What an Earl Wants Page 8

  “That seems to be the worst of it,” Sinclair said, taking a step back. “You’re going to have an impressive bruise by tomorrow. Would you like your souvenirs?” He held out small bits of brick, shiny from the macassar oil in her hair, on his upturned palm.

  She tried to smile. “I think not.”

  “You’re trembling.” Before she could react, Sinclair pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. After a startled moment, Quincy gave in, and rested her cheek against his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her ear. He murmured reassuring words which she felt more than heard, his hand stroking up and down her back in a soothing caress. Her fear forgotten, she twined her arms around his waist and closed her eyes, reveling in the new sensations.

  One arm still around her shoulders, Sinclair raised one hand to cradle her head, his thumb stroking her temple. She felt his bristly cheek against her forehead, could almost swear he brushed a kiss there.

  A kiss? The ground fell away, and she clung to Sinclair even tighter.

  “Not quite the experience you bargained for, eh, my sweet?”

  Unable to speak, she shook her head.

  Still caressing her, Sinclair gave a little chuckle. “After an ordeal like that, most females would have given in to hysterics long before now.”

  Better than a bucket of cold water. The ground was back where it belonged, firmly beneath her feet, and Quincy pulled away from Sinclair. “Hysterics?”

  “Not that you’re…that is, just a healthy reaction to…any woman, er, person would, ah…” Sinclair cleared his throat. His gaze darted around the room while Quincy took a step backward, feeling foolish for having displayed such weakness. “Well then. Back to business. Why were you at the docks?”

  Quincy ran her fingers through her hair to straighten it and took a deep breath. Right then, back to business, indeed. Distancing herself from Sinclair by sitting at her desk helped even more. She had no business hugging her employer. “I have proof Johnson overpaid merchant bills and pocketed the difference. And I believe he paid several merchants that don’t actually exist. That warehouse was listed on a bill of sale from one of them.”

  Sinclair sank down into the sofa and lifted his foot up onto the ottoman. Quincy tried to ignore how his dressing gown fell open, revealing his bare calves. What would it be like to wrap her arms around his waist, without his dressing gown and nightshirt in the way? When he spoke, she forced her gaze back up to his face. “How much did he dip into my pocket? More than the ten thousand pounds you originally estimated?”

  “I’m afraid it’s at least double that.”

  “Damn.” He rubbed his thigh. “One of the nonexistent merchants? How many more are there?”

  “Possibly three.”

  He leaned his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Enough time passed that Quincy thought he’d fallen asleep. She was about to ring for Harper when Sinclair finally groaned and stood up. She watched him walk toward her, his gait less steady than usual. He paused beside her desk. “Go home, Quincy.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles, and her eyes fluttered shut of their own accord. “Have Elliott drive you. Mrs. Hammond says the sun will shine tomorrow. If she’s right, you and I will dig into this further. If she’s wrong, well…” He shrugged and limped out of the room.

  “Jo! Why are you home so early?” Melinda, carrying a basket of embroidery floss, met Quincy on the steps going up to their flat. She gaped at the departing coach.

  “We had a small accident and Lord Sinclair gave me the afternoon off.”

  “An accident!”

  “Dear child, what happened to you?” Grandmère exclaimed when Quincy stepped inside their flat.

  “Jo had an accident. Oh, you ripped my coat!”

  Quincy shrugged out of the offending garment and held it up to the window. She poked her finger through the rent in the shoulder seam. “Not beyond repair, I hope. I’m unharmed, in case you’re interested.”

  “Of course I know you’re unharmed. Do you think I would care about the coat if you weren’t? You’re the only one who can wear it!”

  Quincy laughed and tossed the coat at her sister, then scooped up the gray tabby rubbing against her ankles. “At least Sir Ambrose worries about me,” she said, stroking the cat’s head. “Don’t you, Ambrose? Did you catch another rat for your dinner today to earn your keep?” The cat nuzzled her chin and purred.

  “Tell us what happened, dear.”

  “It was nothing, really.” Quincy glanced at her grandmother, then back at the cat in her arms. Grandmère understood the necessity of her disguise, how desperately they needed the steady income afforded by working for the earl. But she would never condone her actions if she knew Sinclair was aware of her true gender. “A footman tripped on the stairs and knocked me down,” Quincy fibbed. “A very tall, broad footman. Lord Sinclair felt poorly today anyway, so he sent me home.”

  “Oh, how romantic!” Mel clasped her hands to her chest. “Is he handsome?”

  “Do you think he’ll withhold this afternoon from your wages?”

  “No. I’m sure he feels responsible for the accident, though it was not his fault.” She set the cat down and turned to Mel. “Are you referring to Lord Sinclair or the footman?”

  “The footman, silly! The earl is much too old.”

  “I suppose they’re both pleasing to the eye, but I think Thompson may be slightly older than Sinclair.”

  “How dreadful!” Melinda sat in the chair by the window and set to work fixing Quincy’s coat.

  Grandmère squinted at Quincy. “Where are your spectacles?”

  “My—Oh! Lord Sinclair put them in his dressing gown pocket. I left the room so the doctor couldn’t examine me, and I forgot to get them back.”

  Grandmère moved to the table, tugging Quincy down to sit in the chair next to hers. “Now tell me what you left out,” she said softly.

  Quincy sighed. Sir Ambrose jumped into her lap and settled across her knees. “I hit my head when the footman fell on top of me and I was senseless for a few moments. Lord Sinclair sent for the doctor to make certain we weren’t injured. While he examined Thompson, I left the room. That’s all.”

  “Hmm. And the earl still has your spectacles? This is not good.” Grandmère tapped her finger on the table. “You say he’s feeling poorly today?”

  “He suffered a wound in the war that still pains him. Poor man, it turns him into a bear with a sore paw. The butler says it’s worse when the weather is cold and wet. I suppose I will adjust to it like everyone else around him.”

  “Hmm.” Grandmère reached out to take Quincy’s hand between her own. “I promise I shall not think you a coward if you decide this charade is too much for you. Doing business with merchants in London is nothing like it was in Danbury. And working for Sinclair isn’t at all like working for your father, is it?”

  Quincy stroked Sir Ambrose and stared out the window, remembering how Sinclair had at first frightened her in the library yesterday with his violent behavior. Perhaps violent was too strong a description, but he behaved in ways her father never had. Papa’s body had been too weak. Sinclair may still be recovering from his wounds, but he was not weak. All those muscles…

  She patted her grandmother’s hand. “No, this is not like working for Papa, or dealing with merchants in a small village. It’s making me think and learn new things. I’d like to believe I can rise to the challenge. I’m actually enjoying it.”

  Grandmère narrowed her eyes and stared at Quincy. “You aren’t forming a tendre for the earl, are you?”

  “Of course not!” Quincy removed her hat and ran her fingers through her hair. No, of course she wasn’t. Couldn’t. That would ruin all of her plans.

  And besides, she’d made herself unsuitable to be a wife, so there was no point in developing feelings when nothing could ever possibly come of them. She would never bring down scandal on Sinclair or his mother. She would leave before anyone else discovered her secret. She squelched
a stab of pain at the thought. “I do like working for him, though. He’s generally very even-tempered.”

  “As you say, ma chère.” Grandmère gave her a strange little smile, and went back to sewing.

  Chapter 7

  “L ie down, my lord, and I’ll rub more liniment on your leg.”

  “Damn it, Broderick, forget the liniment. Where’s the brandy?” Sinclair flopped onto his bed, weary beyond belief. Something poked him in the hip. He rolled over and searched under the covers, then in his dressing gown pocket. Quincy’s spectacles.

  He held them up to the window. The frames were hopelessly bent, but the right lens was still intact.

  Broderick handed him a glass of brandy, then pulled the dressing gown and nightshirt back to expose his leg. “A compromise, my lord.”

  “Get on with it, then.” While Broderick attacked him with liniment, Sinclair downed his drink and stared through the spectacles at the perfectly clear image of the wallpaper pattern. He sat upright. “It’s plain glass.”

  “Beg pardon, my lord?”

  “What? Oh. Bring me another glass, please.” Sinclair studied the bent spectacles. Just another part of Quincy’s disguise. It wasn’t her vision of the world that Quincy needed to alter, but the world’s vision of her.

  Today’s incident was all his fault. He never would have allowed Mrs. Hammond or another woman in his employ to go near the docks, yet he’d allowed Quincy. Perhaps always trying to think of her as Mr. Quincy was not a good thing. He couldn’t risk her coming to any harm.

  Working together so closely, he’d come to enjoy her pleasant company, her forthright speech, the quality of her work. She was so organized and efficient. Perhaps women made the best secretaries.

  He recalled the moments in the library by the window. He’d known with the first touch that her skull wasn’t cracked, but standing so close to her felt so good, breathing in her faint lemon scent. Touching her. Holding her. Comforting her. He’d wanted to tilt her chin up and see if she tasted of lemon.

  Perhaps women did not make the best secretaries, after all.

  “How are you feeling, dear?”

  Sinclair hurriedly threw the covers over his lap and slipped the spectacles back into his pocket. “Mama, even the servants have the manners to knock before entering my chambers.”

  “Yes, I know. But sometimes my only entertainment of the day is discomfiting you.” She sat on the bed and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

  “Surely that’s not the case today?” He adjusted the covers and sat up straighter. “Broderick, don’t forget to shut the door on your way out.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Lady Sinclair leaned against the bedpost. “If you had a wife, she could tend to you instead of Broderick.” She patted his knee. “Wouldn’t you rather have a beautiful young woman give you a massage?”

  “Mama!” He dropped her hand in her lap, trying to set aside the image of Quincy massaging his leg, draped in silk and lace. Or perhaps just a warm ray of sunshine, and nothing else…“Please, not today. I have enough to worry about besides getting leg-shackled.”

  “Yes. Poor Thompson. And Quincy! Such a nice young man. I wonder why anyone would want to hurt him?”

  Harper opened the door. “My lord? Elliott has returned.”

  “Good. Send him up.” He kissed his mother on the cheek and slid out of bed. “I don’t think anyone intended to hurt Quincy. He was in my carriage, after all.”

  Lady Sinclair gasped. “But why would anyone want to hurt you?”

  Sinclair sat back on the edge of the bed and held his mother’s hand. “Quincy discovered discrepancies in the account books. Johnson embezzled from me.” Before she could question him, Sinclair hurried on. “Nothing significant, but Quincy’s been investigating where the funds went. That warehouse was one of the places Johnson sent money. My money. Of course, the incident was probably just an unfortunate coincidence. In that part of town, it’s possible Quincy and Thompson merely stumbled into a den of thieves who didn’t appreciate the intrusion.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Lady Sinclair didn’t look convinced. “I never did like Johnson. But your father hired him, and then with everything that happened you were too busy to replace him. I’m glad he’s finally gone.”

  Fortunately Sinclair didn’t have time to think about ‘everything that happened’ as Elliott tapped on the door and stepped in. “You took Quincy home?”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” He grinned. “He met a sweet young lass in pigtails on the steps and they went up the stairs arm in arm. Beg pardon, my lady.”

  Lady Sinclair chuckled.

  “Thank you, Elliott. That will be all.” As the coachman left, Sinclair reached for the belt on his dressing gown, intent on getting dressed.

  “You’ll let me know if I can help in any way?”

  “Of course, Mama.”

  She kissed him on his forehead. “Try to rest and not be such a beast. Mrs. Hammond predicts it will be sunny tomorrow.”

  Alone again, Sinclair pulled out Quincy’s bent spectacles. Such a nice young man, his mother’s words echoed.

  Young. Why did a nice young miss need to work as a secretary, in disguise? The question had plagued him all week. Perhaps supporting a younger sister? How long did she intend to keep up the masquerade?

  And how long could he keep up his part in it?

  Several times he’d almost slipped up. If anyone had opened the library door when he’d had Quincy in his arms…Life as he knew it would be over. He’d have to admit that he’d compromised Miss Quincy and then they’d be forced to marry. Courting Quincy would be courting scandal, and he’d already been through enough scandal to last two lifetimes. He wouldn’t risk it, not now when his mother was finally coming out of isolation and rejoining society.

  Remembering how good it had felt to hold her, marriage to Quincy wouldn’t really be a hardship, but she deserved so much more than a crippled, scarred ex-soldier. She’d resent being trapped into marrying him. He enjoyed her companionship too much to risk it.

  As for this afternoon’s events, although he thought it most likely that Quincy and Thompson had indeed stumbled into a thieves’ den, it was worth hiring a Bow Street Runner to investigate. He sent one of the downstairs footmen to make the arrangements.

  The sun did shine the next morning, piercing Sinclair’s head with its bright rays. His head throbbed, but thankfully his leg did not.

  “And how are we feeling this morning, my lord?”

  “Must you ask that every day, Broderick?” Sinclair sat up slowly, his head easily keeping pace. Last night he’d downed only half a bottle of brandy.

  Broderick harrumphed. “I take it you’re not nearly as cup shot as usual. That’s a good sign. Yes, a very good sign.” He began fussing with the shaving accoutrements, mumbling to himself.

  Later, Sinclair stepped out of his bath in time to hear a screeching fight in the hall.

  “I’ll see what’s happening, my lord. It’s probably just Maude and Matilda at it again.”

  Sinclair tied the sash around his dressing gown and stepped into the hall. The upstairs staff had gathered, gawking at the two maids wrestling on the floor.

  “I insist you cease this display immediately!” Broderick shouted. Tanner and Thompson stood at their posts farther down the hall, watching the show and grinning from ear to ear. Maude and Matilda slapped each other and pulled hair, both shrieking.

  Sinclair frowned. Why wasn’t Harper putting a halt to this? Or Mrs. Hammond? Both were conspicuous by their absence.

  Quincy quietly threaded her way through the group, threw her arms around the maids, and drew them together. The maids held still. Quincy briefly whispered in their ears, then let go.

  Maude and Matilda blushed and stood up. To Sinclair’s astonishment, they apologized to Quincy, curtsied to himself, and immediately returned to work at opposite ends of the hall.

  Thompson winked at Quincy, and Quincy hurried down the stairs, back toward
the library.

  Sinclair shook his head. “Lad’s got the whole staff wrapped around his finger.”

  “Beg pardon, my lord?”

  “Nothing, Broderick.”

  An hour later, Quincy looked up from her work, startled to see Sinclair downstairs. He was lounging against the doorframe, shaved and dressed, looking fine enough to turn a woman’s senses to porridge.

  “Cataloging Johnson’s sins, are you?”

  “G-good morning, my lord.” Quincy settled the bottle of ink she’d almost tipped over. She straightened papers on her desk, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, vainly trying not to think of their embrace in the library yesterday. He appeared his usual charming self this morning. Gone were the lines of pain around his mouth and bruises under his eyes. “Still trying to assess the extent of the damage. I thought—”

  “Good. I know for a fact Johnson got on the ship before it sailed for America, so he can inflict no further damage. But I do find myself curious as to how deeply he dipped into my pocket.” He pushed off from the doorjamb. “Grab your hat and gloves, and let’s go.”

  “Go?” She stared at him blankly.

  “Yes. We’ll visit those three mystery merchants, see if they really exist.”

  “We?” She shook her head, then rose and gathered the appropriate receipts.

  Sinclair called Harper for his own hat and gloves and walking stick. “Should my mother ask, you may tell her I’ve gone out but will return by”—he glanced at Quincy—“supper. Yes, we should return by supper. Come along, Mr. Quincy.”

  They stepped out into the sunshine and Sinclair took a deep breath. “Ah, what a lovely morning. Mrs. Hammond was correct, as usual.” He clapped Quincy on the shoulder and they set off walking at Sinclair’s slow but steady pace.

  His limp was no more pronounced than usual, but he was using his walking stick as a cane. After a few blocks, she could no longer contain her concern. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to take the carriage, my lord.”