Page 168 of The Ladies Least Likely
He hadn’t wanted her for his career to begin with. He wanted her for his heart. For his life, his bed, his drawing room. His companion on this difficult journey.
“Will you look at the time,” Mal said woodenly. “I must go. I have to consult with the barrister who will argue for us on Tuesday.”
“Of course.” Her eyes were wide and hurt. He kicked himself for the impulse to gather her into his arms. His foolish heart had not yet accepted the ruling of his brain. The only possible path lay before him, yet he could not seem to make his feet move and take him away from her.
“Could you—would you allow me to call on the children?” Her voice sounded so small and full of despair, as if she knew what he would say.
His heart tore further, but there was only one answer he could give, as their guardian and protector.
“Given the circumstances that have already cut up their peace, I think it would be wise if they have no further associations with someone who is thieving from their house. You may have Joseph return the manuscript when you are finished with it.”
That rather sounded like he was giving her permission to make all the books she liked. But he had to bar her fromHunsdon House. He had forbid Sybil the house after she stole from them, forcing the duchess to lodge with sympathetic friends. Amaranthe was stealing from the dukedom, too.
She said nothing more, but held herself very still as he stepped around her to the door. There he paused.
“Why did you not tell me everything from the beginning?”
She bent her head, and that admission of guilt lashed him more than anything else. She knew she had done wrong and covered one lie with another.
“I knew, once you found out, you would never want to see me again.” Her voice that had always been so calm, practical, strategizing, and intelligent, broke with tears. “And I—very much—wanted to see more of you.”
He was at the front door, exiting onto the stoop, when he thought he heard a low sob. The sound rent his heart completely.
He was protecting the children from someone who meant to steal from them. Who meant to take advantage of what the Hunsdon estate could offer. Just like Sybil. That was the only thought that finally forced him to close the door and walk down George Court, away from her. He did it, but he left his heart behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tuesday promised to be a warm late spring day. In his small rooms on the Strand, Mal freshened his periwig with white powder and selected a suit that was elegant and subdued, somber enough to be in line with the barristers and judges of the court in their wigs and the black robes of office. He might be called as a witness, but he might have to rely entirely on his barrister, Rosenfeld, to make his case before the presiding judge. Whatever went forward this day was out of his hands, and Mal didn’t like surrendering control to others.
He paused at his regular coffee shop to imbibe a black, bitter cup and asked the serving boy if he’d seen Viktor Vierling of late.
“Said ’e was off to Scotland to visit relatives, a few days past,” the boy replied, placing a cup before Mal that steamed with heat. “What’s a Hessian got Scottish relatives for, I wants to know?”
So Viktor had something up his bright red sleeve all along, Mal thought as he strolled down the Strand, hearing the lions roar from their cage in the Exchange. Mal had supposed them friends, and yet Viktor hadn’t seen fit to tell him he had any interest in Miss Pettigrew, nor any intention to turn Illingworth’s expectations on their head.
Still, Joseph should take the rejection in a more manful style. No more drowning his sorrows in drink and starting mills at the pub. Take it on the chin that his lady was false. Mal had.
He couldn’t think about Amaranthe or her betrayal. It felt like a bright, hot blade had sunk into his chest and lodged there.
Chancery proceedings took place in the great hall of Westminster, long the seat of British political power. As Mal strolled through White Hall and down Parliament Street, he watched the ships’ masts moving along the river and the traffic roving back and forth on Westminster Bridge. This part of London, closest to the river, reminded him most of Bristol. When he stayed at Hunsdon House he felt in another world entirely, far away from his roots and what he knew.
As the tall spires of Westminster Abbey came into view, he thought of how much Amaranthe would appreciate the Gothic design and the soaring stained-glass windows reaching toward heaven. No, he must stop thinking about Amaranthe. That way lay madness and bitter regret. He’d best make a clean break, strike her entirely from his mind.
He tried to do just that as he entered the long hall of Westminster with its vast interior space and hammer-beam ceiling, a marvel of medieval architecture. Stalls selling trinkets and other goods lined the interior, and he headed for the screened-off courtroom where his case was to be heard.
“So the wastrel makes his appearance.”
Sybil sat in one of the pews, advantageously close to the judge’s chair and with a view of the room in whole. Popplewell perched beside her, wigged and nervous. The light filtering through the windows did not fall kindly upon the duchess. Her face was pale with lead paint, her cheeks unnaturally red, her powdered white hair piled high. She wore a flamboyant robe à la Turque in red silk. As Mal watched she held up an enameled snuffbox, opened it, raised a pinch to each nostril and sniffeddramatically, then flourished a handkerchief and dabbed at her nose and lip. Her dainty theatrics drew every male eye in the room and made sure her insult lingered in the air.
“Sybil,” Mal said, foregoing all courtesy. She was technically his stepmother, so he could claim familiarity, if not affection. “I’d heard you took flight to the Continent with a lover far beneath you in quality. What a surprise to find you here, with Popplewell in your train.”
The steward shifted in his seat. His eyes, made overlarge by his spectacles, held alarm, and he clutched his walking stick as if it would provide defense.
“I’d heardyouleft town in the company of someone far beneath you,” Sybil shot back. “I see the little mouse followed you here. She must be a very desperate spinster to toss her scarf at a bastard like you.”
Mal turned and spotted Amaranthe in the very back pew. Her hair was unpowdered and with her simple straw bonnet and grey pelisse she did indeed look unassuming. But no one with eyes could call her a mouse.
His heart rose and slammed against his ribs in a whirl of conflicting emotions: gratitude that she was here, indignation that she was intruding on his thoughts and his life when he was determined to forget about her, and outrage that she was alone. But then he recalled a man he’d thought was Davey strolling about the booths in the hall.
