Page 109 of The Ladies Least Likely
Moreover, she had agreed to deliver the breviary soon, so she had to finish her copies quickly. The admixture of gold leaf she had made that day would harden the longer it was exposed to air.
Grey raised his glass in a toast. “To medieval manuscripts.”
Amaranthe joined him in drinking, restricting herself to a small, ladylike sip. The wine, which he called a Madeira, was delicious. Wine had been served with dinner at the baronet’s table, but at home she and Joseph never had such a treat; they drank small beer, such as the children enjoyed.
“To the preservation of history,” Amaranthe replied.
“To fine meals!” Ned said heartily.
“The female mind!” Camilla cried.
Everyone looked to Hugh, the young Lord Hunsdon.
He glanced at Ralph and Davey, who stood at attention near the sideboard, Ralph with a self-important look on his face, Davey’s back as stiff as if he’d been raised to service in grand homes. Then the young lord’s eyes fell on Amaranthe.
“To new friends,” he said, lifting his glass, “who have delivered us from unfortunate circumstances.”
Amaranthe drank, but the delicious wine turned sour in her mouth.
She did not deserve their trust or their confidences, and most certainly not their regard. She must have as little as possible to do with Grey and his family, and she needed to retire from their notice as quickly as she could.
The knowledge stung. It had been a long, long time since she had made new friends. And now, given her past and what she meant to do with the opportunity that had fallen into her lap, she would make no friends here, either.
CHAPTER SIX
Mal dropped his head into his hands, dislodging his hair from its queue. He was glad he’d not worn a wig for dinner. The periwig he wore for appearances at the Middle Court lay in his chambers off the Strand, and, being obliged to wear the uncomfortable piece during so much of the day, he preferred to dispense with it in the evenings.
Miss Illingworth had not made herself fancy, either. Her gown was plain and well-kept, with nothing to remark it save for a fanciful brooch she wore, the design of which he had not drawn close enough to see. She was in all respects one of those tidy, efficient women whom he had never in his life taken note of.
The women he knew from his days growing up in Littlejohn’s coaching inn had been generally of a more forceful sort, inclined to make their presence known, and the women he met as a bachelor about town were likewise as colorful and memorable, for different reasons. Had he passed Miss Illingworth in the course of his daily business, he wouldn’t have had the least cause to take an interest in her.
Now that he depended on her efficiency and her knowledge of the secret domains of women to extricate him and his wards from a muddle, Mal found himself intensely curious about thewoman. Where had she come from? What kind of woman took up a trade as a copyist of ancient manuscripts?
He marveled at how easily she had managed to calm all of them—the children showing up desperate and begging at her door, completely unexpected, and he himself storming in, regrettably under the influence of his temper, which tended to get the better of him at times. He’d been in a near frenzy about what had happened to the children—and what had happened to their income, thanks to that conniving she-demon Sybil—and Miss Illingworth sat them all down for tea.
Then, without a moment’s notice and with the help of a handful of servants who seemed to regard her more as a maiden aunt than their employer, she laid out a dinner on the ducal table that was better than anything he was served in the dining hall at Middle Court, and in a warm, comfortable atmosphere that he had never before encountered at Hunsdon House. How had she done it?
The Delaval children were, by nature of the early loss of their mother and the acquisition of a stepmother none of them liked, prone to be distrustful, haughty, and very often disobedient. Yet Camilla had insisted that Amaranthe come up to the nursery and tell her the story of Beowulf before bed. The lure of a story about monsters had drawn Ned immediately, and Hugh, who considered himself far too old for the nursery or for fairy tales, had gone with them.
Leaving Mal to sit in the old duke’s study with the household account books and wonder what the hell to do next.
A knock sounded on the door, and Ralph opened it. “Miss Illingworth, sir.”
Behind him, Miss Illingworth smiled to herself at Ralph’s dignified manner, a small, amused, smile, and Mal stared. Had he thought she was plain?
“Ralph, have you any experience as a butler?” she asked as she entered.
“None at all, miss, I regret to say.”
“Perhaps you might be underbutler, then, and train up when we find a new butler,” Mal said.
Ralph, with a dazed expression, inclined his head and closed the door. Miss Amaranthe stared at the portal as if debating whether to open it again.
“Children abed?” Mal asked.
“So it would seem.” She glanced at the desk. “Ralph said he brought you the butler’s account books.” She showed him the leather-bound volume in her arms. “I found the housekeeper’s.”
Mal continued to stare. Her hair had loosened from its stern arrangement, forming a dark, soft halo about her face. The tresses, dark brown instead of true black, gleamed like silk. Her features were delicately drawn yet at the same time strong, her nose a pronounced slope, her chin pointed, her eyes large and wide set. Her skin was as smooth as porcelain, with a warm sepia tint, and her eyes held a dark gleam offset by thick lashes.
