Page 120 of The Ladies Least Likely
“You leapt in to help my brothers and sister on the basis of no prior acquaintance,” Mal said. “At the notion of hiring staff, you went immediately to a charitable institution that places orphans into service. And you mentioned you left Cornwall around six years ago, which I am guessing is the age of your maid’s daughter. Very few employers keep a servant who comes burdened with a child.”
Her gaze fell to the liquid in her cup, lips pursed as she blew on the warm liquid. “It is not a remarkable inclination,” she observed. “To help people in need.”
“It’s why I chose the law,” Mal blurted. There it was: her eyes on him again, quizzical, interested. He wanted to hold her attention.
“Parliament makes the laws, but it comes to justices and magistrates to find remedies for errors in the application of them. The decisions of judges can have great power for justice. Look at the Somerset ruling and the profound effect it has had. If Parliament cannot bring itself to pass legislation, then it falls to judges to ensure only just laws are upheld.” He faltered as her look grew sharp, interested. “I only mean to say?—”
“You have a real interest in the law after all,” she said quietly. “I misjudged you, Mr. Grey.”
“Call me Mal. Please.”
“Far too forward.” Her gaze fell again. He watched the sweep of her long, dark eyelashes on that soft cheek and his fingers itched to follow. He curled both hands around his coffee cup to keep them in place.
He was already using her Christian name in his head. He’d known her less than a day, but the hours they’d spent together made her feel familiar. He had more insight into her history and character than with many casual acquaintances he’d known for years.
And nothing he’d seen so far suggested she might engage in illicit activities.
He swallowed the rest of his coffee, letting the hot liquid refresh his brain. “So it remains to hire the most expensive servants. But without any ready source of income to cover their salary.”
Briefly he related the gist of his conversation with Rosenfeld, who had suggested it might take some time to grant Mal provisional guardianship of the children, and with Mr. Coutts, who was prepared to stand a loan provided Mal had some guarantee he would ever be in a position to repay it.
She remained silent for a moment, those lovely eyes veiled. “I may be able to propose something,” she said at last.
“We can’t sell off things from the house.” Most of the valuable ornaments were gone already, and the furnishings and fixtures belonged to Hunsdon.
Her eyes narrowed. “The children need to eat, Mr. Grey.”
He wrestled down his pride, which took an effort. “What do you propose?”
“I suggest you visit the hiring agency the matron told me about and arrange for a handful of prospects to come interview at the house. In the meantime, if you drop me at my house, I will look into—a matter there. You may meet me at Mr. Karim’sbookshop when you are free. It is in Queen’s Head Passage, just off Paternoster Row.”
“The Moor’s bookshop?” He startled at the name, with which he had but recently become acquainted.
Her eyes flashed with anger, and color rose in her cheek. “If you are reluctant to patronize the premises of a Moor, as you call him, you may of course wait for me outside.”
She was beautiful in her wrath, like an avenging goddess of old. Mal decided it was not time to bring up Mr. Thorkelson, his weighty file, his interesting intelligence.
In the course of appraising the estate of a recently deceased scholar, Thorkelsons & Son had been assured that a certain very old and very valuable manuscript, the pride of the scholar’s collection, was the only such copy in existence. Mr. Thorkelson asked Mal to consider his surprise, then, when another client of theirs boasted shortly thereafter of having procured the single existing copy of the same work. Tracing this second manuscript had led Mr. Thorkelson to the bookshop of one Mr. Karim, commonly known as the Moor, who revealed that he had been furnished this valuable and unique manuscript by one Miss Amaranthe Illingworth.
Mr. Thorkelson had seen no reason to bring this troubling coincidence to light, since, he said blandly, the only possible consequence could be discomfiture for all parties involved. Mal promised to look into the matter himself.
Which, as someone who interested himself in the law, he was rather obliged to do. At some point, the rare book world being small and the supply of medieval manuscripts even smaller, the duplicate was bound to be discovered by others, and inquiries would be made. Mal wanted to know Amaranthe’s role in all this before it came to such a point, so he could protect her.
That realization shocked him so profoundly that, having pulled the curricle into the narrow alley of George Court—muchto the chagrin of the pedestrians using the corridor, many of whom shouted or threw him looks of umbrage—Mal sat frozen for a moment instead of helping Amaranthe down. He’d gone from thinking her a forger to wanting to protect her, all in the matter of an hour or two?
No, he suspected shewasa forger, but he wanted to protect her nonetheless.
She untied the ribbons of her bonnet, preparing to go inside, and Mal watched greedily as she uncovered her thick, lustrous coils of hair. It had been so long since he’d been fascinated by a woman that he’d forgotten to guard himself against the thought-scattering power of flashing eyes, garden scents rising from silken skin, and bewitching masses of gleaming hair. He speculated on the length of it, guessing that once unpinned that gorgeous hair reached all the way to her?—
“Queen’s Head Passage,” she reminded him as if he were daft, which he was well on his way to becoming.
“How will you get there?” It was a good two miles from her home back to the middle of the City.
“Walk, or take a chair.” Her wariness changed to concern. “You do feel confident in hiring servants, yes?”
“I feel confident in having them come to the house so you might interview them,” he admitted.
He’d never in his life had servants. The coaching inn where he grew up had employed plenty of boys, all of whom would have beaten Mal to a pulp if he tried to lord it over them. At school he was expected to turn himself out to the satisfaction of the schoolmaster or there was hell to pay in the form of rapped knuckles, a caned backside, or the task of cleaning the privies. Even in his own apartments he saw no need for a valet, though several of his friends, like Viktor, swore they could not live without a manservant.
