Page 13 of The Forger and the Duke
“We can’t leave those poor mites to shift for themselves, Miss Amaranthe. Abandoned in their own house, and the servants nicking whatever they can carry! Have you ever heard of such a scrape?”
“Mr. Grey, whoever he is, certainly seems to have made a mull of things,” Amaranthe replied. “To think that he expects me to set things in order, after he crashed into my house accusingme of kidnapping the children!” She sniffed. “He does not seem awake on all suits, as Joseph would say.”
“Oh, is that the way of it, then?” Eyde raised a curious brow, then scoffed at the sight of Amaranthe’s plain gown. “Will ye nil ye, you’d best spruce yourself up if you’re dining in a duke’s home, Miss Amaranthe. I can have your hair fixed in a trice.”
“I am not sprucing myself up for Mr. Grey or anyone else,” Amaranthe said. “To be clear, I am only doing this so that Joseph’s position may be secure.”
“And as those poor dear cheelin need a hand.” Eyde herded Amaranthe upstairs to her tiny bedchamber and pinned her with swift efficiency into her one decent day gown, a striped wool open robe with a dark blue stomacher.
Amaranthe descended the stairs to find that all had been ordered. The ducal coach sat before her door, blocking traffic in George Court from both directions, while Davey perched atop a wagon hired from the Blue Posts to convey the servants and their luggage. Grey leaned glowering against the coach, where the children had already been settled, but he stepped forward readily enough to help Davey stow the baskets of food and Mrs. Blackthorn’s other provisions in the wagon. Amaranthe would have guessed he did nothing more strenuous than stroll in splendid attire up and down the walks of the fashionable all day, but he hefted the heaviest basket with ease.
She turned to climb onto the plank seat of the wagon and jumped at the voice at her shoulder.
“You’ll ride with us, of course.”
She stared into his surprising blue eyes. Yes, there was intelligence there, and arrogance, and a touch of wariness, too. But there was another element in his expression that she couldn’t identify.
He was tall and, standing close to her, too large for comfort. There was something sharp and hard about him that she wasn’t accustomed to seeing in the gentlemen of her acquaintance.
Joseph was easy tempered and easily pleased, and the businessmen Amaranthe dealt with were congenial if sometimes shrewd. Grey seemed as if he were always on the alert, as if he didn’t trust he could let his guard down for a moment.
He stood with his hand extended, waiting to help her into the ducal coach, regarding her as if she were a puzzle he meant to solve.
She stared. His was a large hand, a strong hand. His riding gloves were of fine material, worn, but in good repair. It was the glove of a man who used his hands. Not at all what she had expected.
Why was she involving herself, again, in something that did not concern her? The last time she had done so, she lost her home. Though Joseph was employed in the household, and she felt the compulsion to make up for his oversight, she had no responsibility to these children. It fell to this man, their erstwhile guardian, to look after them.
And she could not afford to let strangers see too deeply into her affairs. At least not until this latest manuscript was completed and the results of her labors achieved. She needed to be on her guard, too.
“You are coming, aren’t you?” Grey said softly, and Amaranthe realized what his uneasiness signified. For all his size and self-assurance, he wasn’t a man accustomed to command or to having his wishes met. He waited as if he fully expected she would swat his hand aside and walk away.
The realization, perversely, clarified her resolve. He needed her help, and he resented that, but she did not intend to walk away from someone who needed her.
She took his hand.
CHAPTER FIVE
“His Grace is recently thirteen years of age.”
Grey began Amaranthe’s education in the family over dinner as he carved the glazed ham. Amaranthe feared the meal would prove plain fare to the aristocratic palate, but Mrs. Blackthorn knew her work, and the eager expressions on the faces of the children said to them a hot meal was as good as nectar and ambrosia.
“I’ll go to Eton for the fall term, if Grey permits it and Mr. Joseph thinks I am ready,” young Hunsdon added.
“Permit? I insist.” Grey laid a thick chunk of meat on the boy’s plate and passed it to Amaranthe to fill. “It appears we’ll have to find a source of funds, but we needn’t discuss that in front of Miss Illingworth.”
Amaranthe guessed that remark came more from politeness than mistrust. Grey would have to discuss the ducal finances with her, and soon, if he wished her to help equip the household with staff.
They had returned to find Hunsdon House absent of occupants. The Palladian mansion in Hanover Square echoed like an empty tomb, its cavernous entry hall bare of any servants to greet them, the common rooms quiet under a thin sheen ofdust. Mrs. Blackthorn set up at once in the kitchen, sending Derwa out with a summons that conjured half a dozen young helping hands from sources only Mrs. Blackthorn knew. Eyde saw the ducal children bathed and changed for dinner. Ralph engaged Davey to wait on them, even locating a suit of livery, and Davey’s delight at serving at a duke’s table was written all over his face.
They dined at a small table set up in one of the informal parlors, but even the simplest of the house’s rooms made Amaranthe feel glaringly plain. No wonder wealthy ladies spent their days changing from one expensive ensemble into another. They needed to match their rich surroundings.
Grey had not donned formal attire either; he still wore the breeches and frock coat in which he’d thundered into her house. But the children were thrilled by the rare treat of dining with adults, as if it were a holiday, and Amaranthe wished she’d made herself more elegant for them.
“And Lord Edward?” She passed his plate to Ned.
Eyde had laid a splendid table, though they dineden famille,serving themselves while the footmen brought dishes and poured drinks. Candles gleamed in crystal holders along a table draped in white linen, and the bone china’s delicate gilded pattern would have turned Favella green with envy. Something about Hunsdon House brought her cousin the baronet to mind, and Amaranthe pushed the memories away before they could cast an unpleasant shadow.
“Ned is eleven, and I am eight.” Camilla eagerly accepted her plate but watched Amaranthe for cues. Lady Camilla had turned herself out in all the finery she had, a white silk frock awash with lace and paste pearls about her throat. Eyde’s handiwork showed in the twists of curls tied up with silk ribbons, and Amaranthe smiled.
