What an Earl Wants Read online

  Quincy pushed his hand away from her face and looked at the soggy linen. “’Tis not so bad,” she said. She put it back against her nose as she felt another drop slide down her upper lip. Only then did she realize Thompson still held her in a one-armed embrace. She looked up, but could see only concern on his features.

  And then something else flickered in his eyes. A chill chased up her spine.

  Sinclair’s coughing had quieted, but now she realized it was more of a gurgling noise. The earl had curled up in a ball against the headboard, his face etched with pain as he fought for air. “He’s choking!” Quincy ducked under the footman’s arm, toward Sinclair. “Help me move him.”

  They rolled Sinclair away from the headboard, onto his left side. He did not resist. Quincy climbed up and knelt on the bed beside him. “Grandmère warned me this might happen,” she said. “He’s drowning inside. Pull the chamber pot out from under the bed.”

  Thompson did as she bid, and watched in horror as she began hitting Sinclair on his back. “She told you to beat him?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.” With each word, she hit Sinclair between his shoulder blades with her cupped hand. Sinclair did not move. His eyes remained closed. Panic rose in her throat. “I don’t understand. She said this would help dislodge the fluid in his lungs.”

  “Is he supposed to be sitting up, or lying down?” Thompson lit another candle on the bedside table. “Should I hang him upside down over the pot?”

  “I don’t know!” Quincy blinked back tears of frustration.

  “Should I fetch Dr. Kimball?”

  “There is no time.” Quincy bent close to the earl’s face. “Cough, Benjamin,” she whispered in his ear, still hitting him with her cupped hand. “You must cough. Please, Benjamin, cough for me.”

  Interminable moments later, Sinclair started to cough. Weakly at first, but he began clearing out his lungs, drawing deeper breaths. He pulled himself closer to the edge of the bed and spit into the chamber pot.

  Quincy patted him on the shoulder and sat back on her heels, releasing a sigh of relief. Sinclair, his breathing now almost normal, squinted up at her in the candlelight, and relaxed. “My angel,” he murmured. He clutched her hand to his heart, before his eyes fluttered shut.

  Thompson’s mouth fell open as he stared back and forth between Quincy and Sinclair. “I knew it!” He slapped his palm against his thigh. “I was right all along. Grimshaw owes me a shilling!”

  Oh, dear heaven. “Beg pardon?” Kneeling on the bed beside Sinclair wasn’t helping her case. She slid to the floor and gave Thompson a wide-eyed stare. “Right about what?”

  He stared right back, looking insanely happy. “You. Being a girl.”

  Her first instinct was to refute his statement, but how would that reflect on Sinclair? And she’d never actively lied—only by omission. “What makes you think that?”

  Thompson looked perplexed for a moment, but then his chin came up. “Lord Sinclair ain’t the sort to hold another man’s hand.”

  Quincy slumped in the chair pulled close to the bed. “When did you wager with Grimshaw?”

  “After the warehouse by the docks, when I carried you out to the coach and into the house. You looked the part and all, but something just weren’t right. And you should’ve seen the earl’s face when he saw you conked out on the sofa. Turned whiter than his cravat.”

  Quincy felt lightheaded. She had gone without sleep too long to deal with this now.

  Sinclair moaned. He was still lying sideways across the bed. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his nightshirt clung to him, soaked with sweat.

  Quincy got up and flung open the door of Sinclair’s wardrobe. “Do you know where his nightshirts are kept? He must have more than one. Ah, here they are.” She pulled one out, closed the door, and headed back to the bed.

  “You going to dress ’im?”

  Already reaching for the buttons at Sinclair’s collar, Quincy paused. Right. Help was at hand this time, and no need to add fuel to the servants’ gossip. “You’re going to help him into a clean shirt. I’m going to get fresh bed linens. We have to keep him dry until his fever breaks.”

  Out in the hall, Quincy found what she needed in the linen closet. Her arms full, she sagged against the neatly piled sheets, wishing it was Sinclair she leaned against, and closed her eyes.

  Someone else knew.

  Damn, damn, double damn.

  What would it take to persuade Thompson to keep his knowledge to himself? Could she trust him not to tell? The scandal she had tried to avoid was poised to erupt.

  This was all her fault. She should never have come to work for Sinclair in the first place, never put him in such an untenable position. And his mother! The tabbies would have Lady Sinclair back in mourning, a recluse again. Lady Fitzwater, who had been so kind, and Sinclair’s friends…So many people close to Sinclair were about to be hurt, and it was all her fault.

  She shuffled back into Sinclair’s bedchamber. “Thompson, I…” She trailed off, not knowing what words should come next.

  The footman held his finger to his lips. “I’ll roll him over,” he whispered, “and you tuck in the sheet.”

  She complied, and they soon had Sinclair settled with so many pillows propping him he appeared to be sitting up. Thompson gathered up the laundry and headed for the door.

  “I’ll be at my post if you need anything.” He winked at her, and left.

  Quincy stared at the closed door, speechless.

  With one crisis past and another one inevitable, she could think of nothing but how close she’d come to losing Sinclair this night. She began to shake. Before her knees gave out, and before she could think through her actions, she crawled up onto the bed beside Sinclair.

  She needed to touch him, hold him, needed tactile proof that he still breathed. Sitting with her back against the headboard, legs stretched out, she cupped his cheek and smoothed his hair back from his fevered brow.

  His eyes closed, Sinclair reached for her, wrapping his arms around her middle, pillowing his head on her chest. With hot tears coursing down her cheeks, she curled one arm around his shoulders and cradled him to her. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” she whispered. “Do you hear me, Benjamin?”

  He snuggled deeper into her embrace, snoring. She kissed the top of his head.

  She held him well into the wee hours, as frightened by the surge of affection she felt for this man as for his brush with death. She’d wanted to remain aloof, but that part of her plan was a spectacular failure. Leaving him would cause a huge void in her life, a gaping hole in her heart, but at least she would know that he still walked this earth. And she’d had a hand in that.

  It wasn’t much. But it would have to do.

  She dried her eyes with a corner of the sheet, and tightened her hold on Sinclair.

  A scratch on the door woke Quincy. She scrambled out of bed just before Matilda entered the chamber, bearing a breakfast tray.

  “I thought you must be hungry by now, sir,” she said softly, setting the tray on the table. “I also brung you more lemonade and honey. Cook says as how you asked for lots of it yesterday.”

  “Thank you, Matilda.” Quincy tried to rub the grit from her eyes. They burned as though she’d been out in a fierce windstorm. While the maid knelt at the hearth to build up the fire, Quincy checked on Sinclair. His breathing seemed easier, and his forehead felt cool to her touch. She let out a sigh of relief and said a quick prayer of thanks.

  Removing the cover from the plate on the breakfast tray, she took a deep breath of the enticing aromas. Her stomach growled.

  “Sir, is Lord Sinclair going to die?”

  Quincy glanced at Matilda, who now stood only a few feet away, her hands clasped before her. “No. He may feel like death warmed over when he awakens, but he will soon make a full recovery.”

  Matilda’s face brightened. “I’m glad, that I am.” With a last look at the sleeping earl, Matilda bobbed a cur
tsy and headed for the door.

  Quincy halted her with a question. “Where is Jill this morning?”

  “She’s fitting Lady Sinclair for a new gown, sir. I think it’s the one she plans to wear to the wedding.”

  “Wedding?”

  “Lord Sinclair’s. We was worried the gown might be for a funeral,” she glanced at her feet, “but now we’re sure it’s for his wedding. Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you. You may go.” Quincy barely heard the door close. Her heart hammered in her ears. Who could Lady Sinclair think her son was marrying? Surely she would know before his mother if Sinclair had decided on a bride.

  She suddenly felt icy cold, ready to shatter into a thousand tiny shards. No, Lady Sinclair must be mistaken. Or premature. Yes, that was it. Premature. Sinclair could not have chosen a bride so soon.

  The only sounds Quincy heard were the ticking clock and crackle of the fire. She stared down at Sinclair. His chest hardly lifted with each breath. He was still breathing, wasn’t he? She rested her hand over his heart.

  “My angel,” Sinclair murmured. His mouth curved in a sleepy smile, and his fingers curled around her own in a firm grip.

  “My lord?” she whispered.

  He didn’t respond. She looked at their entwined fingers, his strong hand holding hers. Her heart contracted painfully. This would never do. She was supposed to leave him, not fall deeper in love with him.

  Love. Tears pressed at her eyes again, a distressing development in itself at how frequently they appeared these days. She stared down at this man she loved, this sweaty, phlegmy, unshaven…beautiful, generous, caring man. The man she had to leave.

  She pressed a quick kiss to the back of Sinclair’s hand and set it down on the blanket beside him. His smile faded, but he did not awaken.

  She wondered if Thompson had collected his shilling from Grimshaw yet. Matilda had behaved as usual, so perhaps she had a few hours yet before word spread. Quincy returned to her now cold breakfast, to contemplate her cold future.

  Sinclair opened his eyes slowly as the clock on the mantel struck twelve, and took stock of himself. His head and body ached abominably, and it felt as though an iron band constricted his chest. But, as Quincy had predicted, he had not died.

  The soft noise he heard were her snores. Quincy dozed in the chair pulled near his bed. Sinclair frowned. Such devotion on the part of another female would not cause any comment, but Mr. Quincy might raise a few eyebrows if word got around. Sinclair was absurdly glad she’d stayed with him.

  Faint sunlight filtering through the drawn curtains showed the remains of a meal on the table. Sinclair’s stomach growled. He reached for the bell pull, but stopped.

  Sometime during the night, there had been an altercation between himself, Thompson, and Quincy. Bloody hell, he hadn’t said or done anything to give her away, had he?

  Might it have all been just a dream? Such fantastical images flashed before his mind’s eye, of soldiers and surgeons, flames and beasts, angels and devils. If he concentrated hard enough, he could disentangle the real from the imagined. If only he could keep his eyes open…

  Chapter 18

  “M r. Quincy, sir?” Jill had come to collect the luncheon tray and halted at the door, tray balanced on her hip. At Quincy’s raised eyebrows she continued. “There’s a situation, I mean, something’s happened and I don’t know what to do about it.” She cast a nervous glance at the sleeping earl.

  Bracing herselff or the worst, Quincy followed Jill out into the hall. “Tell me what has happened, and we’ll proceed from there.”

  The maid lowered her voice. “I think Matilda has gone. She took the big basket like she was going to the greengrocer’s, but Cook said Matilda hates going there because the old goat likes to pinch.”

  It took a moment to register that the problem had nothing to do with her or Sinclair. “Perhaps she had a change of heart?”

  Jill shook her head. “I tore my stocking and went to get another—I share a room with Matilda—and all her clothes is gone. And it was Finlay’s turn to serve tea, but Grimshaw couldn’t find him.”

  “Perhaps Finlay just—I suppose his clothes are gone, too?” Jill nodded. Quincy shook her head in disbelief. Another match in the household! “Isn’t this something you should tell Mrs. Hammond? Or Harper?”

  “But I can’t!” Jill set the tray on a table in order to twist the end of her apron. “Mrs. Hammond and Mr. Harper are having a discussion in her office, and he said they wasn’t to be disturbed. I’d tell Lady Sinclair, but she’s out making morning calls. And that ain’t the worst of it!”

  “No?”

  “There’s no one downstairs to answer the door but Celia, and she can barely close it.”

  “Surely Grimshaw can—”

  Jill shook her head. “Grimshaw said Finlay was fickle, and some other things I just can’t repeat, and he took Cook’s sherry and locked hisself in the cellar! What should we do, sir?”

  Quincy fell into the hall chair beside Sinclair’s door and dropped her head into her hands, hiding her laughter. Oh, this was just too much.

  “Sir?”

  Quincy held up one finger. “A moment, please.” She took deep breaths until she felt she could look at the maid with a straight face. Then she stood again, and with a few quick instructions put Jack on duty downstairs, arranged for Daisy to serve tea when Lady Sinclair returned, and asked Jill to bring up a tray for Sinclair. Harper, she decided, could deal with the drunken, disillusioned Grimshaw later. At least Thompson couldn’t collect on their wager yet.

  Rearranging the staff was undoubtedly overstepping her bounds, but what else could she do if the housekeeper and butler were having a “discussion” in the housekeeper’s office? And if the staff continued to leave at the present rate, they would have to hire trained replacements. Lady Sinclair supported Quincy’s rescue attempts now, but probably would not continue to do so at the expense of a smoothly functioning household. Another problem, but one Quincy couldn’t deal with just now.

  Sinclair woke an hour later, long enough to eat a small bowl of chicken soup. He seemed distracted and made no effort to speak. Quincy attributed his silence to nothing more than an attempt to conserve his strength and prevent additional coughing fits, and was not surprised when he soon dozed off again.

  She stared at his relaxed face, darkened by three days of beard. Next time he awoke, she would have Jack or Thompson shave him and possibly help him with a bath, too. That had always seemed to make Papa feel better.

  Thinking of his disarray, she gave a thought to her own. She’d been wearing the same clothes for a day and a half, and her last soak in a tub, at Brentwood, was a fond but distant memory. Not to mention the need to find her spare spectacles, to replace the pair Thompson had stepped on last night. Or was that this morning? She’d ruined more pairs of spectacles in the short time she’d been working for Sinclair than in the previous five years combined.

  While she debated whether or not she had time to go home before he awoke again, Lady Sinclair scratched on the door and let herself in.

  “How is he doing?” she whispered, standing near her son. She stretched out a hand to touch his forehead and brush aside a few strands of hair.

  “Much better, my lady. His fever broke this morning. He should be back to his usual self in a few days.”

  Lady Sinclair sighed. “You have no idea how relieved I am. I know I should not worry so—he is a grown man, but—”

  “I understand.” Quincy briefly touched Lady Sinclair’s shoulder, then retreated, afraid she’d overstepped her bounds again.

  “You do, don’t you?” Lady Sinclair gave her quick jasmine-scented hug. “You have done wonders, child, but you must be careful not to exhaust yourself.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was just planning to go home and—”

  “No need for that. Your sister packed a few of your things. One of the footmen was supposed to bring up your bag, but there seems to
be a shortage of staff at the moment.”

  “Beg pardon, my lady,” Harper said, opening the door. “I’ve put Mr. Quincy’s things in the adjoining chamber, as you requested.”

  “Thank you, Harper.”

  Quincy thought the butler looked rather flushed—perhaps he was sickening, too? Then the import of Lady Sinclair’s words sank in. “My sister?”

  “We had a delightful visit, your grandmother, sister, and I. Lady Fitzwater is a bosom bow of mine, you know. I thought it best if we put your things in the nearest room.” She cupped Quincy’s cheek and smiled into her eyes, then led her to the chamber next door. “Besides, there does not seem to be enough staff to prepare a guest room just now. Luckily I had them prepare this one last week. It’s quite odd. I was certain we had enough staff this morning. I shall have a chat with Mrs. Hammond, if she has recovered. She did not look at all herself when I saw her a few moments ago.”

  Lady Sinclair drifted down the hall toward the stairs, lost in thought. Quincy stared after her, then shook her head and shut the door behind her.

  The room was equally as large as Sinclair’s, and neatly decorated in dark green and white. Everything matched, from the pair of mahogany chairs near the window, to the green and white striped curtains, coverlet and bed hangings. With a start, Harper’s words sank in. This was the adjoining suite to Sinclair’s.

  The countess’s rooms.

  Lady Sinclair had specifically requested Quincy’s things be placed here. She had servants prepare it last week.

  Sinclair had not been ill last week.

  Quincy stared in the direction Lady Sinclair had departed.

  Harper had set her portmanteau on the bed, unopened. Wisps of steam rose from the hip tub near the hearth, beckoning to her. No sense letting the hot water go to waste. She could think while she washed. Quincy locked the doors, then stripped off her clothes to enjoy a long soak in the tub. Sinking into the water, she decided there was no hidden meaning to Lady Sinclair’s actions, after all. As she had said, there was simply no staff available to prepare a different room.