What an Earl Wants (30 page)

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, laddie,” she said with a faint smile, looking up. “As soon as I get to heaven, I fully intend to throttle you for leaving us in this predicament.”

Quincy set back to work. Stacked beneath the obituary were the letters and notes of sympathy, including the one she sought.

“Bless your excruciatingly correct parents, Serena,” Quincy whispered. She read the very proper message of sympathy from the Doughty family. At the bottom of the neatly penned note were the signatures of the earl and countess, and their daughter Serena.

By the light of a single candle, Quincy practiced the loops and swirls until she had it just right, hoping the adult Serena’s handwriting had not changed much. White paper would never do, she decided. Riffling through Grandmère’s things once more, Quincy found her stash. Lavender, yellow, pink. Grandmère had pink paper? Lavender would be best. And for the pièce de résistance, Quincy chose the most exotic-smelling of Grandmère’s tiny bottles of scent.

My dearest Sinclair
, Quincy wrote.
Why don’t we meet tomorrow to continue our discussion? Just you and I. You know where and when.
Quincy signed Serena’s name with a flourish, added a drop of perfume, and sealed it with drips from the melting candle.

Not bad. Besides, with any luck, Serena’s husband had never seen her handwriting beyond signing the parish register after their wedding. The Duke of Warwick didn’t seem the type to write
billets-doux
, and Serena’s goal had been to inspire them, not pen them herself.

Now for the real problem—getting the note into the duke’s hand. Could she risk dressing as Mr. Quincy and delivering it to his club herself? No, too many people knew that Cousin Joseph had left town. She needed a co-conspirator, someone unknown to the duke or Serena.

Sam the butcher, or his sons? Melinda would have to ask him, since Joseph was officially gone and Mel had taken over giving the lessons. No, they would all ask too many questions.

That left…Thompson. Quincy cringed. He had been a tad surprised upon seeing her tonight, but at least he hadn’t said anything. Well, nothing coherent, anyway. And he apparently hadn’t collected on his wager with Grimshaw. She wrote a note to Thompson and wrapped it around the duke’s note, along with a couple of coins. She went out into the hall and found one of Fitzwater’s footmen, the one who often winked at Mel, and gave him another coin in exchange for his promise to deliver the package into Thompson’s hands.

Quite pleased with herself, and suddenly exhausted, Quincy shucked off her new gown and fripperies, pulled on a night rail, and was sound asleep before the other ladies came home.

She awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and second thoughts. The note put Sinclair in a bad light. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she should have addressed it to “my dearest lover” or similar drivel. What if the duke took umbrage with Sinclair? He might call him out, they’d fight a duel, they could both be hurt. Or worse. Both men were innocent in the affair. Well, the duke had shown poor judgment in marrying Serena in the first place, but still…

She had to get the note back from Thompson. Now.

And there was one more thing. The interlude on the balcony last night proved she was not immune to Sinclair’s charm. He could easily seduce her into marriage, and everything she had tried to avoid would come crashing down around their ears anyway. Serena’s threat had made it clear how easily Sinclair, and his mother and friends, could be hurt if she continued to associate with them. She wouldn’t put them through it. Wouldn’t put
him
through it. No one else should be punished for choices
she
had made.

With a sinking heart, she realized the only way to avoid it now was to leave. Never see Sinclair again. She clutched her stomach.

She had the profit from her investments. If she was frugal, made a shrewd bargain, she could still buy a cottage and furnish it. Move Mel and her grandmother to the countryside, away from Serena’s venom.

“Good morning, Grandmère,” Quincy called, entering the kitchen after she’d dressed.

“Where did you go so suddenly last night, miss? I’m not in the habit of making excuses for you. And why are my things strewn all over my room?” Grandmère sat at the table, holding out her teacup for Mel to refill. The lines etched on the elder woman’s face seemed deeper than usual. Quincy winced.

“You missed seeing Serena last night,” Mel said, bringing out another cup for Quincy. “Did you know she married a duke?”

“No, and yes.” She accepted the filled cup and faced her grandmother. “I did not miss Serena last night, and she did not miss me. Nor did she miss Mr. Quincy a fortnight ago when she paid a call on Sinclair.”

“Oh, dear.”

Mel fell into her chair. “She recognized you? Oh my.”

“Yes. Oh my.” Quincy related the essentials of their meeting last night, and Serena’s request of Sinclair. Her audience made suitable noises of disgust and dismay.

When Quincy finished, Grandmère spoke quietly. “Are you going to let her affect your decision in regards to Sinclair’s offer?”

Quincy bit her lip. “How early can we pay a call to thank our hostess?”

Grandmère frowned.

“You still haven’t explained the mess you made in Grandmère’s room,” Melinda said.

Grandmère’s eyes suddenly widened. “My colored paper. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I did. I merely repeated Serena’s words, and added a few of my own.”

It was Mel’s turn to frown. “What are you talking about?”

“Jo’s been practicing her creative penmanship again.”

“On colored paper?” Mel squealed in delight. “You sent a note to the Duke of Warwick?”

“But now I realize it may not have been the wisest course of action, and I need to go to Sinclair’s to get it back.”

“I cannot believe Lord Sinclair agreed to participate in such a scheme!”

“Of course not. He knows nothing about it, and I’d like to keep it that way. May we go now?”

“You can’t go anywhere looking like that, Jo,” Mel said, standing up and looking at Quincy’s back. “You’ve done up your buttons all crooked.”

Quincy rolled her eyes in disgust. “Well, the back is a foolish place to put them!”

Grandmère and Mel shared a chuckle at Quincy’s expense, then resisted all her attempts to hurry them. Two hours passed before they left to pay a call on Lady Sinclair, and even then, Grandmère warned, it was still too early to be quite proper.

“Lady Sinclair will join you shortly,” Harper said, ushering them into the salon. His butler’s mask was firmly in place, though Quincy caught him casting surreptitious glances at her.

She winked at him. He stumbled on the edge of the carpet on his way out.

The three had barely seated themselves when Lady Sinclair bustled in and rang for a tea tray. “It’s my son, isn’t it?” she said grimly, coming to sit beside Quincy. “What did the beast say or do to you? Tell me, and we’ll make it right.” She took Quincy’s hands into her own, patting them.

“No, my lady, you don’t understand,” Quincy began.

“It’s the Duchess of Warwick who is being beastly,” Mel piped up.

Quincy shot her a quelling look. Lady Sinclair turned to Mel in surprise.

“Warwick, you say?” Lady Sinclair frowned. “I don’t usually repeat servants’ gossip, but”—the Quincy women leaned closer as Lady Sinclair lowered her voice—“the duchess’ maid was dismissed by the duke himself last night. Their graces had a shocking row; woke up the entire household. Then they became completely silent, and—” Lady Sinclair looked to make sure she had everyone’s attention—“no one has seen the duchess since.”

Melinda and Grandmère gasped. Quincy felt the blood drain from her face. What fateful acts had she set in motion?

Lady Sinclair took a sip of tea. “The duke told her grace’s maid that they had no more need of her services, and sent her on her way with a purse full of coins.”

Quincy felt sick. Melinda and Grandmère spoke at once.

“What do you suppose—”

“You don’t think he really—”

“Stop!” Quincy shouted. She rested her shaking hands on her lap. “I don’t wish to hear any more of the Warwicks’ affairs, if you please.”

“Of course not. Forgive me for bringing it up.” Lady Sinclair patted Quincy’s hand. “Now, my dear, what did my son—”

“Good morning, ladies.”

They turned in unison at the male voice, to see Lord Palmer entering the room.

“Hope you don’t mind the intrusion, Lady Sinclair. Just popped in to see your son, but he ain’t in the library.”

“Not at all, Lord Palmer. Do join us.” Lady Sinclair rang for a fresh pot of tea. “I’m afraid it may be a while before he returns. He went out for one of his long walks this morning.”

Palmer had sat down, but rose again. “That being the case, I’ll catch up to him at our club, and leave you lovely ladies to your coze.” He tipped his hat and left.

Quincy groaned. She had to get out of here. It would be hours before she could speak to Sinclair. Hours during which her relatives, and Lady Sinclair, would try to talk her out of her decision to reject Sinclair. And what on earth could the duke have done to Serena? She had only wanted Serena given a set-down. She wanted the hussy out of the way, not six feet under. If the duke had taken drastic action because of her note, Quincy would never forgive herself. He didn’t deserve to hang.

“Now then, where were we? Ah, yes, my son.” Lady Sinclair patted Quincy’s knee.

“If you’ll excuseme, I, um…” Quincy stood and edged toward the door. “I just remembered that we left a kettle on the hearth. No, don’t worry,” she put her hand out to her grandmother and sister, who hadn’t moved, “I’ll take care of it.”

Caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t even notice which servant opened the front door for her and wished her a good day. She jumped when Palmer spoke to her on the sidewalk.

“I understand felicitations are in order, Miss Quincy.”

Quincy stared at him, openmouthed.

“I know it has not been formally announced yet, but Sinclair has asked me to stand up with him as his best man.”

“H-he has?”

Palmer nodded. His coach pulled up then, and he gestured for his coachman to follow as he fell into step with Quincy. “I am gratified to see the changes wrought in him since making your acquaintance, Miss Quincy. He is once again the jolly fellow I remember from our school days. And the changes in his mother are even more remarkable.”

“Thank you.”

“But I must confess I am concerned. I fear his past relationship with a certain secretary could mar his chances for long-term happiness, should anyone learn the true nature of that relationship.”

Quincy held her hands to her aching stomach. “I don’t know what to say, my lord,” she said, wishing her voice wouldn’t shake, “other than to assure you that Lord Sinclair’s future is of as much concern to me as it is to you. I would never pursue my happiness at the expense of another’s.”

“Just as I thought,” Palmer said, raising her hand to kiss the air above her knuckles. “I admire the courage of your convictions. Good day, Miss Quincy.”

“Good day, Lord Palmer.” Quincy watched him climb into his carriage, then walked home in a daze, her thoughts going in a dozen different directions.

Was Serena really dead? If she and the threat that she presented were gone, was there anything to prevent Quincy from marrying Sinclair?

Thompson and Wilford could probably be persuaded to keep quiet, since neither had said anything so far, at least nothing that she knew about. Or would there be someone else who would reveal Quincy’s secret and shatter Sinclair’s happiness?

Maybe next week, next month, next year. Maybe never.

Could she take that chance?

“Y
ou’re just in time, miss,” said Lady Fitzwater’s footman as he let Quincy into the house. “They’ve just gone in to luncheon.”

“But I’m not expected.”

“Anybody who’s about the house is expected, miss.”

Quincy followed him to the dining room, where Lady Fitzwater, two other women, and Miss Stanbury, one of Lady Fitzwater’s boarders, were being served.

“Miss Quincy!” Lady Fitzwater called. “How good of you to join us. May I introduce Miss Pippen and Miss Jesperson, dear friends of Miss Stanbury?”

Before Quincy finished the how-do-you-dos, the footmen had set her place and brought her soup. The meal passed quickly in congenial conversation, and Quincy allowed herself to be distracted from her earlier introspection. She was caught up as their discussion moved from dealing with coal porters and other merchants to the benefits and possible dangers as more gas lines were laid in London. Miss Jesperson had recently invested a portion of her pension in a gas works, and shared the results of her research.

Not once did the subject off ashion come up, except for Miss Pippen whispering to Miss Stanbury that her shawl’s fringe had fallen into her soup. And they included Quincy in their little group as a matter of course.

With a start, Quincy realized she had not been involved in an all-female conversation such as this since she was fourteen. Instead of boys and deportment, they discussed how to run households and stretch budgets.

Shortly after they retired to the drawing room, Lady Fitzwater’s two other boarders, Lieutenant Wheeler and Reverend Gladstone, joined them. After the requisite introductions, the animated discussion resumed. This was no proper social call; no one left after twenty minutes. Just a small group of friends enjoying each other’s company.

Quincy had almost forgotten the simple pleasure of intelligent conversation with people not related to her. She reveled in the moment, refusing to worry about her past or her uncertain future. She did not worry about doing or saying something too feminine for her male counterpart. She was even growing accustomed to wearing a dress and corset-slip instead of breeches and a coat.

This was what she wanted for her future. These ladies dealt with merchants and solicitors, and remained ladies. So would she. No more subterfuge. Mr. Quincy was banished forevermore.

As if sensing her thoughts, Lady Fitzwater caught her eye and gave her an approving nod. Quincy smiled back.

“I say,” Lieutenant Wheeler said, “has anyone heard what happened with the Duke and Duchess of Warwick?”

Quincy’s heart stopped, than started again at double-time. Everyone else in the room looked at the lieutenant with mild interest.

Wheeler answered his own question. “He packed her off to Northumberland, exiled for the Season. Apparently His Grace found a note she’d written to a paramour.”

“How uncouth,” exclaimed Miss Pippen. “She hasn’t even produced an heir yet!”

The other ladies expressed shock and dismay, and applauded the duke’s action.

Reverend Gladstone shook his head slowly. “A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband, but she that maketh ashamed is as rottenness in his bones,” he intoned, quoting from Proverbs.

Quincy squeezed her eyes shut in pain.
She that maketh ashamed…

Soon the conversation drifted to more general topics, and Quincy excused herself.

Grandmère and Melinda had returned to their quarters just before Quincy arrived, and were hanging up their shawls.

“Did you get to the kettle before it burned?” Melinda said.

“What kettle?” Quincy said absently, gathering paper, ink, and a pen. She sat down at the table and began to write.

“Jo, are you sure…”

Quincy looked up, determined not to be swayed by her grandmother’s arguments regarding Sinclair’s offer.

Grandmère waved her hand in dismissal. “Stubborn child.”

The first note was to Sinclair, letting him know she would call upon him tomorrow morning. Since she had never formally accepted his proposal—for that matter, he hadn’t formally proposed—she didn’t need to break anything off, but she would tell him farewell in person. She bent the tip of the quill as she signed her name and had to sharpen it before continuing.

The second note was to Mr. Hatchett, a solicitor recommended by Sam the butcher. “He don’t mind working for us common folks,” Sam had said.

Feeling that she’d already imposed too much on Lady Fitzwater’s servants, Quincy put on her shawl and set out to see the crossing sweeper two streets over. After paying the boy a few coins to deliver her notes, she headed for Mr. Chadburn’s office, to have him liquidate her investments. It was time to set things irrevocably in motion.

After passing a restless night and refusing breakfast, Quincy paced in her room. At last it was time to leave. Much to her surprise, Grandmère and Melinda quietly fell into step beside her as they left the house. Grandmère leaned on her cane in her right hand. With her left, she gave Quincy’s hand a squeeze.

“Lady Sinclair is in the drawing room,” Harper informed them a few minutes later. “I am sure my lady will be pleased to see you.” While he led the group upstairs, Quincy slipped away to the library.

She stood with her hands over her fluttering stomach. “Like swallowing a live toad before breakfast,” she muttered, “nothing worse can happen all day.” She opened the library door.

Sinclair stood near the wall, searching the book titles on the shelves. She stole a moment to study his profile. Strong jaw, well-formed figure, big enough to inspire confidence without being intimidating. Breathtakingly handsome. He wanted her to be his wife. He wanted to be her husband. She wanted to run into his arms and never leave. Quincy sighed. Why on earth shouldn’t she marry him?

She that maketh ashamed…

“Good morning, my lord,” she said, stepping into the room.

“Good morning, Jo.” Sinclair’s voice was soft and rich, meant for her ears alone. His gaze took in every inch of her before coming to rest on her face.

Her pulse raced. Staring back at Sinclair, she could not form a coherent sentence if her life depended on it.

“My compliments on a well-executed plan,” Sinclair said, walking toward her, his limp pronounced. “I had not even devised a strategy yet, and I discovered yesterday that you’d already carried yours out. However did you get the note to the duke so quickly?”

Before Quincy could answer, Sinclair closed the remaining distance between them, wrapped his arms around her waist, and claimed her lips in a mind-numbing kiss.

Instinctively she brought her arms up around his neck, running her fingers through his silky hair, breathing in his delightful spice-and-liniment scent. She lingered in his embrace, savoring every sensation. The roughness of his chin, the softness of his lips, how his warm breath tickled her ear. She could taste as well as smell the cinnamon toast he’d had for breakfast.

In his arms she felt safe and cherished, and the stirrings of something unfamiliar but wonderful. Happiness.

At last Sinclair let go, his breathing ragged. “Three more weeks, my love,” he whispered, tucking back a tendril of her hair.

That broke the spell. With trembling fingers, Quincy straightened her gown. She also reached up and adjusted Sinclair’s cravat and smoothed the lapels of his coat. “That’s what I came to talk to you about. I keep telling you that we can’t…But you…Oh, blast.” She sat down, her limbs no longer able to support her weight.

Sinclair joined her on the sofa. He took her hands in his, massaging her palms with his thumbs.

She couldn’t do this. She had to do this, had to leave. She took a fortifying breath and stared into his warm brown eyes. “Your limp is worse.”

Sinclair seemed as surprised by her remark as she was. “I stumbled in the dark last night. ’Tis nothing. You were trying to tell me something?” He let go to rest one hand on her knee, his fingers gently massaging.

Quincy followed his lead, resting her hand on his thigh, just above his knee. She ran her fingers in lazy circles, caressing the strong muscles, then stopped when she realized she was perilously close to throwing him back against the sofa and kissing him until he begged for mercy.

Mercy. There was precious little of that in Society. Needing space between her and Sinclair to get through this, she stood, twisting the strings of her reticule. “Serena may be gone, but the problem she presented is not.”

“What makes you think that?” Sinclair tried to pull her back down beside him, but Quincy stepped farther away, putting a chair between them. She gripped the chair’s back, studying her white knuckles.

“I was Mr. Quincy for a long time. There is a veritable army of people who knew him, many of whom know or suspect he was a sham. When I became him five years ago, I did so knowing that eventually I would be exposed. Ostracized. I resigned myself to the outcome because the benefits of what I could accomplish far outweighed the consequences. It was the only way I saw to fulfill my duty to my family. And only three of us could be hurt.

“But now…a lot more people could be hurt because of what I’ve done. People I care for deeply.” She forced herself to meet his unwavering gaze, his expression unreadable. She let go of the chair to rub her numb fingers.

“I don’t think—”

Quincy held her hand up, unwilling to risk him changing her mind. A muscle ticked beside his jaw. “You have worked so hard to be rid of the stares, to quiet the rumors. I know how much it bothered you, though you try not to let on. Hardly anyone speaks of the old scandal anymore. At last they’re letting your father and old Lord Twitchell rest in their graves. Not only has your mother come out of grieving, she even has a suitor.”

“My mother—”

His attempts at interrupting her were getting louder, even as her resolve weakened. “If I stay, when my past is exposed, everyone around me will be tarred with the same brush. There isn’t a war for you to join this time, even if your leg was strong. I can’t let the Sinclair family name be used for scandal fodder again. I won’t be the cause of more pain for you. And you’d only grow to resent me. Be ashamed of me.” She licked dry lips. “You can see why it’s best for everyone if I leave.”

Sinclair stood up, towering over her. “How dare you?”

Quincy took an involuntary step back.

Color flooded his cheeks, even as she felt the blood drain from her own. “How dare you presume to make such a decision for me? I’m the damn Earl of Sinclair, and I will marry whomever I choose.” He raised his arm, his finger stabbing the air before her. “I chose
you
. How can you think I’m incapable of deciding what’s best for me, for my family?”

“It’s what I do,” she whispered. “You said so yourself.” She held her fists at her sides, her voice getting stronger. “I’ve always made these decisions for the people around me, always had to be the one with a clear head. In time you’ll see I’m right. This is for the best.” She spun on her heel, determined to get to the door before her tears fell.

She heard footsteps, then a crash and grunt of pain behind her. Sinclair was sprawled on the floor, the tipped-over chair beside him, his face a mask of agony. He sat up, hands clutching his right thigh. “I can’t chase after you, Quincy.”

She squeezed until her nails bit into her palm. “I don’t want you to.” She yanked the bell pull on her way out.

In the hall, she closed her eyes and tried to regroup. She briefly debated going in search of her grandmother and sister. No, they’d ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer. She should go home and pack, get her money from Chadburn, go buy her cottage.

Grimshaw passed her, answering the summons. She was five steps from the door when Thompson crossed the hall. He started toward her, but stopped and stared for a suspended moment. Then he clicked his heels and dropped into a deep bow.

Quincy nodded an acknowledgment and hurried out into the street before he could see her tears.

Once back in her room, Quincy flung herself down on her bed and let the tears flow. When Sir Ambrose nudged her with his wet nose, she rolled onto her side and wrapped her arm around his soft, furry body, holding him close against her chest.

She hated this weakness. It was unproductive. Messy. But from past experience she knew that giving in now was the only way she could hold the tears in check during the day until she was alone in her bed at night. She rummaged through the pile of clothes on the floor, searching for a handkerchief. She found a pair of white gloves instead. Borrowed from Sinclair the night he took her to the theater, never returned. They still carried his scent, a strangely pleasant combination of liniment, bay rum, and Sinclair. She clutched the gloves in her fist, crying even harder.

She’d felt torn apart after her father’s death, but at least she had years of happy memories to sustain her. It was the same after her mother’s death—the intense grief gradually eased until she could think of the joyful times with her lost loved ones, instead of just the painful loss.

But she didn’t have happy years with Sinclair. She’d had only moments of joy, few and brief, snatched here and there. Could they sustain her?

They must. They were all she’d get.

Gradually her sobs gave way to hiccups, and Sir Ambrose began to purr. At last she sat up. Her throat ached with spent emotion. She blew her nose, then held a damp cloth over her red-rimmed eyes. It was nearly time for her appointments. Yesterday she had instructed Mr. Chadburn to liquidate her investments. Now to see what real estate Mr. Hatchett had found for her. She smoothed and folded Sinclair’s gloves, tucked one inside her reticule, and went about her business.

Grandmère and Melinda were putting away their mending when Quincy returned home late that afternoon. “We thought you would join us in Lady Sinclair’s salon,” Grandmère chided.

“I…had other business to attend to.”

“One of Sinclair’s footmen asked me to give you these,” Melinda said, handing her two coins. “Said you dropped them.”

Quincy turned them over on her palm. Perhaps Thompson was a bit of a gentleman after all. She looked up in time to watch Melinda tying her bonnet ribbons under her chin. “Where are you going?”