What An Earl Wants

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

“Excellent, Mr. Quincy, excellent.” Sinclair slid his booted feet from his desk and rose to walk around Quincy when he entered the library the next morning.

“I’m sorry I’m late, my lord, but your cobbler—”

“Do be quiet, Mr. Quincy.” Sinclair stepped back and rubbed his chin. “Your tailor does fine work, lad.”

“Th-thank you, my lord. The cobbler insisted I put these shoes on your bill, but they were frightfully expensive. I don’t—”

“I said be quiet, Quincy.” Sinclair lifted the lad’s trouser-leg with one thumb and forefinger to get a better look at the sturdy black shoes with plain silver buckles. Quincy flushed to his roots. “They’re just what you should wear, working for me. If you feel guilty about the expense, you can tackle that stack of bills over there and make sure no one is cheating me.”

He waited until Quincy seated himself at the drop-leaf desk by the window, then handed him the accounting ledgers. “Start with the household accounts, then we’ll move on to my other properties.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The library door opened and the housekeeper bustled in with a tray of scones, jelly, and tea. “Good morning, my lord, Mr. Quincy.”

Startled, Sinclair stared at Mrs. Hammond. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d personally brought a tea tray to anyone but his mother. This one hadn’t even been sent for. He turned his attention to Quincy, who smiled at Mrs. Hammond when she poured two cups for them before she left.

“Do you intend to wrap all of my staff around your finger, Mr. Quincy?”

Quincy walked over to the tray and took a sip before answering. “Housekeepers are valuable allies, whether you’re the lord of the house, the scullery maid, or anyone in between.”

Sinclair grunted. “Just don’t run off and marry the downstairs maid.”

“You haven’t replaced her yet, my lord.” His eyes twinkled. “Do you wish me to handle that, or will you leave the hiring up to Harper or Mrs. Hammond?”

“Leave you to hire a young, pretty maid? I think not. That would be as bad as letting Harper do it.” Sinclair picked up his own cup and leaned close to Quincy, pleasantly surprised to note that he smelled only of lemon soap and rain-dampened wool. With Johnson, his previous secretary, he’d often needed to open the windows, especially in warmer weather. He couldn’t help noticing Quincy’s porcelain-smooth jaw. “You don’t have even a hint of whiskers yet. How old are you, anyway?”

“Nineteen, my lord, but we already established that shaving was not a requirement for this position. How old are you?”

Sinclair blinked, then gave a faint smile. “Far too old for a man of my years. Carry on, Mr. Quincy.” He drank the tea Mrs. Hammond had poured, then picked up his hat, gloves, and stick, and left for his walk.

Quincy sat down before her knees gave out. “Everything is fine,” she whispered. “Everything is just fine. Lord Sinclair doesn’t suspect a thing.” She had never counted on her employer getting so, well, so … close. Whiskers? She could bind her bosom and insert a rolled-up stocking in her trousers, but she knew no way to fake having whiskers.

But Sinclair didn’t suspect a thing. She could do this. Everything was fine. After a few more deep breaths, she pocketed her spectacles and set to work.

Soon the figures in the account books began to swim before her eyes. Johnson’s handwriting was even worse than her father’s had been, and the Earl of Sinclair’s holdings were far more extensive. No matter how many times she added the columns, she never came up with the same figures Johnson had. She threw her pencil down in disgust.

“I can hear the earl now,” she muttered. “Terminated on the first day. What will Grandmère say?” She shoved her spectacles back on and stepped out into the hall.

“Mr. Harper, do you mind if I send one of the footmen on an errand? It may take him a while to find what I need.”

“I have just the man in mind,” the butler said. “Thompson’s post is near the top of the stairs, but we usually find him near whichever room the maids are cleaning.”

“Harper, I insist you do something about that buffoon upstairs!” A man no taller than Quincy appeared behind them, holding an armful of limp cravats. “His tongue fairly hangs to the floor whenever one of the female servants walk past. It is positively disgusting.”

“I heard it’s something else that fairly hangs to the floor, but I may be mistaken.” Harper stepped aside. Quincy felt her ears burning but kept her expression bland. “Mr. Quincy, have you met Broderick, his lordship’s valet?”

They had barely exchanged greetings when a giant in Sinclair’s livery with shoulder-length blond curls crossed the hall, following a maid toward the back stairs. “Thompson, Mr. Quincy has an errand for you,” Harper called.

Quincy got a crick in her neck looking up at Thompson while she described what she needed him to buy, and gratefully leaned against the wall when she returned to the library.

When she had devised her plan, she hadn’t considered how many other people she’d be dealing with in addition to her employer. But no one suspected a thing. She could do this. Everything was fine. “Keep saying that,” she muttered, “and it’ll be true.” She went back to work, and had just finished sorting the morning’s mail when Mrs. Hammond knocked.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Quincy, but her ladyship requests you join her in the drawing room.”

Her ladyship? What could Sinclair’s mother possibly want with her? Once again she pushed her spectacles on and left the library. She followed the housekeeper upstairs, down a hallway wider than her entire flat, and into a room decorated in yellow with green and orange accents, reminding Quincy of daffodils.

In the center of the daffodil sat Lady Sinclair, an older, more delicate version of her son, with silver streaks in her chestnut hair and the faint scent of jasmine floating around her. Knowing from her research that the former earl had passed away nearly six years ago, Quincy was surprised to see Lady Sinclair wearing a half-mourning gown of gray, trimmed with lavender.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Quincy,” she said, raising one hand. Quincy remembered to bow over it, then stood stiffly with her arms at her sides.

“Please, sit down. Would you care for tea?”

“No, thank you.” Quincy sat on the edge of the cushion.

“Well, let’s get right to the point, then. How do you like your new position?”

Alarm skittered up her spine, and Quincy forced herself to breathe. Terminated already? Could Lady Sinclair do that? “Fine, my lady.”

“Good.” She tilted her head to one side, studying Quincy’s face.

Quincy fought to keep her expression neutral, to hide her growing unease.

“Have we met somewhere? Perhaps I know your father or a brother.”

“No, my lady, I don’t believe so. My brother died at birth, and my father passed away a year ago.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” She studied Quincy for what felt like a century. Quincy pressed her palms flat to her knees to keep from fidgeting. The mantel clock chimed the hour. Lady Sinclair’s eyes widened, but her expression cleared again so quickly, Quincy thought she might have imagined it.

Lady Sinclair cleared her throat and leaned toward Quincy. “Now, about your job. You handle my son’s correspondence, know which affairs he’s invited to?”

“That is part of what I do, yes.”

“Good.” Lady Sinclair refilled her teacup and settled back on the cushions, again studying Quincy.

This was getting right to the point? “Is there something specific you wish to know, my lady?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes, I— I would like you to keep me informed as to which affairs my son is invited to, and which invitations he accepts.” She took another sip of her tea and set the cup and saucer on the table at her side. “Has anyone ever told you that you have honest eyes, Mr. Quincy?”

“No, my lady, I don’t believe so.” Quincy resisted the urge to squirm.

“Well, you do. I feel as though I can tell you anything and it will be kept in strictest confidence.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You seem like someone who is comfortable with secrets.”

Quincy involuntarily leaned back. “Thank you — I think — but I should remind you that my first allegiance is to Lord Sinclair. I am sure he would not have hired me if he did not think my activities would be in his best interest.”

Lady Sinclair straightened. “That’s as it should be. I’m not asking for anything that would betray his trust in you. I’m simply concerned that, well…” She rested her hand on Quincy’s sleeve. “Benjamin has always been very private, keeping his own counsel. But he’s becoming downright reclusive, especially since Anthony returned to Oxford. Anthony is my younger son.” Lady Sinclair beamed with motherly pride for a moment, then her expression turned grave again. “Benjamin insisted there was no further need to disrupt Tony’s studies. But I know Benjamin is not nearly as recovered as he would like everyone to think. His wounds were too… grievous.”

Lady Sinclair quickly took another sip of tea. “And after that nasty bit of business last fall, I fear he’s quite turned off the idea of marrying.”

“Last fall?” Quincy tried to project the right tone of polite boredom to mask her curiosity.

“During the Little Season. Benjamin was pleased with how quickly he mastered getting about on crutches, and started going out in Society a bit. Some of the ladies quite doted on him. Wounded hero, and all that. He was smitten with a raven-haired miss, and I think he may even have asked for her hand. But he came home one night and smashed all the crockery in his room. When I quizzed him about it, he would only say that her heart was as black as her hair.”

Quincy tried to think of a suitable response, but none was forthcoming.

“Whatever she said or did, he still needs a wife, a helpmate. I know he spends a great deal of time at his club, but that’s with other former soldiers, and I’m sure all they discuss is politics and horses. I ask you, how is he to find a suitable wife in St. James Street?”

“I’m sure I do not know.”

“That’s why I want you to let me know which balls and such he is invited to, where there will be young ladies of quality. I can apply a little motherly pressure on him to accept, and then who knows what might happen? And if he should mention any miss in particular, you will let me know, won’t you? Then I can make certain she’s invited to tea, and to the soiree I’m hosting in a few weeks.”

Quincy furrowed her brow. Sinclair might consider this spying, but she had no wish to offend the lady of the house, either. “I think I can do that without breaching any confidence.”

“Good lad! I knew I could count on you.” Before Quincy could react, Lady Sinclair enveloped her in a brief hug, then moved to the pianoforte and began to play. Lady Sinclair seemed different than when their strange little interview began, but Quincy couldn’t quite put her finger on the change. Perhaps she just imagined it.

Quincy walked back to the library, listening to the strains of a Mozart sonata. What wounds had Lady Sinclair alluded to? A leg injury — that would explain why Sinclair was forever propping his feet up, and often limped or walked with a stiff gait. She stifled her curiosity, however, instinctively knowing Sinclair would not welcome inquiries into the subject. And heaven forbid he ever discover his mother had just shared such private information with his secretary on such short acquaintance.

Her thoughts as to why Lady Sinclair had told her these things were interrupted by Thompson, who met her in the hall. She relieved him of his package and returned to work on the account books. She was making such great progress, she didn’t hear Sinclair enter a few hours later.