What an Earl Wants (32 page)

“What a lovely view he must have,” Sinclair said dryly.

“Oh yes. Hatchett likes the ladies, that he does.” Thompson started to grin but stopped and cleared his throat. “I could go down there if you like, my lord, and see what can be seen.”

Sinclair shook his head. “Even better, Thompson, you’re going to take me there.”

Within an hour Elliott stopped the coach a few doors away from the dress shop. Thompson jumped down from the driver’s bench and led Sinclair through a maze of fitting and storerooms to the office in question.

Hatchett wasn’t there.

His assistant was.

After much blustering and bellowing on his part, and a generous bribe on Sinclair’s part, Angus Leach was persuaded to produce a sheet of paper listing several properties for sale.

Pocketing the coins, Mr. Leach pronounced his conscience appeased by “such an obviously upstanding peer of the realm,” and his tongue loosened. “Such a pretty young thing, Miss Q. And so eager! I would have dropped everything to accompany her on a trip to the country, too,” the solicitor’s assistant said with a broad wink.

Sinclair barely restrained himself from strangling the blackguard.

Thompson, however, had less self-control, and planted Leach a facer. “Mind how you speak about your betters,” Thompson growled, gripping him by the collar.

Leach nodded vigorously. Thompson let go and Leach slumped back in his chair, blood trickling from one nostril.

Sinclair stared at his footman, who glared back as though daring the earl to reprimand him. Thompson’s heated defense of Quincy stirred a hazy memory, of Thompson with his arm around Quincy.

Time to ruminate on it later. Now he had a list of properties Quincy had gone to look at. She’d already been gone for six days, accompanied by a man known to “like the ladies.”

“Let’s go, Thompson,” Sinclair said, spinning on his heel and heading for the door. “We have work to do, and Mr. Leach needs to freshen up.”

As they threaded their way through the noisy crowds on the sidewalk, Sinclair glanced back at Thompson, trying to bring the hazy memory into focus. The big footman stepped sideways to avoid an costermonger, and bumped into a flower girl. Thompson grabbed the girl by the shoulders to steady her. To her obvious delight, he did not release her right away, but playfully grinned at her and kept one arm around her shoulders.

Sinclair froze. Noise from the street faded as the memory became clear. He remembered Thompson holding Quincy. Stroking her hair, touching her face. In his employer’s bed-chamber, with Sinclair practically on death’s doorstep only a few feet away. It might have been innocent, just offering her comfort when she was all done in caring for Sinclair.

“My lord?”

Sinclair shook himself out of his reverie. “Thompson,” he said, casually resting one hand on the footman’s shoulder, “you know I plan to marry Miss Quincy, don’t you?”

Thompson was still grinning. “Of course, my lord. Entire household is counting on it. What’s left of the household, that is.”

“Then you may consider yourself warned.” Sinclair kept his expression mild, but there was steel beneath his calm tone. “If you ever lay a hand on my wife again, I’ll have your guts for garters.”

Thompson gulped. “Y-yes, my lord.”

S
inclair settled in at his desk with the list of cottages and a map. Choosing the property most likely to appeal to Quincy should be a simple exercise in logic.

Bluebell Cottage was moderately priced and located only a half day’s ride from his own country estate. With a start, Sinclair realized it was the very cottage he and Quincy had seen on their ride to Brentwood so long ago. He crossed it off the list. Quincy was too pragmatic to want to live near a constant reminder of something, or
someone,
she’d given up.

Castallack Cottage was just outside Birmingham. For her sister’s health, Quincy wanted a cottage in the country, not another city with noxious fogs. He crossed that one off.

Broxham was at the back of beyond, in Kent. The tracks that passed for roads there were barely passable even in good weather. He crossed that one off, too.

Waverly Cottage, in Danbury, was the least expensive on the list and had a large garden. Danbury was also where the Quincys had lived until coming to London. He crossed it off.

That left only a timbered cottage outside of Cheltenham. Close to a moderately sized town for employment and shopping, with no apparent drawbacks. Sinclair pictured the wooded vales and rushing streams of the Cotswolds, and knew the area would appeal to Quincy.

By dawn the next morning, Sinclair was astride his bay mare, heading for Cheltenham, the special license tucked in his pocket. He imagined the look of surprise and delight on Quincy’s face, and his chest swelled.

As the morning mists cleared, so did Sinclair’s head. Quincy had decided that duty demand she reject him, in order to protect him and those around him. He would have to convince her otherwise. Knowing her stubborn nature, he would have to be very persuasive indeed.

Two kisses should do it. Perhaps three.

He was still smiling when he rode into Cheltenham late that afternoon and quickly located Plough Cottage. It was dark. Ivy crept up the walls and obscured the windows. He trampled fading tulips in an overgrown flower bed as he peered through a ground-floor window. No footprints disturbed the dust-covered floors.

Scowling, he mounted his horse and rode back to the coaching inn.

“Ain’t no one lived there in ages, ducks,” said the serving maid, when Sinclair asked about the place. She plunked down a tankard of ale and a platter of stew. “Not since old Archibald Plough hanged himself in the rafters. Thinking of buying it?”

“No,” Sinclair said, sniffing the stew suspiciously. He pushed the platter away and took a swig of ale. “I thought a friend was interested in it, though.”

Sinclair retreated to his room, his stomach growling, and took out the list of properties to study again. This was simply a setback, a mere miscalculation. He knew Quincy well enough to figure out which property she’d want.

Danbury. He’d been too hasty in crossing it off the list. Lady Bradwell and Melinda had regretted the necessity of leaving the village. He had no doubt Quincy could easily fool the villagers into accepting her as herself instead of her cousin Joseph.

Sinclair set off again before dawn, his spirits light.

By midnight, his confidence plummeted.

Waverly Cottage was brightly lit, a welcoming candle in the window. But the candle was for the seafaring son of the tradesman who had purchased the property earlier that week.

Sinclair took a room at the nearest inn and collapsed on the bed. His head ached, his leg throbbed, and his stomach growled. He took out the list and studied it again.

“Quincy, my love,” he murmured, “where have you hidden yourself?”

Hidden. Yes, of course! Where better to escape notice then the back of beyond?

He ate a hearty meal, which eased his stomach, but even after half a bottle of brandy, his leg still throbbed. The damp sea air did not help matters. The pain was of little consequence, however, for tomorrow he would see Quincy.

It took two days to locate Broxham Cottage. The going was rougher than he anticipated, and the Kentish folk seemed to take pride in their impassable roads. His mare threw a shoe the second day, and Sinclair was forced to walk the last mile, slogging through ankle-deep mud. Filthy and bone-weary, he was not surprised when the innkeeper asked for payment in advance.

In better spirits after a hot bath and hearty meal, he took out his list once more.

Only two properties left. Perhaps he didn’t know Quincy as well as he thought. He couldn’t believe she would buy in Birmingham. The detriment to her sister’s health would be as bad or worse than living in London.

That left only Bluebell, on the way to his country estate.

Why would Quincy want to buy near Brentwood? Living near his estate would be a continual reminder of what she had given up. Quincy was far too practical and pragmatic to indulge in sentimentality.
Josephine,
however…

With a hitch to his breathing, Sinclair remembered what she looked like as Josephine, properly gowned and coifed. She appeared as beautiful and fragile and feminine as any other debutante. Outer trappings couldn’t disguise her independence and fierce determination, but perhaps deep down she was as sentimental and emotional as any other woman.

Early the next morning, the blacksmith had barely hammered home the last nail when Sinclair mounted his mare and set off for Bluebell Cottage. He felt certain he would find Quincy by the end of the day, but he’d been certain, and wrong, before.

Perhaps Quincy hadn’t bought any cottage. Perhaps she’d dismissed them all and gone back to London with Hatchett to find others to look at. Perhaps she was with Hatchett this very minute, fighting off his advances.

Sinclair spurred his horse to a gallop.

He wanted to continue straight to the cottage, but his horse was exhausted. Sinclair reined in at the coaching inn late that afternoon and ordered a meal and a private room. He quizzed the serving maid when she arrived with his food.

“Mr. Hatchett stayed a week,” she said. “Left in a hurry, he did, even though he’d paid for another week in advance. We haven’t had that much entertainment in ages.” She chuckled.

“Entertainment?” Sinclair forced his hand to uncurl from a fist.

The maid pulled out a chair and sat down, then leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “We knew the lady with him wasn’t his Missus, though he kept trying to act like she was. But she wouldn’t have none of it, no sirree! Insisted on rooms at opposite ends of the hall, she did. One morning she comes down to breakfast, pleasant as can be. But when he comes down, his left eye is swelled right shut! He calls for his carriage, and she says, ‘Good-bye, Mr. Hatchett. ’Twas a pleasure doing business with you!’ He stomped out the door—oh, the things he said!—and we ain’t seen him since.”

Sinclair barely heard the last part over the pounding in his ears. He tried to contain the excitement in his voice. “Do you know where the lady went?”

“Oh, she ain’t gone nowhere,” the maid said, standing up. “She’s still here. Well, not right now, she ain’t. She goes out every morning and comes back for a late supper in her room.” She suddenly frowned. “This is a respectable inn. We don’t want nothing havey-cavey going on with our customers.”

Sinclair smiled and handed her several coins, which she tucked into her apron pocket. “I can assure you my intentions are honorable. Do you by chance know the shortest way to Bluebell Cottage from here?”

She did, and Sinclair gave her another generous tip before rushing out the door, his meal untouched.

The maid’s directions sent Sinclair climbing over a stile, limping through a horse-dotted pasture, over another stile to a footbridge across a stream, and into a dense copse of oak trees. Low-hanging limbs tore at his clothes and hair, but Sinclair pressed on. Just when he began to think the maid had sent him halfway to Wales, the trees gave way to a garden at the back of a white cottage, surrounded by flower beds. Bluebell Cottage.

As he caught his breath, Sinclair stood at the edge of the trees, studying the anthill-like activity on the property.

Workmen scurried back and forth, carrying boards and bundles of thatch. Gardeners scythed the lawn and pruned rosebushes. A painter clung to a ladder on one outside wall, and hammering and sawing echoed through the open door and windows.

Suddenly there was a snap from the roof, and someone yelled “Look out, Miss Quincy!” as a bundle of thatch rolled down the roof and fell over the edge.

Sinclair watched in horror as the bundle struck the painter on the ladder.

Quincy barely heard the roofer’s warning before something hit the back of her legs, and her feet skidded forward on the rung. She grabbed at the rail to keep from falling but only managed to slow her descent. The paintbrush and bucket landed with a wet smack on the ground below. She found herself hanging upside down, her shins painfully wedged between two rungs. Blinded by her skirts, stars danced before her eyes.

“Cor blimey, you killed ’er!” someone shouted.

Quincy shoved the skirts from her face. The world tilted at a crazy angle, but nothing seemed damaged. At least not permanently. “Davey, I thought you said you were done with the roof,” she said.

“I’m ever so sorry, Miss Quincy,” Davey said, peering over the edge of the roof. “The string on the last bundle broke. Are you all right?”

“I am fine, Davey.” She looked straight out and saw several of the workers staring in shock or coming toward her. “It’s all right,” she called to them. “You can go back to work now.” Davey withdrew from the edge, though a few of the workers still gawked at her. She gave an unladylike grunt as she reached up to free her feet, wondering how she was going to extricate herself without causing injury or providing further entertainment for her workmen.

“Lucky thing you are fond of trousers,” came a familiar but unexpected voice close by.

Quincy dropped back, still upside down but now eye to eye with the newcomer. “Sinclair!” She couldn’t help the silly grin that nearly split her face. It had only been two weeks since she’d last seen him, but her memory was no match to this living, breathing vision before her.

Wait—why was he here? Something must be wrong. “Grandm—”

“And your sister are both fine. Everyone is fine.”

She relaxed a fraction, and pushed her shifting skirts aside.

“I had been concerned about your welfare, off on your own this past fortnight, but I see you have matters well in hand.” Sinclair’s eyes twinkled, even when viewed upside down.

“Miss Quincy, I’ll get you down, I’ll—” Davey came running around the corner but skidded to a halt as he caught sight of Sinclair.

“If you don’t mind,
I’ll
get her down,” Sinclair said, reaching for Quincy. “Hang on to me, love.” Lifting and supporting her with one arm, he pulled her free of the ladder. But instead of setting her on her feet, Sinclair held her close to his chest, one arm under her legs, the other behind her shoulders, and gazed into her eyes.

Her insides melted. His heart beat next to hers, his breath ruffled her hair, strong hands held her secure. She could stay here forever.

Quincy realized the workmen were staring. Hang the workmen. Sinclair had called her his love! She had bid him farewell, yet here he was, just in time to release her from an uncomfortable predicament. He shifted his grip, his thumb stroking her shoulder. Her heart beat even faster.

Someone coughed. Oh, very well. Trying to be respectable was often a pain in the arse. “You should, ah, put me down now,” she said.

“I should?” His smile was warm and beguiling, his voice low and soft, a verbal caress. A shiver danced down her spine. “Very well, madam, if you think it best.”

He set her down, not letting go until she was steady on her feet. With shaking hands, she smoothed her skirts over her trousers. Melinda’s old gown was almost ready for the dustbin. Paint blotches covered many of the grass stains, and numerous small tears made the dress immodest without the trousers and shirt beneath.

“Miss Quincy?” Davey had not moved away. Other workmen began to gather, staring at Sinclair suspiciously.

“Everything is all right,” Quincy assured her foreman, glancing from the workers to the man at her side. For the first time she noticed his mud-splattered clothes and muck-covered boots, and his hair looked like he’d combed it with a rake. Beautiful. She couldn’t stop grinning. “The Earl of Sinclair is my, ah…former employer.”

“Betrothed,” Sinclair quickly added.

She stared at him. No, she couldn’t have heard him right. They’d agreed it wouldn’t work between them. Besides, she’d already bought the cottage and begun repairs. It was almost ready for her family to move in.

“Employer?” Davey took a step closer, standing several inches taller than Sinclair. The other workers stepped closer also, still holding their tools—scythe, hammer, thatch hook.

“She was my secretary,” he told the men, though his gaze never left Quincy. “And a damn good one, too. But it was a secret. When I asked her to be my wife, she felt it her duty to protect me from scandal in the event anyone discovered her secret. So she left me.”

Quincy swallowed the lump in her throat. “To protect your mother, too,” she whispered.

Sinclair shook his head. “Mama doesn’t require your protection. She prefers your presence. And I don’t need your protection, either.” He puffed out his chest and looked down his nose at her. “You think the Earl of Sinclair and the Dowager Countess cannot face down scurrilous gossip?”

Quincy started to smile, then remembered how the scene had ended. “But you agreed with me! When I said—”

“I did not agree, not in the slightest. You took unfair advantage of my condition and left before we had finished our discussion.”

He took both her hands in his, gazing intently at her with his warm brown eyes until she thought she would melt. “I’ve recently learned a valuable lesson from my friend Palmer. Some still cannot bear the sight of him, as if his missing arm was contagious. But he suffers the slings and arrows with good grace, secure in his love for his wife, and her love for him.”