What an Earl Wants (9 page)

“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 chatting, 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!”

“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 conveying 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.”

They shared a grin as Quincy went back to work.

“
She’s gone!
”

Quincy had just stepped into Sinclair’s town house early one morning a week later when she heard the commotion upstairs.

“What do you mean, gone? Who’s gone?” Harper demanded, climbing the stairs. He joined Celia, Daisy, Irene and Mrs. Hammond clustered on the first-floor landing. Curious, Quincy followed.

“When I woke up she weren’t there,” Daisy sobbed. “Her clothes is gone, her shoes is gone, and everything!”

“Who’s gone?” Mrs. Hammond asked. “Is it Matilda? Maude?”

“Right here, Mrs. H.,” Matilda called from the end of the hallway.

“Where did Maude go? Did she leave a note?” Mrs. Hammond directed at Daisy. Since joining the household, Daisy shared Maude’s room.

Matilda joined the group and snorted. “A note? She couldn’t do no more than write her name. Always too busy flirting with the footmen to pay attention to Lady S’s lessons.”

“The footmen!” Harper shouted. “Where are Thompson and Tanner? I knew something like this would happen. Broderick warned me, but I—”

“Oh, shut your clack,” Mrs. Hammond snapped.

“Celia, why don’t you and Irene go see if Cook needs help with breakfast?” Quincy broke in. “Do you know if the other servants are accounted for?” she asked, looking from Harper to Mrs. Hammond.

“All the females but Maude are here.”

“Tanner is in the wine cellar, and I just passed Grimshaw and Finlay at their posts downstairs.” Harper scowled. “But I haven’t seen Thompson all morning!”

“We’ll check his quarters next,” Quincy said. “Daisy, will you show us to Maude’s room? Perhaps she left a clue as to where she went or why.”

The group stepped away from the landing, but stopped when they heard the front door open and shut.

“Thompson?” Harper said incredulously.

“Yes, Mr. Harper?” The footman looked up at the group with a guilty start, his eyes wide.

“Do you know where Maude is?” Mrs. Hammond called down to him.

“No, ma’am. Haven’t see her since last night, when she was talking to Broderick.”

“Broderick!” Sinclair roared from behind his closed bedchamber door. They heard more mutterings from Sinclair, but no response from the valet.

“Broderick?” they all repeated. “Broderick!” Harper chuckled. Mrs. Hammond tittered. They all started laughing. After a few moments, Mrs. Hammond wiped her eyes with the corner of her starched apron and shooed the girls back to work. Harper went downstairs, tsking.

Quincy stood alone, still chuckling, when Sinclair jerked his door open a moment later. He stepped barefoot into the hall, holding his dressing gown closed with one hand, clutching a sheet of paper with the other.

“Did you know about this?” he demanded, waving the paper at Quincy.

“That depends.” She stopped smiling and stared at his sleep-mussed hair and darkened jaw, suddenly realizing that not only was she quite comfortable seeing him in dishabille, she rather enjoyed it. “To what are you referring?”

“Read this.”

She reached for the paper, resisting the urge to smooth his hair, to straighten the collar of his nightshirt. She unfolded the note and read the valet’s spidery handwriting:

Lord Sinclair,

 

While I have thoroughly enjoyed working for you (such a fine figure!) I regret I must leave you now (and so urgently, too!). I learned yesterday that my mother in Manchester is quite ill and needs me more than you. I do apologize for leaving so abruptly, but I am assured you will be fine, as you are nearly fully recovered from your injuries.

Please wish me happy, as I am soon to be married.

B

PS: Maude (my intended!) leaves with regret also, as we cannot bear to be parted.

 

“Maude and Broderick?” Quincy started to chuckle but forced a straight face when she saw Sinclair’s thunderous expression. “No, my lord, I knew nothing of this. Maude and Thompson, perhaps, but not…not—” She broke into laughter anyway. Sinclair’s expression relaxed, and after a moment, he joined in.

“Well, at least we aren’t shorthanded when it comes to maids, are we?” Sinclair retrieved the note from her hand, their fingers touching, lingering too long for the contact to be an accident. He ran his hand through his hair, and Quincy took a step back. “But I am warning you now, Quincy, I refuse to hire a valet off the street, so don’t even ask.”

“Of course not, my lord. We wouldn’t want to risk him letting the razor slip when he shaves you.” She drew her finger across her throat, drawing a chuckle from Sinclair, and went back to work in the library.

“Damnable timing,” Sinclair announced without preamble two hours later. He crossed to the armchair and stuck his feet out toward the low fire in the grate. “Just last night I had decided I would escort Mama to Lady Stanhope’s ball after all. Now, of course, it is out of the question.”

Quincy closed the account book she’d been working in. “Unless you were planning to also take Maude or Broderick with you to the ball, I don’t see what one has to do with the other.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would.” He tossed a scoop of coal on the fire.

“Thompson or Tanner or even Harper can help you dress. Besides, you owe it to your mother to go.”

Sinclair leaned forward to stare at Quincy. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“She threw herself whole-heartedly into your plan, working with the girls—”

“Your plan, you mean.”

“And she has exercised remarkable restraint this last week, has she not? Has she said a word to you about grandchildren, or wedding invitations, or required your presence at another matchmaking tea?”

“No,” Sinclair mumbled into his cravat.

“I didn’t quite hear you.”

“No, damn your hide!” He glared at Quincy.

She smiled serenely back. “Then it’s settled. You will grace the Stanhopes with your presence this evening, squire your mother, charm the girls silly, and come home with a clear conscience.”

Sinclair groaned. “You’re no help, no help at all.” He called Harper for his hat, gloves and walking stick, and went out for his walk.

Quincy wiped the silly grin off her face and went back to work.

At his club, Sinclair found Leland staring morosely into his wineglass in a corner, his eye patch askew. “Mind some company?” Sinclair said, sitting down.

Leland waved agreement without looking up, and swirled the wine in his glass. Suddenly his head snapped up. “Sinclair! Jolly good to see you!”

Sinclair’s eye’s narrowed. “How many glasses have you had?”

“This is the first.” He tossed back half of it in one swallow, and leaned across the table toward Sinclair. “You and I, we’ve been good friends for what, ten, eleven years now?”

“Twelve, I believe.” He motioned for a footman to bring him a glass and refill Leland’s.

“Might I move in with you? Not for long, mind you. Just until my mother dies or I find an heiress willing to wed me.”

Sinclair grinned. “Things that bad?”

Leland sighed. “I know we’ve been at low water for some time, and I’ve learned to live with it, really I have. I don’t mind having only four courses at dinner. I don’t even mind not being able to keep a mistress. But Mama’s gone too far with her purse-pinching ways this time, too bloody damn far.” He took another swallow of wine and lowered his voice when he spoke again. “She’s renting out rooms in the house.”

“She’s taken in boarders? How ingenious.”

“Ingenious! I have three strangers living under my roof!”

“Strangers paying you rent, you mean. Be practical. You have a source of income without going into trade.”

“A prune-faced retired governess, a pious cleric, and a half-pay lieutenant with one leg.”

“All respectable citizens. Think of it as your civic duty.”

Leland stared at his glass a moment. “It could just as easily have been you or me, couldn’t it?” He adjusted his eye patch and stroked the scar that curved from above his left eyebrow to his upper lip. “We’re only charging him half as much as the others.”

Sinclair rubbed his right thigh, feeling the rough scar tissue beneath the smooth fabric of his trousers. What youthful foolishness had convinced him that running off to war would quiet the gossips after his father’s scandal-shrouded death? At least Sinclair had come home relatively intact, which was more than could be said of many of the men he’d served with. He’d stopped trying to remember those who had fallen. He’d had to, to stop the nightmares.

Instead he concentrated on the survivors from his unit less fortunate than himself. He’d hired several of them, as Quincy had pointed out, but he also had other plans. Working to better their lot had banished the bad dreams. So far only his solicitor knew of his efforts, and he preferred to keep it that way. Even Quincy didn’t know, and he worked on the plans under her very nose. Johnson’s thievery had thrown a wrench in the works, but with any luck it would prove to be an insignificant setback.

Sinclair cleared his throat. “Enough dwelling on the past.” He held up his glass. “A toast. To Broderick and Maude and their marital bliss.”

Leland clinked glasses with him. “Your valet? And who’s Maude?”

“An upstairs maid.” Sinclair sighed. “Stop laughing, you dolt.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t…help myself.” Leland covered his face, but his shoulders shook with silent mirth. “I’m sorry, old chap. This is the second pairing in less than a month, isn’t it? What a matchmaker you are!”

“It’s no laughing matter. The only trained staff I’ve managed to replace so far is my secretary. It’s a damn nuisance.”

Leland stopped laughing, though he seemed on the verge of starting again at any moment. “Mr. Quincy seems a nice enough chap. Certainly smells better than Johnson did.”

“I paid dearly for keeping Johnson on when I was not at my best, believe me. And Quincy is nothing like Johnson.” Sinclair briefly imagined what Leland’s reaction would be were he to share just
how
different Quincy was from Johnson.

“Seems awfully young, though. Why’d you hire him?”

Sinclair stroked his chin. Because Quincy aroused his protective instincts. Because she stimulated his intellect. Because she made him laugh, and it had been a long time since he’d seen the humor in anything. “Quincy is very efficient. And…I enjoy having him around.”

Leland gave him a puzzled look, but said nothing.

Quincy was destined to accomplish little today, for she had just settled back to work when Lady Sinclair requested she join her for luncheon, then asked her to participate in a discussion with Mrs. Hammond about the household staff. Lady Sinclair shared her ultimate goal, which was to convince society matrons to take in and train other girls like Daisy and Irene. Their conversation lasted well into the afternoon. It was nearly time to go home, yet Quincy had finished little of her work. She had no choice but to stay late to catch up.

She was still bent over the books when she heard Sinclair come home and trudge upstairs to get ready for the evening. Lord and Lady Stanhope had invited him and Lady Sinclair to dinner prior to the ball.