What an Earl Wants Read online

  Palmer crossed one ankle over his knee and stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. “I’ve had my eye on a filly at Tattersall’s, and was wondering if you’d give your opinion on her?”

  They discussed horses at length, Sinclair pleased that his friends still sought his equine advice even though he hadn’t been able to sit a horse for more than a few minutes since his injury.

  After a brief knock, Harper held the door open as Mrs. Hammond entered with the tea tray, followed by Lady Sinclair. The three men jumped up. As they exchanged greetings, Sinclair braced himself for whatever his mother had up her sleeve. He could count on one hand the number of times she’d ventured into his library.

  She sat down and poured the tea. “Lord Palmer, you’re looking quite well these days,” she said as she handed him a cup.

  “Thank you, Lady Sinclair,” Palmer said. “May I return the compliment?”

  “I think marriage quite agrees with him, wouldn’t you say, Benjamin?”

  Sinclair choked on a swallow of tea. Quincy buried her face in the account book, but not before Sinclair saw her smile. Unfazed, Lady Sinclair turned her attention to Leland, who had jumped up from the sofa at the word “marriage” and walked over to the bookcase, putting the large desk between himself and Lady Sinclair.

  “And you, Sir Leland,” Lady Sinclair began. Even from across the room, Sinclair felt the fear radiating from Leland, as his gaze frantically darted from his mother to Sinclair, pleading for help. Sinclair shook his head. Leland was on his own. “How is your mother? I haven’t had a chance to see her since your guests settled in.”

  Leland exhaled and leaned one hip against the desk. Quincy peeked at Lady Sinclair, and Sinclair could swear he saw his mother wink at his secretary. A wink? The hair stood on the back of his neck. This did not bode well, not at all. Quincy turned her attention back to the ledger without batting an eyelash. “Quite well, thank you,” Leland said. “She seems to really enjoy having, er, guests in the house.”

  “Is she still thinking of renting out the ground floor back parlor?”

  “I suppose so. We already have three boarders, but Mama thinks there’s room for more.”

  “I know someone in need of lodgings in a suitable neighborhood, something with no stairs.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Mr. Quincy.”

  Quincy’s head popped up at the same moment Sinclair glanced at her. Mama had quizzed him over breakfast about last night’s activities, and he’d mentioned the injury to Quincy’s grandmother only to avoid dwelling on his ungentlemanly conduct at the end of the evening. He thought of Quincy living in Leland’s house, and his gut clenched. What was Mama trying to do?

  “Your grandmother has a broken ankle, does she not, Mr. Quincy?” Lady Sinclair continued. “And ground-floor lodgings would simplify matters while she recovers?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Mama likes to meet with her prospective boarders. Shall we arrange for you to meet her this evening?”

  Quincy started to shake her head, just as Lady Sinclair declared it a marvelous idea. The secretary took a deep breath. “That would be agreeable.”

  Sinclair rubbed his temples. Quincy, living under Leland’s roof? With servants about, and other boarders nearby? Could she maintain her masculine persona well enough to avoid giving herself away? She’d have to stay “in character” at all times, even in sleep. No frilly, feminine nightgowns. She probably wore a nightshirt anyway.

  Egads, what was he doing, imagining Quincy’s bed attire?

  And Leland’s mother, Lady Fitzwater. What if she should notice something different about Mr. Quincy? Women had the reputation of sometimes noticing things that men did not.

  The one bright spot was that Leland’s town house was in a neighborhood infinitely better than the slum where the Quincy family currently resided. Physically, they’d all be much safer.

  Thinking of safety, another realization slammed home. There was no way Quincy could accompany him to his country estate. Not if he wanted to consider himself a gentleman. If their secret got out, she’d be ruined, regardless of his behavior. She had already placed herself in jeopardy in so many ways, but this was one risk he would not allow her to take.

  He swallowed his disappointment.

  Chapter 12

  “A nother match made in the household,” Sinclair announced later that afternoon, striding into the library. He dropped onto the sofa with a sigh and propped his feet up.

  Quincy set down the mail. “Who is it this time?”

  “Tanner and Irene. Apparently he recently discovered he is heir to a freehold farm, and the current owner, a distant cousin, is in poor health. Tanner felt the need for a wife before he went to learn the running of the farm. Irene, it turns out, came to us already pregnant and was concerned about her child not having a father. They left this morning, without giving notice.”

  “How rude.”

  Sinclair grunted. “Do I look like a bloody matchmaker to you, Quincy?” He crossed one ankle over his knee. “No, I did not think so. But try explaining that to Mama. According to her, this is all my fault. They’re all atwitter upstairs figuring out the new division of duties.” He let out a long-suffering sigh.

  “I was unaware you had thrust Irene and Tanner into each other’s company, and plunged them into situations where they both suddenly felt the need for a spouse.” Quincy grinned at the earl as she opened the ledger book once more.

  “My point exactly.” Sinclair roused himself from the sofa and dropped into his leather desk chair with a grunt. “You realize, of course, we will have to find someone to replace them both, quickly.” He groaned again and ran his fingers through his hair. “It might take days, or weeks, to find suitable candidates. Inspecting Brentwood will have to wait.”

  Quincy bent over the ledger to hide her disappointment. Canceling the trip was probably for the best, however. She was enjoying Sinclair’s solitary company far too much. Last night she had almost kissed him when he held her on his lap.

  “As long as everything is in upheaval upstairs, you might as well make the most of it,” Sinclair said, reaching back and flipping her ledger book closed. “Go meet with Leland’s mother. If you both agree on arrangements, take tomorrow and the weekend to move. I think your grandmother would be much happier there.”

  “Undoubtedly easier to live with, at any rate,” Quincy said, rising. “Thank you, Sinclair.”

  “Umm.” Sinclair waved her off, staring into the middle distance.

  Quincy was halfway home when the solution to her employer’s staffing problems hit her. Or rather, it was a boot that hit her, thrown by an angry landlord. She ducked as he tossed another boot, then flung a chair out to the pavement.

  A sobbing woman tugged on the man’s arm. “We’ll have the rent by Monday, I swear!”

  “Bugger off, wench,” he growled, and tossed more of their belongings into the street. He threw her off his arm with such force she tripped down the stairs and sprawled on the pavement.

  “You can’t treat my sister that way!” a man yelled, appearing in the doorway.

  “Who’s going to stop me, you?” the landlord sneered. “You can bugger off, too, you stupid cripple.” The landlord shoved him down the steps and threw a long stick after him.

  As the young man tried to stand, the landlord threw a wooden crate at him. It landed a foot away, sending up a spray of broken pottery. Shaking off his sister’s hand, he grabbed the wooden stick and headed up the stairs. The landlord slammed the door in his face.

  “Jack, what are we to do?” The young woman dabbed at her face where shards of pottery had drawn blood.

  “Oh, poppet, don’t cry. I can’t bear it when you cry.” Jack hopped down the stairs to his sister and wrapped his arms around her.

  Only then did Quincy realize his unusual gait was because his left leg extended just six inches below his hip.

  “I believe this is yours,” Quincy said, stepping toward the pair and
holding out a boot.

  They turned identical startled gazes on her. Of nearly the same height, they shared the same black hair, blue eyes, and delicate bone structure.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the boot. He let go of his sister and hopped over to the other boot, tossed it toward the crate, and started gathering up their other belongings in the same manner.

  “I’m Quincy,” she said, extending her hand to the woman, whose sobbing had eased to the occasional hiccup.

  “Jill,” she said, shaking Quincy’s hand.

  “No!” Quincy bit back a smile.

  “Afraid so,” Jill said, with a watery grin. “Papa was quite cupshot when we were born, and Mama was too exhausted to argue.”

  Quincy grinned, too, and they watched Jack gather up the pair’s few belongings, moving quickly with his crutch and one leg. “Have you anywhere to go, anyone to help you?”

  “We’ll be fine, thank you very much,” Jack said. He held the back of the rickety chair and gestured for Jill to sit down.

  “I meant no insult,” Quincy said quickly. “I may be in a position to help you. Do you mind if I ask what skills you possess?”

  “We worked for a modiste,” Jill said. “Jack made deliveries, while I sewed. But she returned to France last month, and we haven’t been able to find other work since.”

  “Would you be interested in learning to be a maid, or,” Quincy turned her gaze to Jack, “a footman?”

  “Your attic’s to let. Who’d hire me as a footman?”

  “You might be surprised. Will you wait here?” She didn’t wait for a reply, but spun on her heel and raced the few blocks back to Sinclair.

  She found him still in the library, staring unseeing at a folio on his desk. “I may have found a solution to your staff shortage,” she said, breathless from running.

  “How’s that?”

  “Will you promise to keep an open mind while I show you? It’s a few streets over.”

  “I don’t think I like the sound of that,” he said, but followed her out of the house.

  They paused just out of earshot.

  “You can’t be serious!” Sinclair looked from the twins back to Quincy. “Have you bats in your belfry? You want to hire him as a footman?”

  “The position is called footman, not feetman. He seems qualified.” She grinned, drawing a reluctant smile from the earl. “And you haven’t seen him move yet. I would wager Thompson would have trouble keeping up with him.” She raised her voice. “Jack! Would you join us, please?”

  Jack stared at the earl, exchanged glances with his sister, and headed over.

  “Notice how well his clothes are made. His sister Jill is a seamstress. She could easily find work if she were willing to leave her brother behind.”

  “Jack and Jill?” Sinclair chuckled. “How can you be sure they’re really siblings? I don’t want anything havey-cavey going on under my roof.”

  “Trust me, you can be sure.” Quincy stepped aside as the twins neared.

  Sinclair stared at the two, then cleared his throat. “I am the Earl of Sinclair,” he announced. “My secretary tells me you are in need of employment. As it happens, I have need of—” he glanced at Quincy, closed his eyes, and briefly shook his head. “I have two staff openings in my household. Are you interested?”

  “Yes, my lord,” they answered in unison.

  The earl looked from one to the other. “Then we are agreed. I’ll send Elliot back with the cart in a few minutes to collect your things. You can work out the details with my butler.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” they said. Jill curtsied and Jack bowed.

  “I am the one with bats in the belfry,” Sinclair muttered as he passed Quincy, heading home again.

  “Glad you agree, my lord,” Quincy said.

  “Impertinent pup.”

  The rest of the day passed in a blur for Quincy. Lady Fitzwater, Leland’s mother, pronounced herself delighted to rent the ground-floor back parlor to the Quincy family. She asked for one month’s rent in advance, naming a sum Quincy thought more than reasonable, especially given the improved neighborhood.

  She wouldn’t have to worry about Mel’s safety nearly as much, and her sister could finally put her hair up, as befitted her age. With such cheery prospects, Quincy didn’t even begrudge the funds it would cost to move their belongings. Any misgivings she had about renting space in Sir Leland’s house were forgotten.

  Later she met with Sam, the butcher, to reschedule his weekly reading and writing lesson, explaining she had to arrange for a carter for the next morning.

  “Nonsense!” Sam boomed. “What time shall I bring my cart ’round to your flat?”

  “Please, dearie,” Sam’s wife said when Quincy started to refuse. “I’ll even see to it he puts down fresh straw. Did you tell him about your new contracts?” she said to her husband.

  Sam’s barrel chest puffed out even farther. “That’s right, laddie. I got written contracts with two nobs in Mayfair! Supply them with all their meat now!”

  Quincy congratulated him, then headed home to share her own good news.

  “I know, Mama, but he’s a footman, not a feetman,” Sinclair said with a grin, standing before his mother in the drawing room.

  “Really, Benjamin! What do you suggest we do now, go out and find a man missing his right leg, so we’ll have a matched set?”

  Sinclair’s humor vanished. “That wouldn’t be difficult.”

  She jumped up from the sofa and hugged him. “I know,” she said softly, resting her cheek against his shoulder. She squeezed his arms and stepped back. “You say his sister Jill is a skilled seamstress? It would be a waste to put her to turning mattresses or dusting. The maids need new uniforms, and I believe I need a new gown or three. I wonder if I could set her up with her own shop, in time?”

  Lady Sinclair barely nodded when Sinclair excused himself and headed for his library.

  It was empty. He knew it would be, remembered giving Quincy time off, but hadn’t realized before how empty the room felt without her. It would be three long days before she returned.

  He sat at Quincy’s drop-leaf desk, behind and to the side of his own massive oak desk. Moved a few balls on her abacus, then slid them back. Didn’t want to upset her calculations. He took a deep breath, expecting only to smell ink and paper and leather, but was shocked to detect the scent of lemon. Faint, but he definitely smelled lemons.

  Quincy’s soap. It certainly wasn’t her aftershave, Sinclair thought with a chuckle.

  He grew serious, thinking of himself at Quincy’s age. At school then, his biggest worries were about tests he hadn’t studied for, and avoiding getting caned while still getting into mischief with his friends. He hadn’t been responsible for the well-being of anyone save himself, and even that hadn’t been a major concern.

  Most females of Quincy’s age were attending balls and other social functions, in the pursuit of finding a husband. Like Miss Mary, and shy Miss Prescott. What would Quincy look like, dressed for a ball? For that matter, when was the last time she had worn a gown of any kind?

  Trapped in her masculine disguise, Quincy would never dance at a ball. She’d never have a Season. Would never be able to marry. Never have children. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  He suddenly couldn’t bear to remain in the library.

  He rang for Harper and requested his black mare be saddled. The conversation with Palmer this morning had reminded him how much he missed riding, and he had the perfect destination in mind to test his leg’s improvement.

  Twenty minutes later he reined in a few doors down from Quincy’s flat. He handed a shilling and the reins to a street urchin, and promised him a half-crown if he and his horse were still there when he returned.

  He found Melinda halfway up the first flight of stairs, an overflowing shopping basket in one hand, the other covering her eyes. “I can’t bear to look, Jo. Did you drop her?”

  “No, we did not drop her, you ninn
y,” Quincy muttered from the shadows farther above, gasping for breath.

  “You would have heard me fall, goose. Now run up ahead and open the door. Watch where you put your hands, Hubert!”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Quincy,” a strange voice mumbled.

  Sinclair started up the stairs, watching Quincy and a young man make a chair with their arms for Quincy’s grandmother. “May I be of assistance?” he said, reaching the landing.

  Staring at Sinclair in surprise, the unknown youth dropped his jaw and his side of Mrs. Quincy.

  Sinclair caught her and easily swung her up in his arms.

  Quincy stooped to catch the crutches before they slid down the steps. “Grandmère, this is Lord Sinclair,” she said, when she realized both adults looked at her expectantly.

  “So you’re my Jo’s employer,” she said, wrapping one arm around Sinclair’s neck to keep from slipping.

  “Yes, ma’am. Do you mind if we continue this upstairs?” Small as she was, the unaccustomed weight and recent horseback ride was making his bad leg throb. And they were drawing a crowd at the foot of the stairs.

  Mrs. Quincy followed his glance. “Whatever you say, young man.” She leaned her gray head against his shoulder, making it easier for him to see where he stepped. “I’m sorry I caused such a fuss,” she added, not sounding the least bit sorry. “I thought I could hop up the stairs as easily as I hopped down them.”

  Melinda had already opened the door and scooped up Sir Ambrose, guarding the threshold. “This way, my lord,” she said, opening the bedchamber door. Quincy darted inside, pulled back the covers on the four-poster bed, and grabbed a pillow from the cot to put at the foot of the four-poster. The massive piece of furniture left barely enough room to walk between it and the cot on the other side.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Quincy said.

  “My pleasure,” he replied, gently setting his burden on the bed, making sure her foot was atop the pillow.

  “No, ’twas my pleasure,” Mrs. Quincy said, winking at him.

  Sinclair didn’t think he could still blush, but he felt his cheeks grow warm. He cleared his throat. “I trust everything is satisfactory at Sir Leland’s house?” he asked Quincy.