Page 88 of The Ladies Least Likely

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“ A ll right, mum, off with you!” Davey said in exasperation as Amaranthe circled the vehicle for the fourth time, watching him cinch the baggage onto the platform at the front of the post chaise. “If I let any of your fribbles tumble into the dirt of the road, I’m no true Welshman.”

“I didn’t pack any fribbles,” she said. “They’re too heavy. You marked Joseph’s luggage, I hope? I’m sure he forgot. He and Miss Pettigrew will part with us at Bristol, and I don’t want to send the wrong bags.”

She inspected the wheels and axles of the hired coach, though she had no way of knowing if it was in good condition.

Grey had hired the chaise and horses and it turned out Inez knew the post boy, who was another lascar like her father, a sailor of South Indian descent who had stayed in England when his crew was put out of work and had been making a living at odd jobs since.

He spoke limited English, but he would perch atop one of the horses to guide them on the road and then return these animals when they changed teams at the next post. Amaranthe offered him a smile and he smiled back, showing several missing teeth.

“Much of Bristol’s sea traffic comes from the slave trade.

” Camilla clutched Amaranthe’s hand. Amaranthe was becoming more accustomed to the casual and frequent touch, though Camilla’s unhesitant trust still took her aback.

Amaranthe couldn’t recall as a young child that she had ever held an adult’s hand.

Though the youngest and from a caring home, she had been a cautious and reserved child, hesitant to rely on anyone.

She was relying on Grey now to make this journey with her, walking backward into the life she’d left long ago. Not for the first time, she wondered what threats and bitter memories lay in store for her.

“There will be ships from all over in Bristol harbor,” Amaranthe said. “Europe and the Middle East. Africa. The Americas. Perhaps a ship visiting some remote and undiscovered island will bring back a wonder we’ve never dreamed.”

“Mr. John Wesley set up his first Methodist chapel in Bristol,” Camilla said, her expression somber.

She had been vocal in her disappointment that Amaranthe and Grey were both leaving, but as attempts to talk them out of their decision had proven unsuccessful, she’d resigned herself to being abandoned for a fortnight or more.

As recourse she had contented herself with studying everything about Bristol that the ducal library could yield.

Amaranthe hoped they would not be gone longer than a fortnight.

It would take some days to travel to Callington, but she planned only to show her face, say a few encouraging things to Favella, make sure her cousin’s wife had reliable help with the babe, and then depart before Reuben could take any evil ideas into his head.

Depart with her Book of Hours in hand, if all went well.

She’d been waiting for this opportunity for years, dreaming of it.

She’d accepted Grey’s escort because, as he’d suggested, showing up with a man of the law was a wonderful tactic of intimidation.

But by now Reuben could have discarded the manuscript in any number of ways: sold it, given it away, or worst of all, let a maid use the aged parchment to light fires.

Every antiquarian knew the cautionary tale of John Warburton, who had stored dozens of unique manuscripts in his kitchen and discovered later his cook was using the pages to line pie plates.

“You will give our regards to your Uncle Littlejohn and your Aunt Beatrice, of course.” Hugh, the young duke, walked with Grey into the mews that ran behind Hunsdon House and its garden.

“Remember you are to ask him about being trampled by the bull and getting his leg taken off,” Ned exclaimed, hurrying behind them. “I want the full tale, Grey. You don’t know nearly enough of the details.”

“I’ll ask him. Where are Joseph and Miss Pettigrew?”

Grey looked around and his gaze fell on Amaranthe and lingered.

She had upon persuasion borrowed one of the duchess’s riding habits, a smart and well-tailored ensemble of dark green wool that was extremely comfortable.

Sybil was considerably more curved than Amaranthe, but Eyde had accounted for the difference in shape with a few quick stitches.

There were two other traveling gowns packed in her trunk.

She only meant to borrow the gowns, not keep them, and she couldn’t see the extravagance of buying traveling attire for herself.

The unplanned trip to Cornwall would strain her expenses enough.

She supposed the money for the coach had come, like the staff salaries and the coin for groceries, from the sale of her manuscript to Mr. Karim.

She wondered if she would ever learn who bought her copy of the Secretorum.

She hoped it went to a good home, to someone who would store and care for the book properly, and perhaps on occasion read it.

“These are all your things?” Grey asked. Amaranthe’s middle warmed at his attention, but also with embarrassment. Did the paltriness of her personal possessions dismay him? He already knew she was not a woman of means.

“This is all I need. I am looking forward to meeting your aunt and uncle,” she said to distract him. “They sound like very interesting people.”

She was also looking forward to spending time with him, though she would never say this aloud. Days together in a traveling coach, nights under the shared roof of a coaching inn. She would come to know a great deal more about Malden Grey.

Not that she intended to marry him. He’d come to his senses in time and realize there were other opportunities about him, women who would make a better barrister’s wife. Women who didn’t make a living skirting the law, for instance.

But for now, she had him more or less to herself. This large, solid, and very intimidating man, at her side. The thought made her insides glow like live coals.

“At last,” Grey said as Joseph emerged from the carriage house. Miss Pettigrew, behind him, clutched her valise and looked about with wide blue eyes.

She was everything Joseph had described, fair and fragile, with a bewildered air that roused Amaranthe’s protective instincts. Her translucent, delicate beauty held the viewer captive, and Amaranthe could easily see how Joseph had been ensnared.

She hoped she might learn more about Miss Pettigrew, also. Joseph would not be swayed from his determination to marry. He had decided Miss Susannah Pettigrew was for him, and no other would do.

Much like Malden Grey, who when instructed to marry had simply looked around and lit on the first female in the vicinity, Amaranthe thought.

The curl of resentment pricked, and she pushed it aside.

He was doing her a service. She must keep that in mind, even if it rankled to be valued only for her usefulness.

“Miss Illingworth, we wish you the best and easiest of travels. Our regards to your family.” The young duke bowed to her, and Amaranthe curtsied before she could stop herself. Hugh’s formality had a way of intimidating her still.

“Have loads of fun, and don’t turn over on the road!” Ned exclaimed, pumping her hand. Amaranthe grinned at him.

Camilla, in a sudden move, threw her arms around Amaranthe’s waist. “Don’t come back different ,” she said, holding back sobs. Amaranthe wrapped her arms around the girl, for once feeling the effort was not forced.

“Ladies first.” Grey placed the step and held out a hand to help Amaranthe climb into the enclosed cab. It had been agreed that the girls would take the interior seats for the first leg of the journey and the men would take the seat behind.

The horses stirred and stamped in their harness, their shod hooves echoing on the cobblestones.

Amaranthe took a last look about as the sun broke briefly through the morning fog.

She had already said goodbye to the servants indoors, with Mrs. Blackthorn giving brisk advice, Davey looking mournful, Derwa hanging about her waist, and Eyde adding to an ever-growing list of people she remembered about Haye and Callington whom she hoped Amaranthe would look in on and make sure they were getting on.

“Grey, you worthless sot!” The tall soldier from the coffee shop strolled up the cobbled mews, his sword banging lightly against his legs.

“Lighting out for the country? What, are you avoiding a duel? Escaping creditors? Ah, I see—carrying away beautiful young ladies. I always knew that buttoned-up demeanor was an act.”

“Viktor! What in God’s name are you doing here?” Grey exclaimed. “Aren’t you supposed to be on parade or some such, showing off that expensive uniform?”

“Here to send you off, old man.” Grey’s friend removed the tall cap and became ten times more handsome without it, his eyes alight with mischief, his sharp features thrown into relief.

He flipped the black cape over his broad shoulders and his eyes flickered around the group, taking them all in. “Where did you say you were headed?”

“Callington, Cornwall. We’re escorting Illingworth and Miss Pettigrew to Bristol. Miss Pettigrew, this is Viktor Vierling of the Horse Guards, the unremarkable son of a?—”

“We’ve met.” Miss Pettigrew’s voice was high and strained. She held her valise to her middle and watched Vierling as if he were the devil incarnate. Joseph looked up in surprise from his task of triple-checking that Davey had properly secured the luggage.

“Oh?” Grey recovered quickly. “Then I give you Mr. Joseph Illingworth, the boys’ tutor. Miss Illingworth you’ve met. And you’ll recall my siblings, the Duke of Hunsdon, Lord Edward, Lady Camilla.”

“We’ve met as well,” Camilla said somberly, regarding Vierling with wide eyes and an expression as alarmed and interested as Miss Pettigrew’s. Hugh inclined his head while Ned stuck out his hand with an unabashed grin.

“Smashing uniform! Suppose I should go into the Horse Guards, Grey?”

“If you want to do nothing better with your time than polish buttons and march in parade,” Grey said. “Study the lessons Illingworth sets you and you might aspire to more, I hope.”

“So Bristol is where your people are, Miss Pettigrew?” Viktor drawled, giving the blonde girl a careless smile.

“My parents live nearby.” The girl was all nerves. “Mr. Illingworth intends to ask their permission to marry me.”

“Thought Friends weren’t supposed to marry outside of the clan,” Vierling said. “Quakers for Quakers, that sort of thing.”

“Mr. Illingworth is willing to convert.”

Amaranthe’s head snapped up and she nearly fell off the step.

Grey steadied her and she leaned against the warm, strong expanse of him.

She wasn’t against Quakers, by any means, but Joseph had said nothing to her about converting.

The news stung like a betrayal. What else did she not know about her brother?

She’d chided Joseph for not seeing what was going on under his nose at Hunsdon House as the servants fled and the children went hungry. But what was going on under her own nose that she’d missed? She dove into the cab, hiding a face burning with shame.

“You might take the children out for some amusement while I’m gone,” Grey said to Vierling, holding the door to the carriage. “Miss Illingworth thinks they would fancy Leverton’s collection at Leicester House.”

“Dusty old artifacts aren’t much in my style,” Vierling drawled. “Astley’s Circus, perhaps, or the menagerie at Exeter ’Change, children?”

“Lions and tigers? Indeed, yes!” Ned’s face lit up. “Grey says he can hear the big cats roaring when he walks down the Strand. They scare the horses.”

“Run along then and leave the darlings to me,” Vierling said. “And if you come back married, do send me a card, Mal. Miss Illingworth.” His head appeared in the window of the coach, giving her a rakish smile as he lifted his cap. Amaranthe jumped with surprise.

Married! Is that what Grey had told his friends about his reasons for this journey?

“You’ve met Captain Vierling before?” Amaranthe inquired when Miss Pettigrew joined her in the carriage.

The girl flashed her a startled, unsettled look. “Yes, Miss Illingworth,” she said. “In passing.”

Her companion settled herself with a great deal of fuss, smoothing her skirts, patting her hair, and making sure her bonnet was positioned just so. It was rather a large bonnet, and Amaranthe feared she would end up with a hat brim in the eye at some point in their journey.

“You will call me Amaranthe, I hope,” she said. “If we’re to be sisters.”

“Oh.” The girl’s face still wore that wary look, as if taken back that Amaranthe should make overtures of friendship. “I am Miss Pettigrew.”

And that was the most she said to Amaranthe as the chaise rolled out of the mews and set off down Oxford Street toward the Great Western Road to Bristol. Getting acquainted with Miss Pettigrew was going to be much more difficult than Amaranthe had thought.

She’d been looking forward to this trip, her first holiday away from London since they’d moved here—her first holiday since her parents died, in fact. It had seemed full of promise and delight as she packed, thinking about getting to know her brother’s future wife, spending more time with Grey.

But now she realized that Joseph was moving away from her, making decisions about his life that did not include her. It did not seem that his future wife liked Amaranthe very much.

And Grey—he had never been hers to begin with. This trip was a stolen interlude, but it would change nothing. She had given him the only answer she possibly could to his proposal, or to any man’s. When they returned, Grey would move on to the rest of his life and he would be lost to her, too.

And what would she be left with then?