once about the pencil-chewing, insinuating she must not get enough to eat. The bleak look in her eyes, though she’d quickly masked it, made him feel like an ass. Passing Mrs. Hammond in the hall that afternoon, he’d oh-so-casually mentioned that Mr. Quincy seemed to enjoy Cook’s offerings. Ever since, the housekeeper made regular appearances with food-laden trays, from scones in the morning, luncheons befitting the Queen, to afternoon tea and cakes.
Watching Quincy eat with such enthusiasm—no missish picking at the food for her—Sinclair couldn’t help but eat heartily himself. His previous lack of appetite had been a matter of concern to everyone but himself, it seemed. Now Mrs. Hammond beamed at him when she cleared away the tray, the plates empty save for crumbs.
He didn’t think Johnson had ever slipped a scone into his coat pocket to take home. He’d only seen Quincy do it once, but he was certain her pockets were often full of crumbs.
Of course Sinclair had fed Johnson, too, but Johnson had taken his meals with the upper servants. Did Miss Quincy realize the uniqueness of the situation? Mrs. Hammond waited on Quincy as though she were, well, part of the family.
His step faltered.
Not only was Quincy most definitely not part of his family, she wouldn’t even be part of his staff for much longer. She was only going to work for him long enough to determine how much Johnson had embezzled, and get Lady Sinclair securely out of mourning and into Society. After that, Quincy would be gone. His stomach knotted.
Though he might enjoy her company, Sinclair couldn’t have a female secretary indefinitely. He couldn’t risk the potential scandal. Thanks to Papa and the previous Lord Twitchell, Sinclair and his mother had already lived through enough scandal to last several lifetimes.
A familiar carriage pulled up in the street, breaking Sinclair from his rumination. He hailed the driver. “Elliott?”
“Cap’n. Mr. Harper saw the clouds and thought you might change yer mind about walking.” Thunder rumbled overhead and the skies opened up even more. Elliott calmed the horses as the groom let down the step.
“Harper was correct. My compliments on your timing, Elliott.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sinclair sank back into the cushions as the carriage rolled down the streets through the pouring rain. The ache in his leg had spread to the entire right side of his body, throbbing in counterpoint to the thunderclaps.
Some days the protective nature of his men annoyed Sinclair, but today was not one of them. As a sergeant, Elliott had served in Sinclair’s regiment, as had half his stable staff. They took excellent care of his horses and equipage, and sometimes, himself personally. He’d lost track of the times Elliott had unexpectedly shown up when he’d tried to walk too far. “Just exercisin’ the beasts, Cap’n,” the coachman would say, leaving Sinclair at least the illusion of dignity.
Sinclair fervently hoped that, with perseverance and some divine assistance, Elliott’s rescues would soon be unnecessary.
By the time the carriage arrived at the town house, Sinclair was so stiff he could barely scoot forward on the bench. He cursed his weakness—he should have kept walking. He’d be cold by now, but he’d be able to move. The groom opened the door and let down the step, then dashed through the rain to hold the horses’ heads.
Sinclair glanced out the door—no one about except a maid hurrying past on the sidewalk—grabbed his walking stick, and gingerly shifted his weight. At the same instant, thunder clapped overhead. The horses jolted forward, and the groom, watching the buxom maid instead of the horses, let go.
Sinclair missed the step.
He stumbled on the pavement, then caught himself on his weak right leg, a move jarring enough to make him see stars. Taxed beyond its limit, his leg promptly buckled. The first round of stars had just flickered out when another set appeared as Sinclair
Watching Quincy eat with such enthusiasm—no missish picking at the food for her—Sinclair couldn’t help but eat heartily himself. His previous lack of appetite had been a matter of concern to everyone but himself, it seemed. Now Mrs. Hammond beamed at him when she cleared away the tray, the plates empty save for crumbs.
He didn’t think Johnson had ever slipped a scone into his coat pocket to take home. He’d only seen Quincy do it once, but he was certain her pockets were often full of crumbs.
Of course Sinclair had fed Johnson, too, but Johnson had taken his meals with the upper servants. Did Miss Quincy realize the uniqueness of the situation? Mrs. Hammond waited on Quincy as though she were, well, part of the family.
His step faltered.
Not only was Quincy most definitely not part of his family, she wouldn’t even be part of his staff for much longer. She was only going to work for him long enough to determine how much Johnson had embezzled, and get Lady Sinclair securely out of mourning and into Society. After that, Quincy would be gone. His stomach knotted.
Though he might enjoy her company, Sinclair couldn’t have a female secretary indefinitely. He couldn’t risk the potential scandal. Thanks to Papa and the previous Lord Twitchell, Sinclair and his mother had already lived through enough scandal to last several lifetimes.
A familiar carriage pulled up in the street, breaking Sinclair from his rumination. He hailed the driver. “Elliott?”
“Cap’n. Mr. Harper saw the clouds and thought you might change yer mind about walking.” Thunder rumbled overhead and the skies opened up even more. Elliott calmed the horses as the groom let down the step.
“Harper was correct. My compliments on your timing, Elliott.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sinclair sank back into the cushions as the carriage rolled down the streets through the pouring rain. The ache in his leg had spread to the entire right side of his body, throbbing in counterpoint to the thunderclaps.
Some days the protective nature of his men annoyed Sinclair, but today was not one of them. As a sergeant, Elliott had served in Sinclair’s regiment, as had half his stable staff. They took excellent care of his horses and equipage, and sometimes, himself personally. He’d lost track of the times Elliott had unexpectedly shown up when he’d tried to walk too far. “Just exercisin’ the beasts, Cap’n,” the coachman would say, leaving Sinclair at least the illusion of dignity.
Sinclair fervently hoped that, with perseverance and some divine assistance, Elliott’s rescues would soon be unnecessary.
By the time the carriage arrived at the town house, Sinclair was so stiff he could barely scoot forward on the bench. He cursed his weakness—he should have kept walking. He’d be cold by now, but he’d be able to move. The groom opened the door and let down the step, then dashed through the rain to hold the horses’ heads.
Sinclair glanced out the door—no one about except a maid hurrying past on the sidewalk—grabbed his walking stick, and gingerly shifted his weight. At the same instant, thunder clapped overhead. The horses jolted forward, and the groom, watching the buxom maid instead of the horses, let go.
Sinclair missed the step.
He stumbled on the pavement, then caught himself on his weak right leg, a move jarring enough to make him see stars. Taxed beyond its limit, his leg promptly buckled. The first round of stars had just flickered out when another set appeared as Sinclair
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