Page 67 of The Ladies Least Likely

CHAPTER SIX

M al dropped his head into his hands, dislodging his hair from its queue.

He was glad he’d not worn a wig for dinner.

The periwig he wore for appearances at the Middle Court lay in his chambers off the Strand, and, being obliged to wear the uncomfortable piece during so much of the day, he preferred to dispense with it in the evenings.

Miss Illingworth had not made herself fancy, either.

Her gown was plain and well-kept, with nothing to remark it save for a fanciful brooch she wore, the design of which he had not drawn close enough to see.

She was in all respects one of those tidy, efficient women whom he had never in his life taken note of.

The women he knew from his days growing up in Littlejohn’s coaching inn had been generally of a more forceful sort, inclined to make their presence known, and the women he met as a bachelor about town were likewise as colorful and memorable, for different reasons.

Had he passed Miss Illingworth in the course of his daily business, he wouldn’t have had the least cause to take an interest in her.

Now that he depended on her efficiency and her knowledge of the secret domains of women to extricate him and his wards from a muddle, Mal found himself intensely curious about the woman. Where had she come from? What kind of woman took up a trade as a copyist of ancient manuscripts?

He marveled at how easily she had managed to calm all of them—the children showing up desperate and begging at her door, completely unexpected, and he himself storming in, regrettably under the influence of his temper, which tended to get the better of him at times.

He’d been in a near frenzy about what had happened to the children—and what had happened to their income, thanks to that conniving she-demon Sybil—and Miss Illingworth sat them all down for tea.

Then, without a moment’s notice and with the help of a handful of servants who seemed to regard her more as a maiden aunt than their employer, she laid out a dinner on the ducal table that was better than anything he was served in the dining hall at Middle Court, and in a warm, comfortable atmosphere that he had never before encountered at Hunsdon House. How had she done it?

The Delaval children were, by nature of the early loss of their mother and the acquisition of a stepmother none of them liked, prone to be distrustful, haughty, and very often disobedient.

Yet Camilla had insisted that Amaranthe come up to the nursery and tell her the story of Beowulf before bed.

The lure of a story about monsters had drawn Ned immediately, and Hugh, who considered himself far too old for the nursery or for fairy tales, had gone with them.

Leaving Mal to sit in the old duke’s study with the household account books and wonder what the hell to do next.

A knock sounded on the door, and Ralph opened it. “Miss Illingworth, sir.”

Behind him, Miss Illingworth smiled to herself at Ralph’s dignified manner, a small, amused, smile, and Mal stared. Had he thought she was plain?

“Ralph, have you any experience as a butler?” she asked as she entered.

“None at all, miss, I regret to say.”

“Perhaps you might be underbutler, then, and train up when we find a new butler,” Mal said.

Ralph, with a dazed expression, inclined his head and closed the door. Miss Amaranthe stared at the portal as if debating whether to open it again.

“Children abed?” Mal asked.

“So it would seem.” She glanced at the desk. “Ralph said he brought you the butler’s account books.” She showed him the leather-bound volume in her arms. “I found the housekeeper’s.”

Mal continued to stare. Her hair had loosened from its stern arrangement, forming a dark, soft halo about her face.

The tresses, dark brown instead of true black, gleamed like silk.

Her features were delicately drawn yet at the same time strong, her nose a pronounced slope, her chin pointed, her eyes large and wide set.

Her skin was as smooth as porcelain, with a warm sepia tint, and her eyes held a dark gleam offset by thick lashes.

He would be a profound idiot not to notice this woman, on the street or anywhere else.

Hiding his temporary loss of intellect, Mal turned to the inset shelves behind the desk.

True to his father’s taste, the shelves in his personal space, a combination refuge and workroom, were lined not with books but with oddments obtained from his various travels, arranged next to his assortment of pipes and his selection of spirits.

Mal noticed belatedly that many of the small figurines that he had hitherto ignored were of a lewd quality, most lacking clothing, many in suggestive positions.

He hoped Miss Illingworth would not notice.

“Spirits?” He held up a bottle filled with a glimmering liquid.

“Perhaps a spot of Canary wine, if you have it. But only a splash. I haven’t drunk this much wine since…” She stopped abruptly.

“Since?” he prompted.

“In quite a while.” She laid her volume on the corner of the long table that served as a desk and pulled one of the crimson upholstered chairs close.

Her gaze flickered over the figurines, then to her task.

He should have known that Miss Illingworth would notice.

She seemed one of those women who noticed everything.

But she merely smiled again, a small tug at the side of her prim, plum-colored mouth.

Miss Illingworth had a delicious mouth. Mal poured wine for her and a liberal splash of brandy for himself.

“Shall we do this tonight, then?” At her inquiring look, he indicated the volumes laid side by side on the leather tabletop. “Go over the account books, I mean.”

“We needn’t go into detail, if you don’t wish, but you must have a notion of what you can offer to pay if you are hoping to engage servants. And I should think this the first task, given what’s happened.”

She sat, and as Mal seated himself also, he realized she had brought her chair too close.

It was not an unseemly distance, by any means—he sat at the long side of the table, she the short—yet he could smell her scent, the warm, rich scent of an English garden in high summer.

Good Lord. How was supposed to focus on numbers and not her polished skin, the fine hairs waving about her very intelligent head, the shape of that very intriguing mouth?

His brain had been disordered by the rude surprises of the day. Mal swallowed the brandy in his glass and stood for more.

“That bad?” She watched him pour.

He sat again, the words jolting out of him. “There’s no money.”

She lifted her eyebrows. They were dark brows, delicately arched, prim yet enchanting as the rest of her, hinting at secrets buried below the surface. Everything about Miss Illingworth called for a closer investigation.

“No money,” she repeated, “or no income?”

He set his glass on the table with a thunk. “Sybil cut sticks with everything due us for the second quarter. The income from the estates, the income set aside for the household, the trust money for the children. My allowance,” he added. “Gone.”

She folded her hands on the table and tapped a knuckle with an index finger. “Can you borrow against the third quarter income?”

“I can talk to Mr. Coutts, the banker. I don’t see any other option. Unless we try to sell movables from the house, but it appears that Sybil and Popplewell already took their pick of those as well.”

“How much debt is the estate in already?”

How very rational and calm she was being. Then again, it was not her livelihood stolen. She would return to her snug house and her inks and parchment and her servants who looked after her with capable ease.

And her brother, whom Mal knew next to nothing about.

According to Hugh, their tutor arrived at the appointed times and discharged his duties in unobjectionable fashion, but he had seemed distracted of late and in haste to leave when their tasks were complete.

Was Joseph Illingworth complicit in the robbery that had befallen the estate?

And if so, how much did his sister know about it?

An absurd conclusion. She would not be sitting here asking probing questions about the state of the ducal finances if her brother had abetted a scheme to abscond with Hunsdon’s liquid assets.

Unless she were attempting to cover his tracks. Or looking for access to other assets as well.

More than absurd, Mal scolded himself. She was merely the sister of the tutor. She had stepped in to help them out of the goodness of her heart and a womanly instinct of pity for the children who had turned up at her door.

And she told him very little about her past when he questioned her.

How intriguing to meet a woman of reserve. The females of his acquaintance tended to be extremely forthcoming.

“It is good of you to help us.” He set aside his glass.

The candles flickering on the side table needed trimming, but Mal was reluctant to call Ralph. He liked having her alone with him in the warm, dim study, hushed in shadows. He might better discover her secrets this way.

“I like solving problems.” She opened the housekeeper’s account book and turned her attention to it. “This isn’t the worst I’ve faced.”

“What was the worst?”

He was being forward, but he’d been worse than rude with her earlier, and her female sensibilities had recovered from the shock. Besides, he needed to know something about her if he were trusting the welfare of his would-be wards to her hands.

She stared at the tidy page of entries, but he had the sense she was not reading.

Finally she said, in a light tone that sounded forced, “I was commissioned once to copy a set of Gospels that the owner thought was in early Latin. Turns out it was Flemish.” She tapped a finger against the open page. “I do not read Flemish.”

Mal stared, stupefied, at the small, wry smile that accompanied these words. A bell rang in his ears, as if he’d taken a blow to the head.