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.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Really!” Amaranthe said. “I’ve hardly kidnapped them. You are very much mistaken if you think I have.”
Indignation stiffened her spine, but trepidation swirled in her belly. He was very large, and grew larger as he stalked down the hall.
“I’ll press charges. Abduction. Blackmail. I suppose you’ve settled on a ransom? How much do you suppose you could earn for stealing the Duke of Hunsdon and his siblings?”
Amaranthe waved toward the front door, hoping her hand didn’t tremble. “You may leave my house this instant, you insulting person!” She might be nervous, but she refused to be intimidated.
“I will find where you’ve hidden them.”
The man advanced, and Amaranthe stepped back, as if they were dancing. He was quite tall, his shoulders treacherously wide. He lifted his chin to glare over her head and Amaranthe noted a strong, square jaw set with determination. He was not the fleshy, soft sort of gentleman she was used to dealing with, the rare times she dealt with gentlemen.
“Hugh! Ned! Millie! Where is she keeping you?”
“In the parlor, Grey,” Ned called back in cheerful tones. Camilla’s reply, muffled by a mouthful of cake, followed.
The stranger stormed past her and Amaranthe whisked out of his way, certain an explosion would follow if she made the error of contact. Her pulse clattered in her throat like a mouse in the coal bin. He pushed into the parlor, and she scurried after him to shield the easel with her body. The parchment pages were covered with the cloth, but the book from which she was copying stood open. She planted a hand on her hip to broaden her silhouette and keep him from seeing anything.
His attention fastened on the children. The Duke of Hunsdon lowered his piece of bread and butter, but the younger two kept eating steadily. Perhaps they were used to this strange man and his belligerence.
“How did you get here?” the stranger barked. “Account for yourselves!”
“Ralph brought us,” Ned said with a guilty expression.
“We took the coach,” the duke added, unrepentant.
“But why here?” The man’s gaze swung on Camilla.
“We needed help,” she said simply, fishing a crumb of cake from her lip with a little pink tongue. “And Mr. Joseph was the only one we could think of.”
The man they called Grey flinched at this and turned an accusing stare on Amaranthe. Beneath the scowling brows, his eyes were an unnerving, icy blue. “Where is Mr. Joseph, then? And who is this?”
Amaranthe planted a second hand on her hip in exasperation. “Their kidnapper, of course.” How she hated gentlemen with their insolent manner toward those they thought subservient, which was everyone.
He looked to the children for clarification, but they had none. “She was here when we came in.” The young duke shrugged.
“His wife?” Ned guessed.
“His housekeeper?” Camilla tried.
Amaranthe bit her lip and crossed her arms over her chest. “The criminal mastermind who is holding you ransom,” she replied. “The first step in my villainy apparently being to fill your empty bellies.”
The scowl gave way to a look of bafflement. “Then this is the tutor’s house? Mr.—Islington.”
“This is where the tutor lives, but that is not his name.” Amaranthe decided to help him no further. He was above her in rank, but his manners were decidedly shabby.
