we say, companionship, until circumstances change? I quite fancy you, Mr. Quincy.”

Quincy tried to breathe, but the air kept getting stuck in her throat.

“Do you fancy me?” Miss Ogilvie let go of Quincy’s hand, to trail her fingers up Quincy’s thigh.

Quincy choked, again. On air. No tea required.

“You’ll have to excuse the dear boy, Miss Ogilvie,” Sinclair said. He’d stood and crossed to their settee, proffering the plate of cakes. “He’s dreadfully shy.”

“Oh. Thank you, my lord.” Miss Ogilvie took another cake, and Sinclair sat back down.

As the companion bent her head to take a bite of cake, Quincy finally managed to meet Sinclair’s impassive gaze.

He winked at her.

Quincy smiled back, and saw amusement reflected in Sinclair’s eyes. They shared a silent moment, acknowledging the absurdity of the whole situation. She wanted to laugh out loud, especially when she realized Lord Graham was trying the same hand maneuver on Lady Sinclair.

With a flick of her gaze she drew Sinclair’s attention to his mother. Lady Sinclair seemed to appreciate Lord Graham’s hand on her knee even less than Sinclair had enjoyed Lady Hussy’s.

Quincy saw Sinclair’s jaw tighten. He rose, plate of cakes in hand, and thrust it in front of Lord Graham. The gentleman fell back against the cushions, hands now on his own lap. He looked up with a guilty start.

“No th-thank you, my lord,” Lord Graham said.

“You’re right,” Sinclair said, so softly Quincy barely heard him. “You have had enough.” He stood over Lord Graham.

Lord Graham cleared his throat. Lady Sinclair dusted crumbs from her skirt. Quincy and Miss Ogilvie were finally in accord—neither dared breathe.

Lady Hussy jumped up. “Papa, I am terribly sorry, but I just recalled another appointment. We wouldn’t want to disappoint, um, Aunt Meredith.”

Sinclair stepped back.

“Who? Oh, er, yes, Aunt Meredith.” Lord Graham stood, also brushing crumbs from his lap. “No, wouldn’t want to disappoint the old gel.” He bowed over Lady Sinclair’s hand. “Beg your forgiveness, but we must be off.”