So much for guarding her tongue, but at the quiet attention of her company, Amaranthe let the story pour out. “I worked for Mr. Finney for years making copies of this and that for him, all to earn this book. My first acquisition for my antiquarian bookstore. That very day Reuben took a fit into his head and—and cast Eyde and me out of his house. And he took my Book of Hours as well.”
Joseph laid down his cutlery, staring in astonishment. “Anth! You never said! Why didn’t you demand it from him?”
“I asked you, if you recall, to direct Favella to send my things to you in Oxford,” she answered. “I wrote again, through our solicitor, when we took up lodgings in London. Reuben declined to send my possessions.”
Her wine glass had mysteriously refilled; she hadn’t felt Davey at her elbow, but she took advantage and chased the first glass with half of the second. It did not taste so delicious this time.
“Why didn’t you have Mr. Illingworth march down to Cornwall and demand your book, if you valued it?” Ned asked, puzzled.
Amaranthe stared into her wine. She would miss all this when she returned to her quiet house. The wine, theconversation, the glow of dozens of candles warming and softening the elegant room. She would not miss people looking so closely at her all the time, Grey most attentively of all. His eyes seared her skin as if she had splashed hot butter from the prawns.
She had no ready answer for Ned’s question. She depended on other people as little as she could. It was her custom to take care of Joseph, not the other way around. And she didn’t want her brother knowing what Reuben had done, what he had suggested. He wouldn’t know how to address the offense any better than she had, and Reuben’s vileness would poison him the way he had poisoned her.
With the wine came the sudden heat of rage. Shewantedto storm to Cornwall. She wanted to tear Penwellen apart with her bare hands until she found what had been taken from her.
Reuben could never return her innocence, though. She could never take from her mind the memory of his hot thick body pressing against hers, his rotting breath, his damp hands. The memory intruded every time another man drew close to her. Even Grey. She wondered if there would ever be a time when the shadow of Reuben’s offense would fade.
How could she marry Grey if his every touch called up the spoiled ghost of Reuben?
“You must go,” Camilla said. She looked from Amaranthe to Joseph. “You should take her back to Cornwall now, Mr. Joseph, and get her book back. She worked so hard for it.”
“Er.” Joseph shifted in his chair. “But I’m engaged to tutor your brothers, you see. I’ve a whole lesson on classical antiquity planned. And, well, there is a certain young lady who has expectations of me. I fear she wouldn’t wait if I went haring off to Cornwall.”
Amaranthe tightened her fingers around her glass. Best not to finish the rest. Davey saw his job as keeping her glass filled tothe brim, and the wine was not watered as far as she could tell. If she did not restrain herself, she’d be sliding under the table by the second course.
“Miss Pettigrew wouldn’t allow you a fortnight away to visit family?” she asked, trying to keep the brittleness from her tone. “Are there so many other suitors vying for her hand, Joseph?”
“Not suitors, but other matters,” he said, shifting in his chair. “She has interested herself in many causes of reform. I must exert myself to stay at the front of her mind, as it were.”
Grey made no audible response to this, but Amaranthe glanced sharply his way. He was still at his task of carving the roast, but she sensed by his manner that something in him reacted strongly to Joseph’s protestations.
Even Hugh said, “I thought you mentioned Miss Pettigrew’s family lived in the West, Mr. Illingworth. You could take Miss Illingworth to meet them, and then proceed to Cornwall.”
“I’m not persuaded I have the leisure for such a journey,” Amaranthe said. “I’m engaged to deliver a manuscript.” She had other commissions to earn. And travel was expensive, besides.
“Miss Pettigrew’s family might look kindly on your suit were they to know your family is friendly with the Duke of Hunsdon,” Grey remarked.
Amaranthe narrowed her eyes at him. The children took the bait at once.
“Oh, I say,” Ned exclaimed. “Cracking good idea, Grey! You marry Miss Amaranthe, and Mr. Joseph might have his pick of Miss Pettigrews.”
“And you would get to see the baby if you went to Penwellen,” Camilla said.
“Has it escaped everyone that I have not accepted Mr. Grey’s suit?” Amaranthe said, her voice overloud.
“Why wouldn’t you?” Hugh asked. “Because he is my father’s bastard?”
Amaranthe’s eyes flew to Grey’s face, taut and expressionless.
“That is not the basis of my hesitation,” she told him.
“You ought not tease Miss Illingworth, Hugh,” Grey said, not meeting her eyes.
He laid the large carving knife aside, and Ralph carried the platter of cuts around the table, serving them all in formal style. Grey took a large draught of his wine. It was courtesy for the men of the table to drink in toast to each other, but Joseph ignored his glass, and Grey was not a man to be constrained by formality in the best of circumstances. Davey leapt forward with the decanter before the bottom of Grey’s glass touched the cloth.
“Indeed,” Grey went on, “we owe Miss Illingworth a great deal for all she has done for us this week. We ought rather be thinking of ways to reward her, instead of harrying her about her plans.”
“By all means,” Hugh said, taking the reproof in stride. “Miss Illingworth, please advise us how we may demonstrate our gratitude for the very great service you have done us all.”
