What an Earl Wants Page 28

  Quincy looked from the paper, her gaze locked with Sinclair’s as they registered the loss. The thieving secretary was truly beyond their reach.

  She swallowed, still determined to confess before she lost her nerve. “Sinclair, I need to tell you about something I did while you were ill—”

  “My lord?” Harper tapped and opened the door. “There’s a, ahem, person to see you. I’ve put her in the drawing room.”

  Sinclair took the card from the silver tray Harper handed him. He let loose a string of expletives and tossed the card on the fire. “I suppose seeing her is less trouble than trying to avoid her,” Sinclair said at last. He reached for his walking stick. “If I don’t return in five minutes, come rescue me,” he tossed to Quincy over his shoulder as he left.

  She and Harper exchanged puzzled glances, then the butler closed the door behind him. Quincy tried to turn her attention to the morning’s mail, but accomplished little as she kept glancing at the clock.

  Chapter 20

  “M y dear Lord Sinclair,” Serena, Duchess of Warwick, gushed as Sinclair entered the drawing room, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  She stood and stretched out her hands for him to kiss. “I vow, I cannot tell you how concerned I have been. First you disappear from polite company, then you decline the invitation to my little soiree. I had to assure myself nothing unfortunate had happened to you.”

  “Didn’t you just?” Sinclair murmured as he kissed the air a good six inches above her gloved knuckles. The invitation must be what Quincy had tried to tell him about.

  Serena’s perfume clogged Sinclair’s lungs. He tried to step back, searching for breathable air, but Serena tugged him down on the sofa beside her. “Actually, I have been feeling under the weather,” he said. Perhaps if she thought what he had was catching, he would soon be rid of her.

  “So it was not just me you were ignoring? But of course. I feel so much better now.”

  Sinclair coughed, a heavy, wet sound. Serena looked alarmed, so he repeated the exercise.

  “Sinclair, are you all right? Shall I summon someone?”

  He continued to cough. Serena held her scented handker-chief to her mouth and scooted away from him on the sofa. Ah, clean air at last. But she remained in the room, so he continued coughing. He had to look away; her expression of distaste and near panic almost made him laugh.

  “My lord, I—” Quincy broke off as she stood in the doorway, gaping at Serena. Sinclair glanced at the clock; she was right on time. Quincy shook herself and hurried forward, and grasped Sinclair’s arm as she helped him to his feet. “I warned you about overtaxing yourself, my lord. Forgive us, your grace. Lord Sinclair is not yet himself.”

  Sinclair leaned heavily on Quincy’s shoulder as he limped from the room, still coughing. He was about to give up the fatiguing ploy when they reached the staircase, but he glimpsed Palmer and Leland handing their hats to Harper at the front door. If he stopped and visited with them, he’d have to endure more of Serena’s company.

  He gave them a jaunty wave and bent his concentration on climbing the stairs with his stiff leg, still leaning on Quincy.

  Quincy glanced over his shoulder at the visitors. “I will take care of everything, my lord,” she said quietly.

  “Never had any doubt,” Sinclair replied between gasps. Quincy always took care of everything. She’d become the one constant in his chaotic household.

  Perhaps this pretend fatigue was not much of an act after all. His chest ached from coughing. He should have thought of a different ploy.

  Quincy helped him into his bedchamber and summoned Thompson to attend him, then scurried away. Sinclair heaved a sigh of disgust and sat on the bed, rubbing his thigh. In addition to the usual ache, it was also stiff. Too much time in bed and not enough walking had undone much of his work. He’d been sleeping entirely too much lately, but at the moment he wanted nothing more than another nap. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  In that gray area between sleep and awake, he relived the moments of Quincy caring for him, holding him, doing her damnedest to make sure he lived through the night.

  He’d been ten when his six-year-old brother had become ill. He’d been at his side when he coughed and wheezed, there when the wheezing turned to a tortured struggle to breathe. Still there when he went silent, never to laugh or play again.

  He’d relived that panic as fluid filled his own lungs, certain he would soon join him in the hereafter. But Quincy, his angel of mercy, had been at his side, ordering him to breathe, to cough, to clear his lungs. As a good soldier, he’d followed her orders, and been rewarded with her embrace. She’d stayed at his side all night, ready with whatever he needed, even if it was just her comforting presence.

  When he’d kissed her hand, the temptation to tug her closer until she sat on his lap was almost overwhelming. He wanted to embrace her as she had held him, to massage her stiff muscles, to smooth the creases of concern from her face. He wanted to kiss her sweet lips, but not at the risk of sharing his illness, and had settled for kissing her fingers. The dazed look on her face had been priceless. He should have realized no one had ever done that to her before. What other things had she missed out on that he could rectify? He would make a list and check them off, one at a time, after they were married.

  The next morning Sinclair paced his bedchamber. Much to his disappointment, he’d slept so long the previous afternoon, Quincy had already departed for home before he awoke. He’d wanted to quiz her about her reaction to the duchess. Her look of venom at seeing Serena, however brief, was unmistakable. Quincy couldn’t be jealous, could she?

  It was also high time he left the house. He hadn’t ventured farther than the garden in over a week. Time to go for a long walk, and see his solicitor. Quincy had been right about the property in Manchester. He would tell Chadburn to make an opening offer on the inn.

  But first he’d join his mother for breakfast. He nicked himself shaving, and made a mental note to get on with finding a new valet. He cursed as he tossed the second ruined cravat on the floor. He would not call for Thompson or Harper. He could get dressed by himself. It might take until noon, but he would damn well tie his own neckcloth.

  His mother knocked and poked her head in the door while he was mangling the fourth cravat. “Coming downstairs, dear?”

  “As soon as I finish this.” He yanked the wrinkled linen from his neck.

  “Why don’t you just have Quincy tie your cravat again?” She smiled. “I shall see you downstairs.”

  Reaching for a fifth cravat, Sinclair froze. “Again?” How did Mama know…?

  He finally got a knot tied to his satisfaction—seven was always a lucky number—limped downstairs, ate breakfast with his mother, who beamed at him, and called for Harper to bring him his hat, gloves, and walking stick.

  Sinclair was about to walk out when he thought he heard voices from his library. Another visitor? He opened the door. The voice belonged to Quincy, who was alone, pacing before the window with the morning’s mail in her hands, thinking aloud.

  “Good morning,” Sinclair called.

  Quincy jumped and threw the mail in the air. “G-good morning, Sinclair.” She pushed her spectacles up, then bent down to retrieve the mail.

  “Nice rescue yesterday,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. He watched Quincy reach for letters with shaking hands. Heavens, she was skittish this morning.

  “M-my pleasure, my lord. Are you feeling better?”

  “Without Serena’s perfume polluting the air? So much so, I’m off to visit my solicitor.”

  “Solicitor? But…”

  “What is it?” He watched Quincy’s shoulders slump as she stood up, the mangled mail in her hands.

  “I’ve been trying to tell you, that while you were ill…”

  “Yes?” He stepped farther into the room, a sudden sense of foreboding heavy in his gut.

  Her words tumbled out in a rush. “I bought and sold mining shares in your name. A lo
t of shares.”

  He raised his eyebrows when she paused for breath. The sense of foreboding hadn’t eased.

  “Chadburn has all the details if you want to review them, but you made a tidy profit, enough to replace all the money Johnson stole. With interest.”

  Profit? Interest?

  He wanted to whoop with joy, to catch her up and swing her off her feet, even if his damn leg would probably give way and they’d end in a heap on the floor. But something in her expression gave him pause.

  How did Quincy know about trading mining shares? More importantly, this is what had her quaking with trepidation? She should be pleased with her accomplishment, not looking like she was on her way to her own execution.

  The imp of mischief made him at least tease her. “You forged my signature to do the buying and selling?”

  She stiffened. “Of course.”

  He grinned. “Living up to your promise? Everything you do is in my best interest?”

  The smile she gave him contained more sadness than joy. She nodded. “There’s more, but…it will keep until you return.”

  Sinclair waited a moment in case she changed her mind, then left, that feeling of foreboding returning, stronger than ever.

  The clerk ushered Sinclair into Chadburn’s office right away.

  “Lord Sinclair!” Chadburn fairly shouted, standing up to greet the earl. “How good to see you up and about. I did not expect to meet with you until this afternoon. Let me see if my assistant has drawn up the papers yet.”

  Sinclair held his hand up. “What papers?”

  Chadburn’s bushy eyebrows snapped together. “Authorizing the sale of your tin mine shares, of course. Aren’t those the instructions you gave your secretary to pass on to me?”

  “Ah.” Sinclair sat down, relieved he had not forgotten something. “I have not been myself lately, and do not, er, clearly recall giving instructions for you. However, Quincy assured me that things have gone well.”

  Chadburn gave a short bark of laughter. “If these decisions have been made under the influence of your illness, you may not wish for the return of good health, my lord.” He chuckled.

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Thanks to your incredibly fortunate timing and action, you have added over thirty thousand pounds to your coffers in the last se’ennight. You may not recall doing so, but I have the papers with your signature right here.”

  Chadburn showed him the documents, complete with his forged signature, which outlined the series of buying and selling actions Chadburn had undertaken, per the earl’s instructions as given by Quincy. “I admit I thought the moves odd at first, but after the first profit, I started investing a little of my own, as your secretary had done. Thanks to your knowledge and daring, we’ve each earned a tidy sum, too.”

  Sinclair let the news sink in, resting his chin on his fist. As Quincy had said, all the money Johnson had stolen was replaced, and more. True to her promise when Sinclair hired her, her activities with her illicit skill had indeed been in his best interest. But how had she known about the changes at the mining companies near Birmingham?

  Then the thought hit him—Chadburn said Quincy had invested, too. He sat up straight. Had she earned enough to buy her cottage? If so, she could even now be planning to leave him, to move her sister to the country. Is that what she had been trying to tell him?

  The offer on the property in Manchester could wait. He had to get back to Quincy. He made excuses to Chadburn and hurried out to the street, headed home, shivering with a sudden chill. She could leave his employ at any time.

  Leave him.

  He couldn’t allow that.

  He cursed his limp, slowing him down even more than usual after so many days abed. He had gone only a few steps when Elliott drove around the corner and pulled the team up beside him. With all the changes in the household staff, it was good to know at least Elliott had not been affected. “Impeccable timing, as always.”

  “Yes sir, Cap’n.”

  Sinclair climbed into the coach. “Home, Elliott, and spring ’em.” He braced himself against the squabs as the coach set off as quickly as traffic would allow. There was nothing to distract him now, as his thoughts tumbled over each other.

  Quincy had bathed his fevered brow, shared the warmth of her body when he was half frozen, and put him to bed when he was foxed. She had seen him at his worst, and not run screaming into the night. She had rescued his household from chaos, extracted his mother from her mourning, and restored his lost funds. Josephine Quincy had become indispensable to his well-being.

  She had taken over his heart just as assuredly as she had his account books.

  Beneath her starched cravat and masculine coat lay a very warm and real woman. Intelligent, witty, a delightful companion, someone he could look forward to meeting at the breakfast table every morning for the next fifty or sixty years. And as for the nights before…He wanted to untie that cravat, slide her coat from her shoulders, and caress her lemon-scented skin. Kiss her senseless. And then he’d get serious about making love to her. That morning in the hut, delightful as it had been, was only a taste, a mere hint at the pleasures that awaited them.

  But he was a man of honor, and there was only one way to have the Honorable Miss Josephine Quincy. One sure way to prevent her from leaving him.

  He had assumed that she knew he intended for them to marry, didn’t need to actually say the words aloud. Knowing the hand that fate had dealt her so far, he now realized Quincy would make no such assumption. He smacked his forehead.

  In fact, after living as Mr. Quincy the last few years, she might even resist his proposal, in a misguided sense of not wanting to blemish his family name or some such nonsense. It should be easy enough to dissuade her, though, once he started kissing her.

  All his problems faded in memory, solved. Now he just had to figure a way to explain to Mama that he was going to marry his secretary. And get the secretary to agree…

  Quincy paced the library, methodically shredding a handkerchief. Sinclair would return from his solicitor’s any moment now.

  She should have told him, should have given notice before he left, gotten it over with. She shouldn’t have told Thompson to collect on his blasted wager. Now she feared word about her true identity would spread among the staff before she could warn Sinclair.

  What a coil. She tossed the fragments of her handkerchief onto the fire.

  Perhaps she could draw on Thompson’s sympathy for Melinda’s plight, convince him to hold off a while longer. Even though a footman knew, perhaps Sinclair would let her stay on long enough to reach her goal, to provide for her sister. She just needed a little more money, to furnish the cottage. And she didn’t want to leave his employ. Didn’t want to leave him. Not yet. Soon she would have to, but not yet.

  But even if Sinclair did not make her leave, how much longer would Thompson keep quiet? How much longer would she put Sinclair at risk for scandal? Now that Sinclair’s strength was returning, he didn’t need her.

  How should she tell him? “By the way, my lord, two of your footmen know my little secret”? That would never do. How about, “Sinclair, I—”

  “Yes?”

  Quincy whirled around toward the door, hand over her pounding heart. Sinclair leaned against the doorjamb, an odd expression on his face.

  “Um.” She couldn’t squeeze any intelligible sounds from her throat. She took a deep breath to try again, but he closed the door and walked toward her. Was that a smile on his face? Another step closer. He reminded her of Sir Ambrose, stalking his dinner. Two steps closer. Is this how the mouse felt? “I need to—”

  “To what?” he said softly. Another step.

  Quincy stepped back and pushed her spectacles up. “To tell you—”

  “Yes?” His odd smile broadened.

  For every step he took forward, she took one back. Why couldn’t she seem to catch her breath? Surely he could hear her heart pounding.

  “Tell you about—”
She bumped into the bookcase at her back. Trapped in the corner. Now what? Why did he keep coming closer? She caught a whiff of the spicy masculine scent unique to Sinclair.

  “Tell me later,” he whispered. With languid movements he reached up and lifted off her spectacles. “Do you know you have the most adorable habit of pushing these up when you’re nervous?” He tucked them in his pocket. “Why do I make you nervous?”

  She blinked. “Wha—what are you doing?”

  It was definitely a smile. “Just this.” He cupped her face in his hands, then caressed her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. With a last look into her eyes, so close she could see the tiny flecks of gold in his, he leaned closer still and pressed his lips to hers in a tender kiss.

  Heaven. His mouth was soft and warm, gently insistent, as he tasted and explored. Ever so much better than she had imagined, even better than she remembered. She raised her hands to his shoulders, to pull him closer, to press her body to his. Sinclair moaned in pleasure. Or had she made that sound?

  “Something I’ve wanted to do for days now.” He left her mouth, to kiss a trail down the side of her neck, making a delicious shudder shimmy all the way down to her curling toes. She quivered when he flicked his tongue behind her ear.

  “Oh, me too.”

  The room began to spin. Sinclair caught her and tilted her face up to his, his strong arms supporting her back. Good thing, because her knees had turned to jelly.

  She gave up her perusal of his lush mouth and raised her gaze to his eyes. The unfamiliar emotion revealed there was desire, confirmed by his body pressed against hers. Something she’d never thought to see from Sinclair again, certainly an emotion she’d never thought would be directed at her. She had barely registered it when he kissed her again, his large clever hands caressing her back, massaging his way from her neck to her hips, his touch decadent and sure.

  He wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in his secure embrace. She rested her face against his chest, absurdly pleased by his rapid pulse beneath her cheek. She wiggled her hands beneath his waistcoat to stroke his corded muscles, wishing she could get under his shirt, too.