Page 126 of The Ladies Least Likely
“Three bob, miss! Lovely, are’em?”
“They look delicious,” Amaranthe agreed, probing her pocket. She didn’t dare give the girl as much as guinea for fear of exposing her to thieves, but she did have some smaller coins. “What’s a Cornish party like yourself doing upcountry, I ask?”
“Aree fah!” the girl cried, smiling widely. “Where you to, then?”
“Callington,” Amaranthe said, and laid two crowns in the girl’s upturned palm. “For you and your family, mind.”
“Right proper, miss,” the girl breathed, handing over a dozen oranges. Her gaze lit on Grey.
“All right, me ’andsome! Violets for your trouble? Lavender for your strife? You’ve a maid worth the wooing, I might say.” She whistled to two other girls, even younger in age, being spurned by the impatient passersby they tried to interest in their own baskets.
“I’m not his wife.” Amaranthe laughed, dispensing pennies to the two younger girls in return for a small, fresh bouquet of violets and lavender and a set of shy thanks. Their sweet, canny faces pinched her heart. She’d been a pampered darling at their age, and only later learned what a woman must do to survive in a trade.
“Hear me now. You’re a long way from our fair land, and if you ever need a friend, look you for Miss Illingworth in George Court, just off Rupert Street.”
“Get on, you!” The orange girl waved with admiration as Mal urged the horses to walk on. “We won’t forget that, miss.”
“Your accent comes out when you speak with them,” Mal observed as the costermongers returned to their work. “As it does with your servants.”
“You can take the cheel from Kernow, but not the Kernowak from the cheel,” Amaranthe said, tucking her oranges into her bag. At his puzzled look, she smiled slightly. “Cornish. It’s a dying language, I fear.”
Mal set their course for Hanover Square. “If I were to marry, and be called to the Bench, I would be able to support a wife to pursue whatever scholarly inclinations she wished.” He cast her a sidewise look.
“Don’t be daft,” Amaranthe said. “Though you’ll think I am, when I tell you how much Mr. Karim paid for mySecretorum.”
“How much?” he asked.
She told him.
“And how did you come by a copy of the Secret of Secrets?”
His profile was as hard as the marbled façade of St. Paul’s, and Amaranthe’s stomach twisted. He was a man who had chosen the law for his profession. He would not lightly dismiss the skirting of it.
“A previous employer of Joseph’s.” That was more or less true. “They permitted me to make a copy for my own reference.” That was patently untrue. The library would never have allowed the borrowing if they’d known what she was about, and Joseph would have frowned upon her thievery, too.
“And you sold it for our benefit. That is indeed very kind in you.” A muscle jumped in his jaw, as if he were grinding his teeth together. “I will, of course, repair your loss at the earliest opportunity. I ought to have bought your produce from the costermongers as well.”
“Those were purchases of my own,” Amaranthe said coolly. “Derwa adores oranges, and I might use the rinds for any number of things.”
“Of course,” he said. “But you paid those girls enough to feed themselves and their families for a fortnight. Largesse seems to be a habit of yours.”
He was sunk in bitterness, she could see. Perhaps his male pride was offended that she had succeeded in raising money where he had not. Well, it was a very stupid male who didn’tacknowledge that his life ran on and because of female labor, beginning with the one who had birthed him.
They rode in silence back to Hunsdon House, with Mal muttering only under his breath now and again, “Married!” as if the condition were a curse. The bumpy road jostled them together often, his firm leg pressing against her skirts, his hard shoulder and arm occasionally pressing against her side. Amaranthe allowed that she was only human and couldn’t help the warmth that shot through her every time their bodies touched.
But she was not the type to take fancies into her head. Malden Grey was not for her, and the sooner she could escape his company, the better for her peace of mind and heart.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Amaranthe was welcomed back to Hunsdon House as if she were the mistress of it. Mal stopped the carriage before the broad white portico and growled, “Wait!” while he gave the reins to a street boy, circled the vehicle, and held out an arm to help her down. Ralph opened the front door as she reached it.
“Miss Illingworth,” he greeted her, his expression eager. Ralph would have to work hard to cultivate the classic sneer of the English butler.
“Is Mr. Illingworth here?” she asked, untying her bonnet.
“The library. Mrs. Blackthorn is preparing a tea tray for the young gentlemen. I can arrange for her to make you up one as well.”
Amaranthe handed Ralph her produce and proceeded first to her room, where she would set aside her bonnet and gloves and change into her house slippers. She wanted comfortable shoes while she gave her brother the dressing down he deserved.
