Page 104 of The Ladies Least Likely

She appeared in the doorway of the parlor wearing a faded day gown.

She’d removed her cap and gloves. Her curly hair frizzed in soft puffs about her head.

Violet hollows made her eyes look huge in her face.

He itched to put his hands on her, but whether he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, or put his fingers around her neck, he wasn’t quite sure.

“I have not seen you in days.” The words leapt from him, an accusation he hadn’t meant to make. He’d meant to be nonchalant, insouciant. Just in the neighborhood, passing through.

Her lips turned downward. “Joseph—hasn’t been well. I have my hands full with him when he’s here, so I must work when he’s away tutoring.”

“The children keep asking for you. They want to hear every detail of your travels.” He wanted to hear it, too. What she and his aunt Beatrice had talked about after he left. How she had fared on her return to London. What she meant to do next.

“I haven’t had time for social calls, I’m afraid.”

“Is it true that Viktor absconded with Miss Pettigrew?”

“I was hoping you might tell me.” She stepped into the room, and her scent surrounded him. Pull her into his arms and kiss her; that’s what he wanted to do.

“I haven’t seen Viktor since I returned, nor heard tell of him. He may very well have eloped, though how he met Miss Pettigrew, I can’t begin to imagine.”

“Who she chose doesn’t really matter. All that concerns us is that she did not choose Joseph.” She kneaded her forehead with a wince of pain.

No, he wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and shake her. Why didn’t she come to him for help? Why didn’t she tell him Joseph was blue-deviled? He stepped toward her, but she drew herself up, straightening her shoulders, and he halted. He couldn’t bear it if she stepped away.

“Tell me what’s happening with the duchess.”

“My charming stepmother Sybil—” he spat the word— “has returned from Paris with Popplewell, the once-faithful steward, trotting at her heels. She’s resurrected her challenge to my father’s will with the demand she be made guardian of the estate and the children.

Our case is to be heard in Chancery Court on Tuesday. ”

She blinked in surprise. “That seems expedient. I thought cases in Chancery dragged for an age.”

“This one has, but someone’s taken a new interest in it.

I don’t doubt Sybil’s been pulling as many strings as she can.

We’re to be heard by one of the Masters in Chancery, nearly as good as going before the Lord Chancellor himself.

I’m hoping the case will dismissed on grounds that she robbed the estate and fled the country. ”

She searched his face, her eyes wide and wary. “Is there anything I can do?”

Oh, so many things. Step into his arms and let him hold her, for one.

It would make him feel better. But she was on her guard again, and now that he had seen her work, he knew why.

An icy despair washed through him, an acknowledgement of the inevitable.

He never truly expected things would work out well for him.

He had too much prior experience that told him the opposite.

He wanted to believe that not every woman he knew would betray him.

His mother hadn’t meant to leave him; she’d been ill since before he was born.

Sybil had shown signs of her own complete self-absorption from the beginning.

He’d never relied on her for anything, though he had hoped she would at least prove an adequate overseer to the children.

And now Amaranthe, who had come into his life like an unbidden angel, was every bit the thief he’d been warned she was.

“You can explain this,” he said in a tight, controlled voice, and stepped aside to indicate the easel and its damning contents.

She quivered, but then set her shoulders firm and straight. She lifted her chin. “I should think it obvious.”

“You are making a copy of the book Ned loaned you from our library.”

“Yes.”

“I do not recall that Hugh asked you to produce such a copy.”

“He did not.” To her credit, she did not falter in her gaze but met his inquisition steadily, fearlessly. The resignation on her face told him why she hadn’t allowed an embrace.

His heart tore in his chest. She was distancing herself from him. She had to, in order to do this.

“You are making a copy of this book?—”

“Parts of it,” she clarified. “There’s a segment of notes taken from the Arabic Book of Secrets . A book of alchemy that details?—”

“I am not interested in the contents,” he snapped. “Rather the fact that, from the title page, it appears you mean to create a book that I suppose you will sell to Mr. Karim. Perhaps several copies of it. I heard him asking you for such a thing.”

“That is my trade,” she said in a soft, toneless voice. “I copy books.”

“It rather looks like stealing. But then I am not much acquainted with your trade .”

Up her chin went another notch. “I did not steal from Hugh. I will return the book to his library.”

“After having turned its contents into other books which you will then sell for your own gain.”

“That is how I support my household, yes,” she said.

“By forgery.”

She flinched. “That is a strong word. I would not say it applies here.”

It was a very strong word. Certain types of forgery were a hanging offense. “I simply make copies of rare and valuable works,” she said, “to—to…”

“To sell as counterfeits. Under a different name. No doubt letting the client believe he is acquiring a valuable, perhaps priceless original work.”

She took a step backwards. “They are not counterfeits. Merely copies. Medieval scribes copied books all the time.”

But books of medieval provenance were old and valuable. “This one suggests it is a sixteenth century manuscript. Not a modern reproduction.” He pointed to the title page.

He needn’t say more. She hung her head.

“Tell me I have misinterpreted your intentions,” he said, hoping against hope she would correct him.

A long silence elapsed. Horse hooves clopped on the narrow cobbles of the court, one pedestrian hailed another, the ruckus of traffic rose from the busy thoroughfare of Rupert Street. His breath sounded loud and harsh in the quiet inside.

“I would use different terms to describe it,” she said in a small voice. “But you have misunderstood if you believe I intend to deceive anyone by my work.”

“You don’t think it stealing to take someone’s possessions and turn it to your own use? To let someone acquire an artifact on what may be false pretenses?”

The skin beneath her eyes tightened, as if she were holding back strong emotion. He wanted so badly to be wrong. For her to give an explanation that made sense.

Her chin stayed up, but the hands crumpling the fabric of her apron revealed her inner distress. “I do not call it stealing,” she said. “One cannot own knowledge and keep it to oneself, any more than one can possess art. These are treasures that belong to all men. And women.”

“If I commission a portrait,” Mal answered, “it is mine. If I buy a book at a bookshop, it is mine. If I author a book and register it at the Stationer’s, it is mine.

If someone reproduced my book without my permission or takes my property from my library, copies it under their own name or another’s, and then sells those copies, they have stolen from me. ”

She had no answer to this. Her eyes fell to the dark rug that stretched over the floor of the room.

He gathered himself like a man trying to stuff his guts back into place after he’d been sliced open by a mortal blow. “This is why you would not agree to marry me,” he guessed.

She hesitated, and then nodded. “I doubt my ability to advance your career.”

Of course. Because she was a forger and a thief. A beautiful, canny liar. It was true that no one was injured by her crimes, but that would not matter in the court of public opinion. It would not matter when it came time for his superiors to consider him for advancement and boons.

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 from Hunsdon 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.