The Prince

by Katharine Ashe

  “I cannot always be wearing a cap indoors,” she said. “I don’t mind it. Iris—that is, my friend Iris Tate—collected the hair and will fashion it into an attachment piece so that I can wear it when I am obliged to see Lady Constance on occasion, as myself. As my other self, that is.” From this moment forward she was both Libby Shaw and Joseph Smart.

  Coming toward her, he withdrew a gold watch and fob from his pocket.

  “Have you an appointment?” she said. When he had required her to leave him be, she had imagined she would rarely see him. Perhaps never.

  “I do,” he said. “But I am not consulting the time now.” He grasped her hand and placed the watch upon her palm.

  She blinked, wondering if he would take her hand each time they saw each other, and both hoping he would not and wishing he would. It was an odd thing to be held by a man who was not her father, unnerving yet pleasant. Stirring.

  “This was my father’s,” he said. “I have no use for it, but you may. More importantly, it will help distract the eye from the shape of your hips.” His hand slipped away from hers.

  She was not voluptuous like Constance or even as curvy as Iris already. But this man was an artist. He would see everything.

  She met his gaze and she did feel as though he saw her—all of her—with the most intimate awareness. It was the same awareness in his touch: as though, through all the senses, he was always studying her closely.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You needn’t have.”

  “It is one hundred years old.” He took up his hat. “Made by an ancient family of clockmakers who once served caliphs and kings.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes.” Ziyaeddin could not resist smiling just a bit. “So don’t sell it to pay your rent.”

  About Elizabeth Shaw always seemed to hang a buzzing, vibratory tension. As she smiled now, he felt the slight release of that tension in her as though it was happening beneath his own ribs.

  She delighted him. It was an uncomfortable sensation. That, and he had not felt raw desire for a woman in so long that it disconcerted him.

  Of a lifetime of catastrophically unfortunate decisions and happenstance disasters, this was among the worst. He should not have agreed to this.

  But it was too late now. He must simply stay away from this. From her.

  “I wish you well in this endeavor, Miss Shaw.”

  She stared at the watch on her palm. “This is all very peculiar, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But I would expect nothing less of you.”

  Her gaze snapped up. “But you don’t know me.”

  “I know enough.” Too much already. And all of it captivated him. “I will be out for the remainder of the day, so you may settle in at your leisure. My housekeeper, Mrs. Coutts, has prepared the rooms above for you. Use whichever you wish. As you guessed, I never go up there. She and Gibbs could have a running dice game on the third story and I would be none the wiser. I don’t believe they do, by the way. She was far too happy to learn that another person will be living here. But if you find any dice, feel free to discard them.”

  “You needn’t jest to put me at my ease,” she said.

  “On the contrary, I am entirely serious about the dice.” He went to the door, feeling her clinical gaze upon him as though he were some specimen of incomplete manhood, a body to be studied in its imperfection.

  That was for the best. She must never know that even in boy’s clothing she roused the actual man. It would be to neither of their advantages.

  “And after I settle in?” she said.

  “After?”

  Her nostrils flared. “Will you leave me alone then too?”

  Aha. She did seem to understand men after all.

  “Yes. Except once a sennight. Once a sennight for an hour, you are mine.”

  “As agreed upon,” she said after a pause. “Is that what you meant yesterday, when you asked if I was prepared? Did you mean prepared to sit for you? For I will fulfill my side of our bargain. I will do anything to succeed in this.”

  “I believe that.” He returned to her and looked down into her earnest eyes, into the face full of determination. “But, no. That is not what I meant when I asked if you were prepared.”

  “Then prepared for what?”

  “To live among men each day. To learn their ways and mimic them and pretend to be what you are not so that they will not know you for what you truly are. To be always alone. That is what I asked, Miss Shaw. Are you prepared for that?”

  “Yes,” she said, her chin firm beneath the horrid whiskers. “For I must be.”

  He allowed himself to smile.

  “You know that,” she said. “You just tested me. When you said, You are mine, you wanted to see if I would flinch. If I would show fear.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps you give me more credit for dispassion than I deserve,” he said honestly, his gaze slipping to her lips momentarily. Lips he had not yet gotten perfect.

  But he would.

  The knocker sounded on the front door.

  On the stoop stood a lad in threadbare clothes, holding a heavy wooden chest in his arms.

  “My medical chest!” she said in a wholly altered timbre, low and throaty. “Where did you find this?”

  The boy jerked his head toward the street. “Behind the pub yonder, sir.”

  “How did it come to be there?” she said.

  “I watched the driver carry it up with the rest o’ the luggage, but then back to the coach,” he said. “Then I saw him drive off with it, so I followed him. S’pect he didna find aught he liked, ’cause he left it in the alley, though I’d say the box’s as good as gold empty too! When I saw ’tis a doc’s box, though, I said to myself, ‘If a thief’d stole the doc’s bag as which tended Mum after the loom collapsed an’ snapped her leg right in two, she’d ne’er walked again!’” He thrust the chest toward her. “I didna nab a thingie.”

  “Thank you for your honesty. How is your mother’s leg now?”

  “’S all healed up.” He shook his ratty head. “But she’s got the aches in the spot somethin’ awful.”

  “That is not uncommon in a badly broken bone that has mended. How much meat, eggs, and soft cheese does your mother eat?”

  He screwed up his brow. “We’d a chicken Sunday.”

  “Every Sunday?”

  “Naww. Anly when Pa’s home from the drivin’.”

  “And does she eat the skin and fat of it, or do you?”

  “Gives it to the wee ones, she do, them bein’ the twins, sir.”

  “Of course she does. Any good mother would.” She set the chest on the floor, unlatched it, and withdrew a large brown bottle. “This is walnut oil.” She wrapped the lad’s hands around it. “Your mother must swallow a teaspoonful of it every day. After a fortnight or two, I think she will find her discomfort less burdensome.”

  “By drinkin’ oil?”

  “This oil in particular—and a few others, but this is the one I have on hand at present. It is very valuable,” she said, her hands still surrounding his. “I do not wish you to sell it.”

  “Mum’ll sell it herself to pay the rent!”

  “She mustn’t. She must consume it each day or she will not recover fully, and then she will not be able to sit comfortably before the loom ever again. So here is what you must do: hide it somewhere she will not find it and add it to her food yourself. I don’t usually approve of untruths”—she cast Ziyaeddin a swift glance—“but you must do this for her. And when the bottle is empty, return here and give me a report. If it is helping to ease her pain, I will supply you with more. If it isn’t, we will find another solution.”

  “Aye, Doc!”

  She released him. “Now tuck that away so it won’t break.”

  The lad tugged on his cap and scampered off. She latched the medical chest.

  “I don’t know how I could have forgotten this. I must have been more anxious arriving than I thought.” Her eyes were troubled, and she held th
e box to her chest as though it were an infant. “And now I have just given away the gift that I brought for you in thanks for taking me in.”

  “The bottle of oil?”

  “In my research I learned that walnut oil is the preferred medium for paint due to its lightness and that it does not yellow with age, but that many painters find it too expensive to use regularly. That particular bottle was derived from English walnuts. They are delicious, but I suppose that hardly matters to you of course, nor the cost of oil for that matter, for the furnishings in your house and your clothing are obviously costly, and I understand that your paintings are quite expensive.”

  “You researched painting oils?”

  “Of course. If I am to live with an artist I must know what he holds dear. I am sorry I had to give it away.”

  Had to give it away, as though she had no choice but to help the lad’s mother, whom she had never even met.

  “I am not sorry,” he said, opening the door. “You need not give me gifts.” He was beginning to think her presence in his house was gift enough. “Good day, Mr. Smart.”

  Libby explored. Adorned with plain, elegant furniture, the two bedchambers on the second story revealed the influence of their master in the exquisite Eastern-style rugs and a few small paintings. In the bedchamber whose window faced the street was a mirror and dressing table, which she required for donning her whiskers each day.

  A painting hung by the door. It obviously depicted a marketplace, although not like any marketplace she had visited. Tent awnings shaded people and painted amphorae full of goods, and rugs like those on the floors of this house, and sunshine blazed everywhere. Amidst the activity of bearded men and veiled women, two boys raced, stirring up dust. Though foreign, it was a tableau of the most ordinary sorts of interactions—buying and selling and playing—and alive with life.

  Libby leaned forward. The faces of the boys and all the market-goers were blurred, as though she were peering through sunlight too brilliant or shadow too deep to discern them. Each figure was colorful and vital, but in their anonymity, distant.

  A frisson of fear wriggled up her center, the same she had felt when he said those unexpected words: You are mine.

  Withdrawing the watch from her pocket, she ran her fingertip over the engravings on the lid. Ornate, with delicate curls and loops, they seemed more than a mere decorative pattern, rather like words.

  Caliphs and kings.

  When he had come close to her, he had again moved smoothly, as though it did not affect him to move like that on his ruined leg. But she knew how the skeleton and muscles functioned, and she knew that his display of strength and steadiness could not in fact come without cost.

  Reaching up to the painting, she ran her fingertips along the bottom edge of the frame and then onto the picture. It was cool and uneven. The toe of the dark boy’s shoe barely arose from the canvas, but enough so that the texture itself created dynamism.

  “The master painted that one.”

  Libby pivoted to the doorway. The woman there was mature, with as much gray beneath her cap as red, and shrewd eyes set in a ruddy Scottish face.

  Libby bowed. “How d’you do, ma’am?”

  “Wasn’t that as fine a bow as any lad’s ever given Nan Coutts? Aye, you’ll do,” she said with a nod. “Those pretty eyes might be trouble, but we’ll darken those brows an’ that’ll help. Dinna worry over the master’s man, Gibbs,” she said with a wave of her hand. “He’s no’ the full shillin’, that one. But keep your wits about you, lass.” She bustled onto the stair landing. “I set dinner at six, then I’m home to my Rufus to cook for him, the dearie.”

  Then she was gone, leaving Libby shaking a bit.

  He had told his housekeeper.

  Checking her whiskers in the mirror, she left the house and walked to the university clerk’s office. After paying the fees for anatomy and chemistry courses, she set off with a wide, youthlike stride for the bookshop.

  “Joe Smart!” Archibald Armstrong waved from across the street, then jogged over. “Saw you come from the clerk’s. Got your apprenticeship yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m to apprentice with Myers. Jealous? Dinna be! He’s my uncle. Mum said if he wouldna take me on she’d have his guts for garters.” His smile was broad. This time when he smacked Libby on the back she dug her heels into the cobbles and remained upright.

  He peered at her face.

  “Beastly hot, those whiskers, aye? An’ I’ll tell you what, the lasses dinna care for ’em. Best shave ’em off afore you get a tongue-lashin’ for scrapin’ up some bonnie female’s cheeks.” He grinned even wider. “I’d best be off. Mum’s invited the cousins for dinner. Canna be late.”

  The scents of savory roast and freshly baked bread met Libby as she entered her new residence. The Holland covers had been removed from the dining table, and upon the sleek cherrywood, adorned now with fine linen, Mrs. Coutts had laid a feast, yet only a single place setting. A note beside the platter indicated that a cold lunch for the morrow was in the larder.

  She ran upstairs, peeled off her whiskers, removed her neck cloth, and returned to the dining room. Striding about the city as a man had given her a powerful appetite.

  She was halfway through her second plate when her host appeared in the doorway.

  “See the salutation,” she said, brandishing Mrs. Coutts’s note. The housekeeper had written To the Young Miss.

  “It seems I neglected to share with her your name.”

  Libby stood up. “You promised secrecy.”

  “Yet I did not promise foolhardiness.”

  “What if someone had called and seen this note? What if your manservant, Mr. Gibbs, did? Or have you told him too?”

  “I have not. And no one will call.”

  “I am vexed with you. We had an agreement.”

  “An agreement I chose to amend. Slightly.”

  “Will you amend it whenever it suits you? At whim?”

  “Possibly. This is my house.”

  “You are autocratic.”

  “And you are a young woman pretending to be a boy. Which of us, do you suppose, is overstepping bounds more grievously?”

  “I do not trust you.”

  “You should not trust me. Now, sit. Continue your repast. A lad’s brain requires fuel to function at its best.”

  “Do you not eat?” She tried not to scan his body but failed, as she was failing at maintaining any sort of calm around him. “I understand that artists can often be eccentric, so perhaps you don’t eat.”

  “Eccentric? This, from you?”

  “I met an artist once at a party Constance insisted I attend. He was thin and pale, as though he never ate. Some fashionable ladies believe frailty to be interesting. He was not, rather unhealthy as a man stricken with a complaint of the kidneys or liver. I was worried for him. Your musculature seems fit and sound, however.” Gorgeous. “Not at all undernourished.”

  “I am glad to spare you the concern for my health. I called upon Charles Bell. He is eager to make the acquaintance of young Mr. Smart.”

  “Mr. Bell! When? He knows about me? Already?”

  “I have invited him to lunch tomorrow to make the acquaintance of Joseph Smart, a distant cousin of a friend of mine, now a guest in my home. Is it not as you wished?”

  “It is! I only—”

  “As agreed upon, Miss Shaw, I am here to give you what you most desire.” He spoke the words slowly and without removing his gaze from hers.

  “You are here because this is your house. And to secure your own desire.”

  The side of his mouth turned up.

  “For a model,” she added. “Don’t intentionally misconstrue my words. I am nearly immune to teasing.”

  “Nearly? Interesting.”

  “You mustn’t flirt with me.”

  “I am not flirting with you.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  He bent his head a bit and said, after a moment’s
hesitation, “Learning you.”

  Sensation twirled up her body. It felt like anticipation.

  Ridiculous.

  “Learning me?” she said.

  “The more I know of an individual, the more accurately I can depict her. Or him.”

  “It isn’t only the exterior you study?”

  “It is not.”

  “That is the reason you attended the dissection.”

  He nodded.

  “At what day and time would you like me to sit for you?” she said.

  “Sunday at ten o’clock.”

  “What of church?”

  “Neither Mrs. Coutts nor Mr. Gibbs comes on Sunday.” His hand tightened around the head of his walking stick. “Sunday at ten o’clock.”

  He left, and she cleared the dishes, trying only to think of Mr. Bell’s imminent call. But she could not quiet her mind.

  Had he called on Mr. Bell before making his offer to her at Alice’s house? Had he chosen Sunday morning for the sittings for his convenience, or hers? Had she offended him by mentioning church? Perhaps he was not Christian. And what was he learning about her when he studied her with his beautiful dark eyes and smiled as though he liked what he discovered?

  Chapter 7

  Allies

  Charles Bell called two days after the little woman moved into Ziyaeddin’s house and disrupted his peace entirely. Her face and voice and the manner in which she moved were maddening. The trousers, coat, and whiskers should repel him. They did not. That knowing a female body hid within made him thirst for her was pure insanity. That he could not seem to control his tongue with her was a lack of discipline he had never before known.

  As Bell entered his parlor, Ziyaeddin found himself hoping that she would fail, that the surgeon would discover her ruse and depart in a fury.

  With a steady eye and outstretched hand she made the acquaintance of the famed surgeon. She spoke knowledgeably and at a pace that seemed to both bemuse and impress Bell. A Scot of about fifty years and a man of both profound faith and scientific brilliance, Bell had a thoughtful air and intelligent eyes. Ziyaeddin trusted him.