What an Earl Wants (8 page)

“Oh, how romantic!” Mel clasped her hands to her chest. “Is he handsome?”

“Do you think he’ll withhold this afternoon from your wages?”

“No. I’m sure he feels responsible for the accident, though it was not his fault.” She set the cat down and turned to Mel. “Are you referring to Lord Sinclair or the footman?”

“The footman, silly! The earl is much too old.”

“I suppose they’re both pleasing to the eye, but I think Thompson may be slightly older than Sinclair.”

“How dreadful!” Melinda sat in the chair by the window and set to work fixing Quincy’s coat.

Grandmère squinted at Quincy. “Where are your spectacles?”

“My—Oh! Lord Sinclair put them in his dressing gown pocket. I left the room so the doctor couldn’t examine me, and I forgot to get them back.”

Grandmère moved to the table, tugging Quincy down to sit in the chair next to hers. “Now tell me what you left out,” she said softly.

Quincy sighed. Sir Ambrose jumped into her lap and settled across her knees. “I hit my head when the footman fell on top of me and I was senseless for a few moments. Lord Sinclair sent for the doctor to make certain we weren’t injured. While he examined Thompson, I left the room. That’s all.”

“Hmm. And the earl still has your spectacles? This is not good.” Grandmère tapped her finger on the table. “You say he’s feeling poorly today?”

“He suffered a wound in the war that still pains him. Poor man, it turns him into a bear with a sore paw. The butler says it’s worse when the weather is cold and wet. I suppose I will adjust to it like everyone else around him.”

“Hmm.” Grandmère reached out to take Quincy’s hand between her own. “I promise I shall not think you a coward if you decide this charade is too much for you. Doing business with merchants in London is nothing like it was in Danbury. And working for Sinclair isn’t at all like working for your father, is it?”

Quincy stroked Sir Ambrose and stared out the window, remembering how Sinclair had at first frightened her in the library yesterday with his violent behavior. Perhaps violent was too strong a description, but he behaved in ways her father never had. Papa’s body had been too weak. Sinclair may still be recovering from his wounds, but he was not weak. All those muscles…

She patted her grandmother’s hand. “No, this is not like working for Papa, or dealing with merchants in a small village. It’s making me think and learn new things. I’d like to believe I can rise to the challenge. I’m actually enjoying it.”

Grandmère narrowed her eyes and stared at Quincy. “You aren’t forming a
tendre
for the earl, are you?”

“Of course not!” Quincy removed her hat and ran her fingers through her hair. No, of course she wasn’t. Couldn’t. That would ruin all of her plans.

And besides, she’d made herself unsuitable to be a wife, so there was no point in developing feelings when nothing could ever possibly come of them. She would never bring down scandal on Sinclair or his mother. She would leave before anyone else discovered her secret. She squelched a stab of pain at the thought. “I do like working for him, though. He’s generally very even-tempered.”

“As you say,
ma chère
.” Grandmère gave her a strange little smile, and went back to sewing.

“L
ie down, my lord, and I’ll rub more liniment on your leg.”

“Damn it, Broderick, forget the liniment. Where’s the brandy?” Sinclair flopped onto his bed, weary beyond belief. Something poked him in the hip. He rolled over and searched under the covers, then in his dressing gown pocket. Quincy’s spectacles.

He held them up to the window. The frames were hopelessly bent, but the right lens was still intact.

Broderick handed him a glass of brandy, then pulled the dressing gown and nightshirt back to expose his leg. “A compromise, my lord.”

“Get on with it, then.” While Broderick attacked him with liniment, Sinclair downed his drink and stared through the spectacles at the perfectly clear image of the wallpaper pattern. He sat upright. “It’s plain glass.”

“Beg pardon, my lord?”

“What? Oh. Bring me another glass, please.” Sinclair studied the bent spectacles. Just another part of Quincy’s disguise. It wasn’t her vision of the world that Quincy needed to alter, but the world’s vision of her.

Today’s incident was all his fault. He never would have allowed Mrs. Hammond or another woman in his employ to go near the docks, yet he’d allowed Quincy. Perhaps always trying to think of her as Mr. Quincy was not a good thing. He couldn’t risk her coming to any harm.

Working together so closely, he’d come to enjoy her pleasant company, her forthright speech, the quality of her work. She was so organized and efficient. Perhaps women made the best secretaries.

He recalled the moments in the library by the window. He’d known with the first touch that her skull wasn’t cracked, but standing so close to her felt so good, breathing in her faint lemon scent. Touching her. Holding her. Comforting her. He’d wanted to tilt her chin up and see if she tasted of lemon.

Perhaps women did not make the best secretaries, after all.

“How are you feeling, dear?”

Sinclair hurriedly threw the covers over his lap and slipped the spectacles back into his pocket. “Mama, even the servants have the manners to knock before entering my chambers.”

“Yes, I know. But sometimes my only entertainment of the day is discomfiting you.” She sat on the bed and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

“Surely that’s not the case today?” He adjusted the covers and sat up straighter. “Broderick, don’t forget to shut the door on your way out.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lady Sinclair leaned against the bedpost. “If you had a wife, she could tend to you instead of Broderick.” She patted his knee. “Wouldn’t you rather have a beautiful young woman give you a massage?”

“Mama!” He dropped her hand in her lap, trying to set aside the image of Quincy massaging his leg, draped in silk and lace. Or perhaps just a warm ray of sunshine, and nothing else…“Please, not today. I have enough to worry about besides getting leg-shackled.”

“Yes. Poor Thompson. And Quincy! Such a nice young man. I wonder why anyone would want to hurt him?”

Harper opened the door. “My lord? Elliott has returned.”

“Good. Send him up.” He kissed his mother on the cheek and slid out of bed. “I don’t think anyone intended to hurt Quincy. He was in my carriage, after all.”

Lady Sinclair gasped. “But why would anyone want to hurt you?”

Sinclair sat back on the edge of the bed and held his mother’s hand. “Quincy discovered discrepancies in the account books. Johnson embezzled from me.” Before she could question him, Sinclair hurried on. “Nothing significant, but Quincy’s been investigating where the funds went. That warehouse was one of the places Johnson sent money. My money. Of course, the incident was probably just an unfortunate coincidence. In that part of town, it’s possible Quincy and Thompson merely stumbled into a den of thieves who didn’t appreciate the intrusion.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Lady Sinclair didn’t look convinced. “I never did like Johnson. But your father hired him, and then with everything that happened you were too busy to replace him. I’m glad he’s finally gone.”

Fortunately Sinclair didn’t have time to think about ‘everything that happened’ as Elliott tapped on the door and stepped in. “You took Quincy home?”

“Aye, Cap’n.” He grinned. “He met a sweet young lass in pigtails on the steps and they went up the stairs arm in arm. Beg pardon, my lady.”

Lady Sinclair chuckled.

“Thank you, Elliott. That will be all.” As the coachman left, Sinclair reached for the belt on his dressing gown, intent on getting dressed.

“You’ll let me know if I can help in any way?”

“Of course, Mama.”

She kissed him on his forehead. “Try to rest and not be such a beast. Mrs. Hammond predicts it will be sunny tomorrow.”

Alone again, Sinclair pulled out Quincy’s bent spectacles.
Such a nice young man,
his mother’s words echoed.

Young. Why did a nice young
miss
need to work as a secretary, in disguise? The question had plagued him all week. Perhaps supporting a younger sister? How long did she intend to keep up the masquerade?

And how long could he keep up his part in it?

Several times he’d almost slipped up. If anyone had opened the library door when he’d had Quincy in his arms…Life as he knew it would be over. He’d have to admit that he’d compromised Miss Quincy and then they’d be forced to marry. Courting Quincy would be courting scandal, and he’d already been through enough scandal to last two lifetimes. He wouldn’t risk it, not now when his mother was finally coming out of isolation and rejoining society.

Remembering how good it had felt to hold her, marriage to Quincy wouldn’t really be a hardship, but she deserved so much more than a crippled, scarred ex-soldier. She’d resent being trapped into marrying him. He enjoyed her companionship too much to risk it.

As for this afternoon’s events, although he thought it most likely that Quincy and Thompson had indeed stumbled into a thieves’ den, it was worth hiring a Bow Street Runner to investigate. He sent one of the downstairs footmen to make the arrangements.

The sun did shine the next morning, piercing Sinclair’s head with its bright rays. His head throbbed, but thankfully his leg did not.

“And how are we feeling this morning, my lord?”

“Must you ask that every day, Broderick?” Sinclair sat up slowly, his head easily keeping pace. Last night he’d downed only half a bottle of brandy.

Broderick harrumphed. “I take it you’re not nearly as cup shot as usual. That’s a good sign. Yes, a very good sign.” He began fussing with the shaving accoutrements, mumbling to himself.

Later, Sinclair stepped out of his bath in time to hear a screeching fight in the hall.

“I’ll see what’s happening, my lord. It’s probably just Maude and Matilda at it again.”

Sinclair tied the sash around his dressing gown and stepped into the hall. The upstairs staff had gathered, gawking at the two maids wrestling on the floor.

“I insist you cease this display immediately!” Broderick shouted. Tanner and Thompson stood at their posts farther down the hall, watching the show and grinning from ear to ear. Maude and Matilda slapped each other and pulled hair, both shrieking.

Sinclair frowned. Why wasn’t Harper putting a halt to this? Or Mrs. Hammond? Both were conspicuous by their absence.

Quincy quietly threaded her way through the group, threw her arms around the maids, and drew them together. The maids held still. Quincy briefly whispered in their ears, then let go.

Maude and Matilda blushed and stood up. To Sinclair’s astonishment, they apologized to Quincy, curtsied to himself, and immediately returned to work at opposite ends of the hall.

Thompson winked at Quincy, and Quincy hurried down the stairs, back toward the library.

Sinclair shook his head. “Lad’s got the whole staff wrapped around his finger.”

“Beg pardon, my lord?”

“Nothing, Broderick.”

An hour later, Quincy looked up from her work, startled to see Sinclair downstairs. He was lounging against the doorframe, shaved and dressed, looking fine enough to turn a woman’s senses to porridge.

“Cataloging Johnson’s sins, are you?”

“G-good morning, my lord.” Quincy settled the bottle of ink she’d almost tipped over. She straightened papers on her desk, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, vainly trying not to think of their embrace in the library yesterday. He appeared his usual charming self this morning. Gone were the lines of pain around his mouth and bruises under his eyes. “Still trying to assess the extent of the damage. I thought—”

“Good. I know for a fact Johnson got on the ship before it sailed for America, so he can inflict no further damage. But I do find myself curious as to how deeply he dipped into my pocket.” He pushed off from the doorjamb. “Grab your hat and gloves, and let’s go.”

“Go?” She stared at him blankly.

“Yes. We’ll visit those three mystery merchants, see if they really exist.”

“We?” She shook her head, then rose and gathered the appropriate receipts.

Sinclair called Harper for his own hat and gloves and walking stick. “Should my mother ask, you may tell her I’ve gone out but will return by”—he glanced at Quincy—“supper. Yes, we should return by supper. Come along, Mr. Quincy.”

They stepped out into the sunshine and Sinclair took a deep breath. “Ah, what a lovely morning. Mrs. Hammond was correct, as usual.” He clapped Quincy on the shoulder and they set off walking at Sinclair’s slow but steady pace.

His limp was no more pronounced than usual, but he was using his walking stick as a cane. After a few blocks, she could no longer contain her concern. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to take the carriage, my lord.”

He remained silent for so long, she thought he hadn’t heard her. Or was ignoring her. Had she offended him?

She barely heard his quiet reply. “Leg stiffens up too much if I don’t walk.” He glanced at her. “A spare pair?”

Quincy self-consciously touched the rim of her grandmother’s old-fashioned spectacles and nodded. The lenses gave her a headache, but she couldn’t risk being seen bare-faced.

Sinclair dug in his pocket and handed over the ruined pair. “Don’t forget to have these repaired. Have the bill sent to me.”

Quincy tucked them away, and they discussed how they’d deal with the three merchants until they reached the first address. Or rather, where it would have been, had the merchant actually existed. The building was an ancient burned-out husk, inhabited only by rodents that scurried out of sight when Quincy peeked through the doorway.

The second and third businesses turned out to be equally fictitious, though at least the false addresses were in a better part of town. By now they were only a few blocks from Sinclair’s home.

“Well, that’s that,” she said, eager to return to the library and the delicious luncheon she knew Mrs. Hammond was waiting to serve. Quincy’s stomach growled.

“Fakes, every damn one of them. That thieving son of a—” Sinclair cut himself off as Quincy started walking again. “Where are you going?” he called after her.

“My lord?”

“This way.” He pointed over his left shoulder, the opposite direction from his home.

She stifled a sigh and fell into step with him. Her feet ached. Surely his must, too? Not to mention his leg. Her stomach growled again. “Might I ask where we’re going, my lord?”

“Of course you can ask.”

There was a long silence.

“Where are we going?” Quincy said at last.

“To luncheon.”

“I asked where, not why.”

Sinclair glanced at her, a spark of humor in his eyes. “So you did, lad, so you did. Ever been to Gunter’s?”

“The confectioner famous for his ices?”

“The very same.”

“Why?”

“They also make the most mouth-watering sandwiches.”

“But why are
we
going there?”

“The food is excellent, the company exceptional, and,” he lowered his voice, “there are no screeching maids.” They shared a smile as they crossed the street. “Besides, I thought you deserved a treat after your fine bit of negotiating this morning. I’m curious what you said to the maids.”

Her cheeks heated at the praise. “I merely reminded them that the footmen were watching and getting a good look at their ankles, and then some.”

Sinclair chuckled.

Quincy admired his profile for a moment. He looked years younger when he laughed, handsome and carefree, the way he must have looked before his injury. “Do you often treat your secretaries to lunch?”

“Only those who are attacked.” Sinclair turned serious as they sidestepped a vendor with a cart of oranges. “Are you certain you’re all right? No headache, no bruised ribs or anything?”

“Just the bump on my head. I’m fine, really.”

Sinclair rested his hand on her shoulder, a comfortable and comforting weight. “You must sometimes do things that Miss Quincy would never consider, but I would hope they are never foolhardy risks.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “In some ways, Mr. Quincy is in even greater danger.”

Quincy swallowed hard, touched by his concern. “I never indulge in impulsive behavior, my lord.” She was scrambling for a topic to steer the conversation into shallower waters when they heard his name called out.

“Sinclair, well met!”

“Leland, Palmer,” Sinclair greeted two gentlemen, his posture relaxed. Quincy tried to relax, too.

Former soldiers, like Sinclair, she guessed. Of an age with Sinclair, one was missing his right arm, and the other wore a patch over his left eye, a scar extending both above and below the patch.

“What excellent timing,” the one-armed man said. “We were just on our way to luncheon.”

“As were we,” Sinclair replied. “We—”

“Then it’s settled!” the one-eyed man exclaimed. “Off we go!” He clapped his hand to Sinclair’s shoulder, spinning the earl around until they were all headed the way Sinclair and Quincy had just come. Since that was the direction of Sinclair’s house, Quincy happily fell into step behind the three gentlemen.

“Haven’t seen you in ages!” the one-eyed man continued. “Leg been bothering you?”