Read What an Earl Wants Online

Authors: Shirley Karr

Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Crossdressing Woman

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BOOK: What an Earl Wants
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“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 pain 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.

“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.”

BOOK: What an Earl Wants
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