The Prince

by Katharine Ashe

  “Mr. Kent!” Mr. Hatch rushed into the foyer. “Are you leaving? Already? We thought you would remain all day. My wife is laying a splendid lunch for you. Perhaps you have forgotten a brush or another item at home? Allow me to send a footman for it.”

  “I have forgotten nothing. Your daughter, however, seems to have forgotten common civility.”

  Hatch’s head jerked back so that his chin became the multiple chins of a tortoise.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Rather, she ought to be begging mine. You and your wife, as well, for raising her with truly poor manners yet giving me no warning.”

  “Oh, dear.” His cheeks grew ruddy. “I am exceedingly embarrassed. That is, I—” His eyes were the eyes of a father who knew exactly of what his daughter was capable. “I beg you to tell me your recommendation for going forward.”

  Ziyaeddin leaned in as though to speak confidentially. “Find her a husband. Swiftly.”

  Spring sunshine flooded the cobblestones as he rode toward Old Town. Elizabeth would not return home for many hours yet, but he had plenty of work to occupy him until then.

  Climbing the steps to his door he felt watched. Across the street a man wearing a cloak of russet that concealed his head stood too immobile.

  Ziyaeddin descended the steps, and the man drew back the hood. His hair shone with gold and his eyes were as familiar as the gray Scottish sky.

  “Joachim?”

  “Your Highness,” the Egyptian said, “I come according to my vow made to you ten years ago, and at your sister’s bidding.”

  Taller and broader than when last they had run together through the streets of Alexandria, Joachim’s skin was light, his beard thick, and his eyes an age older than Ziyaeddin remembered. Now he wore on his hip a blade and on his chest the insignia of the patriarch his father had once served.

  “My friend.” Ziyaeddin extended his hand. “My brother.”

  Bowing his head, Joachim clasped his arm, as they had practiced when they spied on the patriarch’s soldiers and spoke of how someday they would be men too. But now Joachim was not speaking his native tongue, rather in Persian, the language of Tabir.

  “I had forgotten,” Ziyaeddin said.

  “Forgotten me?”

  “Never.” On the dock before the ship’s departure, Ziyaeddin had finally told his friend the truth about his family. Joachim had gone to his knee and promised lifelong fealty. “I had forgotten your vow to me.”

  “Yet I never have.”

  “Come. You have traveled a great distance. Allow me to offer you hospitality.”

  Inside the house the Egyptian remained stiff, his eyes assessing.

  “Sit and take refreshment,” Ziyaeddin said when Mrs. Coutts had left a tray of coffee.

  “Your Highness, bid me kneel or stand, but not sit.”

  “Call me Ibrahim, or Ziyaeddin if you prefer, or speak to me not at all. And sit.”

  The soldier sat with obvious discomfort.

  “This house . . .” he said, looking around the parlor. “What is it?”

  “My home.”

  Joachim frowned.

  “Now, old friend,” Ziyaeddin said, “tell me how it is that my sister sent you here and that you speak now in the tongue of my homeland rather than yours.”

  “His Holiness sent me to Tabir.”

  “To Tabir? When?”

  “The year after you sailed, when I went into service for His Holiness, I thought it right to tell him of my vow to you.”

  “Of course you did.” Ziyaeddin smiled.

  Joachim titled his head. “The memories are not entirely lost to you, then?”

  “Not entirely. Why did you so easily accept as truth what I told you about my family that day on the dock before my departure?”

  “My father had always known. When you arrived in Alexandria, the patriarch had given him the responsibility of protecting your family. Then after you set sail, when your sister was taken and your mother slain by those dogs . . .” He shook his head. “My father has never forgiven himself or his failure to protect them. Neither has His Holiness. When word came that you had been lost at sea, His Holiness sent me to Tabir to ensure the princess’s safety. In the guise of a merchant I have kept watch on your palace ever since. Eventually I was able to communicate with her.”

  “But . . . This is incredible.”

  “No more so than a prince hiding among soldiers’ families a thousand miles away from his realm.”

  “How can my sister have communicated with anyone outside the palace? Is she no longer the general’s prisoner?”

  “Ziyaeddin, the general is dead.”

  “Dead?” He stood, sweeping a hand over his face. He had waited so long for this, it seemed unreal. His sister was free of her captor. Finally. “Ali wrote to me of the general’s illness, but not of—Are you the messenger he wrote of, the servant that my sister would send to me?”

  “I am.”

  “Is she well? And her sons?”

  Joachim nodded. “She was well prepared. She holds the loyalty of Tabir and negotiates already with the general’s remaining allies among the khans. But war has come. The very day of the general’s death, Russian soldiers appeared on the mountain and news came from Tabriz that the shah’s army had begun its march north. With His Holiness’s help, the princess is now securing Istanbul’s promise to aid you.”

  Istanbul. As though the years had simply vanished, his sister was seeking aid from the Ottomans—from their mother’s people.

  Thousands of miles away. Years ago. Yet all of it was now again his reality.

  “Ziyaeddin Mirza, Prince of Tabir,” Joachim said, descending to one knee, “your throne is at long last yours to claim. Your exile is at end.”

  Chapter 27

  The Accusation

  He was not at home when she returned. Libby changed from her clothing that smelled of the surgical hall, washed thoroughly, and paced the parlor until she heard the front door open.

  She went to him. “I have—”

  Cane clattering into the stand where he tossed it, he took her face between his hands and captured her mouth beneath his. She gripped his waist and allowed him to bear her up against the wall, and she filled her hands with him. There was no hesitancy or gentleness in him now, only urgency she tasted in his mouth and his body pressing into hers.

  When he drew away it was only to consume her face with his gaze and then kiss her again.

  “Is this what will always happen when one of us enters the house?” she said.

  “If your god favors us, delbaram.” He stroked her forehead where the errant curl refused to be tamed. “What is amiss?”

  “Was that Turkish?”

  “Persian.”

  “Why have you ceased calling me güzel kız?”

  “You are not a girl. You were not, had I but known it.”

  “How do you know that something is amiss with me?”

  “Your brow is taut even as you kiss me. This face, every feature, every shade, every texture is a masterpiece I have long since memorized. Tell me.”

  “You must speak again with Mr. Reeve.” Her fingertips dug into him. “I found Dallis tonight on the table in Mr. Bridges’s operating theater. There was laudanum in her stomach, but she died by suffocation.”

  His face paled. “Dallis.”

  “Yes, I am so sorry. You knew her well.”

  “Not well. Then it was no accident.”

  “Bethany’s appearance in that same operating theater is too great a coincidence for it to be otherwise. I must go tell Coira, so that she will be cautious. I waited only until you returned to ask for your aid.”

  “Elizabeth, with great respect for your intelligence and abilities, I ask you to allow me to speak with Reeve alone. Will you agree to this?” He spoke gravely.

  She twisted her fingers around the lapels of his coat. “I cannot remain idly here, of course.”

  “You will not be idle. Write to Bridges and request
a private audience with him. Do not disclose your reason for the audience. When he agrees to it, I will accompany you.”

  “You believe Mr. Bridges is hiring resurrectionists, don’t you? For I do. Although I haven’t an idea of how resurrectionists are still operating in Edinburgh. There are guards posted at nearly every cemetery in the city.”

  “I will speak with Reeve.” He released her. “Your promise now?”

  She nodded. “I have no wish to end up beneath Maxwell Chedham’s scalpel.”

  Lightness came into his eyes. “Of course you haven’t.”

  She took up his cane.

  “I liked that,” she said, offering it to him, “being kissed immediately and so thoroughly at the door here.”

  “That does not make it particularly easy to walk out this door now. Say nothing more, temptress.”

  She cracked a laugh.

  He reached for her and, wrapping one hand behind her neck, bent his head, but he did not kiss her.

  “There is nothing in the world I want more—nothing,” he said, “than to kiss you thoroughly not only here and now, but everywhere and in every moment.”

  “That would be impractical.”

  “Practicalities be damned.” There was a rough defiance in the words that made the hairs on her arms stand.

  He released her and departed, and she went to write her letter.

  Years earlier, when Ziyaeddin had used the Duke of Loch Irvine’s house in Edinburgh as a studio, he had first encountered James Reeve there. Reared on the streets of Edinburgh, Reeve had a desperate, childlike fondness for art. Delivering firewood to Gabriel’s house one day he had glimpsed several of Ziyaeddin’s paintings. Thereafter he had become a devotee, and proved useful for certain tasks. Ziyaeddin had even painted for him a small still life of the farm Reeve dreamed of someday purchasing for his ailing mother.

  When Reeve accidentally set the fire that burned Gabriel’s house down, fearing for his life he had returned to the alleys of Old Town to hide.

  Now Ziyaeddin found his quarry in a tavern.

  “Sir! You’ve no need to be comin’ down here to find Jimmy Reeve! Only send a note an’ I’ll be at your doorstep in a cat’s whisker!”

  “Take a seat, James.”

  A nervous scowl twisted Reeve’s lips, but he obeyed.

  “Are you robbing graves?”

  Reeve gaped.

  “There is no need to lie in this, James, and every reason to tell me the truth. At least two women of your close acquaintance are dead. If you did not murder them, you will not hang. But I must know the truth if I am to help you.”

  Reeve nodded. “Aye, I’ve dug up a few graves. But only them that’s properly buried an’ prayed o’er. I’d no’ nab a stiff whose ghost’s still close by.”

  “To whom do you sell the bodies?”

  Reeve’s lips tightened.

  “You have an appreciation for beautiful things, don’t you?” Ziyaeddin said.

  “Aye,” he said tentatively.

  “That is a fine gold ring you wear on your left hand. No doubt a token of gratitude from the man for whom you rob graves of their occupants?”

  “For a job well done.” Reeve grinned. “I’ll be givin’ it to my mum when she’s out o’ jail.”

  “The band is so carefully wrought. And the name inscribed on it delicate. All contrived with grace. The name? Of course. You cannot read. So you cannot have realized that inscribed on that ring is a proper name, no doubt the name of the woman from whose lifeless finger he took it. With that name it will be easy to find her family. I am certain they will be happy to have that ring again.”

  Reeve’s nostrils flared.

  “Now, James,” Ziyaeddin said, “to whom do you sell the bodies?”

  “He hasna told me his name,” he spit out. “Said I didna need to know it to find them.”

  “Them?”

  “The lasses.”

  Ziyaeddin pulled air into his lungs. This was no time to imagine Elizabeth in that alleyway with Coira, in danger. Perhaps he should not have persuaded Joachim to leave for London immediately, giving him a letter to carry to the foreign secretary and instructing him to begin making arrangements for their journey. Perhaps instead he should have asked his old friend to remain in Edinburgh, where the guardsman’s strength and skill could be of use in protecting a woman who wanted no protecting.

  But yesterday Ziyaeddin had not been ready to trade his present for his past. Not yet.

  “Which lasses, James?”

  “Them’s as s’eptible to a fine toff. Bonnie ones lookin’ for work. He dinna care for the dugs.”

  “Are you telling me that you act as procurer for a gentleman who murders prostitutes and then sells their bodies to surgical schools?”

  Reeve screwed up his brow. “Well there, Master,” he said, scraping his fingers across his scraggly beard. “I’m no’ certain how he’s handlin’ ’em after they go with him.”

  “You make the introductions only, and this man pays you well for it?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you understand that in giving you that ring he placed proof on you which the police will seize upon when they discover these crimes?”

  Reeve frowned. Then, as though the ring were aflame, he pulled it off and slapped it onto the table.

  “Have you any further assignations planned with this man?”

  Reeve shook his head hard.

  “Have you an address for him?”

  His head wagged back and forth again. “Always sends word for me here.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Aye, sir! You know I’d ne’re lie to you.”

  “If he should send word to you again, I wish to hear of it. You may find me here.” He slid his calling card across the surface of the table. Pocketing the ring, he left and made his way swiftly home.

  She was not there. The pot of adhesive sat open on the dressing table in her bedchamber, as though she had donned her whiskers hastily. In the parlor he found a message: Called to emergency at infirmary. Will speak with Bridges while there.

  The swell of emotion in his chest came suddenly and violently.

  Frustration—with her.

  Fear—for her.

  Pride—in her determination, her intelligence, her independence, her confidence.

  Yet all he could think of was getting her back in his bed. He was an utterly lost man.

  The clock in the parlor chimed twice. Standing at the base of the stairs in the darkness, silently he cursed her, then himself, and then her again. Then he went to bed. Alone.

  Libby watched her patient sleeping now, and her last remaining mote of energy slipped down into the soles of her feet.

  “Excellent work, Mr. Smart.” In the gray light of early morning, Mr. Bridges stood in the doorway. “The nurse has told me what you did, hastening here when the surgeons on rotation were already engaged in surgery.”

  “Only three bones needed setting, sir,” she said, following him out of the ward.

  “You have saved the young man the use of his hand. Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I received your message last night. Mr. Chedham has not yet arrived. What is it you wish to speak with me about in private?”

  “I believe that the cadavers used in your surgical dissection course are obtained through foul means.”

  He was silent a moment. “You imagine it to be the work of grave robbers?”

  “No, sir. Actually, I believe it could be murder.”

  His brows snapped together. “That is a serious accusation. Have you any evidence?”

  “Insufficient as yet. But I hope today to have more information. Sir, would you tell me from whom you purchase the cadavers?”

  A frown pulled his face into vertical lines. “You are an exemplary apprentice and student, Mr. Smart. I advise you not to endanger your future with baseless accusations.”

  Chedham was entering the hall.

  “Yes, sir,�
�� she said quickly. “I will speak with you about it only when I have strong evidence.”

  With another frown, the surgeon led the way to the ward.

  Hours later Libby’s toes were dragging and she could hardly keep her shoulders square.

  “Smart,” Chedham said, easily catching up with her as she crossed the courtyard. “What did you do to offend Bridges?”

  “It’s none of your business.” But she feared it was. Archie’s observation that Chedham had gone to Bridges’s house late at night would not leave her mind, nor the surgeon’s quick dismissal of her suspicion.

  “It didn’t seem so to me,” Chedham said. “But don’t worry. When you fall, I’ll be right here to pick up the pieces. And toss them in the rubbish bin with the rest of the offal.”

  As he sauntered off, exhaustion coated her.

  Shucking off the feelings, she walked to the alleyway. Coira came from her house.

  “Tell me you’ve that kidney pie today, lad, an’ I’ll kiss you,” she said with a cheery smile.

  “Coira, I’ve news about Dallis. And I need information. I need you to tell me how Bethany came to believe she was pregnant. Exactly how. By whom and when. And then I need you to go to my house and repeat it all to Mr. Kent.”

  “To the pub, lads?” Archie said, as the lecture hall emptied.

  “Mr. Smart is required elsewhere,” Dr. Jones said as he ascended the steps toward them.

  “Sir?” she said.

  “Come with me at once,” he said, and passed them by.

  Archie and Pincushion’s eyes were round.

  Libby gathered up her books and followed. “Doctor, have I—”

  “Silence will do you well for once, Mr. Smart,” he said grimly.

  He led her across the courtyard and into a chamber furnished with a long table and sober portraits of men on each wall. Late afternoon sunlight illumined similar men seated about the table, including the Lord Provost himself.

  Mr. Bridges stood just inside the doorway.

  “Mr. Smart,” the Lord Provost said. “I understand from Dr. Jones that you suspect the cadavers that Mr. Bridges uses in his private surgical school to be acquired illegally.”

  “Yes. But, whether it is true or not, I don’t understand what business of the university it is. Mr. Bridges’s school is independent. If what I suspect is true, it is a matter for the magistrates and the police.”