Lady Sinclair beamed at her, then drew more paper from the desk drawers, along with pens and ink, and they started making lists of things to do, people to see. Caterers, musicians, florists, additional staff, and the all-important guest list of those likely to support the charity.
They worked through the day, stopping for meals, and started again the next morning. Lady Sinclair was pleasant to work with, an amiable companion, but Quincy longed for somewhere, and someone, else. She had felt far more at home in Sinclair’s library, with its mismatched oversized furniture, than with the delicate pieces in his mother’s drawing room. And as for working with Sinclair…
But at no time did she hear his voice, hear his distinctive tread in the hall outside. She had no valid excuse to go down to the
