Page 137 of The Ladies Least Likely
“By all means,” Hugh said, taking the reproof in stride. “Miss Illingworth, please advise us how we may demonstrate our gratitude for the very great service you have done us all.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. Amaranthe swilled the last of her wine and cleared her throat.
“I would like to borrow the manuscript that Ned found. For a short time,” she said. “I wish the liberty to read it through, and it’s rather a weighty tome.”
Best make no mention of the plan she was forming to copy out parts of it and sell them separately. Alchemical treatises, astrological tracts, and arcane medical lore fetched very dear prices in certain specialty shops. She could envision the look on Mr. Karim’s face when she mentioned she’d found theBook of Secretshe coveted. That, and more.
Much as she adored Mr. Karim, it was time to start establishing networks and contacts of her own. This book gave her the power to do so.
But somehow, Grey’s ice-blue eyes, riveted to her face, told her he would not approve of her methods.
“You wish to read it!” Ned exclaimed. “Allof it?”
“It’s an unusual book,” Amaranthe said. “Someone went to a great deal of trouble to find rare and arcane treatises, some of them now lost or impossible to locate, and then bound the copies into an organized collection. I believe it’s of great interest, and possibly great value.”
The young duke brightened. “How much value?” he asked.
“I cannot yet say, but I can show it to Mr. Karim and some other antiquarian booksellers I know.”
Malden’s face grew shadowed and he looked away, avoiding her eyes. Amaranthe’s stomach, filled with wine, sloshed uncomfortably. She couldn’t shake the certainty that he knew what she planned to do with that book.
Somehow he’d discovered she was a thief and a liar. That she copied manuscripts that weren’t hers and sold her copies under the noses of their owners, enriching herself at their expense. If he had found out, he could expose her. There would be fines, possibly time in the bridewell for such subterfuge, if not worse punishment. Even small robberies could be hanging offenses under English law.
“In that case,” Hugh said, “I should be happy to let you have a look at it. You can tell us if there is, say, enough of value to—” He glanced at his sister. “Ah, remedy our current financial situation.”
“You mean how we’re broke because Sybil took all the money,” Camilla said matter-of-factly, helping herself to the last of the buttered prawns.
“Yes, that,” Hugh muttered, looking at his plate.
Amaranthe didn’t take the opportunity to remind Camilla she should address her stepmother by her title, despite herfeelings. She had been granted access to this priceless book, but the victory felt hollow.
Grey wouldn’t extend an offer of marriage—if offer it was—to a woman he knew to be a thief and a liar. If he suspected her of forgery, the last she’d see of Malden Grey was him hauling her before a magistrate.
The thought of the possible consequences for her crimes ought to terrify her more than the knowledge that Grey wouldn’t want to marry her if the truth were known. But the thought of losing his regard hurt Amaranthe more than anything else.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mal walked up and down George Court several times before he gathered the courage to rap on Amaranthe’s door with his walking stick. After some time the portal opened to reveal a slender young woman. She had the same dark curling hair and wide-set eyes as Amaranthe, but she wasn’t the woman he wanted.
“Is Amaranthe at home?”
His voice sounded hoarse. He was as anxious as a schoolboy. He realized he ought to call her Miss Illingworth; she hadn’t given him permission to use her given name.
The woman laid a finger against her lips, indicating silence, and led him down the short hallway. The small house was as neat and welcoming as he remembered. Not as grand as Hunsdon House, not nearly, but a far sight more comfortable than the bachelor’s quarters he kept above a shop in the Strand. There was a calm, lovely quiet about the place. Much like its mistress.
He paused at the door of the parlor and stared in. Amaranthe sat at her desk, bent toward her easel, completely absorbed in her work. She wore a shapeless, shabby robe and house slippers, and her hair frizzed in a delicate halo about her head. Richafternoon light gilded the back of her neck and the elegant curve of her cheek. She held a small knife in her left hand and a goose feather quill in her right, which she dipped into a small pot of paint and used to scratch on the parchment. A small exclamation followed, and she employed the knife to scrape away an error, then applied the paint again.
“I am sorry to bother you.”
His voice broke the silence and her concentration. Hewassorry to bother her, but not sorry to be here. He wanted to take a seat and watch her for hours. The mere sight of her soothed the ache that plagued him.
She placed the quill in the inkpot and lifted her eyes to his. Her face made a new ache begin, one stranger and deeper.
“I told Inez I am not at home to visitors.”
“I made her admit me.” Not true; the girl had let him in readily. He wondered why. “We haven’t seen you for four days.”
She moved the shawl draped over the back of her chair to the table beside her, covering its surface. He might be mistaken, but he thought he glimpsed the edge-bitten binding of the book that had come from Hunsdon House.
