Page 110 of The Ladies Least Likely
He would be a profound idiot not to notice this woman, on the street or anywhere else.
Hiding his temporary loss of intellect, Mal turned to the inset shelves behind the desk. True to his father’s taste, the shelves in his personal space, a combination refuge and workroom, were lined not with books but with oddments obtained from his various travels, arranged next to his assortment of pipes and his selection of spirits. Mal noticed belatedly that many of the small figurines that he had hitherto ignored were of a lewd quality, most lacking clothing, many in suggestive positions. He hoped Miss Illingworth would not notice.
“Spirits?” He held up a bottle filled with a glimmering liquid.
“Perhaps a spot of Canary wine, if you have it. But only a splash. I haven’t drunk this much wine since…” She stopped abruptly.
“Since?” he prompted.
“In quite a while.” She laid her volume on the corner of the long table that served as a desk and pulled one of the crimson upholstered chairs close. Her gaze flickered over the figurines, then to her task. He should have known that Miss Illingworth would notice. She seemed one of those women who noticed everything. But she merely smiled again, a small tug at the side of her prim, plum-colored mouth.
Miss Illingworth had a delicious mouth. Mal poured wine for her and a liberal splash of brandy for himself.
“Shall we do this tonight, then?” At her inquiring look, he indicated the volumes laid side by side on the leather tabletop. “Go over the account books, I mean.”
“We needn’t go into detail, if you don’t wish, but you must have a notion of what you can offer to pay if you are hoping to engage servants. And I should think this the first task, given what’s happened.”
She sat, and as Mal seated himself also, he realized she had brought her chair too close. It was not an unseemly distance, by any means—he sat at the long side of the table, she the short—yet he could smell her scent, the warm, rich scent of an English garden in high summer. Good Lord. How was supposed to focus on numbers and not her polished skin, the fine hairs waving about her very intelligent head, the shape of that very intriguing mouth?
His brain had been disordered by the rude surprises of the day. Mal swallowed the brandy in his glass and stood for more.
“That bad?” She watched him pour.
He sat again, the words jolting out of him. “There’s no money.”
She lifted her eyebrows. They were dark brows, delicately arched, prim yet enchanting as the rest of her, hinting at secrets buried below the surface. Everything about Miss Illingworth called for a closer investigation.
“No money,” she repeated, “or no income?”
He set his glass on the table with a thunk. “Sybil cut sticks with everything due us for the second quarter. The income from the estates, the income set aside for the household, the trust money for the children. My allowance,” he added. “Gone.”
She folded her hands on the table and tapped a knuckle with an index finger. “Can you borrow against the third quarter income?”
“I can talk to Mr. Coutts, the banker. I don’t see any other option. Unless we try to sell movables from the house, but it appears that Sybil and Popplewell already took their pick of those as well.”
“How much debt is the estate in already?”
How very rational and calm she was being. Then again, it was not her livelihood stolen. She would return to her snug house and her inks and parchment and her servants who looked after her with capable ease.
And her brother, whom Mal knew next to nothing about.
According to Hugh, their tutor arrived at the appointed times and discharged his duties in unobjectionable fashion, but he had seemed distracted of late and in haste to leave when their tasks were complete. Was Joseph Illingworth complicit in the robbery that had befallen the estate? And if so, how much did his sister know about it?
An absurd conclusion. She would not be sitting here asking probing questions about the state of the ducal finances if her brother had abetted a scheme to abscond with Hunsdon’s liquid assets.
Unless she were attempting to cover his tracks. Or looking for access to other assets as well.
More than absurd, Mal scolded himself. She was merely the sister of the tutor. She had stepped in to help them out of the goodness of her heart and a womanly instinct of pity for the children who had turned up at her door.
And she told him very little about her past when he questioned her.
How intriguing to meet a woman of reserve. The females of his acquaintance tended to be extremely forthcoming.
“It is good of you to help us.” He set aside his glass.
The candles flickering on the side table needed trimming, but Mal was reluctant to call Ralph. He liked having her alone with him in the warm, dim study, hushed in shadows. He might better discover her secrets this way.
“I like solving problems.” She opened the housekeeper’s account book and turned her attention to it. “This isn’t the worst I’ve faced.”
