Page 143 of The Ladies Least Likely
“Grey, you worthless sot!” The tall soldier from the coffee shop strolled up the cobbled mews, his sword banging lightly against his legs. “Lighting out for the country? What, are you avoiding a duel? Escaping creditors? Ah, I see—carrying away beautiful young ladies. I always knew that buttoned-up demeanor was an act.”
“Viktor! What in God’s name are you doing here?” Grey exclaimed. “Aren’t you supposed to be on parade or some such, showing off that expensive uniform?”
“Here to send you off, old man.” Grey’s friend removed the tall cap and became ten times more handsome without it, his eyes alight with mischief, his sharp features thrown into relief. He flipped the black cape over his broad shoulders and his eyes flickered around the group, taking them all in. “Where did you say you were headed?”
“Callington, Cornwall. We’re escorting Illingworth and Miss Pettigrew to Bristol. Miss Pettigrew, this is Viktor Vierling of the Horse Guards, the unremarkable son of a?—”
“We’ve met.” Miss Pettigrew’s voice was high and strained. She held her valise to her middle and watched Vierling as if he were the devil incarnate. Joseph looked up in surprise from his task of triple-checking that Davey had properly secured the luggage.
“Oh?” Grey recovered quickly. “Then I give you Mr. Joseph Illingworth, the boys’ tutor. Miss Illingworth you’ve met. And you’ll recall my siblings, the Duke of Hunsdon, Lord Edward, Lady Camilla.”
“We’ve met as well,” Camilla said somberly, regarding Vierling with wide eyes and an expression as alarmed and interested as Miss Pettigrew’s. Hugh inclined his head while Ned stuck out his hand with an unabashed grin.
“Smashing uniform! Suppose I should go into the Horse Guards, Grey?”
“If you want to do nothing better with your time than polish buttons and march in parade,” Grey said. “Study the lessons Illingworth sets you and you might aspire to more, I hope.”
“So Bristol is where your people are, Miss Pettigrew?” Viktor drawled, giving the blonde girl a careless smile.
“My parents live nearby.” The girl was all nerves. “Mr. Illingworth intends to ask their permission to marry me.”
“Thought Friends weren’t supposed to marry outside of the clan,” Vierling said. “Quakers for Quakers, that sort of thing.”
“Mr. Illingworth is willing to convert.”
Amaranthe’s head snapped up and she nearly fell off the step. Grey steadied her and she leaned against the warm, strong expanse of him. She wasn’t against Quakers, by any means, but Joseph had said nothing to her about converting. The news stung like a betrayal. What else did she not know about her brother?
She’d chided Joseph for not seeing what was going on under his nose at Hunsdon House as the servants fled and the children went hungry. But what was going on under her own nose that she’d missed? She dove into the cab, hiding a face burning with shame.
“You might take the children out for some amusement while I’m gone,” Grey said to Vierling, holding the door to the carriage. “Miss Illingworth thinks they would fancy Leverton’s collection at Leicester House.”
“Dusty old artifacts aren’t much in my style,” Vierling drawled. “Astley’s Circus, perhaps, or the menagerie at Exeter ’Change, children?”
“Lions and tigers? Indeed, yes!” Ned’s face lit up. “Grey says he can hear the big cats roaring when he walks down the Strand. They scare the horses.”
“Run along then and leave the darlings to me,” Vierling said. “And if you come back married, do send me a card, Mal. Miss Illingworth.” His head appeared in the window of the coach, giving her a rakish smile as he lifted his cap. Amaranthe jumped with surprise.
Married! Is that what Grey had told his friends about his reasons for this journey?
“You’ve met Captain Vierling before?” Amaranthe inquired when Miss Pettigrew joined her in the carriage.
The girl flashed her a startled, unsettled look. “Yes, Miss Illingworth,” she said. “In passing.”
Her companion settled herself with a great deal of fuss, smoothing her skirts, patting her hair, and making sure her bonnet was positioned just so. It was rather a large bonnet, and Amaranthe feared she would end up with a hat brim in the eye at some point in their journey.
“You will call me Amaranthe, I hope,” she said. “If we’re to be sisters.”
“Oh.” The girl’s face still wore that wary look, as if taken back that Amaranthe should make overtures of friendship. “I am Miss Pettigrew.”
And that was the most she said to Amaranthe as the chaise rolled out of the mews and set off down Oxford Street toward the Great Western Road to Bristol. Getting acquainted with Miss Pettigrew was going to be much more difficult than Amaranthe had thought.
She’d been looking forward to this trip, her first holiday away from London since they’d moved here—her first holiday since her parents died, in fact. It had seemed full of promise and delight as she packed, thinking about getting to know her brother’s future wife, spending more time with Grey.
But now she realized that Joseph was moving away from her, making decisions about his life that did not include her. It did not seem that his future wife liked Amaranthe very much.
And Grey—he had never been hers to begin with. This trip was a stolen interlude, but it would change nothing. She had given him the only answer she possibly could to his proposal, or to any man’s. When they returned, Grey would move on to the rest of his life and he would be lost to her, too.
And what would she be left with then?
