What an Earl Wants (6 page)

Most telling was the fact that, more often than not, he forgot to address her as Mister. Quincy chose to take that as a sign that he would also forget about her employment being only temporary. Things were definitely moving in the right direction. She could never marry, but she could earn the money needed to save her sister’s life.

Lady Sinclair expected her son to marry, and would accept any eligible woman of childbearing age as a daughter-in-law, but if she knew the extent of the financial damage Johnson had inflicted, she would insist on an heiress. Not even Sinclair knew how deeply Johnson had reached into his pockets, and Quincy wasn’t about to tell him until she had more proof.

Quincy settled the throw over him, at least resisting the urge to tuck it under his chin, and went back to her desk.

“Don’t look at me that way, Quincy.” Sinclair had awakened from his nap and settled at his desk with one of his ever-present folios. “You make me think I’ll soon be begging on the street.”

Quincy bit back a smile. “Sorry, Sincl—my lord. Would you prefer I address your neckcloth?”

She’d have to watch her tongue more carefully. Impertinence was one thing, but being overly familiar would never do—even though he was becoming quite familiar, since she saw him at work every day, and he’d made more appearances in her blasted dreams. That he appeared in her dreams was only to be expected, since her new employer played a major role in her life. Nothing more to it than that.

“Just answer me this,” Sinclair said. “Do I need to cancel my standing order for spirits from Monsieur Beauvais?”

“Yes.”

Sinclair slammed his glass down on his desk, his third brandy that afternoon.

Quincy hurried on. “Not because you cannot afford it, but because Beauvais is accustomed to cheating you. There are at least three other merchants I would stop patronizing for the same reason. What they have done is nothing out of the ordinary. I would wager most of your friends are or would be in the same situation if they do not pay close attention to their accounts.”

“That’s a relief. I don’t mind telling you, your long face these last couple days has—”

“There’s more.”

“More?”

“Or less, actually. I’m still investigating. Let me just say that, should you decide on a wife soon, may I suggest she be someone who does not have extravagant tastes?”

Sinclair’s face contorted with anger. Quincy started to move away, cursing her flippant remark. Before she could take a second step, Sinclair grabbed her shoulder to spin her back to face him. “Are you saying I’m dished up?”

The sudden movement made them both stagger. Instead of grabbing at his hands, which now clutched her lapels, Quincy grasped Sinclair’s shoulders to steady him as much as herself. Beneath his shirt was warm, hard, unyielding bone and muscle. Surely he wouldn’t actually harm her. Her pulse hammered in her ears all the same. By sheer force of will she kept her voice level. “If you were dished up, I would have already given notice and begun searching for an employer with deeper pockets.”

He stared into her eyes, his unblinking bloodshot gaze searching for a reason to believe her. Their noses were but inches apart. Quincy felt his brandy breath warm on her cheeks. The scent was intoxicating, though she hadn’t imbibed any of the drink. Perhaps it was just his nearness that was making her lightheaded. Heat from his body washed over her, from a pleasant warmth in her belly, rising in temperature to nearly burning her hands where they rested on his shoulders.

This would not do, not at all.

“You’re going to ruin the theater for me if you keep enacting such melodrama, my lord. And I wish you would advise me when you plan to indulge in more than a bottle by yourself, so I can absent myself. Your breath is wilting my cravat.”

Sinclair blinked. He stepped back and smoothed her lapels with exaggerated care. “My most humble apologies, Mis…Mr. Quincy.” He tried to straighten her cravat but only made it worse. “It was not planned, I assure you,” he added softly as he stumbled from the room, his limp more pronounced than usual.

Quincy leaned against the desk, hand over her pounding heart, trying to regain control of her breathing. His anger had been almost as startling as his touch, as he fumbled with her cravat, his fingers brushing her chin. Smoothing her lapels, his palms flat against her chest.

“Would you care for a brandy, Mr. Quincy?” Harper closed the door behind him and poured two drinks. “I’ve ordered the carriage brought ’round for you, as his lordship requested.” The butler handed her one of the glasses, then sat on the sofa. “Drink up, lad. It’ll steady your nerves.” Quincy was vaguely surprised to see the butler making free with the earl’s finest brandy, but shrugged it off.

She took a sip and coughed as it burned its way down her throat, then set the glass on the desk, her hand shaking too much to hold it steady.

Harper swallowed his glassful in two gulps. “Lord knows we all need a drink when he gets like this. Damnable weather.” He got up to stare out the window at the pouring rain. “But you’ll get used to it, just as we all have.”

“Are you saying the rain makes Sinclair drink too much?”

“Well, it doesn’t help matters. He missed the step getting out of the carriage this morning. Landed on his bad leg. Broderick is tending to him now, but don’t be surprised if he’s not quite himself for a few more days. Takes him longer to recover when the weather is cold and wet.”

Quincy mouthed a silent “Oh.”

Harper let the curtain fall back as the carriage came into view, and handed Quincy her hat and gloves. “Don’t judge him too harshly, lad. He did insist the carriage take you home, and pick you up in the morning if it’s nasty out.” His expression relaxed, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “The way I see it, London streets are always nasty, don’t you think?”

“Thank you, Mr. Harper. You’re very kind.” She smiled at the older man. “And I will reserve judgment, as you suggest.” But the truth was, Quincy had already passed judgment on her new employer. Even with this afternoon’s outburst, she liked him quite fine.

“Good morning, my lord. How are we feeling this morning?”

“We have a devil of a head, you dolt. Lower your voice.” Sinclair opened one eye enough to see daylight peeking between his lashes. Too much. He flung an arm over his face. “Broderick, you idiot, close the curtains.”

“They
are
closed, my lord.”

Sinclair moved his arm. “Then have them replaced with something more substantial. Tomorrow. Not today. I don’t want anyone in here today.” He sat up, slowly, so his head could keep up with his shoulders.

Broderick plumped the pillows behind him and thrust a mug filled with a foul-smelling brew into his hand. “It will soon be summer, my lord, and the weather will be warm, and the incessant rain will stop.”

“And then it will soon be winter, and we’ll go through it all over again. Bah.” He tasted the brew and grimaced, then drained the mug.

“Ah, but by then you’ll be much better. Think how far you’ve come already!”

Sinclair glared at the wall while Broderick pulled back the covers, raised his nightshirt, and massaged liniment on his thigh. He could barely tell which throbbed more, his head or his leg.

Definitely his leg. From his hip to his ankle it was one long throbbing ache, deep in the bones, sometimes so intense it made his eyes water.

When he’d come to his senses after Waterloo, in those first dark days when he’d prayed for an angel of mercy to ease his misery, laudanum kept the pain at bay, kept him sane. But soon he needed it even when he felt no pain, and he’d given it up before losing himself to the drug. The only thing left to deaden the pain was alcohol, and he’d developed quite a tolerance for it. Even his mother couldn’t tell when he drank more than usual.

But his new secretary knew. Sinclair almost grinned. Quincy had as good as called him on the carpet for it. Impertinent chit. No, make that impertinent pup. He had to call her pup, even in his thoughts. He’d almost slipped up yesterday and called her Miss.

At the memory of how roughly he’d treated her, he cringed. His behavior was inexcusable. Had she taken him in disgust because of it? Ordinarily he might not give a fig what his secretary thought, but Quincy was no ordinary secretary. “Broderick, are you through torturing me yet?”

His valet reached for the jar of liniment again. “Not quite, my lord. Shall I order a light breakfast for you? Tea and toast, perhaps?”

Sinclair held his stomach. “Gad, no. But do find out if Mr. Quincy came to work this morning.”

Broderick stepped out into the hall to pass on the request. Sinclair heard the raised voices of another squabble, and Broderick soon returned, his face flushed.

“Really, my lord, Thompson’s behavior is unconscionable,” Broderick said, shutting the door and coming back into the room. He dribbled more liniment onto Sinclair’s leg and began working it in. “I don’t know why you tolerate him, even if he is an excellent match to Tanner.”

“Two footmen having the same coloring and height is just a coincidence. Why do you care so much, Broderick? Thinking of setting up one of the maids as a flirt for yourself?”

“My lord! I would never—” He broke off as the door opened.

Sinclair grabbed for the sheet to cover his bare leg. Broderick brushed his hand aside and continued the massage.

“You sent for me, my lord?”

Sinclair forgot about the throbbing pain. Quincy stood in the doorway, staring at him, eyes wide, her face flushed to the roots of her hair. Sinclair felt a little heat rise in his own face. Blast Broderick and his conscientious care.

Quincy pushed her spectacles up. “Why did you call me up here?”

Broderick gasped. “You insolent whelp! How dare you—”

“Enough, Broderick. Mr. Quincy is justifiably upset at being interrupted from important work. Aren’t you, Quincy?”

“I am employed at your pleasure, my lord.”

Her blush intensified, as though she, too, suddenly realized the innocent-sounding words could have other connotations.

Sinclair cleared his throat. “I’m expecting a packet of papers to arrive this morning. When it’s delivered, would you send—”

“It’s already here.” Quincy fled the room without a backward glance.

Sinclair groaned and held his hand to his head. At least she was still speaking to him, and he’d detected no hint of anger. Just a very becoming blush. Later he’d apologize for the misunderstanding. Surely she didn’t think he’d intentionally sent for her, to come to his bedchamber?

“I think you had better put some clothes on, my lord, if you don’t wish the boy to expire from embarrassment.”

Sinclair groaned again.

Though she kept a hand over her still-fluttering stomach, Quincy slowed to a more decorous pace once she reached the first floor, and continued on to the library as though nothing were amiss. She hadn’t seen anything truly disturbing, after all. She’d become accustomed to many things in the world of men, first working for her father and now for Sinclair. And of course she had seen the male form before without layers of clothing. She and Melinda had helped care for their father, bedridden the last few months of his life.

But Sinclair was no invalid elder. With his wavy chestnut hair tousled from sleep, his nightshirt unbuttoned to reveal dark curls and a deeply muscled chest, she wanted nothing more than to erase the lines of pain etched around his eyes, and run her fingers through his hair. And get another glimpse of his bare leg…

The direction of her thoughts startled her. She’d dealt with and worked around men for many years, but she’d never had thoughts like this before. Not when the squire’s son stole a kiss beneath the apple tree when she was thirteen, not even when Nigel had given her a chaste kiss upon their betrothal.

She stumbled a step. Sinclair was not likely to steal a kiss from her anytime soon. Ever. She shook her head. She must focus on the job duties she had been hired to perform, not on her employer’s bare leg.

She located the folio that had been delivered moments before she’d received the odd summons, and felt in control again by the time she neared Sinclair’s bedchamber.

His bedchamber. If she had managed to keep fooling him about her gender, she wouldn’t be surprised that he’d summoned her there. But he did know, and had sent for her anyway. Was this merely an example of him accepting her presence? Treating her as he would a man? And was it for her benefit, or for the other servants watching their interactions?

Thompson was nowhere in sight, forcing her to open the door herself. She managed to not blush this time. Though he was still in bed, Sinclair had donned a deep green satin dressing gown, and the blankets were pulled up to his waist. She squelched a jolt of disappointment. Sinclair pushed away Broderick and his shaving brush when she entered. “Will you need anything else?” She handed him the papers, fervently hoping none of her previous thoughts were apparent.

Sinclair shook his head. “How goes your investigation?”

“There are bills owed to merchants I’m not familiar with. I think it best for me to pay them in person. If I take your carriage, I should return by lunch.”

“Go alone? I don’t think—” Sinclair interrupted himself. “Yes, of course.” He glanced at his valet. “Care to take Broderick with you? He resembles a mother hen this morning.”

“That won’t be necessary, my lord,” Quincy said as Broderick choked on a reply.

“Do take Thompson with you, though. He may prove useful.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Broderick and Quincy said in unison.

Quincy settled into the carriage a few minutes later, Thompson riding up top with Elliott, the coachman. Just as she had this morning, she snuggled against the soft squabs and rubbed her bare hands across the smoky gray velvet. Once upon a time, Papa had a fine carriage such as this, pulled by matching bays. She sighed and leaned back to enjoy the ride.

“Is this the place, Mr. Quincy?” Thompson held the door open for her when they arrived.

Quincy glanced at the address on the bill and compared it to the number above the chandler’s shop door. “Yes, Thompson, thank you.” She started for the shop but stopped. “Thompson, have you been in his lordship’s service very long?”