Page 73 of The Ladies Least Likely

Not for the first time, he cursed the slippery Popplewell and the bewitching, heartless Sybil who had seduced him to her evil cause.

He wished he could hire men to go abroad, find them both, and haul them back to England to account for their crimes.

But he didn’t have the money to hire a hack, much less offer a bounty on the duchess’s head.

“I really cannot advise returning Her Grace to England, if that is your intent,” his solicitor answered when Mal shared what was on his mind. “I feel it will support your case if she is absent and cannot account for herself. The Lord Chancellor cannot choose but to award guardianship to you.”

“True,” Mal said heavily. “If the case comes before him before they are all grown and married and out of the house, and my guardianship is rendered irrelevant.”

“Indeed, the wheels of justice can move all too slowly at times.”

Mr. Thorkelson, of Mssrs. Thorkelson and Sons, sat across from Mal in an office shadowed by a set of heavy, dark oak furniture large enough to kill a man if they happened to topple over on him.

Ensconced behind a desk so massive that a fully grown person could take refuge beneath it, Thorkelson slid open a drawer and drew forth a file, two inches thick, which he placed upon his blotter.

“Now, then. Joseph Alexander Illingworth. What is it you would like to know, Mr. Grey?”

“May I?” Mal gestured toward the bulging file.

“I’m afraid not.” Thorkelson managed to sound regretful without looking it.

Behind a set of thick spectacles, he had the look of a Viking warrior of old who had found a settled life agreed with him.

Beneath a heavy brow his cheeks were rather doughy, and his hands were soft and full and smooth.

“Some of the information is quite sensitive, you see.”

“But I am his employer.”

Thorkelson gave a discreet cough. “Or will be, as soon as we are authorized to draw up the proper papers. Naturally we remain willing to expedite your guardianship case however we may.” He smiled, or made an expression which Mal assumed was a smile. “Now, what is it you wish to know?”

“Is he a proper influence? My brothers are in his charge for much of the day.”

It was humiliating to admit that he had not made proper inquiries before, but Thorkelson had tendered Illingworth’s name as a tutor when Mal was in the middle of a heavy spate of reading for the bar while wallowing through a towering stack of decisions about the household following the duke’s death, decisions Sybil was useless at making.

He’d been glad to let Thorkelson have his way in the matter of selecting a tutor.

“Is he dependable,” Mr. Thorkelson murmured.

He opened the file and consulted a scrawled set of notes.

“Let us see. Twenty-six years of age. Born in Cornwall, in the village of St. Cleer, only son of the vicar Jonas Illingworth and his wife, Bracha Crosby. Educated at home, sent to Oxford, where he took a second in classics and a negligible place in mathematics. Exemplary disciplinary record. Not a single infraction.”

“Not one?” Mal echoed.

Not a single riotous act, not a lark, not even a momentary rebellion?

That seemed a bit spiritless. Mal had had his share of scrapes at Winchester and then Cambridge, most of them the result of being a bastard.

His tutors had often made an example of him, and the boys assured of their stations made him a frequent target.

Then he grew into his inches, and filled out those inches with a larger than average frame, which meant his fists had a longer reach and his legs could cover more ground.

The harassment waned considerably once Mal grew bigger than his aggressors.

And learned not to care that his birth meant he would always be last in line, an afterthought, not assured of full standing in anything.

“Do you find his spotless record a problem?” Mr. Thorkelson observed Mal over the top of his glasses. “His references were all in order. I can go over them again if you wish.”

Mal cleared his throat. “I am curious about the family. As—you know. Added security.”

Thorkelson turned over a few pages. “Jonas Illingworth was younger brother to Josiah Illingworth, the 4 th Baronet Illingworth. The estate of Penwellen is now held by the 5 th baronet, Sir Reuben Illingworth, who has a wife, Favella. There does not seem to be correspondence between the two households.”

Her cousin, a baronet? She had not mentioned that. Her birth put her in the class of gentry, even if she practiced a trade. How curious that she had not trotted out her status early in the conversation. But his interest was not in the baronet.

“And what of Mr. Joseph Illingworth’s sister?”

“Ah.” Mr. Thorkelson dipped into the drawer again and withdrew another file, this one thicker. “This is the rather sensitive portion,” he said blandly. “What would you like to know?”

“Good Gad, you’re thorough,” Mal said, eying the volume of the file.

“We took some initiative in this case,” the solicitor answered, “as it concerned the estate of Hunsdon, and we at Thorkelson, Thorkelson, and Son are naturally protective of our clients. Unfortunately, none of our thorough investigations suggested that Mr. Popplewell would violate our collective trust in him in such an egregious fashion.”

Mr. Thorkelson’s severe expression had something of satisfaction in it.

As the old duke’s solicitor and man of business in London, Mr. Thorkelson had a long rivalry with Mr. Popplewell, the estate’s land steward.

But Mal had no time for that petty history, nor was he inclined to let Mr. Thorkelson bask in his triumph at having proved the superior agent.

“Sensitive in what way?” Mal itched to get his hand on that file. Thorkelson looked disinclined to surrender it.

The solicitor coughed into his hand. “This information, I’m sure you can agree, is not to leave this room. But we understand—the other Mr. Thorkelsons and I—that Miss Amaranthe Illingworth is in the business of making—er, copies. Of rare, and in some cases quite valuable works.”

“Copies.” Mal raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I knew that.”

She seemed quite proud of herself for it. Ladies often cultivated artistic pursuits to show off their accomplishments. But Amaranthe Illingworth took pride in her work and evidenced no shame that she had turned her skills to the pursuit of a trade.

“Surely there is no harm in making copies,” Mal said.

“There is when it is forgery,” Mr. Thorkelson replied.