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moved from the desk and knelt on the floor, organizing papers and stacking ledgers. Still kneeling, his back to Sinclair, Quincy stretched to reach another pile, the tails of his coat falling to either side. Quincy was wearing new trousers in addition to a new coat, as Sinclair had requested. The tailor had done fine work, despite any misgivings Sinclair might have had.
    But something was wrong.
    Quincy sat back on his heels, studying a piece of paper. Then he leaned forward to drop it onto a pile of receipts, his trousers stretched taut across his backside. Normally Sinclair paid little attention to other men’s clothing, other than to confirm that his own attire was appropriate to the occasion. But he couldn’t take his eyes off Quincy.
    And then Sinclair recognized what was wrong. Though very circumspect, Sinclair was no monk. His last dalliance had been long before Waterloo, but he hadn’t lost his appreciation for a fine female derrière…and that’s exactly what he was staring at.
    Mr. Quincy was actually a Miss.
    Without thinking, Sinclair sprang forward, kneeling on the floor beside Quincy, and grabbed her wrist as she set down a receipt. The spasm of pain in his leg made his voice harsher than he’d intended. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Miss Quincy?”

Chapter 3
     
    S inclair heard Quincy gasp. She stared back at him, frozen.
    “I ask again, what the hell do you think you’re doing, Miss Quincy?”
    The fire popped and crackled.
    Sinclair made to rise, but realized his leg wouldn’t cooperate. He couldn’t get up without first releasing Miss Quincy, and he had no intention of letting go until he had answers from her.
    At last Quincy glanced at her wrist, still held firmly in Sinclair’s grasp, and back up at him. Perhaps a part of him had realized all along that her smooth alto voice was that of a woman, not a young man, but now it was as steely as her gaze when she spoke. “I am doing exactly what you hired me to do, Lord Sinclair.”
    “I hired—”
    “You hired a secretary.” Her words were clear and slow, as though she spoke to a child. A not-very-bright child. “I am performing the duties of a secretary. Is there a problem?”
    Sinclair blinked in shock. “A problem?” He realized he was gaping like a fish just hauled onto the dock, and closed his mouth. She continued to stare at him, the picture of calm, while he tried to gather his scrambled thoughts. “She asks if there’s a problem,” he said, speaking in the direction of the fireplace.
    “Because I don’t see that there is one.”
    Oh, she had bottom, he’d give her that. And not just the shapely one shielded by her coattails. “How about, for starters, the fact that you lied to me?”
    “About what? Everything I’ve told you is true.”
    “True? Mister Quincy?”
    “I never claimed to be a Mister.”
    Sinclair felt his jaw fall open again, and closed it.
    “I stated my name as J. Quincy. It is. It’s just that it’s Josephine, not Joseph. And I did not give myself a courtesy title. You did that.”
    “You just didn’t bother to correct my misconception?” He raked her up and down with a glance. “An understandable misconception, given your attire,” he touched the soft, silky strands beside her ear, “short hair,” he used one finger to lift the top of her waistcoat away from her shirt, “and lack of bosom.”
    At last he had the satisfaction of seeing her blush. It stole up from below her cravat until it covered her entire face in a delightful shade of pink.
    Delightful? Bosom? What the hell was he thinking?
    “The clothes fit better this way.” She swallowed, turning even more pink. “And this is appropriate attire for a secretary.”
    When he didn’t reply or release her, she pointedly looked down at her wrist again. “Do you intend to hold me all day?”
    Abruptly he let go, inwardly wincing at the red imprints he’d left on her pale skin. He half expected Quincy to rise and leave, but