What an Earl Wants Page 9

  He remained silent for so long, she thought he hadn’t heard her. Or was ignoring her. Had she offended him?

  She barely heard his quiet reply. “Leg stiffens up too much if I don’t walk.” He glanced at her. “A spare pair?”

  Quincy self-consciously touched the rim of her grandmother’s old-fashioned spectacles and nodded. The lenses gave her a headache, but she couldn’t risk being seen bare-faced.

  Sinclair dug in his pocket and handed over the ruined pair. “Don’t forget to have these repaired. Have the bill sent to me.”

  Quincy tucked them away, and they discussed how they’d deal with the three merchants until they reached the first address. Or rather, where it would have been, had the merchant actually existed. The building was an ancient burned-out husk, inhabited only by rodents that scurried out of sight when Quincy peeked through the doorway.

  The second and third businesses turned out to be equally fictitious, though at least the false addresses were in a better part of town. By now they were only a few blocks from Sinclair’s home.

  “Well, that’s that,” she said, eager to return to the library and the delicious luncheon she knew Mrs. Hammond was waiting to serve. Quincy’s stomach growled.

  “Fakes, every damn one of them. That thieving son of a—” Sinclair cut himself off as Quincy started walking again. “Where are you going?” he called after her.

  “My lord?”

  “This way.” He pointed over his left shoulder, the opposite direction from his home.

  She stifled a sigh and fell into step with him. Her feet ached. Surely his must, too? Not to mention his leg. Her stomach growled again. “Might I ask where we’re going, my lord?”

  “Of course you can ask.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Where are we going?” Quincy said at last.

  “To luncheon.”

  “I asked where, not why.”

  Sinclair glanced at her, a spark of humor in his eyes. “So you did, lad, so you did. Ever been to Gunter’s?”

  “The confectioner famous for his ices?”

  “The very same.”

  “Why?”

  “They also make the most mouth-watering sandwiches.”

  “But why are we going there?”

  “The food is excellent, the company exceptional, and,” he lowered his voice, “there are no screeching maids.” They shared a smile as they crossed the street. “Besides, I thought you deserved a treat after your fine bit of negotiating this morning. I’m curious what you said to the maids.”

  Her cheeks heated at the praise. “I merely reminded them that the footmen were watching and getting a good look at their ankles, and then some.”

  Sinclair chuckled.

  Quincy admired his profile for a moment. He looked years younger when he laughed, handsome and carefree, the way he must have looked before his injury. “Do you often treat your secretaries to lunch?”

  “Only those who are attacked.” Sinclair turned serious as they sidestepped a vendor with a cart of oranges. “Are you certain you’re all right? No headache, no bruised ribs or anything?”

  “Just the bump on my head. I’m fine, really.”

  Sinclair rested his hand on her shoulder, a comfortable and comforting weight. “You must sometimes do things that Miss Quincy would never consider, but I would hope they are never foolhardy risks.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “In some ways, Mr. Quincy is in even greater danger.”

  Quincy swallowed hard, touched by his concern. “I never indulge in impulsive behavior, my lord.” She was scrambling for a topic to steer the conversation into shallower waters when they heard his name called out.

  “Sinclair, well met!”

  “Leland, Palmer,” Sinclair greeted two gentlemen, his posture relaxed. Quincy tried to relax, too.

  Former soldiers, like Sinclair, she guessed. Of an age with Sinclair, one was missing his right arm, and the other wore a patch over his left eye, a scar extending both above and below the patch.

  “What excellent timing,” the one-armed man said. “We were just on our way to luncheon.”

  “As were we,” Sinclair replied. “We—”

  “Then it’s settled!” the one-eyed man exclaimed. “Off we go!” He clapped his hand to Sinclair’s shoulder, spinning the earl around until they were all headed the way Sinclair and Quincy had just come. Since that was the direction of Sinclair’s house, Quincy happily fell into step behind the three gentlemen.

  “Haven’t seen you in ages!” the one-eyed man continued. “Leg been bothering you?”

  “No, no, nothing of the sort. Just been, ah, busy.”

  “Busy?” the one-armed man repeated, dropping back a pace, even with Quincy.

  She kept her eyes forward, refusing to meet his frank, assessing gaze. Her cravat suddenly felt too tight.

  Sinclair cleared his throat. “Lord Palmer, Sir Leland, this is Quincy. My new secretary.” The three exchanged greetings.

  “Ah, this explains your absence of late,” the one-armed man, Lord Palmer, said.

  Quincy and Sinclair both raised their eyebrows, her surprise mirrored on his face as they looked at each other.

  “How so?” Leland said.

  “You saw the disaster that was Sinclair’s library soon after Johnson left,” Palmer said. “By now it’s a wonder this unfortunate lad hasn’t been lost forever amidst all the debris.”

  Sinclair tilted his chin up. “Are you implying, sirrah, that my library is a mess?”

  “No, good sir, I am not implying anything. It is a direct statement.”

  Quincy stared at the sidewalk to hide her grin. When she looked up again, they had turned a corner, onto St. James’s Street.

  “I’ll have you know my library is neat as a pin. Not so much as a receipt out of place.”

  Leland and Palmer gaped at Quincy. She looked down again, this time to hide her blush.

  “Ah, so that’s why you are taking the lad to luncheon!” Leland said. “Good show, old chap, but if the lad’s managed to work such a miracle, he deserves more than just lunch at your club—”

  “Actually we were headed to Gunter’s,” Sinclair said.

  “—Though Brook’s is a good place to start.”

  “Brook’s?” Sinclair looked shocked. “No, we can’t—”

  “Well, it’s not like we can take you to White’s anymore, is it?” Leland said jovially.

  “Was that a lifetime ban, old boy, or just for the remainder of this decade?” Palmer added.

  Sinclair looked like he wished for a hole to open up in the sidewalk. Quincy just wished she understood why. Then she remembered—the old scandal. She thought it in poor taste for his friends to joke about the incident at White’s.

  “Shall we?” Leland gestured for the others to precede him through the doorway.

  Palmer stepped through, and waited expectantly.

  Sinclair glanced at Quincy, and grimaced before he shrugged and ushered her in.

  “Your club, my lord?” Quincy’s step faltered. “If Papa could see me now, he’d roll over in his grave.”

  “What was that?” Palmer said.

  She cleared her throat. “I said everyone looks so grave.”

  “Wait a few hours,” Leland said. “They haven’t had enough to drink yet!”

  Once they were all seated, Sinclair ordered roast beef and claret for the two of them. “Unless you wish something else?”

  “Tea instead of wine, if you don’t mind. I need to keep a clear head if I’m to accomplish anything this afternoon.”

  “I’m sure your employer wouldn’t mind if you had a glass or two,” Leland said. “That library would drive any man to drink.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” Quincy said. “It merely needed—”

  All three men leaned forward.

  “—Organizing.”

  They all leaned back.

  Quincy tried to blend into the background as the three friends began chattin
g, catching up on mutual acquaintances, horses for sale, and boxing matches—the male equivalent of gossip. Their conversation faded as she tried to look without gawking at the people and furnishings in this holiest of male sanctuaries. Men smoked cigars, and waiters passed carrying trays laden with bottles and glasses.

  Two young men sauntered by, discussing the merits of a particular opera dancer. Quincy swiveled her head to follow their conversation, until she felt a kick to her shin. She glanced up in surprise, and saw Sinclair frowning at her.

  He gave a minute shake of his head before he returned his attention to Leland’s blow-by-blow boxing story.

  Their food arrived. Conversation, except for the “pass the salt” variety, halted while they ate. The roast beef and jam tarts were not as good as Cook’s, but Quincy was so hungry it didn’t matter.

  A few moments later, Sinclair gestured for her to wipe her mouth, which she did, horrified to be caught in public with food on her face. Apparently she missed the spot, as Sinclair leaned toward her, extending his napkin. “Bit of jam,” he murmured.

  For a frozen heartbeat, she thought he would wipe her face while Palmer and Leland looked on. Then Sinclair handed her the napkin, and she exhaled. A moment later he nodded that yes, she’d gotten it, and she returned his napkin.

  She had realized from the start of their acquaintance that she was more comfortable with her masquerade than Sinclair was, though he’d gamely played along. But he’d almost given her away just now, if the looks exchanged between Palmer and Leland were anything to go by. They seemed to be having an entire conversation, without a word said aloud.

  Quincy sipped her tea, trying not to squirm in her chair, trying to calm her racing heart, as the two men glanced her way.

  What if someone else did find out? What if someone other than Sinclair learned her secret? Would he cast her out?

  Ever since she’d come to her senses on the sofa yesterday, she’d expected to hear that he was no longer willing to go along with her charade. She knew he felt guilty about the incident at the docks, though that was ridiculous. He even winced every time he saw the bruise on her forehead.

  She’d also noticed that Thompson now directed odd looks at her when no one else was about. Could the footman have noticed something when he fell on her? Or worse, felt something when he carried her?

  She wore a linen strip to bind her small breasts, and a snug shirt under a loose-fitting shirt, then a waistcoat and coat. Surely he couldn’t have felt anything through all those layers of fabric? And she had no curves to speak of to give her away. At seventeen, Melinda already had a more womanly shape than her older sister.

  Abruptly Palmer dropped his napkin on the table and tilted his chair back on two legs, draining the last of his claret. “What say we head over to Gentleman Jackson’s? Ever done any boxing, Mr. Quincy?”

  She took another sip. “No, my lord, can’t say I have.”

  “Now’s as good a time as any to start,” Leland said. “Go a few rounds, work up a sweat. Just the thing to put hair on your chest.”

  Quincy choked on her tea.

  Sinclair thumped her on the back. “Perhaps another day.” He took his leave of his friends, citing the amount of work to still catch up on when they protested his departure. Quincy followed at his heels.

  With the exit in sight, she sighed with relief. She’d had luncheon at a gentlemen’s club with no one the wiser, and no harm done.

  She nearly bumped into Sinclair when he stopped abruptly just outside the club’s door. “Afternoon, Twitchell,” Sinclair said, his voice tight. Without waiting for a response he continued on, his back straighter, his stride laboriously even.

  She craned her neck to see who could provoke such a reaction from Sinclair. She was shocked by the barely contained anger in the man’s face as he returned Sinclair’s greeting, and by his gaucherie in staring at Sinclair’s leg rather than meeting the earl’s eye. She gave him a wide berth as she hurried after Sinclair.

  They’d walked a few blocks and turned the corner when she realized Sinclair had slowed down considerably, a fine sheen of perspiration highlighting his upper lip. He ought to rest, but she knew he’d never admit it. She paused in front of a tobacconist’s shop. “May we stop a moment?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Neither do I.” She was actually more interested in stealing a glance at a bonnet in the window display of the shop next door. She was picturing how it would look on Mel, of course. Quincy had given up any plans to wear a bonnet, or anything else even remotely feminine, when she’d adopted her disguise.

  An image reflected in the window drew her gaze to a flower girl across the street, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Quincy flinched as a passing buck draped his arm around the girl and spoke in her ear, his other hand roaming the backside of her threadbare dress. She pushed him away, her face flaming. The buck sauntered on, his cruel laughter ringing in the air.

  “Damn jackanapes.”

  Quincy gaped at Sinclair. He was staring across the street as the scene played out.

  “Imagine how often that must happen to her,” Quincy said softly. “And what about the men she can’t make leave her alone?”

  Sinclair’s mouth tightened into a grim line.

  A plan sprang to mind, fully formed. “I know you detest interviewing, my lord, but we’re still short one downstairs maid. I have an idea for replacing staff members that would avoid using an employment agency.”

  He turned to look at her. “And forgo the opportunity to have prospective maids lined up the length of the hall? Do go on.”

  “Agencies only send out qualified candidates—people who are trained and experienced, and have character references. Such people shouldn’t have much trouble finding employment if they truly desire it.”

  Sinclair narrowed his eyes. “What is your point?”

  Quincy indicated the flower girl with a tilt of her head. “She couldn’t get a nice, safe job as a maid. She probably has no reference, and likely no living parents, or at least none sober. She’s too young to be out on her own.”

  Sinclair looked back at the street. “You want me to take her in?” Both of his brows raised into his hairline.

  “Her, and others like her.” Seeing Sinclair cross his arms over his chest, Quincy spoke faster. “I know Elliott served with you, as did most of the stable lads. And a dozen groundskeepers and footmen at your other properties, all hired within the last year—how many of them also served in the army?”

  Sinclair uncrossed his arms, only to prop his fists on his hips.

  “Give her a safe, warm place to sleep, clean clothes, and train her to be a proper maid. Then write her a glowing reference so she can find another employer.”

  “You’re serious!” His brows still hadn’t come down. “Quincy, I realize you may have had some rough times, but we can’t save every vagrant and orphan in London.”

  She swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. “You can save that one.” She left the words framed in silence.

  Sinclair frowned. “But—”

  “Give her room and board, and pay her reduced wages while she’s in training. It will save you money. And this kind of project will require extra attention, and not just from Mrs. Hammond.” She played her trump card. “You’ll need to involve your mother.”

  Sinclair looked blank. “My mother?”

  “Selecting and training the girls will take up much of her time.”

  He whipped his head around to stare at Quincy. A slow grin spread across his face. “Yes, it will take up much of her time, won’t it? She will hardly have any time to worry about my social schedule!” He threw back his head and laughed. “Come along, Quincy, we have to set this plan in motion!”

  Chapter 8

  “Y ou’ll be happy to know, Quincy, that after only one week, my staff has now increased by two maids in training, one tweeny, and a stable lad,” Sinclair said as he strode into the library, an ironic smile twisting his lips at conve
ying a status report to his secretary. He started for the sofa as usual, but instead settled in a chair pulled close to her drop-leaf desk.

  Quincy closed the account book, giving him her full attention. “I will add them to the payroll immediately.”

  He’d chosen the chair over the sofa so they didn’t have to shout, he told himself, not so he could catch a whiff of her lemon scent as she moved, or be close enough to see those expressive eyes behind her newly repaired spectacles. Her look of open approval and admiration made his chest swell.

  “And they are…?” she prompted.

  Details, details. “Ned is a six-year-old who ran away from the chimney sweep he’d been apprenticed to, smack into Mama’s silk skirts as she walked out of Hookham’s Lending Library. After climbing down hot, sooty chimneys, he seems delighted to muck out stalls in the stables.”

  Quincy scribbled information into the appropriate ledger.

  “Celia is about eleven. Cook found her weeping over her dead mother in a doorway. She hasn’t spoken a word or smiled, but I think she’s pleased with her new circumstances.”

  Quincy nodded. “She carries the message platter between floors like it’s the Ark of the Covenant.”

  “Yes. All my staff seems to be quite dedicated.” Well, most of them. Most of the time. “I found Irene in the shadows outside the theater, being beaten for not ‘performing’ properly.” Sinclair rubbed his fist over his thigh. “I whacked the pimp with my walking stick and brought her home in the carriage. Between sobs, she explained her father had sold her in exchange for several bottles of gin. She’s seventeen.” He stared at his fist. If he should ever come across her reprobate of a father…

  Quincy scribbled more notes in the ledger. “And the other maid in training?”

  “Daisy, an orphan. The flower girl we saw.” Quincy’s sudden, grateful smile was dazzling, shooting through him, holding him in place as he soaked up the warmth in her gaze, like a cat soaking up the sun on a windowsill. He needed to find ways to coax that from her, often.

  His reaction caught him utterly off-guard. He cleared his throat. “She’s helping Mama tend the plants in the conservatory, when she’s not working with Mrs. Hammond.” He leaned back to prop his boots up on one corner of the desk. “Their inexperienced efforts are adding to the household chaos, not easing it, but since Mama’s attention is now focused on them, rather than me, I don’t mind.” As if to punctuate his sentence, they heard a tray crash to the floor out in the hall. “I think afternoon tea will be late again.”