Page 61 of The Ladies Least Likely

“Well enough to support us.” Amaranthe cleaned her brush, finding it best not to explain further exactly how she earned enough to support them. Not even Joseph knew the whole of it.

The old pang of loss needled her heart as she looked upon the neat, tight script of the breviary.

Every line, every detail made her long for her lost Book of Hours.

If only there had been some way she could have searched for it before they fled Penwellen.

Reuben could only have stolen it out of spite; she doubted he read Latin even in block print, much less the miniscule of handwritten Gothic script.

“It’s called illumination when it has the gilding like that,” Ned announced. Amaranthe shifted his pointing finger away from the parchment before he smeared gold paint in a place it didn’t belong.

“It looks just like the Latin exercises Mr. Joseph gives you to copy. I wish I might learn Latin,” Camilla said.

“You don’t, Millie. Cicero’ll make you want to gnaw your arm off,” Ned assured her.

“Girls don’t read Latin,” the young duke scolded.

“I do,” Amaranthe said calmly. “But this happens to be Middle French. The book was translated into the vernacular, since the queen who owned it likely did not read Latin, either.”

She paused in the act of arranging the sliding bar that she used to rest her hand while doing fine work.

The young duke turned away, showing no interest in the manuscript, so she pulled the protective sheet over the page, using the bar to keep the fabric from touching the drying ink.

Some flaws must be expected in a work made by human hands, and she could explain a smudge to the manuscript’s owner when she turned in her commission.

But flaws in the separate copy she was making for herself—a duplicate of which the original owner had no knowledge—well, it would not serve for that book to be unreadable.

“Now,” Amaranthe said, covering the rest of her paints and tools to protect them from inquisitive fingers, “what business do you have with Mr. Illingworth?”

“We,” Ned began, but a glare from his older brother quelled him.

“We will discuss it with Mr. Illingworth,” the young duke said with a fierce frown.

Oh, he was high in the instep, blue blood true, Amaranthe thought, but she was saved from dealing a possibly unwise reproof when Mrs. Blackthorn entered with a tray. Camilla stared at the cook’s face, then gave Amaranthe a look of dismay.

“You keep an African, miss? For shame!” she cried. “Slavery is a stain on the British character and ought to be abolished.”

“Mrs. Blackthorn is a free woman who earns a wage from me,” Amaranthe replied. “A not insignificant stipend, I think, given her talents.”

“At least Mr. Joseph eats what I feed him.” Mrs. Blackthorn sent Amaranthe a scolding look.

She had found safety in Amaranthe’s household, in the promise that her secret would not be exposed and she would not be compelled to return to the man who claimed he owned her.

Amaranthe agreed with Lady Camilla, and Mrs. Blackthorn, on the subject of enslavement.

“I enjoyed last night’s pudding very much,” Amaranthe said in her own defense. “Only I am not fond, as you know, of raisins.”

She poured tea for the children, filling their cups mostly with milk, and noticed that all three took large helpings of bread and butter. When they were settled with food, Amaranthe went into the hallway where Eyde and Mrs. Blackthorn hovered in concern.

“The children are hungry!” Mrs. Blackthorn exclaimed in a hushed tone. “What should I feed them?”

“Whatever we have,” Amaranthe said. “The pudding that is left, meat and cheese, and soup if we have any, or perhaps a thick gruel. They have missed their meals today for certain.” She peeked into the room and saw that, in her absence, all three children had taken the liberty of depleting the tea tray.

A wild suspicion stirred her mind. The boys looked neat enough, their clothes fine and correct, but the bow in Camilla’s hair had been tied by herself, and she was wearing delicate slippers completely unsuitable for the street.

Someone was not properly looking after these children, little lords and lady though they were.

“Eyde, find Davey and have him fetch Mr. Joseph from the coffee shop. He’ll be at the Orange or the Smyrna.” She couldn’t ask Edye to fetch Joseph herself, as a woman wouldn’t be allowed to set foot in those male precincts. “We must get to the bottom of what these children are doing here.”

Eyde hesitated. “We’ll not get our heads combed for having een, will us?”

Lady Camilla daintily licked her fingers, then used them to capture the last crumbs on her plate. The sight tugged at Amaranthe’s heart. “I would anticipate a great deal of trouble under normal circumstances, but in truth I wonder if anyone at Hunsdon House knows they’re gone.”

The moment the cook and maid whisked themselves down the backstairs, the front door burst open.

In it stood a man in a towering rage. He was dressed in an elegant coat and breeches, his stockings as white at his cravat, and his face was dark with anger.

He glared down the narrow hall at Amaranthe as if he were a giant come to devour her whole.

“Where are they?” he bellowed. “I saw the coach outside. Where are the children?”

“In the parlor, having their tea,” Amaranthe retorted. “And who might you be?”

“Their guardian.” His irate gaze raked Amaranthe from head to toe. “I warn you, I do not deal lightly with kidnappers. I will have them back at once, or you will bear the consequences, and I warrant you will not like them.”