What an Earl Wants (25 page)

Sinclair opened his eyes slowly as the clock on the mantel struck twelve, and took stock of himself. His head and body ached abominably, and it felt as though an iron band constricted his chest. But, as Quincy had predicted, he had not died.

The soft noise he heard were her snores. Quincy dozed in the chair pulled near his bed. Sinclair frowned. Such devotion on the part of another female would not cause any comment, but Mr. Quincy might raise a few eyebrows if word got around. Sinclair was absurdly glad she’d stayed with him.

Faint sunlight filtering through the drawn curtains showed the remains of a meal on the table. Sinclair’s stomach growled. He reached for the bell pull, but stopped.

Sometime during the night, there had been an altercation between himself, Thompson, and Quincy. Bloody hell, he hadn’t said or done anything to give her away, had he?

Might it have all been just a dream? Such fantastical images flashed before his mind’s eye, of soldiers and surgeons, flames and beasts, angels and devils. If he concentrated hard enough, he could disentangle the real from the imagined. If only he could keep his eyes open…

“M
r. Quincy, sir?” Jill had come to collect the luncheon tray and halted at the door, tray balanced on her hip. At Quincy’s raised eyebrows she continued. “There’s a situation, I mean, something’s happened and I don’t know what to do about it.” She cast a nervous glance at the sleeping earl.

Bracing herselff or the worst, Quincy followed Jill out into the hall. “Tell me what has happened, and we’ll proceed from there.”

The maid lowered her voice. “I think Matilda has gone. She took the big basket like she was going to the greengrocer’s, but Cook said Matilda hates going there because the old goat likes to pinch.”

It took a moment to register that the problem had nothing to do with her or Sinclair. “Perhaps she had a change of heart?”

Jill shook her head. “I tore my stocking and went to get another—I share a room with Matilda—and all her clothes is gone. And it was Finlay’s turn to serve tea, but Grimshaw couldn’t find him.”

“Perhaps Finlay just—I suppose his clothes are gone, too?” Jill nodded. Quincy shook her head in disbelief. Another match in the household! “Isn’t this something you should tell Mrs. Hammond? Or Harper?”

“But I can’t!” Jill set the tray on a table in order to twist the end of her apron. “Mrs. Hammond and Mr. Harper are having a discussion in her office, and he said they wasn’t to be disturbed. I’d tell Lady Sinclair, but she’s out making morning calls. And that ain’t the worst of it!”

“No?”

“There’s no one downstairs to answer the door but Celia, and she can barely close it.”

“Surely Grimshaw can—”

Jill shook her head. “Grimshaw said Finlay was fickle, and some other things I just can’t repeat, and he took Cook’s sherry and locked hisself in the cellar! What should we do, sir?”

Quincy fell into the hall chair beside Sinclair’s door and dropped her head into her hands, hiding her laughter. Oh, this was just too much.

“Sir?”

Quincy held up one finger. “A moment, please.” She took deep breaths until she felt she could look at the maid with a straight face. Then she stood again, and with a few quick instructions put Jack on duty downstairs, arranged for Daisy to serve tea when Lady Sinclair returned, and asked Jill to bring up a tray for Sinclair. Harper, she decided, could deal with the drunken, disillusioned Grimshaw later. At least Thompson couldn’t collect on their wager yet.

Rearranging the staff was undoubtedly overstepping her bounds, but what else could she do if the housekeeper and butler were having a “discussion” in the housekeeper’s office? And if the staff continued to leave at the present rate, they would have to hire trained replacements. Lady Sinclair supported Quincy’s rescue attempts now, but probably would not continue to do so at the expense of a smoothly functioning household. Another problem, but one Quincy couldn’t deal with just now.

Sinclair woke an hour later, long enough to eat a small bowl of chicken soup. He seemed distracted and made no effort to speak. Quincy attributed his silence to nothing more than an attempt to conserve his strength and prevent additional coughing fits, and was not surprised when he soon dozed off again.

She stared at his relaxed face, darkened by three days of beard. Next time he awoke, she would have Jack or Thompson shave him and possibly help him with a bath, too. That had always seemed to make Papa feel better.

Thinking of his disarray, she gave a thought to her own. She’d been wearing the same clothes for a day and a half, and her last soak in a tub, at Brentwood, was a fond but distant memory. Not to mention the need to find her spare spectacles, to replace the pair Thompson had stepped on last night. Or was that this morning? She’d ruined more pairs of spectacles in the short time she’d been working for Sinclair than in the previous five years combined.

While she debated whether or not she had time to go home before he awoke again, Lady Sinclair scratched on the door and let herself in.

“How is he doing?” she whispered, standing near her son. She stretched out a hand to touch his forehead and brush aside a few strands of hair.

“Much better, my lady. His fever broke this morning. He should be back to his usual self in a few days.”

Lady Sinclair sighed. “You have no idea how relieved I am. I know I should not worry so—he is a grown man, but—”

“I understand.” Quincy briefly touched Lady Sinclair’s shoulder, then retreated, afraid she’d overstepped her bounds again.

“You do, don’t you?” Lady Sinclair gave her quick jasmine-scented hug. “You have done wonders, child, but you must be careful not to exhaust yourself.”

“As a matter of fact, I was just planning to go home and—”

“No need for that. Your sister packed a few of your things. One of the footmen was supposed to bring up your bag, but there seems to be a shortage of staff at the moment.”

“Beg pardon, my lady,” Harper said, opening the door. “I’ve put Mr. Quincy’s things in the adjoining chamber, as you requested.”

“Thank you, Harper.”

Quincy thought the butler looked rather flushed—perhaps he was sickening, too? Then the import of Lady Sinclair’s words sank in. “My sister?”

“We had a delightful visit, your grandmother, sister, and I. Lady Fitzwater is a bosom bow of mine, you know. I thought it best if we put your things in the nearest room.” She cupped Quincy’s cheek and smiled into her eyes, then led her to the chamber next door. “Besides, there does not seem to be enough staff to prepare a guest room just now. Luckily I had them prepare this one last week. It’s quite odd. I was certain we had enough staff this morning. I shall have a chat with Mrs. Hammond, if she has recovered. She did not look at all herself when I saw her a few moments ago.”

Lady Sinclair drifted down the hall toward the stairs, lost in thought. Quincy stared after her, then shook her head and shut the door behind her.

The room was equally as large as Sinclair’s, and neatly decorated in dark green and white. Everything matched, from the pair of mahogany chairs near the window, to the green and white striped curtains, coverlet and bed hangings. With a start, Harper’s words sank in. This was the adjoining suite to Sinclair’s.

The countess’s rooms.

Lady Sinclair had specifically requested Quincy’s things be placed here. She had servants prepare it last week.

Sinclair had not been ill last week.

Quincy stared in the direction Lady Sinclair had departed.

Harper had set her portmanteau on the bed, unopened. Wisps of steam rose from the hip tub near the hearth, beckoning to her. No sense letting the hot water go to waste. She could think while she washed. Quincy locked the doors, then stripped off her clothes to enjoy a long soak in the tub. Sinking into the water, she decided there was no hidden meaning to Lady Sinclair’s actions, after all. As she had said, there was simply no staff available to prepare a different room.

But the hot water was not as soothing as usual. What could Lady Sinclair have possibly discussed with Grandmère, Lady Fitzwater, and Melinda, and had a delightful time doing it?

Quincy stepped out of the tub before the water cooled, something she rarely did when given the luxury of a bath, and dressed in fresh clothes. Melinda had packed several changes of linen, including freshly starched cravats, but she had not included spare spectacles. Drat.

She looked with longing at the undoubtedly soft bed, wishing for nothing more than a few hours to stretch out and test its comfort. A crash from next door recalled her to her duties.

“Sinclair! What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Quincy marched over to the earl, who was sprawled on the floor near the knocked-over bedside table.

“Damn leg gave way,” he said, sitting up. His gravelly voice reached the upper register on the last syllable, reminding Quincy of the squire’s adolescent son. “What the devil are you grinning at?”

“Glad to see you are feeling much more the thing,” Quincy said, pulling him to his feet. She didn’t think he’d appreciate her observation concerning his fluctuating voice, so she kept it to herself.

The earl continued his silent brooding after climbing back into bed. She dosed him with the honey-whiskey-lemonade, saw that he ate another bowl of soup, and retreated to the sitting room to work.

She returned only when Jill brought the tea tray at four. Sinclair refused when Quincy offered him a cup. He stared into the middle distance, slowly rubbing his right thigh with the heel of his hand. His expression was foreign, yet somehow familiar.

Papa. Quincy abruptly sat down. Papa had often worn that same expression when his weakening condition confined him to bed, when the simple act of dressing left him exhausted.

“Were you trying to get out of bed, or returning to it when your leg gave way?”

Sinclair’s gaze snapped into focus on her. “Returning.” His left eyebrow raised in a silent question.

She sipped her tea and bit into a biscuit before she spoke again. “Sometimes Papa would overexert himself. Once he helped push a cart that was stuck in the mud near our cottage, and had to spend the next two days in bed to recover his strength. He spent his last few months as an invalid. He could not take care of us as he had before.” She took another sip. “But his infirmity did not change the way we felt about him.”

Sinclair’s hand stilled. He stared at her. After a long silence, he held his hand out for a cup of tea.

With the earl eating more and his fever broken, Quincy thought she might be able to go home to her own bed that night. She couldn’t actually
sleep
in the countess’s room—that had just been a place to freshen up. Besides, she very much wanted Melinda to tell her about their chat with Lady Sinclair.

Almost as if he sensed her intention to depart, Sinclair’s sleep became restless. It was hard enough seeing him toss and turn, but when she heard him moan, it was more than she could bear. She took Sinclair’s hand in her own. The earl quieted immediately. So long as she was near, his sleep seemed peaceful.

The household settled in for the night. Harper grumbled about having to stay on duty so late to open the door for Lady Sinclair when she returned. He had no choice, since Grimshaw’s snoring could be heard from his resting place behind the locked cellar door, and no one had been able to rouse him or find the spare key.

Jill was occupied helping the new maid, Carrie, determine what duties she was still able to perform. Lady Sinclair had encountered Carrie earlier that evening, just after the maid was cast out of her former employer’s home when it was discovered the recently betrothed heir had been rehearsing his wedding night with Carrie. Her baby was due in four months.

Thompson entered without knocking, carrying a quilt under one arm. “His lordship still won’t let you leave?”

Quincy watched him build up the fire. “You haven’t collected on your wager yet.”

“There’s no hurry.” He draped the quilt over Quincy’s lap, leaned in to whisper in her ear. “I admire a lass with bottom.” Quincy froze. “Yours is especially fine.” He touched the tip of her nose. “No bruise. That’s good. His lordship would never forgive himself if he’d hurt you.”

“Thompson—”

“If you need anything in the night, Mr. Quincy, I’ll be out in the hall. The new upstairs maid has right fine ankles.” With a rakish grin, he left.

Quincy realized her jaw was hanging open. She snapped it shut. Impending doom suddenly felt more…pending. She still had to leave, but perhaps the scandal could be avoided, after all.

She struggled in vain to find a comfortable sleeping position in the chair, then gave in and sat up with a sigh of disgust. Sinclair’s sleep was disturbed if she left for the cot in the closet, so what might happen if she dragged the cot out into his room? She did not want to spend another night sitting up.

But she was so tired. She didn’t have the strength to move the cot. She could ask Thompson to move it, or she could simply stretch out on the floor. No, her feet were already chilled from the draft down there.

She didn’t dare risk sitting beside Sinclair like last night. Her luck just wouldn’t hold; someone was bound to walk in and see. She stared longingly at his bed. It was quite large. In fact, he took up less than a third of it, as he lay on his side with his knees drawn up. The foot of the bed was not used at all. She could sit down there, lean against the bedpost, and stretch out her legs. Just for a few minutes.

Sinclair did not stir as she settled at the foot of his bed, the quilt over her lap. Ah, much better. She yawned and tried to rub the grit from her eyes. She would sit there just for a few minutes, to restore the circulation to her limbs. Just a few minutes…

Something was different. Not wrong, but different. Sinclair lay still, listening, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light cast by the dying fire. There it was again, a shift on the bed not created by himself. “Quincy?” he whispered. The chair beside his bed was vacant. He slid out from under the covers, stood up, and looked around the room.

There was a large lump on his bed. Peering closer, Sinclair recognized Quincy’s inert form, sprawled across the end of the mattress. He gave a soft chuckle, which turned into coughing. When he could breathe again, he picked up the blanket off the floor and draped it over Quincy. If he had started to shiver after being out of bed such a brief time, surely she must be half frozen.

He watched her sleep for a moment. She had tirelessly stayed by his side for how many days now? When he was far from at his best. Making him drink that foul tea, bathing his brow, murmuring soothing nonsense when he was sick to death of coughing. Calming his mother’s fears. What had he done to deserve such devotion from a woman as wonderful as Quincy?

As soon as he recovered from this blasted illness, he would have the banns read. They would be married within a month. He would be able to tuck her in properly every night—at his side. They would finish what they had begun in the shepherd’s hut, spend a lifetime exploring each other, and hide from no one.

He pulled the blanket higher on Quincy, trailed his fingers across her cheek, kissed her forehead, then climbed back into bed.