What an Earl Wants Page 2

  The butler sighed. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Hurrying home in the gathering dusk, head bent low against the stiff March wind and rain, Quincy stopped to purchase lengths of fabric for a day coat, trousers, and two shirts. Quincy also selected a length of sprigged muslin, and stopped a few more times for potatoes, cheese, and a leg of mutton.

  Quincy had barely stepped through the door of the third-floor flat when a brunette in braids grabbed one of the parcels.

  “You got the job! You got the job!” she said, hooking her arm through Quincy’s and spinning them until her skirts and hair fluttered out.

  “Yes, Melinda, I got the job. Now stop dancing before you start coughing again. You’re making me dizzy. And it means work for you, too. His lordship doesn’t want to see me in rags again. Can you finish a coat by morning, if I help you?” Quincy set the bolt of dark blue wool on the table.

  “If you help? Impossible. Without your help, however…”

  “Jo, is that you?” a voice called from the other room of the flat.

  “Yes, Grandmère.”

  “Come here, child. I’ve been waiting all day.”

  Quincy and Melinda grinned at each other, then Melinda took the remainder of the parcels while Quincy went to the other room.

  “Sit, sit, and tell me all about it,” the old woman said, patting the bed beside her.

  “I knew acting as Papa’s secretary would help you get us out of the suds someday,” Melinda said, following Quincy into the room, having dropped the parcels on the table.

  “Is Lord Sinclair all we thought he would be?” Grandmère asked, pulling Quincy down beside her.

  “Yes, and you were absolutely right. I think he enjoyed my impertinence more than I did.”

  Grandmère chuckled. “Knew that would get him. He hates toadeaters almost as much as his grandfather did. Now, that was a man who appreciated a pretty ankle!” She turned serious again. “I still wish there was another solution, but I am glad everything is working out just as you planned. Do you think he suspects anything?”

  “No, I’m sure he doesn’t,” Quincy said.

  Grandmère pulled Quincy close for a hug. “Good girl.”

  Chapter 2

  “E xcellent, Mr. Quincy, excellent.” Sinclair slid his booted feet from his desk and rose to walk around his new secretary when he entered the library the next morning.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, my lord, but your cobbler—”

  “Do be quiet, Mr. Quincy.” Sinclair stepped back and rubbed his chin. “Your tailor does fine work, lad.”

  “Th-thank you, my lord. The cobbler insisted I put these shoes on your bill, but they were frightfully expensive. I don’t—”

  “I said be quiet, Quincy.” Sinclair lifted the lad’s trouserleg with one thumb and forefinger to get a better look at the sturdy black shoes. Quincy flushed to his roots. “They’re just what you should wear, working for me. If you feel guilty about the expense, you can tackle that stack of bills over there and make sure no one is cheating me.”

  He waited until Quincy seated himself at the drop-leaf desk by the window, then handed him the accounting ledgers. “Start with the household accounts, then we’ll move on to my other properties.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The library door opened and the housekeeper bustled in with a tray of scones, jelly and tea. “Good morning, my lord, Mr. Quincy.”

  Startled, Sinclair stared at Mrs. Hammond. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d personally brought a tea tray to anyone but his mother. This one hadn’t even been sent for. He turned his attention to Quincy, who smiled at Mrs. Hammond when she poured two cups for them before she left.

  “Do you intend to wrap all of my staff around your finger, Mr. Quincy?”

  Quincy walked over to the tray and took a sip before answering. “Housekeepers are valuable allies, whether you’re the lord of the house, the scullery maid, or anyone in between.”

  Sinclair grunted. “Just don’t run off and marry the downstairs maid.”

  “You haven’t replaced her yet, my lord.” His eyes twinkled. “Do you wish me to handle that, or will you leave the hiring up to Harper or Mrs. Hammond?”

  “Leave you to hire a young, pretty maid? I think not. That would be as bad as letting Harper do it.” Sinclair leaned close to Quincy, pleasantly surprised to note that he smelled only of lemon soap and rain-dampened wool. With Johnson, his previous secretary, he’d often needed to open the windows, especially in warmer weather. He couldn’t help noticing Quincy’s porcelain-smooth jaw. “You don’t have even a hint of whiskers yet. How old are you, anyway?”

  “Nineteen, my lord, but we already established that shaving was not a requirement for this position. How old are you?”

  Sinclair blinked, then gave a faint smile. “Far too old for a man of my years. Carry on, Mr. Quincy.” He drank the tea Mrs. Hammond had poured, then picked up his hat, gloves, and stick, and left for his walk.

  Quincy sat down before her knees gave out. “Everything is fine,” she whispered. “Everything is just fine. Lord Sinclair doesn’t suspect a thing.” She had never counted on her employer getting so, well, so…close. Whiskers? She could bind her bosom and insert a rolled-up stocking in her trousers, but she knew no way to fake having whiskers.

  But Sinclair didn’t suspect a thing. She could do this. Everything was fine. After a few more deep breaths, she pocketed her spectacles and set to work.

  Soon the figures in the account books began to swim before her eyes. Johnson’s handwriting was even worse than her father’s had been, and the Earl of Sinclair’s holdings were far more extensive. No matter how many times she added the columns, she never came up with the same figures Johnson had. She threw her pencil down in disgust.

  “I can hear the earl now,” she muttered. “Terminated on the first day. What will Grandmère say?” She shoved her spectacles back on and stepped out into the hall.

  “Mr. Harper, do you mind if I send one of the footmen on an errand? It may take him a while to find what I need.”

  “I have just the man in mind,” the butler said. “Thompson’s post is near the top of the stairs, but we usually find him near whichever room the maids are cleaning.”

  “Harper, I insist you do something about that buffoon upstairs!” A man no taller than Quincy appeared behind them, holding an armful of limp cravats. “His tongue fairly hangs to the floor whenever one of the female servants walk past. It is positively disgusting.”

  “I heard it’s something else that fairly hangs to the floor, but I may be mistaken.” Harper stepped aside. Quincy felt her ears burning but kept her expression bland. “Mr. Quincy, have you met Broderick, his lordship’s valet?”

  They had barely exchanged greetings when a giant in Sinclair’s livery with shoulder-length blond curls crossed the hall, following a maid toward the back stairs. “Thompson, Mr. Quincy has an errand for you,” Harper called.

  Quincy got a crick in her neck looking up at Thompson while she described what she needed him to buy, and gratefully leaned against the wall when she returned to the library.

  When she had devised her plan, she hadn’t considered how many other people she’d be dealing with in addition to her employer. But no one suspected a thing. She could do this. Everything was fine. “Keep saying that,” she muttered, “and it’ll be true.” She went back to work, and had just finished sorting the morning’s mail when Mrs. Hammond knocked.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Quincy, but her ladyship requests you join her in the drawing room.”

  Her ladyship? What could Sinclair’s mother possibly want with her? Once again she pushed her spectacles on and left the library. She followed the housekeeper upstairs, down a hallway wider than her entire flat, and into a room decorated in yellow with green and orange accents, reminding Quincy of daffodils.

  In the center of the daffodil sat Lady Sinclair, an older, more delicate version of her son, with silver streaks in her chestnut hair and
the faint scent of jasmine floating around her. Knowing from her research that the former earl had passed away nearly six years ago, Quincy was surprised to see Lady Sinclair wearing a half-mourning gown of gray, trimmed with lavender.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Quincy,” she said, raising one hand. Quincy remembered to bow over it, then stood stiffly with her arms at her sides.

  “Please, sit down. Would you care for tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Quincy sat on the edge of the cushion.

  “Well, let’s get right to the point, then. How do you like your new position?”

  Alarm skittered up her spine, and Quincy forced herself to breathe. Terminated already? Could Lady Sinclair do that? “Fine, my lady.”

  “Good.” She tilted her head to one side, studying Quincy’s face.

  Quincy fought to keep her expression neutral, to hide her growing unease.

  “Have we met somewhere? Perhaps I know your father or a brother.”

  “No, my lady, I don’t believe so. My brother died at birth, and my father passed away a year ago.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” She studied Quincy for what felt like a century. Quincy pressed her palms flat to her knees to keep from fidgeting. The mantel clock chimed the hour. Lady Sinclair’s eyes widened, but her expression cleared again so quickly, Quincy thought she might have imagined it.

  Lady Sinclair cleared her throat and leaned toward Quincy. “Now, about your job. You handle my son’s correspondence, know which affairs he’s invited to?”

  “That is part of what I do, yes.”

  “Good.” Lady Sinclair refilled her teacup and settled back on the cushions, again studying Quincy.

  This was getting right to the point? “Is there something specific you wish to know, my lady?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes, I—I would like you to keep me informed as to which affairs my son is invited to, and which invitations he accepts.” She took another sip of her tea and set the cup and saucer on the table at her side. “Has anyone ever told you that you have honest eyes, Mr. Quincy?”

  “No, my lady, I don’t believe so.” Quincy resisted the urge to squirm.

  “Well, you do. I feel as though I can tell you anything and it will be kept in strictest confidence.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You seem like someone who is comfortable with secrets.”

  Quincy involuntarily leaned back. “Thank you—I think—but I should remind you that my first allegiance is to Lord Sinclair. I am sure he would not have hired me if he did not think my activities would be in his best interest.”

  Lady Sinclair straightened. “That’s as it should be. I’m not asking for anything that would betray his trust in you. I’m simply concerned that, well…” She rested her hand on Quincy’s sleeve. “Benjamin has always been very private, keeping his own counsel. But he’s becoming downright reclusive, especially since Anthony returned to Oxford. Anthony is my younger son.” Lady Sinclair beamed with motherly pride for a moment, then her expression turned grave again. “Benjamin insisted there was no further need to disrupt Tony’s studies. But I know Benjamin is not nearly as recovered as he would like everyone to think. His wounds were too…grievous.”

  Lady Sinclair quickly took another sip of tea. “And after that nasty bit of business last fall, I fear he’s quite turned off the idea of marrying.”

  “Last fall?” Quincy tried to project the right tone of polite boredom to mask her curiosity.

  “During the Little Season. Benjamin was pleased with how quickly he mastered getting about on crutches, and started going out in Society a bit. Some of the ladies quite doted on him. Wounded hero, and all that. He was smitten with a raven-haired miss, and I think he may even have asked for her hand. But he came home one night and smashed all the crockery in his room. When I quizzed him about it, he would only say that her heart was as black as her hair.”

  Quincy tried to think of a suitable response, but none was forthcoming.

  “Whatever she said or did, he still needs a wife, a helpmate. I know he spends a great deal of time at his club, but that’s with other former soldiers, and I’m sure all they discuss is politics and games of chance. I ask you, how is he to find a suitable wife in St. James’s Street?”

  “I’m sure I do not know.”

  “That’s why I want you to let me know which balls and such he is invited to, where there will be young ladies of quality. I can apply a little motherly pressure on him to accept, and then who knows what might happen? And if he should mention any miss in particular, you will let me know, won’t you? Then I can make certain she’s invited to tea, and to the soiree I’m hosting in a few weeks.”

  Quincy furrowed her brow. Sinclair might consider this spying, but she had no wish to offend the lady of the house, either. “I think I can do that without breaching any confidence.”

  “Good lad! I knew I could count on you.” Before Quincy could react, Lady Sinclair enveloped her in a brief hug, then moved to the pianoforte. Lady Sinclair seemed different than when their strange little interview began, but Quincy couldn’t quite put her finger on the change. Perhaps she just imagined it.

  Quincy walked back to the library, listening to the strains of a Mozart sonata. What wounds had Lady Sinclair alluded to? A leg injury—that would explain why Sinclair was forever propping his feet up, and often limped or walked with a stiff gait. She stifled her curiosity, however, instinctively knowing Sinclair would not welcome inquiries into the subject. And heaven forbid he ever discover his mother had just shared such private information with his secretary on such short acquaintance.

  Her thoughts as to why Lady Sinclair had told her these things were interrupted by Thompson, who met her in the hall. She relieved him of his package and returned to work on the account books. She was making such great progress, she didn’t hear Sinclair enter a few hours later.

  “Good Lord, what is that monstrosity?”

  She jumped, nearly bumping into his chest. He was leaning over her, his hand on the back of her chair. Her shoulder brushed his fingers as she moved.

  He sniffed and looked around the room. “Has my mother been in here?”

  “No, my lord. I joined her in the drawing room, at her request.”

  He stepped back to allow Quincy room to rise. “Wrapped her around your finger, too, I suppose?”

  Quincy tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. “She said she was pleased to make my acquaintance and she…she—”

  “She what?”

  “Hugged me.”

  Sinclair’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. He raised both eyebrows. “You still haven’t told me what that monstrosity is on your desk.” He reached around her to flick one of the colored balls strung on rows of wires in a wooden frame.

  “It’s an abacus.” She flicked back the ball he had moved. “My last employer had one, and I found it quite helpful. It might blend in better if you had a Chinese decorating scheme.”

  “Bah. This is my room, and its decorating scheme is that it has none.” He sank into the sofa and put his feet up on the ottoman. “So, report. What did you learn about the household accounts this morning?”

  “I’d rather not say yet, my lord. I found some confusing entries, and I’d prefer to look into them more carefully before discussing the matter.”

  “Commendable. Get cracking, then.” He opened the folio he’d carried under one arm and began reading.

  Quincy nodded and went back to work, trying not to think about Lord Sinclair sitting just a few feet away. She risked a peek at him through her lashes. It took all her powers of concentration to turn her attention back to the account books instead of his profile, to gaze at the figures on the page and not the figure seated in the chair.

  The deeper she delved into the entries, the easier it became to concentrate. When she finally caught on to the pattern taking shape in the books, she would have shouted in triumph if it didn’t mean such bad news for Sinclair. The abacus proved her figures were correc
t, not Johnson’s. She gathered proof from paid bills, ledger books, and correspondence files, spreading them out across the desk and even onto the floor as she worked.

  Sinclair peered at Quincy over the top of the document he was pretending to read, and considered their interview yesterday. Though he was still sure he’d made the right choice, all sorts of questions nagged at him. It was too soon to know for certain that Quincy was a man of his word, and would only use his forgery skill for his employer’s benefit rather than detriment, but Sinclair felt confident things would turn out for the best. His instincts were always right.

  Quincy had apparently gotten over his initial discomfort of this morning, and made himself at ease at Sinclair’s desk, using every square inch of its surface. Sinclair hadn’t noticed before how slight of stature the lad was, dwarfed by the leather chair and oak desk, his heels not even reaching the floor. Quincy squinted as he tried to make out Johnson’s indecipherable scrawl. His expression soon cleared, as he must have learned the secret cipher.

  He even began humming under his breath and swinging his crossed ankles above the carpet, looking more like a child playing make-believe than a young man at work. But it was no child’s intellect with whom Sinclair had crossed verbal swords earlier.

  Time for a little reconnaissance. Sinclair rose from the sofa and settled in the chair across from Quincy. It took the lad several seconds to notice him, but he finally looked up with a start.

  “My lord?”

  Sinclair leaned his elbows on the desk, chin resting on one palm. “Tell me how you learned to forge.”

  Quincy’s jaw worked for a moment, then he crossed his arms. “Have you changed your mind about Newgate?”

  “No.”

  Quincy just looked at him. Sinclair was beginning to think the lad would refuse to answer, but he stayed still, silently awaiting a reply.

  “It was by accident,” Quincy said at last. He picked up the pencil, toying with it. “My…last employer was ill for a long time. His hands would tremble, which made it hard to write. One day I copied his signature on a letter.” He shrugged one shoulder. “After a little practice, he couldn’t tell my version from his.”