What an Earl Wants Read online

  They shared a grin as Quincy went back to work.

  “She’s gone!”

  Quincy had just stepped into Sinclair’s town house early one morning a week later when she heard the commotion upstairs.

  “What do you mean, gone? Who’s gone?” Harper demanded, climbing the stairs. He joined Celia, Daisy, Irene and Mrs. Hammond clustered on the first-floor landing. Curious, Quincy followed.

  “When I woke up she weren’t there,” Daisy sobbed. “Her clothes is gone, her shoes is gone, and everything!”

  “Who’s gone?” Mrs. Hammond asked. “Is it Matilda? Maude?”

  “Right here, Mrs. H.,” Matilda called from the end of the hallway.

  “Where did Maude go? Did she leave a note?” Mrs. Hammond directed at Daisy. Since joining the household, Daisy shared Maude’s room.

  Matilda joined the group and snorted. “A note? She couldn’t do no more than write her name. Always too busy flirting with the footmen to pay attention to Lady S’s lessons.”

  “The footmen!” Harper shouted. “Where are Thompson and Tanner? I knew something like this would happen. Broderick warned me, but I—”

  “Oh, shut your clack,” Mrs. Hammond snapped.

  “Celia, why don’t you and Irene go see if Cook needs help with breakfast?” Quincy broke in. “Do you know if the other servants are accounted for?” she asked, looking from Harper to Mrs. Hammond.

  “All the females but Maude are here.”

  “Tanner is in the wine cellar, and I just passed Grimshaw and Finlay at their posts downstairs.” Harper scowled. “But I haven’t seen Thompson all morning!”

  “We’ll check his quarters next,” Quincy said. “Daisy, will you show us to Maude’s room? Perhaps she left a clue as to where she went or why.”

  The group stepped away from the landing, but stopped when they heard the front door open and shut.

  “Thompson?” Harper said incredulously.

  “Yes, Mr. Harper?” The footman looked up at the group with a guilty start, his eyes wide.

  “Do you know where Maude is?” Mrs. Hammond called down to him.

  “No, ma’am. Haven’t see her since last night, when she was talking to Broderick.”

  “Broderick!” Sinclair roared from behind his closed bedchamber door. They heard more mutterings from Sinclair, but no response from the valet.

  “Broderick?” they all repeated. “Broderick!” Harper chuckled. Mrs. Hammond tittered. They all started laughing. After a few moments, Mrs. Hammond wiped her eyes with the corner of her starched apron and shooed the girls back to work. Harper went downstairs, tsking.

  Quincy stood alone, still chuckling, when Sinclair jerked his door open a moment later. He stepped barefoot into the hall, holding his dressing gown closed with one hand, clutching a sheet of paper with the other.

  “Did you know about this?” he demanded, waving the paper at Quincy.

  “That depends.” She stopped smiling and stared at his sleep-mussed hair and darkened jaw, suddenly realizing that not only was she quite comfortable seeing him in dishabille, she rather enjoyed it. “To what are you referring?”

  “Read this.”

  She reached for the paper, resisting the urge to smooth his hair, to straighten the collar of his nightshirt. She unfolded the note and read the valet’s spidery handwriting:

  Lord Sinclair,

  While I have thoroughly enjoyed working for you (such a fine figure!) I regret I must leave you now (and so urgently, too!). I learned yesterday that my mother in Manchester is quite ill and needs me more than you. I do apologize for leaving so abruptly, but I am assured you will be fine, as you are nearly fully recovered from your injuries.

  Please wish me happy, as I am soon to be married.

  B

  PS: Maude (my intended!) leaves with regret also, as we cannot bear to be parted.

  “Maude and Broderick?” Quincy started to chuckle but forced a straight face when she saw Sinclair’s thunderous expression. “No, my lord, I knew nothing of this. Maude and Thompson, perhaps, but not…not—” She broke into laughter anyway. Sinclair’s expression relaxed, and after a moment, he joined in.

  “Well, at least we aren’t shorthanded when it comes to maids, are we?” Sinclair retrieved the note from her hand, their fingers touching, lingering too long for the contact to be an accident. He ran his hand through his hair, and Quincy took a step back. “But I am warning you now, Quincy, I refuse to hire a valet off the street, so don’t even ask.”

  “Of course not, my lord. We wouldn’t want to risk him letting the razor slip when he shaves you.” She drew her finger across her throat, drawing a chuckle from Sinclair, and went back to work in the library.

  “Damnable timing,” Sinclair announced without preamble two hours later. He crossed to the armchair and stuck his feet out toward the low fire in the grate. “Just last night I had decided I would escort Mama to Lady Stanhope’s ball after all. Now, of course, it is out of the question.”

  Quincy closed the account book she’d been working in. “Unless you were planning to also take Maude or Broderick with you to the ball, I don’t see what one has to do with the other.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would.” He tossed a scoop of coal on the fire.

  “Thompson or Tanner or even Harper can help you dress. Besides, you owe it to your mother to go.”

  Sinclair leaned forward to stare at Quincy. “What does she have to do with anything?”

  “She threw herself whole-heartedly into your plan, working with the girls—”

  “Your plan, you mean.”

  “And she has exercised remarkable restraint this last week, has she not? Has she said a word to you about grandchildren, or wedding invitations, or required your presence at another matchmaking tea?”

  “No,” Sinclair mumbled into his cravat.

  “I didn’t quite hear you.”

  “No, damn your hide!” He glared at Quincy.

  She smiled serenely back. “Then it’s settled. You will grace the Stanhopes with your presence this evening, squire your mother, charm the girls silly, and come home with a clear conscience.”

  Sinclair groaned. “You’re no help, no help at all.” He called Harper for his hat, gloves and walking stick, and went out for his walk.

  Quincy wiped the silly grin off her face and went back to work.

  At his club, Sinclair found Leland staring morosely into his wineglass in a corner, his eye patch askew. “Mind some company?” Sinclair said, sitting down.

  Leland waved agreement without looking up, and swirled the wine in his glass. Suddenly his head snapped up. “Sinclair! Jolly good to see you!”

  Sinclair’s eye’s narrowed. “How many glasses have you had?”

  “This is the first.” He tossed back half of it in one swallow, and leaned across the table toward Sinclair. “You and I, we’ve been good friends for what, ten, eleven years now?”

  “Twelve, I believe.” He motioned for a footman to bring him a glass and refill Leland’s.

  “Might I move in with you? Not for long, mind you. Just until my mother dies or I find an heiress willing to wed me.”

  Sinclair grinned. “Things that bad?”

  Leland sighed. “I know we’ve been at low water for some time, and I’ve learned to live with it, really I have. I don’t mind having only four courses at dinner. I don’t even mind not being able to keep a mistress. But Mama’s gone too far with her purse-pinching ways this time, too bloody damn far.” He took another swallow of wine and lowered his voice when he spoke again. “She’s renting out rooms in the house.”

  “She’s taken in boarders? How ingenious.”

  “Ingenious! I have three strangers living under my roof!”

  “Strangers paying you rent, you mean. Be practical. You have a source of income without going into trade.”

  “A prune-faced retired governess, a pious cleric, and a half-pay lieutenant with one leg.”

  “All respectable cit
izens. Think of it as your civic duty.”

  Leland stared at his glass a moment. “It could just as easily have been you or me, couldn’t it?” He adjusted his eye patch and stroked the scar that curved from above his left eyebrow to his upper lip. “We’re only charging him half as much as the others.”

  Sinclair rubbed his right thigh, feeling the rough scar tissue beneath the smooth fabric of his trousers. What youthful foolishness had convinced him that running off to war would quiet the gossips after his father’s scandal-shrouded death? At least Sinclair had come home relatively intact, which was more than could be said of many of the men he’d served with. He’d stopped trying to remember those who had fallen. He’d had to, to stop the nightmares.

  Instead he concentrated on the survivors from his unit less fortunate than himself. He’d hired several of them, as Quincy had pointed out, but he also had other plans. Working to better their lot had banished the bad dreams. So far only his solicitor knew of his efforts, and he preferred to keep it that way. Even Quincy didn’t know, and he worked on the plans under her very nose. Johnson’s thievery had thrown a wrench in the works, but with any luck it would prove to be an insignificant setback.

  Sinclair cleared his throat. “Enough dwelling on the past.” He held up his glass. “A toast. To Broderick and Maude and their marital bliss.”

  Leland clinked glasses with him. “Your valet? And who’s Maude?”

  “An upstairs maid.” Sinclair sighed. “Stop laughing, you dolt.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t…help myself.” Leland covered his face, but his shoulders shook with silent mirth. “I’m sorry, old chap. This is the second pairing in less than a month, isn’t it? What a matchmaker you are!”

  “It’s no laughing matter. The only trained staff I’ve managed to replace so far is my secretary. It’s a damn nuisance.”

  Leland stopped laughing, though he seemed on the verge of starting again at any moment. “Mr. Quincy seems a nice enough chap. Certainly smells better than Johnson did.”

  “I paid dearly for keeping Johnson on when I was not at my best, believe me. And Quincy is nothing like Johnson.” Sinclair briefly imagined what Leland’s reaction would be were he to share just how different Quincy was from Johnson.

  “Seems awfully young, though. Why’d you hire him?”

  Sinclair stroked his chin. Because Quincy aroused his protective instincts. Because she stimulated his intellect. Because she made him laugh, and it had been a long time since he’d seen the humor in anything. “Quincy is very efficient. And…I enjoy having him around.”

  Leland gave him a puzzled look, but said nothing.

  Quincy was destined to accomplish little today, for she had just settled back to work when Lady Sinclair requested she join her for luncheon, then asked her to participate in a discussion with Mrs. Hammond about the household staff. Lady Sinclair shared her ultimate goal, which was to convince society matrons to take in and train other girls like Daisy and Irene. Their conversation lasted well into the afternoon. It was nearly time to go home, yet Quincy had finished little of her work. She had no choice but to stay late to catch up.

  She was still bent over the books when she heard Sinclair come home and trudge upstairs to get ready for the evening. Lord and Lady Stanhope had invited him and Lady Sinclair to dinner prior to the ball.

  Daisy had just cleared Quincy’s supper tray when Tanner poked his head around the door.

  “His lordship asks you bring his ruby stickpin to him. Says you know where he left it.”

  Quincy nodded and Tanner left. Stickpin? Ruby? When Mrs. Hammond had helped her clean the library her first day, she’d seen many of Sinclair’s personal effects strewn about the room, under the furniture and stuffed between the cushions. But she hadn’t seen any jewelry. She’d gone through every drawer, file, shelf—ah, there was one place she had looked only briefly.

  The cashbox.

  She opened the lid—still unlocked, she noted with a faint smile—and removed the bank notes. A handful of gold shirt studs, two rings, and a half dozen stickpins were left among the coins. She smiled and sorted through the pins. Emerald, sapphire, diamond—oh yes, ruby, too. She grabbed them all, then paused. He was asking her to bring jewelry to complete his ensemble, on his way out for the evening, possibly to woo a potential bride.

  She squeezed the pins within her fist, until they dug into her palm. She’d known he was planning to select a bride. It shouldn’t matter to her. She put the box away, then headed upstairs to Lord Sinclair’s bedchamber.

  Picturing him in the process of getting dressed, her steps faltered. Her heart thudded in her chest but she kept walking. Surely he’d be dressed by now if he’d asked for his jewelry.

  “Quincy?” Sinclair looked startled when she knocked and stepped into his room. “But I asked Tanner to bring…Ah, good, you found it.”

  She intended to leave the pins and exit quickly, but she was mesmerized by the sight of him. He stood before his mirror in his shirtsleeves, tying his cravat. His lawn shirt molded to his form, and muscles in his back tensed and shifted as he moved his arms. Broderick had been right. Such a fine form! All the exercising he did to strengthen his leg benefited the rest of his body, too. Distantly she realized he’d spoken to her. “Beg pardon, my lord?”

  “I said I see you found the ruby stickpin. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?” He pulled on his waistcoat of black silk. Thompson stepped forward to help him into his evening coat of black velvet, then stepped back again. Sinclair’s trousers were black, as were his boots. His white shirt and cravat were the only relief.

  She wanted to run her hands over the soft velvet coat, to feel his hard muscles ripple beneath her fingers. Her mouth went dry. She tore her gaze away from his body and looked at his eyes. “Yes. But ruby? And wearing all black is so…unoriginal.”

  Sinclair cocked one brow. “You are now an arbiter of fashion?”

  “Of course not. But I thought you were above such banality. At least wear the emerald instead of the ruby.” She advanced into the room and dropped all the jewelry but the emerald pin on the dressing table. No longer able to resist the urge to touch him, she reached up to straighten his cravat.

  “Damn nuisance.”

  She dropped her arms and jumped back. “I’m sorry.” Her cheeks heated at his reaction to her forward behavior.

  “Not you, Quincy.” Sinclair grinned. Her stomach flipped over on itself. “This dinner, the balls, selecting a wife—I’m tired of the whole thing. If it weren’t for the changes in Mama…” He lowered his voice, so quiet Quincy barely heard him. “And my leg already aches.” He untied the cravat and pulled it off. “Thank you, Thompson, that will be all.”

  The footman bowed and left the room, leaving the door open.

  “You can’t give up,” Quincy said. “It will set your mother back weeks, perhaps months.” Having spent so much time in Lady Sinclair’s company, Quincy knew how important her lighter spirits were to Sinclair. She grabbed another cravat from the stack on the dresser and stretched to loop it around his neck. “I have a plan.”

  “Another plan?” Sinclair raised his chin to allow Quincy to tie the cravat.

  “A cunning plan.” She started tying the material into a knot that she recalled her father wearing.

  “Tell me about your cunning plan.” He bent his knees a bit to make it easier for Quincy to reach him, bringing them almost nose to nose. Amusement danced in his warm brown eyes.

  “A strategy, actually. You must attend balls regularly. And not just as your mother’s escort.”

  Sinclair groaned. “But I don’t want—”

  “You haven’t heard the strategy yet.” She tried to keep her tone light. “Can you dance yet?”

  Sinclair froze. The clock on the mantel seemed extraordinarily loud. “I believe I could,” he answered at last. His face was impassive, but at least his jaw wasn’t clenched.

  “Good.” Quincy let out the breath she’d been holding. “Dance t
he waltzes, but nothing else. Never dance with the same lady twice at the same function. And you must dance with the wallflowers as well as the diamonds. Your hostesses will love you for it.”

  “Why only waltzes?” He eyed her handiwork in the mirror and, to her surprise, nodded approval.

  Quincy positioned the emerald pin as she spoke. “It will set you apart. It will give you charm, and make you more enigmatic. But most importantly, you will have a chance to converse with your prospective brides without chaperones hanging on every word, and not be interrupted by changing partners.”

  “But I want a wife, not a conversationalist.”

  Quincy flushed. “Eventually you’ll have to deal with her, ah, outside the bedchamber. Wouldn’t you prefer someone whose company does not grate on your nerves?”

  Sinclair stroked his chin. “I suppose. But why the wallflowers?”

  Quincy poked him in the chest. “You conceited fop! Do you think because they are shy or not the easiest on the eye that they would make poor spouses? And have you never seen a swan only a few weeks old?”

  “Really, Quincy, you’re too easy to tease.” He chucked her on the arm and moved her to the side, holding her shoulders until she was steady on her feet again, then turned this way and that, inspecting his reflection. “Wonderful, wonderful.” He gave a last tug on his cravat. “You wouldn’t be interested in taking Broderick’s place, would you?” He peered at her coat, and plucked several gray cat hairs from her sleeve. “No, I suppose not.” He grinned at her blush.

  “I don’t believe I have even half the patience Broderick did.” Quincy spun on her heel and headed for the door. “Good night, my lord.”