What an Earl Wants Read online

  Sinclair groaned again.

  Though she kept a hand over her still-fluttering stomach, Quincy slowed to a more decorous pace once she reached the first floor, and continued on to the library as though nothing were amiss. She hadn’t seen anything truly disturbing, after all. She’d become accustomed to many things in the world of men, first working for her father and now for Sinclair. And of course she had seen the male form before without layers of clothing. She and Melinda had helped care for their father, bedridden the last few months of his life.

  But Sinclair was no invalid elder. With his wavy chestnut hair tousled from sleep, his nightshirt unbuttoned to reveal dark curls and a deeply muscled chest, she wanted nothing more than to erase the lines of pain etched around his eyes, and run her fingers through his hair. And get another glimpse of his bare leg…

  The direction of her thoughts startled her. She’d dealt with and worked around men for many years, but she’d never had thoughts like this before. Not when the squire’s son stole a kiss beneath the apple tree when she was thirteen, not even when Nigel had given her a chaste kiss upon their betrothal.

  She stumbled a step. Sinclair was not likely to steal a kiss from her anytime soon. Ever. She shook her head. She must focus on the job duties she had been hired to perform, not on her employer’s bare leg.

  She located the folio that had been delivered moments before she’d received the odd summons, and felt in control again by the time she neared Sinclair’s bedchamber.

  His bedchamber. If she had managed to keep fooling him about her gender, she wouldn’t be surprised that he’d summoned her there. But he did know, and had sent for her anyway. Was this merely an example of him accepting her presence? Treating her as he would a man? And was it for her benefit, or for the other servants watching their interactions?

  Thompson was nowhere in sight, forcing her to open the door herself. She managed to not blush this time. Though he was still in bed, Sinclair had donned a deep green satin dressing gown, and the blankets were pulled up to his waist. She squelched a jolt of disappointment. Sinclair pushed away Broderick and his shaving brush when she entered. “Will you need anything else?” She handed him the papers, fervently hoping none of her previous thoughts were apparent.

  Sinclair shook his head. “How goes your investigation?”

  “There are bills owed to merchants I’m not familiar with. I think it best for me to pay them in person. If I take your carriage, I should return by lunch.”

  “Go alone? I don’t think—” Sinclair interrupted himself. “Yes, of course.” He glanced at his valet. “Care to take Broderick with you? He resembles a mother hen this morning.”

  “That won’t be necessary, my lord,” Quincy said as Broderick choked on a reply.

  “Do take Thompson with you, though. He may prove useful.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Broderick and Quincy said in unison.

  Quincy settled into the carriage a few minutes later, Thompson riding up top with Elliott, the coachman. Just as she had this morning, she snuggled against the soft squabs and rubbed her bare hands across the smoky gray velvet. Once upon a time, Papa had a fine carriage such as this, pulled by matching bays. She sighed and leaned back to enjoy the ride.

  “Is this the place, Mr. Quincy?” Thompson held the door open for her when they arrived.

  Quincy glanced at the address on the bill and compared it to the number above the chandler’s shop door. “Yes, Thompson, thank you.” She started for the shop but stopped. “Thompson, have you been in his lordship’s service very long?”

  “Almost six years, sir. He hired me and Tanner afore he went off to fight the bloody Corsican.”

  “Good. You may hold the purse. I trust you can count without using your fingers and toes?” She looked up at him sideways, grinning.

  Thompson chuckled. “Yes, sir. Lady Sinclair insists all her staff learn to read and write and cipher.”

  “Really? Well, let’s get on with spending Lord Sinclair’s money, shall we?”

  Thompson grinned and opened the shop door. “Yes, sir!”

  The chandler closed his mouth with a snap when Thompson gave him his money due, and pumped Quincy’s hand, pleased to meet Lord Sinclair’s new secretary. “The last one had beady eyes, don’t you know,” he said with a wink.

  It was the same with the baker, the greengrocer, and the tailor. They glanced at Quincy and stared at Thompson. Despite the drizzle, the footman wore a powdered wig, which added another two inches to his already impressive height. Some merchants even reduced their bills for “prompt payment.”

  The butcher was different. With a barrel chest and hands like hams, he was several inches shorter than Thompson but twice as wide. “What happened to Johnson, eh? Sinclair catch on and tan his sorry hide?”

  “I believe Mr. Johnson decided America was more to his liking. What do you mean by ‘catch on’?”

  He stared at Thompson. “Nothing.”

  “Please wait for me in the carriage, Thompson.” As soon as the footman was out of earshot, Quincy pulled a sovereign from her coat pocket. She held it up so the coin glinted in the sunlight. “You were about to say?”

  “I don’t write so good.”

  “I noticed.” Quincy pointed to a barely legible bill of sale.

  “Johnson said that weren’t no problem. He’d write the bills for me. ’Cept he’d add to ’em, like. Whatever I was owed, he’d double it on the bill, then keep most of the extra for his ‘fee.’”

  “Only most, not all of it?”

  “I got six mouths to feed and another on the way.”

  Quincy handed him the sovereign. “Do you know if Johnson was performing this service for anyone else?” When the butcher hesitated, she pulled out another coin.

  “A Frenchie named Beauvais what sells brandy, and a cooper two streets over, that way.”

  Quincy nodded. “You can’t keep doing this. Someone else is bound to catch on. What you did was punishable by law, Mister…what is your name, anyway?”

  “Sam.” Sam narrowed his eyes and stepped closer until Quincy had to strain her neck to see beyond his jaw. “You going to turn me in?”

  Quincy gulped. She caught a flash of movement to the right, and realized they’d attracted an audience. The little boy peeking around the shop door couldn’t be more than three. He had the same dark hair and green eyes as Sam. Another boy peeked out, a head taller than the first child, and then another. Soon there were five of them, all watching her with avid green eyes.

  “No, Sam, I’m not going to turn you in, but only because of those six mouths. I have something else in mind.”

  Sam appeared not to have heard her. “I sure would hate to mess up a young face like yours.”

  Quincy ignored the threat to her own safety, imagining the life the five boys would have if their father were in Newgate. “What I propose, Sam, is that you spend two hours per week with me until you can write a legible bill of sale.”

  Sam stepped back. “Why?”

  She thought of what her life had been like since her father’s death last year. “Because children shouldn’t go hungry, nor should they be deprived of a father. I’m going to teach you to write an honest bill of sale, and you will promise to not ‘add to’ them. Agreed?”

  Sam still looked doubtful. And menacing.

  “If you improve your reading and writing, you can make sure no one is cheating you.”

  At that, Sam’s expression cleared. He shook hands and arranged to meet with Quincy after church on Sunday afternoon. Back in the carriage, she checked her hand for broken bones.

  The last address on her list was near the docks, a merchant who supplied everything for the stables from hay to bridles. As they traveled closer to it, the fancy carriages in the streets gradually gave way to hacks and carts, and the finely dressed pedestrians disappeared, replaced by street-walkers and sailors.

  Thompson opened the carriage door. “You sure this is the right place, Mr. Quincy?”
/>   “This is the place Johnson sent his lordship’s money. Let’s find out if it’s right.” Thompson followed her through the door set in the massive wall of the warehouse. The grimy windows allowed little daylight to illuminate the interior. “Halloo!” she called into the gloom. “Anybody here?”

  She heard footsteps behind her, heard Thompson shout “Oi!” As she turned to look back, she caught a fleeting glimpse of something thrown at her. Lights exploded in her head, then everything went black.

  Chapter 6

  “M y lord,” Harper said from the bedchamber doorway, his voice unusually tight. “You may want to come downstairs.”

  Sinclair looked up in time to see the two upstairs maids run, shrieking, past the open door toward the staircase. He set his papers aside. “Is the house on fire?”

  “No, my lord. The carriage has returned with Mr. Quincy and Thompson. They’ve been attacked.”

  Sinclair’s stomach twisted into a cold knot. “The devil you say!” He shoved his feet into slippers, grabbed his walking stick and hurried downstairs.

  “They’re in the parlor. I’ve already sent Tanner for the doctor,” Harper added, at his heels.

  “Good thinking.” Wild thoughts assaulted Sinclair as he negotiated the stairs. Who would attack poor Miss Quincy? How badly was she hurt? He should never have let her go out like that, accompanied by just a footman. He was supposed to be keeping her safe!

  Sinclair entered the parlor right behind Mrs. Hammond. Two of the maids, Maude and Matilda, hovered over Thompson, who sat by the window holding a piece of beefsteak over his left eye.

  He stood up, leaning on the chair’s back for support. “I’m sorry, my lord. They snuck up behind us. Got away with the purse too, though there weren’t much left in it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Sit down.” Sinclair looked around for Quincy and found her stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed, face pale. Mrs. Hammond knelt beside her, patting her hand, sobbing. Quincy was deathly still. An icy fist closed around Sinclair’s throat, choking him. His pulse raced at double-time.

  Lady Sinclair entered and clapped her hands. “Maude, fetch my vinaigrette. Matilda, go see if the doctor has arrived yet. Mrs. Hammond, stop that immediately. You are likely frightening the lad.”

  “Let me have a look, Mrs. Hammond,” Sinclair said, moving the housekeeper aside.

  Quincy still hadn’t moved. Partially hidden by her hairline, a goose egg was forming on her temple. The frames of her spectacles were twisted, the left lens cracked. Sinclair lifted them off and opened one eyelid. The pupil contracted. The knot in Sinclair’s stomach loosened a fraction. His hands shook with relief.

  “Is he…?” Lady Sinclair peered over his shoulder.

  “No, he’s just in the arms of Morpheus.” He patted Quincy’s cheeks. “Can you hear me, lad? Come now, nap time is over.”

  Maude returned with the silver vinaigrette. Lady Sinclair lifted the lid and waved it under Quincy’s nose.

  Her eyes fluttered open as she coughed and pushed the silver case away. She squinted. “My lord? What—”

  “Easy, lad.” The knot in his stomach uncoiled. Sinclair pulled her up and sat beside her on the sofa, barely resisting the sudden urge to hold her close to his side.

  The coachman entered and stood by the door, twisting his hat between his hands.

  “What happened, Elliott?”

  Elliott snapped to attention. “We were at the last stop, a warehouse near the docks. Mr. Quincy and Thompson went inside. A minute later three men ran out. I tied the team to a lamppost and went inside. Thompson and Quincy was conked out on the floor. Thompson woke up when I got to him. We carried Quincy.”

  “Thank you, Elliott.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” The coachman tugged his forelock and left.

  Sinclair turned to Quincy. “How do you feel?”

  She held her hand to her head. “Where are the bricks that fell on me?”

  “Sorry,” Thompson said, flushing. “That was me.”

  “Are you injured anywhere aside from your face?” Sinclair asked the footman.

  “No, my lord, I don’t think so. Quincy, er, broke my fall.”

  “Glad I could be of service,” she said with a faint smile. She touched her face, then patted her pockets. “Has anyone seen my spectacles?”

  “They’re ruined.” Sinclair held them up. “I’ll have them replaced tomorrow. Have you a spare pair until then?”

  “Thank you, my lord, but it’s not necessary for you to—” She broke off as Tanner announced the doctor.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Kimball,” Lady Sinclair said, as he bowed in greeting. “Ladies, shall we leave the doctor to his work?”

  Quincy tried to rise but Sinclair held firm to her wrist. “The doctor is not necessary, my lord,” she said, trying to twist her hand free. “I’m fine. Just had the wind knocked out of me.”

  His reply was soft, for her ears alone. “I need to know if you’re hurt.” He raised his voice. “Dr. Kimball, why don’t you start with Thompson?”

  “I’m not hurt, and the doctor doesn’t need to know anything,” Quincy quietly argued.

  “You’re not the one who just had ten years scared off his life.” Aware of how long he’d been holding her, Sinclair relaxed his grip.

  “Nasty bump, but nothing else,” the doctor announced a few minutes later, patting Thompson’s shoulder. “I would avoid bricks for a few days if I were you.” He held out the bits of red brick that had been lodged in Thompson’s wig. Sinclair stepped over to have a closer look.

  Quincy bolted from the room.

  Once out in the hall, she forced herself to take deep breaths and walk, not run, past the footmen stationed outside the dining room. Moving slower also helped keep the floor from tilting so wildly. Where to go? The library was too obvious. Lady Sinclair’s drawing room? No, she might also insist the doctor examine her. Perhaps down to the kitchen? Ah, yes, tea was just what she needed for her throbbing headache.

  Cook seemed surprised to see a visitor but soon set a pot of tea and a cup on the table. “There’s trouble brewing abovestairs, I don’t mind telling you,” she confided, stirring a pot of soup on the closed stove.

  Quincy let her talk. Occasional answers of “Uh-huh” and “Really?” were all the cook needed to keep gossiping about the household members while Quincy drank.

  “So this is where you hide.”

  Quincy shot to her feet, knocking over her chair. “My lord! I thought Dr. Kimball would be some time with Thompson, so I—”

  “Missed afternoon tea. I see you rectified matters.” Sinclair held out his hand. “Your turn to be examined.”

  “It is not necessary. I am fine, really.”

  Sinclair cocked his left eyebrow. “We’ve had this discussion. Allow—”

  “No.”

  Sinclair tapped his finger on the head of his walking stick. Suddenly his faced relaxed. “You’re not afraid to be examined, are you…lad?”

  The scullery maid snickered. Quincy glared at her. “Well, you see, I um…Yes.” She straightened her shoulders and looked Sinclair square in the eyes. “I don’t have much use for doctors.”

  Sinclair pursed his lips as though pinching back a smile. Quincy had the sneaking suspicion he was teasing her. “Let’s discuss it in the library, shall we?”

  After a moment of silent debate, Quincy obediently followed him.

  Harper came in after them with a tray of two glasses and a brandy decanter. “I’ve given Thompson the rest of the day off, my lord,” the butler said. “Matilda and Maude promised to look in on him.”

  Sinclair sighed. “Good. Just don’t let Broderick find out, since he disapproves so strongly of fraternization. And please close the door on your way out.” Once they were alone, he poured a glass and handed it to Quincy, then poured one for himself. “Thompson’s a strapping young man. Suppose he cracked a few of your ribs when he used you for a mattress?”

  “I’m sure I would feel some p
ain if he had.” Quincy set her glass on the table, untouched. “Aside from a small bump on my forehead, I feel no aftereffects from this morning.”

  “That’s another thing. Come here by the window. Since we can’t let the doctor examine you, at least let me have a look.”

  Quincy’s heart pounded. “That’s not—”

  “Now.”

  She swallowed.

  “Good lord, Quincy, I’m not going to eat you! I do have some experience at this. We didn’t always have a doctor at hand in the army, and we learned to make do.” Sinclair’s expression softened. “Elliott served under my command for five years. He survived my ministrations just fine, and we don’t need to do anything as drastic as extract a pistol ball from your shoulder.”

  Quincy envisioned the earl on a bloody battlefield, saving his sergeant’s life, those magnificent hands deft and sure as he worked, oblivious to the cannon fire and carnage all around. Her stomach fluttered.

  “Come here. Now.”

  Quincy complied. She stood close enough to waltz with him, stared at the stubble on his unshaven jaw, and forced herself to breathe. In, out, in, out. He ran his fingers through her hair, fingertips searching for and finding the extent of the knot on her temple, then checking for other bumps. His touch was tender and thorough, almost a caress. She inhaled his musky scent, blended with a trace of bay rum and something she couldn’t quite identify, though it was a pleasant combination. Shivers tiptoed down her spine as he exhaled, his warm breath a gentle puff against her ear. She wanted to lean in, get even closer. Have his warm, solid arms around her, keep her safe.

  She tried not to enjoy it. She shouldn’t enjoy it. It was utterly improper. But no one had ever touched her this way before. Was this a normal reaction? No, just one of those aftereffects from the blow to her head that she’d claimed not to be having. Had to be.

  She hadn’t thought about the danger she’d been in back at the warehouse, couldn’t afford to. But now, in the safety of the library, she did think about it. She’d been utterly defenseless. The brigands could have tossed her body into the Thames, and no one would have known. What would’ve become of Mel and Grandmère then? Her hands suddenly shook. She clasped them together.