Page 116 of The Ladies Least Likely
Amaranthe stepped back, flustered. No one in her life, not since her mother died, had been close enough to note such an intimate detail about her person. No man, not even her brother, had ever showed interest in the composition of her eyes.
Eyde sailed in cradling an exquisite ribboned cap along with a set of cream-colored kid gloves. “Flam-new!” she exclaimed. “It be a shame not to sport un, miss.”
She perched the cap atop Amaranthe’s high wig, fixing it in place with a firm shove of a hatpin. Then she stepped back and blinked her eyelashes rapidly, reminding Amaranthe of her task.
“Shoo,” Amaranthe said. “You may trust I’ll broach the subject with Mr. Grey in due time.”
Eyde bobbed the briefest curtsy and left. Grey raised his eyebrows.
“My staff want an opportunity to review any servants we hire and ensure they will properly execute their duties,” she explained. “They have taken a proprietary interest in the house, as well as a personal interest in the welfare of your wards.”
“And in finding a governess!” sang a voice from outside the room that sounded very like Lady Camilla. “Who knows LatinandGreek!”
Grey’s lips twitched with humor, and Amaranthe smiled in helpless response. Oh, but the fascination was stronger, here in the light of day. Spending time with this man, in this gown, was dangerous to her good sense. With his walking stick and hat,his easy assurance and good humor, he was another step yet from the arrogant cad who’d barreled into her house yesterday. Now he was making headway into her approval, and that simply would not do.
He held out his arm to escort her from the room, and Amaranthe hesitated. She had never had an escort. As a girl she’d had playmates and tagged along after Joseph. Under Reuben’s roof, whether due to her state of dependence or Reuben’s forbidding nature, she had never been courted. She and Joseph rubbed along fairly well as long as she was allowed her pursuits and he his. But she did not circulate among social circles, and for a gentleman to hold out his arm to her—that was new.
She slid her hand about his elbow, and something slipped into place. She felt the same eager anticipation as when she opened a new manuscript, knowing the beauties and the oddities and the discoveries that awaited.
She pushed the feeling away. She had a series of tasks before her, and only one of them was to equip the ducal house with servants. The other was, somehow, to keep Malden Grey from learning too much about her work. The closer he drew, the greater the risk. She could not afford to lose her head simply because she was wearing a gorgeous gown.
The matronof the Sisters of Benevolence Hospital for Orphans and Women in Distressed Circumstances supplied almost all of Amaranthe’s needs in a short span of time. The Hospital prided itself on training its residents for careers, and many of them entered service. The name of Miss Gregoire served better than guineas to smooth Amaranthe’s way; Miss Gregoire was a founder and patroness, and Amaranthe needed only tomention she had attended her academy for young ladies to be welcomed with the utmost warmth.
Before she left she had a complete roster of parlormaids, chambermaids, kitchen maids, a scullery maid, a tweenie, and a nursemaid. She lacked only a housekeeper—a position that usually required some experience—and a butler and footmen, since the Sisters of Benevolence served women and young orphans. But the matron gave her the name of a hiring agency where several previous beneficiaries of the Sisters’ benevolence had found positions, and Amaranthe suspected she would be just as well supplied if she mentioned the magical name of Miss Gregoire there, too.
“I don’t know how to begin to thank you,” Amaranthe said in gratitude as the matron blew on her list of names to dry the ink, then handed the paper to Amaranthe. They sat in a cozy parlor set back from the street, off a small garden that ran alongside the main entrance. Herbs grew in tidy beds framed by ornamental flowers, and now and again a girl walked by alone or with a set of children, all of them in crisp undyed linen, clean and shod. It was Amaranthe’s first glimpse of the Benevolence Hospital, and she could see Miss Gregoire’s quiet influence on the place.
“Only tell us how the girls get on, and let us know if there are any problems,” the matron said. She replaced her pen in its stand and rose, shaking out her apron. Amaranthe thought her young to have a position of responsibility over at least a hundred residents and staff, but her demeanor was one of unassailable calm.
“Of course,” Amaranthe answered. “But do you ask no placement fee, or otherwise?” Perhaps she would have to ask Miss Gregoire what was necessary.
The matron’s smile held boundless compassion, humor, wisdom, and a steel backbone beneath it all. “If a donation comes our way that supports the work of the Hospital, wewould of course be grateful, Miss Illingworth,” she said. “Each according to his need, and each according to his means.”
Amaranthe nodded. She didn’t know how they were to negotiate wages for the new staff, but Grey had promised to work that out in his visit to the solicitor. Hopefully he would meet her with good news, and they could spend the day preparing Hunsdon House, and the children, to welcome their new servants.
That left her one more day to finish her quest through the ducal library. She hoped Joseph, who was due to present himself that morning to tutor the duke and his brother, would prove of use in this. And that the watchful and, she feared, all too intelligent Malden Grey would not guess how she had set out to deceive him.
Mal had a frustrating morning.He had hoped setting Hunsdon House in order was a task he could make short work of. But Mr. Coutts, the banker, proved less than illuminating on the subject of returning to financial solvency. With the income from the second quarter having evaporated, the only means of finding funds was sale of property, which Grey did not have the authority to do.
With an apologetic cough, Mr. Coutts suggested the possibility of a small, discreet loan, but that line of inquiry ended with the subject of collateral. Mal had nothing of his own to forfeit. He let his rooms, lived as modestly as he could in order to invest in his appearance as a gentleman, and had no savings. He had spent everything in preparing for the bar, and with his father the old duke dead, there was no one left to pull the strings of preferment on Mal’s behalf. He could languish for years in the Middle Temple before the Benchers called him.
“Are there other professions you might consider?” Mr. Coutts inquired.
“The Household Cavalry,” Mal said gloomily, getting to his feet. “The Grenadier Guards. The King at least pays a decent salary.”
“You would cut a fine figure in the uniform,” Mr. Coutts agreed.
Mal jammed his hat on his head as he strode into the street, looking for the curricle. It had seemed wise to take the lighter, two-wheeled carriage for his errands with Miss Illingworth that day. But the lack of space obliged Miss Illingworth to sit quite close to him, her silk skirts spilling over his leg, his elbow occasionally brushing hers when he pulled back on the reins, and that had proved a very distracting prospect.
A trio of women emerged from a shop across the street, pausing to watch as Mal leapt into his vehicle, and they giggled when he glanced their way. He tipped his hat out of habit, but today the female attention annoyed him. All anyone seemed to think he was good for was lounging about well-dressed and occasionally saying something droll.
He was stuck without hope of professional advancement. He was such a terrible half-brother that his siblings had been abandoned in their own home and he hadn’t known it. And now he didn’t have the first clue how to resolve the situation Sybil had left them in. Were he anything more than a bastard—if he had a title to throw around, itself collateral for any loan; if he had property, savings, anything of his own—they wouldn’t be in this quandary. He’d never felt so useless in his life.
He wondered if Miss Illingworth was one of those women who went soft-headed over a man in uniform, but that line of thought was unproductive, and he pushed it aside. He would rather be appreciated for his intellect and his accomplishments, rather than his looks.
And while he’d glimpsed a glimmer of appreciation in her eyes when they met in the parlor at Hunsdon House that morning, Miss Illingworth didn’t seem the type to be impressed by appearances. She had far too exacting a mind.
Mal fell into a brown study as the carriage bumped along the crowded, noisy Strand back to Middle Temple, where he entered the Hall to find the barrister and friend who had taken on his guardianship case. Rosenfeld was engaged with other pleaders and students in a lively debate taking place over several pints of ale, but he allowed Mal to draw him off for a stroll through the gardens and a consultation.
