What an Earl Wants Read online

  “Oh good, you’ve come,” he said, and pulled her inside, quickly but silently shutting the door behind them.

  “Quincy…No, Quincy…” Sinclair’s raspy voice died on a moan.

  Forgetting Thompson, she strode to the bed. Sinclair lay tangled in the sheets, tossing his head back and forth on the pillow. She sat on the edge and caught his hands between her own.

  “Been doing that for over an hour,” Thompson said, standing behind her. “Thought for sure he’d wake up Lady Sinclair and the rest of the house by now, between calling for you and shouting what I think is French swear words. What did you do to him?”

  “Sinclair?” she whispered.

  The earl stopped thrashing. His fingers, hot and clammy, curled around her hand. He squeezed once, then went limp as he drifted into sleep.

  “Why did you send for me, and not his mother or the doctor?”

  “I don’t trust doctors no more than you do, and Lady S has enough gray hair from the last time he was sick.”

  “The last time?” She brushed a lock of hair from Sinclair’s sweaty forehead.

  “In France, after the last big battle. Surgeon tried to cut off Sinclair’s leg, but the earl drew the sawbones’ cork and dragged hisself out of the tent, and no one could find him for more’n a week.” Thompson tugged the bedsheets back up to Sinclair’s shoulders. “Lady S didn’t have a single gray hair until she read the casualty lists and saw his name among the missing and presumed dead.” He lowered his voice even further. “You don’t think he’s going to cock up his toes now, do you?”

  “I most certainly am not,” Sinclair rasped.

  Quincy smiled in relief, then frowned. “I don’t understand, Sinclair. You were doing so much better. The tea should have—”

  “Horrid stuff.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t drink it, did you? How did you dispose of it, then?”

  Sinclair dropped his free arm over the side of the bed, and Quincy heard a faint sloshing sound. “Chamber pot.”

  “Ooh, you stubborn creature!” She dropped his hand and stood up. “Thompson, you and I should seek our own beds. Since his lordship knows what’s best for his care, there is no need for us to disturb our sleep.”

  Thompson raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. “Whatever you think best, sir.” Both headed for the door.

  “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

  Quincy didn’t even look back.

  “Wait!” Sinclair reached out for her. “Before you go, would you…would you bring me a cup of that damn tea?”

  Thompson and Quincy shared a brief grin, then Thompson grabbed the empty teapot from the hearth and left.

  Quincy wrung out a cloth in the basin and wiped Sinclair’s face. “You only made things worse by traveling so far in the rain in your condition. You should have stayed at Brentwood.”

  “No.” He coughed for several moments, a hard, deep, wet cough that made Quincy’s chest ache just to hear it. “Your grandmother would have worried if I didn’t get you home on time. I gave my word.” He fell back against the pillows.

  He had also given his word, if only to himself, that he would not be with her until she was his, legally. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be without her until then.

  Thompson returned a short time later, carrying the foul-tasting brew. Sinclair struggled to sit up, grimaced when Thompson and Quincy both had to give him a hand. He nodded a dismissal, and the footman retreated to his post in the hall.

  Quincy sat on the edge of the bed and handed him the cup of tea. “I’m not turning my back this time.”

  She had no need to worry. After asking for the tea, it would have been foolish to tip it out. “Cheers.” He took a sip. Maybe he was getting used to it, or Quincy had added more sugar this time. It was only mildly awful. He downed the rest of it as quickly as he could. He squinted toward the fireplace, but couldn’t read the clock on the mantel in the darkness.

  He pushed the bedclothes down to his lap. The fire cast far too much heat, it felt like a boulder rested on his chest, and that demented carpenter in his head was still at it. But he was alone with Quincy, and that was all that mattered.

  She traded the empty cup for a cool damp cloth, and soothed it over his brow. Ah, even better. He reached up to pat her hand.

  “I should leave, and you should go back to sleep.”

  Her voice had that hitch in it, that breathless quality it took on every time he touched her, whenever he stood close enough to inhale her scent. Good to know he still had that effect on her, even when he was far from his best. “Not sleepy.”

  “It’s the middle of the night, and you’re exhausted. Of course you’re sleepy.”

  “Not sleepy,” he repeated, lazily reaching for her hand.

  “Well, we can’t get you a glass of warm milk. That would make you cough even more. Wonder if there’s any chamomile tea in the kitchen?”

  He stroked his thumb over her hand. Her voice was more soothing than any tonic. He didn’t want to sleep, he wanted to hear her. But talking required too much effort. “Tell me a story.”

  She laughed. “A what?”

  “You want me to sleep, tell me a bedtime story.”

  “You’re being silly.”

  He nodded. “Story.”

  “All right, let me think.” She took the cloth away, wrung it out, and replaced it on his forehead. “Once upon a time…This is ridiculous.”

  He settled against the pillows, taking her hand in his again. “Keep going.”

  She sighed. “Once upon a time, there lived a handsome young man named Randolph.”

  Sinclair opened one eye. Quincy blushed. “I used to tell this to my sister. You want me to continue or not?”

  With his free hand, Sinclair waved her on.

  Quincy cleared her throat. “Randolph came from a good family, but he was the younger son of a younger son, and had to make his own way in the world. When he finished his schooling, he became the curate at a parish in a small fishing village. He was as poor as his parishioners, but he tried to help them as much as he could. If one of them was sick, he would take their place on the fishing boat, so they would not miss a day’s wages.”

  Sinclair smiled as Quincy got into the spirit of telling a bedtime story, probably falling into old habits. He pictured her as a lass of ten or so, tucking in her little sister with this tale.

  “One day, a squall came up in the Channel, and the fishing boat nearly rammed the hull of a capsized yacht. Its crew was thrashing about in the water, battered by the waves. None of the fishermen would risk themselves by jumping in to the rough sea, but they did throw ropes. One of the people in the water was the owner of the yacht, a French aristocrat. His daughter was also in the water, just beyond the reach of the ropes. She tried to swim toward the boat, but her panniers and skirts were dragging her under. She was going to drown.

  “Randolph saw the young woman in peril, and jumped into the storm-tossed waters to save her, and saved her father as well. The fishermen pulled the rest of the crew to safety. Everyone on the yacht was saved. The aristocrat was a friend of our king, coming to England to seek refuge from the Revolution. King George was so grateful to Randolph for saving his friend that he granted Randolph a barony. The Frenchman had lost all his riches to the Revolution and the storm, but he wanted to show his thanks as well, and gave Randolph his most precious possession—his daughter Dominique’s hand in marriage. Randolph was overjoyed, for he and Dominique had fallen in love at first sight.” Quincy’s voice trailed off.

  “Did you forget how it ends?”

  “Thought you’d fallen asleep.” She rinsed and replaced the cloth on his forehead.

  “So did they live happily ever after?” He gave her back the cloth and pulled the blankets up to his chin. The fire had burned down too low.

  “Of course. Well, they did until Randolph died in a carriage accident twenty years ago.”

  Dominique was her grandmother’s name. Sinclair opened his e
yes.

  She met his level gaze, then leaned forward and dropped a kiss on his brow. “Now be a good lad and go to sleep.”

  He fell asleep with a grin on his face.

  Quincy and Thompson took turns through the night, giving Sinclair more of the willowbark tea between his coughing fits whenever he awoke. Twice she tried to lie down on the valet’s cot in the closet, but Sinclair called out for her before her head touched the pillow. She settled for curling up in the chair pulled close to his bed, her hand resting on his shoulder. Thompson gave her a searching look, but she didn’t care. There was nothing wrong with touching Sinclair if it gave him some measure of comfort. Exhausted from coughing, he finally fell silent an hour before dawn.

  A bleary-eyed Jack came in at seven to relieve Thompson. Quincy stood and stretched, envious of Thompson who headed for his bed in the servants’ quarters upstairs. Thinking fondly of her own soft bed, she realized she had left no note for Grandmère and Melinda to explain her absence. She was about to leave when Sinclair called for her again. She ended up scribbling a note for a footman to deliver to Mel, and headed back to Sinclair.

  Uncanny. If she tried to leave his side, he became restless and called out for her. If she merely went to her desk to work, he slept soundly. He needed to sleep, so she stayed at her desk. His labored breathing was audible across the room, almost hypnotic.

  “Quincy!” Sinclair’s raspy voice startled her awake.

  She raised her head from her desk and attempted to rub away the imprint of the quill pen from her cheek. “What?” She blinked, bringing the earl into focus.

  “What the devil time is it?” He sat up, running his fingers through his mussed hair. “Why didn’t you—” He broke off as another coughing fit seized him.

  “Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” she said under her breath. She rang for the maid, then went to Sinclair’s bedside and waited until he fell back against the pillows. “For patients in your condition, Dr. Kimball would recommend weak tea and thin gruel.” Sinclair scrunched his face in distaste. “Grandmère, however, recommends any fruit that can be found, toast with orange marmalade, and as much tea as you can drink.”

  At the mention of fruit, he smiled. “Your grandmother is a wise woman.” He started to say more but was seized with another coughing fit.

  Quincy poured from a bottle she had concealed under his bedside table, and handed him the cup when he finally stopped. “She also recommends one shot of whiskey every four hours when you are awake.”

  “I prefer brandy.”

  “Grandmère was quite specific.”

  He shrugged and downed the whiskey in one gulp. And promptly coughed for two solid minutes.

  When Jill appeared, Quincy requested luncheon for herself and breakfast for the earl, then set to brewing the willowbark tea. By the time she looked back at him, he’d fallen asleep again.

  She read the newspaper while she ate, occasionally glancing at the earl. He slept on. She studied the business section, deciding where to invest first. Her only hope was investments. Fortunes, in the modest size she needed, could be won or lost in a matter of months. She really must see about meeting with the earl’s solicitor, to check on his portfolio, and to start her own again. Tomorrow, however, was soon enough. Just now she wanted nothing more than to sleep.

  “Where’d you hide the bottle, Jo?” Sinclair spoke near her ear.

  Quincy jerked her head up, narrowly missing Sinclair’s chin. “What are you doing out of bed?” Sinclair stood barefoot beside her, wearing nothing but his nightshirt, which reached only to mid-calf.

  “Nature called. Devilish hot under all those blankets. Where’s the whiskey?”

  She pressed her palm against his forehead. “You’re still fevered. Get back into bed, and I’ll get the bottle.”

  He started to grumble but coughed instead. “Can’t stop,” he muttered, between coughs and gasping for air. “Hate this.” He leaned on her shoulder as he limped back to bed.

  Quincy winced, seeing the pain on his face as he clutched his hand to his chest. “Hold your breath,” she ordered.

  Sinclair fell onto the bed rather than actually sitting down, and looked at her, incredulous. “You gone daft?” he squeezed between coughs.

  “Trust me. It will help you stop coughing. For a moment, at least.”

  He clamped his jaw shut. His body jerked twice as he fought back the urge to cough, and then was still. He raised his eyebrows.

  Quincy smiled and pulled the whiskey bottle out from under his bedside table. “Drink it slowly this time,” she warned, handing him the cup.

  Sinclair’s eyes grew wide over the rim of the cup as he watched his mother enter the room, a worried frown on her face. “Don’t let on,” he whispered. He sat up straight and handed the empty cup back to Quincy.

  “Benjamin, dear,” Lady Sinclair said, her tone overly bright. She reached to touch his forehead.

  Sinclair leaned back, narrowly avoiding her hand. He would have toppled over if not for grabbing Quincy’s coattail.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Sinclair,” Quincy said, moving one foot back to brace herself as Sinclair’s sudden tug threatened to pull her down on top of him.

  “Quincy.” Lady Sinclair gave her a brief nod in greeting, her eyes only for her son. “How are you feeling, dear?”

  He nodded, but said nothing. Shielded from his mother’s view, his hand still gripped Quincy’s coattail to keep himself sitting upright. Quincy felt his slight convulsion as he suppressed another coughing fit.

  “His voice is almost gone, my lady,” she said, thinking that wasn’t completely untrue. She didn’t understand Sinclair’s reluctance to let his mother know the extent of his illness, but they could discuss that later.

  Lady Sinclair frowned. “I think I should send for Dr. Kimball again.”

  “No!” Sinclair rasped.

  “I do not believe he is needed,” Quincy quickly added. “I think Lord Sinclair prefers my grandmother’s prescription to that of the good doctor’s. At this point, he simply needs to rest.” She turned to glare at him. “In bed, for one full week.”

  Lady Sinclair gave a small smile. “Your grandmother has experience in these things? Very well. If anything changes, anything at all, you will be sure to let me know.” She gave her son another worried look, then exited the room after a brief backward glance.

  When she was sure they were alone again, with Jack stationed outside the door, Quincy spun around to face Sinclair. “What the devil was that about?”

  He let go of her coat and fell back. “My youngest brother…perished from…an inflammation…of the lungs.”

  “Oh.” She handed Sinclair another cloth to cough into. He had already soiled all his handkerchiefs, and they weren’t coming back with his laundry. Jill had told her the laundress had burned them. She cleared her throat. “You, my lord, are not going to die. Not after what you survived in France. You are going to live to torment your servants and tease your employees for many, many years to come. Now go to sleep.”

  Sinclair’s mouth turned up at the corners as he burrowed under the blankets.

  His endless coughing, through the day and another night, was torture. She felt his pain, frustration, and fatigue. As his fever climbed, Quincy bathed his face with a cool cloth. His rapid decline alarmed her, but she kept her panic tamped down. Someone had to remain strong and in charge. Perhaps his recovery would be equally swift.

  The maids continued to bring meals on a tray. Except for a quick trip home to change clothes and retrieve her spectacles, Quincy hardly left Sinclair’s bedchamber or sitting room. Fortunately, no one seemed to think it odd for the secretary to be tending Sinclair in the absence of a valet.

  “Daisy said you didn’t hardly touch dinner,” Thompson said, entering the room carrying a tray with bread, cheese and cold meats. He set it on the table by the window.

  Quincy looked up, surprised to note how low the candles had burned. Sinclair had been restless all evening, mutt
ering in French and English. Her touch no longer calmed him. She had been debating calling for the doctor.

  “Let me do that, sir, while you eat.” Thompson took the cloth from her hands.

  Nodding her thanks, Quincy stood and stretched stiff muscles. She had little appetite, but it would serve no one if she became ill as well. She made a sandwich and had barely taken a bite when the earl grabbed the cloth from the footman’s hand and flung it across the room. On its way into the fire, it knocked over the teakettle warming on the hearth, and sizzled on the coals.

  Quincy started to mop up the spilled tea, but let it go when she heard grunts from Sinclair, and Thompson called out.

  “Here, now, you can’t do that.” Thompson tried to catch the earl’s hands as Sinclair swung at the footman with his fist. Weakened from his illness, there was little strength behind his blows, but Thompson didn’t seem inclined to discover how strong he was or not.

  “Stop!” Quincy said, rushing to the bed. “You’ll hurt him.”

  “You talking to him or me?” Thompson grunted as Sinclair jabbed him in the ribs.

  Still trying to be rid of Thompson, Sinclair pushed and shoved against the oversized footman. His eyes were open but glazed as he thrashed about on the bed, apparently seeing things from long ago and far away.

  Quincy reached for one of the earl’s flailing arms, but caught his elbow against her nose. Her spectacles flew across the room. “Captain!” she shouted. “Cease and desist this instant!”

  Sinclair stopped, stayed still, except for his harsh breathing.

  Thompson backed away two steps. The ominous cracking sound beneath his left heel was Quincy’s spectacles. Ignoring Quincy’s look of dismay, he straightened his wig, which hung over one eye, and pulled his waistcoat down into its proper position.

  Sinclair began coughing, the kind of fit Quincy was afraid he would never be able to stop again. He coughed into the cloth Quincy handed him, while she picked his bedclothes off the floor where they’d fallen during the scuffle, and covered him.

  Her upper lip felt wet. She licked her lips and tasted the metallic tang of blood.

  “Cor blimey, ’e’s done drawn your cork!” Thompson darted around the bed to her, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He wrapped one arm around Quincy’s shoulders and held the handkerchief to her bleeding nose.