What An Earl Wants

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sinclair heard Quincy gasp. She stared back at him, frozen.

“I ask again, what the hell do you think you’re doing, Miss Quincy?”

The fire popped and crackled.

Sinclair made to rise, but realized his leg wouldn’t cooperate. He couldn’t get up without first releasing Miss Quincy, and he had no intention of letting go until he had answers from her.

At last Quincy glanced at her wrist, still held firmly in Sinclair’s grasp, and back up at him. Perhaps a part of him had realized all along that her smooth alto voice was that of a woman, not a young man, but now it was as steely as her gaze when she spoke. “I am doing exactly what you hired me to do, Lord Sinclair.”

“I hired—”

“You hired a secretary.” Her words were clear and slow, as though she spoke to a child. A not-very-bright child. “I am performing the duties of a secretary. Is there a problem?”

Sinclair blinked in shock. “A problem?” He realized he was gaping like a fish just hauled onto the dock, and closed his mouth. She continued to stare at him, the picture of calm, while he tried to gather his scrambled thoughts. “She asks if there’s a problem,” he said under his breath, speaking in the direction of the fireplace.

“Because I don’t see that there is one.”

Oh, she had bottom, he’d give her that. And not just the shapely one shielded by her coattails. “How about, for starters, the fact that you lied to me?”

“About what? Everything I’ve told you is true.”

“True? Mister Quincy?”

“I never claimed to be a Mister.”

Sinclair felt his jaw fall open again, and closed it.

“I stated my name as J. Quincy. It is. It’s just Josephine, not Joseph. And I did not give myself a courtesy title. You did that.”

“You just didn’t bother to correct my misconception?” He raked her up and down with a glance. “An understandable misconception, given your attire,” he touched the soft, silky strands beside her ear, “short hair,” he used one finger to lift the top of her waistcoat away from her shirt, “and lack of bosom.”

At last he had the satisfaction of seeing her blush. It stole up from below her cravat until it covered her entire face in a delightful shade of pink.

Delightful? Bosom? What the hell was he thinking?

“The clothes fit better this way.” She swallowed, turning even more pink. “And this is appropriate attire for a secretary.”

When he didn’t reply or release her, she pointedly looked down at her wrist again. “Do you intend to hold me all day?”

Abruptly he let go, inwardly wincing at the red imprints he’d left on her pale skin. He half expected Quincy to rise and leave, while he was still struggling to move his leg. But instead she pushed up her spectacles and sat back. Papers rustled beneath her as she crossed her legs.

Guiding his weak leg with both hands, he assumed the same position. Blood began to flow back into the limb. Another minute or two and he’d be able to rise with his dignity intact. Angry, but dignified.

“What now?” She calmly waited. No tears. No wailing.

Damn. He was more disturbed than she was. Well, hell, he was the one who’d been shocked, not her — she knew about her disguise.

Quincy entwined her trembling fingers, the first sign of nervousness he’d observed.

Maybe he had disturbed her after all. He sat up straighter. “What now? Now you collect your things, miss, and leave. Before I send for the Watch.”

She inhaled, intent on arguing, he was sure, but suddenly let it out on a sigh. A sigh of defeat. Now, why did that sting? He should be glad.

“Very well.” Her cheeks suddenly flushed again. “I’ve already spent the ten-shilling advance. You’ll have to wait until I secure another position before I can pay you back. Minus the prorated portion for yesterday and today’s work, of course.”

“Work?” He glanced around the room. In two days, all Quincy had done was sort through his mail. And rearrange his library, organize papers into who-knows-what-for piles, coerce his housekeeper into doing tasks she hadn’t done in years, and…

And make his mother wear yellow. Make her laugh.

Some of his righteous anger melted away, despite his efforts to draw it back around him like a cloak. Quincy had tricked him, had lied by omission.

But she had also made his mother smile. And ask to go dancing.

Damn.

“Yes, my work. I was just about to tell you what I had found. The confusing entries that I mentioned earlier? I solved the puzzle. Well, part of it. We’re sitting on the evidence.”

Sinclair glanced at the piles around them on the floor, and back at Quincy. “Evidence of what?”

“Johnson, your previous secretary, handled all of your accounting?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“He embezzled from you.”

Breath left Sinclair’s chest in a rush. “Embezzled?” The anger returned in full force, centering him, clearing his thoughts. He leaned forward, his voice a growl. “Prove it.”

Quincy didn’t even flinch. “He did it in small increments, so you wouldn’t be as likely to catch on.” She grabbed the top sheet from a nearby stack, and opened a ledger. “Here’s one example. See this receipt for brandy? Monsieur Beauvais delivered two cases, but the ledger shows payment for four.”

“Didn’t Beauvais simply deliver two more cases?”

“There’s no receipt indicating that. How long has Harper worked for you? Is he reliable?”

“He’s been our butler since I was in short coats. Of course he’s reliable.” Sinclair struggled to his feet, needing to move, to do something. “But I thought Johnson reliable, too. No wonder he and his bride were in such a bloody hurry to join his cousin in America.”

Quincy rose, as well. “They’ve left the country?”

Sinclair looked at her sharply. “How much is missing? More than this petty theft?” He gestured at the receipt in her hand.

Quincy paused, obviously choosing her words carefully. “My lord, if I were willing to steal from you in this manner, knowing this ‘petty theft’ was enough to get me hanged if caught, then I certainly wouldn’t hesitate to steal on a grander scale. Hung for a sheep, and all that.”

“Damn!” Sinclair stalked to the door and yanked it open. “Harper!” he shouted. “I want an inventory of—”

“My lord, wait,” Quincy interrupted. “Any items Johnson might have taken would have been discovered by now.”

“Not him, Miss Quincy. The maid, his bride! She had access to the silver, to the entire household.” He finished giving instructions to the butler, then closed the door and began to pace. “Misbegotten son of a—”

“I was thinking more along the lines of your properties, your investments, rather than your household. Johnson had access to your entire fortune, did he not?”

Sinclair stopped. He glared at Quincy.

She stared back. “You need me.”

He shook his head. “How much is missing?”

“So far? I can prove at least five thousand pounds is gone.”

“Five … thou—?”

“At least. Probably more.”

Sinclair rubbed his hands over his eyes. This was not happening. Not to him. Not now. Not when he needed his money for… Sinclair lowered his hands. The brazen miss was still staring at him. From across the room, and with her spectacles in the way, it was hard to discern the emotion reflected in her eyes. Pity? No. Desperation? Probably. Determination, certainly.

“You need me,” she said again. “It will take time to go through the rest of Johnson’s records and determine the extent of the damage.”

Sinclair shook his head. Again.

“How long did he work for you?”

“Six years. He worked for my father before that.” Sinclair suddenly felt drained. His physical reserves were still low to begin with, and after today — changes in Mama, the old secretary had stolen from him, the new secretary had tricked him — he just wasn’t up to it. He slumped on the sofa and lifted his right leg onto the ottoman. “A man can do a lot of stealing in that much time.”

“Don’t enact a Cheltenham tragedy for my benefit,” Quincy said, her tone aloof.

Sinclair almost laughed, despite himself. She had bottom, right up to the end.

End?

Absently rubbing his thigh, Sinclair watched her pick up the various piles from the floor and stack them crisscross on his desk, then reach for her overcoat and hat. She was leaving.

That’s what he wanted, right? Quincy gone. He’d told her to go. Not just once, but three times. His life was chaotic enough without having to deal with a female secretary. And if word got out, it would be disastrous.

A loose paper fluttered to the floor as she pulled on her coat, and Quincy bent over to retrieve it. Her coattails separated, revealing her very feminine backside. Again.

Sinclair raised his gaze to the ceiling, exasperated with himself. He had no business staring at her derriere. Regardless of how shapely it was.

To be fair, Sinclair conceded that she was good at what she did. Bookkeeping, that is. How long might the embezzlement have gone unnoticed, if not for Quincy? He certainly hadn’t figured it out in the three weeks since Johnson had left. And the changes in Mama, that had occurred in just one day. If the two women were to, say, have tea together once a week or so, what other changes might come about?

Quincy buttoned her coat. Pulled threadbare gloves out of a pocket and tugged them on. Started walking for the door, her spine rigid.

“How much time to go through all of Johnson’s records?” Sinclair said, calling himself a thousand kinds of fool even as the words left his mouth.

Quincy stopped, her hand on the knob. “I don’t know. Days. Weeks, possibly.”

Sinclair turned on the sofa toward Quincy, making sure her attention was centered on him before he spoke. “Then that is your top priority. You can begin first thing in the morning.”

“Morning?” For the first time, she looked truly startled.

There was a knock on the door, and Quincy jumped back.

Mrs. Hammond poked her head in. “I was just taking some tea up to her ladyship, my lord, and wanted to know if you’d care for a spot as well?”

Changes, indeed. “Yes, Mrs. Hammond, thank you.”

The housekeeper nodded, smiled at Quincy, and spun on her heel, leaving the door open.

Quincy cleared her throat.

He interrupted before she could speak. “You’ve earned the right to solve the rest of the puzzle. After that,” he rose from the sofa, drawing himself to his full height, “you’re done.” Her eyebrows lifted. “Do we understand one another, Mister Quincy?”

She raised her chin, eyes narrowed. Footsteps sounded in the hall, coming closer. For a moment he thought Quincy was going to fling his offer back in his face. But then she nodded, once. “Yes, my lord, I believe we do.”

Grimshaw, the downstairs footman, entered with a bucket of coal, preventing any more candid conversation.

“See you in the morning, then, Mr. Quincy.”

Quincy adjusted her hat. “Yes, my lord.”

He saw her smile, just before she walked out the door.

Sinclair poured himself a brandy and sat down again, his foot propped on the ottoman. It might prove awkward working with a female secretary, but Quincy would certainly continue having a positive influence on his mother. And Quincy’s position was by no means permanent — how long could it take her to finish going through the books? For Mama’s sake, he would just have to make the best of the situation.

And make sure Quincy kept her coat on.

* * *

Quincy stepped out the door, nodding a greeting to all the staff she passed, and made it two houses down the street before her knees buckled. She sat down, or rather fell down, at the foot of a statue guarding another town house. Her hands shook, her head spun, her stomach tried to take flight.

He knew.

He’d fired her.

And then he’d un-fired her.

At least temporarily.

She buried her face in her hands, her stores of impudence and bravado utterly depleted, used up in her brazen confrontation with the earl.

So much for her brilliant plan. At least the part about passing herself off as a Mr. with no one the wiser. Quincy snorted.

The part about getting a job as Sinclair’s secretary, well that part was still intact. Somewhat. Yes, he knew, but he was letting her stay on, anyway. At least until she found out how much her predecessor had stolen.

Why?

Why had Sinclair un-fired her? Any reasonably competent secretary could go through the records and find the extent of the theft, now that she had pointed it out.

A little detail of their conversation suddenly came back to her. Why was he willing, no, insisting, on still calling her Mr. Quincy?

Was he embarrassed to let anyone know she had fooled him, even for such a brief time? Quincy raised her head, her breathing returning to normal. Perhaps he was so impressed with her skills, he was willing to go along with her charade? Or was he simply reluctant to risk the scandal of anyone knowing he had a female secretary?

They would be working together closely.

Very closely.

A shiver tiptoed up her spine. A shiver, not of fear, but of anticipation. She cradled her wrist, where he had held her in his firm grip. He had long, strong fingers. Calluses. Small white marks from old and not-so-old scars. Powerful hands.

Powerful man.

And she worked for him. At least temporarily.

And they shared a secret.

If he wasn’t going to reveal her deception, then she certainly would not. Her sister and grandmother didn’t need to know that Sinclair knew. Not telling them wouldn’t be lying. Not exactly. Their knowing that he knew would only cause them undue stress and concern. Right?

Quincy’s head began to swim.

Whatever Sinclair’s true reason for letting her stay, she would find out soon enough. She needed this job, or more specifically, the wages from it, too much to quibble. She dusted off the seat of her trousers and headed for home.

As she traversed the streets alone, she was again grateful for her father’s pragmatic, flexible nature that had let her adopt “Joseph” and leave Josephine behind, irrevocably, when their family moved five years ago. Papa’s failing health had made it impossible for him to care for a household of women. Under society’s ever watchful eyes, “Joe” handled matters Josephine could not, relieving Papa’s burdens.

A few snips of the scissors to her hair, a few tucks to secondhand trousers and coats, and the transition was complete. Final. Giving up any girlish dreams about her future had been worth the peace of mind her new role gave her. She hardly ever imagined herself wearing a gown, and instead enjoyed the freedom of movement allowed by wearing trousers.

She had to focus on the positive, on the gains. Because the losses were just too great to bear.

Living in a small cottage and leasing out their manor house had generated enough money to pay bills and keep food on the table. Everything had been fine until Papa’s death last spring. With no male heirs, by law his title and entailed property — everything — had reverted back to the crown. Stupid laws.

Quincy kicked a pebble, watched it careen off a lamppost, then with grim satisfaction saw it squashed under the wheels of a passing hackney into a pile of horse droppings.

To distract herself from her own problems, she thought about the earl’s. Surely Johnson could not have done too much damage? Not enough to beggar the earl. Not enough for him to exercise strict economies, like cutting back on his staff. Not when she was so close to getting her family out of dun territory, and moving her sister out of the city.

“Jo, you’ll never guess what Madame Chantel gave me today!” Melinda greeted Quincy when she walked in the door.

Quincy pasted a smile on her face. “What did she give you?”

Melinda held out her upturned palm, showing a shiny new guinea. “A bonus! She said Lady M was so pleased with the embroidery on her ballgown, she paid her a bonus, so Chantel gave us a bonus, too!”

“I’ll wager Lady M paid Chantel a great deal more than a guinea.”

“Don’t cavil! Every penny helps, you said so yourself.”

Quincy exhaled. “I did indeed.”

“Haven’t you put that away yet, Mel?” Grandmère called from her chair by the window.

“I’m doing it now. How much have we got, Jo? You know I have no head for sums.”

Quincy picked up a jar from the top shelf without disturbing the gray cat sleeping there, took out the paper twist of tea on top, and poured the coins onto the table. “Give me a moment, please. I can’t think with someone leaning over my shoulder.” The image of the handsome earl, as he towered over her this afternoon, rose in her mind. Even when sitting on the floor, he had been formidable. Their knees had touched, and for several seconds she’d been unable to move, stunned by the unexpected intimacy.

Melinda sat at the other side of the table, her hands demurely folded, and watched Quincy stack the coins.

“I’ve already paid Mrs. Linley the rent, so I think we have enough to buy food and coal until next quarter day,” Quincy said at last. “I just hope summer comes early, so we can cut back on the coal soon.”

“You really didn’t need to buy this length of muslin,” Grandmère said. The fabric lay across her lap as she transformed it into a dress.

“Yes, I did. Now that she’s getting better, Melinda is growing so much her gowns are almost indecent.” She looked at Mel. “I’ve seen Mrs. Linley’s son watching you get water from the pump. The way he follows you around, he should at least offer to help you up the stairs with the bucket.”

Mel blushed. “He does, sometimes. Sometimes he walks behind me up the stairs, to catch me should I fall.”

Quincy and Grandmère exchanged glances.

“See that he doesn’t ‘catch’ you before you fall, miss.”

“Yes, Grandmère.”

“With my salary and the wages you two earn from Madame Chantel, barring anything unexpected, this summer we should finally be able to start saving to buy our cottage.” And barring her un-firing being only temporary, she silently amended. She would just have to make herself indispensable to the earl. Make him need her. Make him keep paying her a salary.

Even with her new job, if they relied on savings alone, she’d die of old age before they had enough money to buy a cottage. Quincy needed to scrape up enough to get back into the Exchange. Buying and selling investments on the ‘Change was their only hope. She scooped the money back into the jar and covered it with the tea.

“Our own cottage? You really think so, Jo? Sometimes I can’t remember what it was like to live in the country.”

Quincy’s heart twisted at the wistful expression on her sister’s face. “We’ll get there yet, Mel.” Just so long as a certain prior secretary hadn’t beggared the earl.

She fervently hoped they wouldn’t need to repeat the process of finding a new employer. Grandmère had agreed to Quincy’s scheme only after Melinda nearly succumbed to lung fever during the winter. Though they’d never say it aloud, neither of them thought Mel would survive another winter in the city. The cost of the apothecary and medicines had depleted their meager savings until Quincy had to sell the last of Grandmère’s silver plate to buy coal. And this was after she’d been forced to sell out her investments at their lowest last summer, after rumors hit that Wellington had lost at Waterloo. If only she’d been able to hold out a few more days — stock prices went back up with the news that he had in fact been victorious.

She and Grandmère had spent the last month poring over newspapers and Debrett’s Peerage. Grandmère tried to remember anything about the families that would help determine the character of Quincy’s potential employer, and who would also be likely to kick up less dust should he discover Joseph Quincy was actually Josephine.

Well, they’d guessed right on that point. So far.

Their list had shrunk until only one acceptable peer was left who hadn’t been killed, lost his fortune, or left for an extended tour of the Continent now that Bonaparte was incarcerated on St. Helena. And he’d had a thieving secretary.

Not anymore. Tomorrow she would perform her duties, discover the extent of the damage, and become indispensable to the earl. Her sister’s life depended on it.