What an Earl Wants Page 13

  Quincy froze. “What makes you think that?”

  “He touched you. Not just once, but twice.” Mel sipped her tea. “Perhaps I’m wrong and he doesn’t know.” Quincy brightened. “Then that means he likes Joseph.”

  Quincy groaned and dropped her head to the table. The clock struck the hour, and Quincy sat up. “What a coil.” She swept Sir Ambrose into her arms and hugged him to her chest.

  “But if he likes you—Josephine, that is—then there is no problem at all. Marry him, and Grandmère and I can live at one of his estates in the country.” Melinda smiled over the rim of her teacup. “You can go back to being a girl, and won’t have to dress and work like a man to take care of us, ever again.”

  Quincy’s heart fluttered. “Now you’re being absurd.” Sinclair could never be interested in marrying her. Even if he did want to court her, which was impossible, it would cause a ruinous scandal. Lady Sinclair would go back to being a recluse, and as for Sinclair…Quincy couldn’t allow that to happen. She wouldn’t.

  She let Sir Ambrose climb up and drape himself over her shoulder. “Besides, I think you’re rushing your fences. Sinclair is very busy, and his younger brother has been at Oxford since the Christmas holidays. Perhaps he’s just lonely.” She sipped her tea. “Yes, that must be it. I don’t pressure him to marry, as his mother does. I don’t ask him for advice or favors, like his friends, or break the china, like the servants. I am simply there, doing whatever needs to be done. I tell him when he’s being kind, like with the maids-in-training. Or when he’s being an ass.”

  “Jo!”

  “Pardon. But you know what I mean. It’s simply…friendship. Yes, friendship. That’s all you saw, Mel.” That’s all it could be. Her sister still didn’t look convinced. Quincy shrugged and yawned. “It’s your turn to sit with Grandmère. I’m going to take a nap. Wake me after two o’clock, and I’ll start shopping for a Bath chair. We’re going to need one soon, if we’re to preserve Grandmère’s sanity. Not to mention our own.”

  The remainder of the week dragged by for Sinclair. He was loathe to admit it, but he missed his no-nonsense secretary’s company. In the short time they’d been acquainted, he’d come to rely on Quincy’s opinion more than anyone else’s, even over his friends of long-standing, Sir Leland and Lord Palmer.

  Though correspondence piled up and tradesmen’s bills arrived uninterrupted, Sinclair left them stacked on his desk, untouched. It would take Quincy days to catch up, but Sinclair needed to concentrate on the papers sent over by his solicitor. Perhaps he’d offer her a treat to make up for the unexpected workload. She already had a full dish, as head of her family. Twice Sinclair thought about going over to see how they got on, but could think of no excuses that didn’t sound flimsy even to his own ears.

  One bit of business he did attend to was meeting with Mr. Wooten, the Bow Street Runner. The group of thieves had since abandoned the warehouse where Quincy and Thompson had been assaulted, but Wooten had caught up to them. Six men now awaited trial on various charges. Sinclair gladly paid the runner’s fee. Much as he wished he could bash the thieves in the head for having hurt Quincy, he’d have to rely on the courts for justice.

  At least the pleasant weather held, and Sinclair’s leg ached less than usual. He suffered through two more balls, and vowed never to attend two in a row again. They weren’t total disasters, however. He decided to further his acquaintance with Miss Mary and Lady Louisa, and with Miss Prescott. She offered the most intelligent conversation of the three, but still couldn’t look up past his neckcloth. It seemed absurd to converse with the rosebuds or pearls threaded through her red curls, but no one else appeared to notice.

  The tedium of the social schedule was eased by the progress Mama was making. The viscount who’d been her dinner companion at the Stanhopes was also her dance partner at least once at each event they both attended. And Mama had worn a green gown to the last ball.

  Monday morning dawned at last. Sinclair found himself awake earlier than usual, eager to breakfast and head to his library. Quincy was already hard at work when he entered.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she offered, her pencil scratching in a ledger.

  “Isn’t it, though?” Sinclair said, throwing open the window by Quincy’s desk. “The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, my mother is occupied with someone’s business other than mine…”

  Quincy chuckled. “Just so long as you don’t burst into song.”

  “Never that.” He took a deep breath of the crisp air. “Unless of course I’m three sheets to the wind, or in the company of those who are.” He patted her shoulder before he sank into his leather chair and propped his feet on one corner of the desk. “How is your grandmother?”

  Quincy put her pencil down and reached for the abacus. “Much improved. She refuses any more laudanum, so she’s awake and alert, and chafing at her inactivity. Who would have guessed she’d miss arguing with the butcher and greengrocer?”

  It was Sinclair’s turn to chuckle. He sorted through the morning mail, listening to the chlock, chlock of Quincy adding figures on the abacus. “Are you free Wednesday evening?” Sinclair asked when she stopped to record a figure.

  She raised her brows, then quickly schooled her features to a neutral expression. “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll need you to stay late, and help me with a special project.” Knowing curiosity was going to drive Quincy fair to distraction, Sinclair smiled, settled back in his chair, and said not another word about it for two days.

  By Wednesday afternoon, Quincy was ready to strangle Sinclair. The obnoxious man had said nothing more about the mysterious special project, and this morning had not even bothered to confirm that she’d stay late as he’d asked.

  Oh, who was she fooling? Of course she’d stay. She’d do anything he asked. Drat him.

  Late in the day, when she would normally clear her desk prior to going home, Sinclair rose from the sofa and headed for the door. “Stay,” was all he said, waving his finger at her.

  “Woof,” she muttered as soon as the door closed behind him. She could continue trying to catch up, but her thoughts kept drifting to wondering what the earl had in mind for this evening. Her palms grew damp.

  Better to distract herself by thinking of other ways Johnson might have stolen money. Sinclair’s holdings were extensive, with a country estate, smaller properties scattered around the kingdom, and a large portfolio of investments in the Exchange. If she were Johnson, how might she go about trying to line her pockets with the earl’s coin?

  She looked up with a guilty start as the library door swung open and Grimshaw entered, pushing a cart laden with covered dishes. Sinclair was right behind, practically vibrating with energy as the footman fidgeted with arranging the silverware and removing the covers.

  “Thank you, Grimshaw, we’ll serve ourselves,” Sinclair said.

  The footman bowed and left.

  Quincy could only gape at Sinclair.

  He pulled two chairs up to the cart. “Dinner is served, my lady,” he said with a courtly bow. Warmth surged through her at his words, and gesture. Mouth-watering aromas reached her. “It’s getting cold,” he prompted.

  She couldn’t resist a smile as she took the indicated chair. He sat down across from her and they filled their plates. Roast chicken, cod, potatoes, asparagus, peas with tiny onions…more food than she usually saw in a week. She dug in.

  As Mr. Quincy, she didn’t have to pretend to have the birdlike appetite of a debutante, but she didn’t want to make a pig of herself. After a taste of everything, her thoughts drifted back to the plans for the evening. “About your special project, my lord…”

  “First we must fortify ourselves.” He ate another forkful of fish.

  That did nothing to ease her trepidation. “Aren’t you concerned the staff will think this odd?” Her gesture encompassed the cart, the two of them, and the lit candles, as twilight cast shadows in the room.

  He sipped his wine. “How oft
en have they served you in here?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “True, but you’re not usually present. Except when they bring the tea tray.”

  “Yes, been eating entirely too many biscuits since hiring you.” He patted her hand. “At ease. They think Mr. Quincy is staying late to catch up after being absent a few days. Ogre that I am, I’m overseeing your progress.” He picked up his fork and gestured for her to do the same.

  She obediently ate another bite. “Don’t you have to escort your mother somewhere?”

  He shot her an exasperated look. “She’s spending the evening with friends. I wished her good night and personally helped her into the carriage before I summoned dinner. Now will you hush up and eat?”

  She ducked her head to hide her smile, and returned to the food before it got cold. They chatted about inconsequential topics, like the respite from the rain, the delicious food, how Sinclair had lured the cook away from Palmer’s household with the bait of a new closed stove.

  Lulled by his boyish charm, Quincy relaxed and let him refill her wineglass. She shouldn’t let him fill it again, but watching his hand curve around the bottle, she couldn’t remember why.

  At last she sat back, patting her mouth with the napkin. How could just the two of them have possibly eaten all that food? Sinclair retrieved a tray from under the cart. With a flourish, he removed the cover to reveal a platter of apple puffs.

  She groaned. “How did you know I can resist any temptation but apple puffs?”

  He flashed her a wicked smile. “I’ll remember that for future reference.”

  She refused to eat a whole puff by herself, so Sinclair cut one in half while she searched the cart for clean dessert plates. There was only one. Just as Quincy was going to ring for a servant to bring more, Sinclair shook his head. He scooted his chair around the corner of the cart, closer to hers. She did the same, until they sat so close their knees touched.

  “We’ll just have to make do,” he said, sliding both halves of the puff onto one plate. They each ate their half of the dessert, sharing the plate and an intimate smile.

  When there was nothing left but crumbs, Sinclair replaced the covers. “I could never do this with Miss Quincy, you know.”

  She smoothed the napkin over her lap. “I expected to be her again by now.” Had she actually said that out loud? She sat up straight.

  “What happened?” He rested his arm along the back of her chair, turning toward her. “Or should I say, what didn’t happen?”

  “What didn’t happen was my wedding. On June nineteen.” That was it—no more wine for her.

  “The day after Waterloo? Was he killed?”

  She shook her head and pushed up her spectacles. “Nigel and I had an understanding, since I was ten and he fourteen. If nobody came along who made our hearts flutter, we’d marry each other when I came of age and he completed his schooling.”

  He topped off their wineglasses. “So it was an arrangement, not love.”

  “Hardly love at first sight when one drops a frog down the other’s neck at their first meeting.”

  “That was uncalled for.”

  “What else could I do? He had insulted Mel.”

  Sinclair choked on his wine. “Should have seen that one coming,” he murmured. Louder, he continued, “So you progressed from assault with a frog to planning to get leg-shackled?”

  Quincy nodded. “We became co-conspirators for all the mischief in the neighborhood, and exchanged letters when he was sent off to Harrow and then Oxford.” She took another sip. “I’m very forward, you know,” she confided as an aside. “Last May, he secured a position as a clerk at the Home Office, and came to visit me in Danbury. It was the first time he’d seen me since I cut my hair short and gave up wearing dresses. He was…taken aback.” He’d actually stared at her in horror for a full five minutes, but Quincy didn’t think Sinclair needed to know that. “Of course I had told him in my letters what I’d done, but—”

  “Seeing the reality was something else entirely.” Sinclair leaned one elbow on the cart, no hint of judgment in his posture or expression.

  She could get accustomed to being the center of Sinclair’s attention. “Nigel tried to adjust, to adapt, and I think he would have, in time, but he was so new on the job. I told him I had planned all along to go back to being a girl, but he worried he’d lose his position if word got out about what I’d done before we married. He’s the fourth son of a viscount, has to make his own way in the world. He couldn’t afford a scandalous wife.”

  “Bastard.”

  She couldn’t have heard him right. “This is why I drink tea instead of wine,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Even Grandmère and Mel don’t know about Nigel.” She gave him a playful jab to the shoulder. “It’s only fair that you confess something.”

  His brow furrowed in a frown while he thought. He scanned the room, now shrouded in deep shadows, the sun having set while they ate. “Hiring you was the second most impulsive act of my life.”

  She was stunned by the intense expression in his brown eyes, the honesty she saw there. She toyed with her napkin. “Which begs the question, what was the first?”

  He hesitated long enough, she doubted he’d answer. “Buying my colors to join the army.”

  She leaned toward him. “I’ve often wondered about that, since you did so after inheriting the title.”

  He shrugged. “I couldn’t fight the gossips, so I ran off to fight Napoleon.” He tossed his napkin on the cart.

  It seemed that was the extent of the confession he was willing to make. No, she wouldn’t let him get away with that, not after she’d spilled her guts about Nigel. She waved her hand in an “and so…” gesture, made encouraging noises.

  Sinclair grimaced, but then relented. “Ancient history. There was a bit of a scandal after Papa’s death. Gossips said I killed his rival, the previous Lord Twitchell. With my bare hands.” He shot her a look that dared her to be frightened.

  A shiver coursed through her, but it had nothing to do with fear. “When has gossip ever been accurate?”

  Sinclair seemed pleased with her response. The mantel clock chimed the hour. He stood. “Carriage should be here any moment. Do you have a pair of white gloves?”

  “No.” She stood also. They were close enough she had to tilt her head back to see him.

  “Thought not. I’ll loan you one of mine.” He held his hand up to Quincy’s, touching his larger, calloused palm to her smaller hand. “They’ll be loose, but will serve propriety.”

  Quincy raised her gaze from where their palms touched, up to his face. The air around them seemed to crackle, like just before a lightning storm. He curled his fingers over hers. His lips were parted, his head tilted toward hers. For one heart-stopping moment she thought he would bend down and kiss her. She could tug on his hand, pull him down to her. Or he could pull her off balance, make her fall into his arms. She couldn’t breathe.

  They heard a knock on the door. They sprang apart, hands dropping to their sides.

  “The carriage is ready, my lord,” Harper said.

  Sinclair nodded, and the butler retreated. “Here,” he said, pulling a pair of white gloves out of his coat pocket. “You’d better put these on now.”

  She felt the weight of his hand against the small of her back as he guided her toward the door. She couldn’t see his face, but felt sure her own was bright red. If they wanted to avoid scandal, letting the butler catch the earl kissing his secretary was not the way to go about it.

  She tugged the gloves on, still warm from being in Sinclair’s pocket, and was almost breathing normally again by the time they stepped out into the hall.

  Chapter 11

  Q uincy followed Sinclair out to his waiting carriage and climbed into the dim interior. She fell back against the squabs next to Sinclair as Elliott started the horses. She ought to move to the empty seat. The evening was already cool, and she felt the warmth radiating from his body only a few in
ches from her own. She ought to move.

  She stayed. Though having his bulk beside her held an element of risk, of the forbidden, it was just too pleasant to pass up. Couldn’t she just enjoy the moment, with no thought for what the future might hold?

  She glanced out the window. Carriages drove past in the opposite direction, streetlamps alternately revealing and hiding the crests on the doors. Sinclair’s carriage door bore his family crest, too. Here she sat, beside an earl of the realm. What business did she have going with him?

  In the intimacy of the dark carriage, Quincy struggled not to fidget. Finally she could stand the quiet no more. “Now can we discuss your special project?”

  Sinclair scratched his jaw. “Tonight actually has two purposes. One, I wanted to offer you a treat. You’ve worked very hard, doubly so since your grandmother’s accident. And two…” He shifted his walking stick to his other hand.

  “Yes?”

  He moved his stick back to its original position. “As I said Monday, I want your help with a special project. I need someone to give me an intelligent, forthright opinion. Someone who doesn’t have anything at stake to color their view.”

  “Sounds intriguing. Opinion on what?”

  “Selecting my wife.”

  Quincy drew a quick, deep breath. He wanted her to help him choose a wife? A simple intellectual exercise in logic. An intelligent, forthright opinion, he said. Simple. So why did her stomach suddenly twist into knots?

  “I’ve shocked you speechless? You disappoint me, Quincy.”

  She cleared her throat. “Not at all. I was just, ah, considering suitable candidates.”

  “Good. I knew I could count on you.”

  The carriage rolled on in the darkness.

  “You still have not told me where we’re going.”

  “That’s because I want it to be a surprise.” He sat back against the cushions and hummed a tune.

  Quincy folded her hands in her lap to diminish the temptation to wrap them around his throat. When he started whistling, she grit her teeth. Her jaw ached by the time the carriage stopped again. She glanced out the window, and her mouth dropped open. “Drury Lane!” she exclaimed when she’d recovered. “Oh, Sinclair, this is marvelous! I take back all the horrible things I’ve been wishing on your head for the past half hour.”