“I’m not sure our bodies are governed by the same principles as a pair of dice.”
“I’m not sure mine works according to any logic whatsoever. But it’ll happen sooner or later, and I need to figure out how to deal with it without Roger.”
This was perhaps only the second time Ash had so much as said Roger’s name in the past two weeks. She didn’t ask whether Ash missed Roger, because of course he did. They had seldom been more than a few yards apart from one another in years. Roger had effectively been Ash’s only parent, and now he was hundreds of miles away and exceedingly unlikely to return. “How long before you can expect a letter from him?”
“Two months, at the earliest.” He pushed a hand through his hair and sat on the edge of his worktable. “I’ve already written three letters addressed to the poste restante in Italy. If—when—he arrives, he’ll think I’ve gone clear off my head.”
“He’ll think nothing of the sort.”
Ash smiled ruefully. “I know.” He turned towards a bookcase and busied himself in arranging the mysterious jars and oddments that were the tools of his trade.
“We’re happy to have you here, Nate and I,” Verity said. There was something about how Ash’s hand lingered over each object, which he had once shared with his mentor but was now solely his, that made her want to tell him that he wasn’t truly alone. “I know you’d rather have gone with Roger, but when you wrote asking whether you could lodge with us, Nate bought a round of pints for everyone at the pub.”
“And you?” He looked over his shoulder and met her eye.
“Well, I paid for the round because Nate hadn’t any ready money.” But he was still looking at her, as if he needed to hear more. “I would have killed the fatted calf, if I had one. You know this, Ash. I already told you.”
“You don’t mind that I’ve taken over the entire top floor of your house and drilled holes in your window casements?”
“Drill a thousand more and see if I care.” She narrowed her eyes as she saw a movement along the top of the bookcase. “Ash, I don’t mean to alarm you, but what on earth is that?” It appeared to be a shadow with eyes.
Ash followed her gaze. “So that’s where you’ve gotten to, miss.”
When the animal hissed in response, Verity knew precisely what it was. “I thought Nate didn’t let her into the house.”
“Um. Well. About that. Nate didn’t let her in.”
Verity raised an eyebrow. “But you did?”
Ash had the grace to look sheepish. “It was raining and she looked pitiful.”
“Ash, that cat is two stone, not to mention vicious. She’ll starve in here unless we’re harboring a more abundant mouse population than I dare contemplate.”
“She won’t starve. I leave the window cracked open most of the time, and she comes and goes as she pleases. Besides, I may possibly share some of my food with her.” His eyes darted to an empty dish near the window.
“Does Nate know you’ve suborned his cat into betraying him?”
“To be fair, I haven’t quite accomplished the act yet. As you can see, she’s still deciding whether I’m friend or foe.” The cat hissed again, arching her back and glaring at Verity as if she had understood every word they had spoken. “Well, what’s that you’ve brought me?” Ash gestured at the parcel she carried under her arm.
“It came in the post. Do you remember that conversation we had at dinner the night after you arrived, about the relative safety of printing obscenity compared to politics?”
“How could I forget?”
“At first I thought it was a silly idea, but in the next few months one of two things will happen. Either Nate will be more cautious about what he puts in the Register, which means we’ll lose some income, or he’ll be arrested, and we’ll still be out that income.” She swallowed. It was hard and unfeeling to talk about her brother’s future in strictly economic terms. But she saw Ash nod. “Well, I decided that if a suitable—or unsuitable, haha—” she laughed nervously “—novel landed on my desk, I’d consider it. Well, this morning’s post brought the answer to my filthiest prayers.”
He was silent for a moment. “You have my attention, Plum.”
“It’s a perfectly competent novel along the lines of Waverley to which some rather more explicit material has been added.” Those scenes appeared to have been appended after the fact, in a scrawled and hasty hand. Only years of practice reading Nate’s chaotic penmanship had prepared Verity for this manuscript. “I thought that perhaps, if you were interested, you might agree to illustrate the first volume. If it’s a success, we can consider doing the other two volumes.”
He crossed his arms across his chest, which, since he wore only shirtsleeves, drew her attention to the musculature of his arms in a way she found entirely unnecessary. “I’m hardly an expert in obscenities law,” he said dryly, “but it seems to me that illustrations would transform this from a slightly naughty novel to something more actionable.”
“The book is really quite tasteful,” she protested. “As far as these things go, at least. And we could keep the drawings vague. Suggestive,” she added. “If you’re not interested, I’ll find somebody else. I’ve brought it to you so you can see for yourself.” She tapped the sheaf of papers.
“If you go through with this harebrained idea, I’ll do the work uncredited. I’m entirely unsuited to durance vile.” He paused. “You might read me a passage, though.”
“It’s quite, ah.” She had planned to leave the manuscript on his desk and flee before he read it. “I can leave it for you overnight.”
He shook his head and sat on the edge of his worktable. “That won’t do, Plum. If you want me to illustrate your dirty book, you can’t be bashful about it.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Besides, I have to finish this set of sketches so I can start engraving the plates tomorrow.” He gestured at the tools laid out beside him.
“Of course.” She moved a stack of books off a spare chair and sat. “The premise of the novel,” she said, arranging her skirts before her, “is that Perkin Warbeck has a number of amorous adventures—”
“Perkin Warbeck?” Ash repeated in tones of plain astonishment. “Perkin Warbeck?”
She had been similarly astonished, and had looked up from the manuscript several times to consult a book on the history of the Wars of the Roses; the tome had lingered unsold on the bookshop’s shelves for so long that dust had slipped between the pages and the binding had gone brittle. That era of history was evidently not in much vogue at the moment. “How much do you remember of that affair?” Verity knew Ash’s schooling had been irregular and sporadic, and ultimately had been confined to the topics Roger found of interest.
“Only that he was a pretender to the crown. Most of what I know of history comes from Shakespeare and a volume on Queen Elizabeth that Roger illustrated some years ago.”
“So, in 1483, or thereabouts, Richard III probably murdered his nephews, the proper heirs to the throne. But a few years later, this boy showed up and claimed he was one of the princes, and had been spirited away to the Netherlands before Richard got a chance to murder him. In that case he would have had a better claim to the throne than Henry VII.”
“Because Richard III was long dead at that point?”
“Exactly. There was intrigue and a few very poorly planned attempts at invasion, and then Henry VII captured the fellow and had him admit that he wasn’t one of the princes, but rather a Dutch fellow named Perkin Warbeck. Of course, confessions extracted under pain of death aren’t terribly convincing, so people do like to speculate.”
“I would like to know what about that fellow screamed write an erotic novel about me.”
Verity snorted. “Well, in pursuit of the crown and his, um, lady love he beds various and sundry individuals before finding a lasting passion with the Earl of Warwick while imprisoned together in the Tower of London.”
Ash made a choked sound. “They were both put to death for treason. It can�
�t have been terribly lasting.”
“If you have a better premise for a dirty book, please write your own,” she said tartly.
“You’d better read me something, and soon, because otherwise I’m going to assume these are feverish delusions, Plum.”
She paged through the manuscript until she came to the first scene with Perkin and Lady Catherine, one of the tamer passages. She cleared her throat.
It had to be the gravest flaw in Catherine’s character that she was so fond of this unrepentant liar. One couldn’t trust two consecutive words that came out of that pretty mouth. Surely this was something that ought to at least matter. But she hadn’t even been able to feign maidenly reluctance when her father told her she was to marry this pretender to the crown. In all likelihood they were both going to wind up in the Tower, and all Catherine could think of was what would happen in the next hour. When he stepped into her chamber, the ladies who had been brushing her hair curtseyed deeply before scurrying away amidst a chorus of giggles.
“When did they marry?” Ash interrupted. “Before or after his attempted coup?”
“After his first attempted coup, he fled to Edinburgh, where the king of Scotland was so delighted to have a new way to vex Henry VII that he married Perkin—or Richard—off to his granddaughter. Or step-granddaughter. It’s a bit of a muddle.”
Ash’s fingers tapped thoughtfully on the counterpane. “Now, are you going to read me some actual filth or am I going to know the reason why?”
Verity turned the page and skimmed ahead several paragraphs.
Then they were alone, with nothing but their lies to keep them company. He approached her wordlessly, and with one long finger lifted a strand of hair off her shoulders. On her head was a circlet of gold, a meaningless bauble that signified nothing except her father’s pretenses to grandeur, but it was the echo of a coronet, and she saw the dark gleam of hunger in his eyes. Hunger for that crown, and then, as his gaze traveled from the circlet to the silken folds of her bedgown, perhaps also hunger for her. He placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted it up so she had to meet his gaze. His mouth curved into a shrewd smile, vulpine and canny. “My lady,” he said. “You’ve been thinking of this.”
“Yes, my lord,” she admitted, at once ashamed and anticipatory. Then his hands were on her shoulders, heavy and hot through the rich satin Father had brought from France. He trailed a single finger down her body until it encountered the rise of her breast, circling her—
“Stop,” said Ash. “That’s enough.”
“Don’t you want to know what will happen?”
“It’s entirely clear what’s about to happen, Plum.” His voice sounded strained.
“You didn’t like it, then?”
He cleared his throat. “Whether I like it is beside the point. If the book is entirely in that vein, I can illustrate it.” It wasn’t, but she decided to keep that to herself for the time being. “The scene where he lifts her chin and it’s menacing and tender all at once? That would make a good illustration. Candlelight reflecting off cloth of gold. Aquatint, I think.” He got to his feet and began rearranging the contents of a shelf.
Knowing she was being dismissed, Verity rose to her feet. “Can I bring you anything?”
“No, but thank you, Plum.”
“Shout if you change your mind,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
It had done a number on his sleep, that memory of Verity reading a seduction scene, even though they had stopped before getting to the main event, as it were. But it had put sex in the room with them, a reminder of all the things he resolutely tried not to think about. Even if Verity felt the same as he did, no momentary pleasure was worth losing the only family he had. Ultimately it would end and they would be left with awkwardness and bitterness between them. He would far rather have Verity as his friend than as his former lover. Furthermore, she had made clear her intention not to marry, and Ash couldn’t envision a world in which he had a protracted affair with a woman without it ending in marriage; he had long since stopped being ashamed to be illegitimate, but wasn’t about to inflict that status on a child of his own.
After getting coffee and a bun, he shoved a table against the window of his attic workroom to catch the scant light that filtered through the fog and sooty glass. Then he sat, fresh paper and ink spread out before him. He thought he’d do this series of plates in aquatint in order to achieve the right depth of shadow, out of which limbs and faces could emerge. Ash doubted anybody knew what Lady Catherine Gordon and Perkin Warbeck looked like, so he let his imagination loose. As he sketched, all the while thinking of the words Verity had read, Warbeck came alive as a languidly sinister character, all long lines and sinewy grace, and his wife took shape as a strong-jawed, pert-nosed fighter whose clinging garments hardly covered the strength beneath.
Lady Catherine, Ash decided as he drew the folds of her bedgown, only made sense if she loved Warbeck. If his dim memories of history lessons were to be trusted, everyone at the York court knew Warbeck was a fraud, and Warbeck himself hardly bothered keeping up the pretense that he was a true son of Edward IV who had been thought to have died in the Tower. Nobody thought Warbeck would end his days on the throne; indeed, if that had been a real possibility, he would have found a higher-born wife than Catherine. As it was, for Catherine to have married him, she must have known she was risking her own neck. What must it have been like for her to know that her father and grandfather were willing to sacrifice her, to cast her off for no reason other than to play ducks and drakes with the English crown? Ash knew what it was to be cast aside, and wondered whether Catherine longed for some semblance of home.
He was interrupted by the sounds of a quarrel coming from downstairs. He got up and peered out the door to find Charlie, the apprentice, hovering indecisively on the landing.
“They’re at it again,” Charlie said. “Hammer and tongs.”
“What’s it this time?” Ash asked.
“He wants to go to Derby for the execution. She says she’s known him since he was in nappies and she isn’t such a fool as to believe that he’s going to peacefully watch three people get beheaded.”
Ash could very distinctly imagine Verity speaking those exact words. “What does she think he means to do?”
“Start a riot, maybe, or mix himself up in the same kind of tomfoolery that’s getting Brandreth and the lot of them executed in the first place.” Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets. “He has his case packed and we’re meant to catch the mail coach tonight.”
Ash raised his eyebrows. “You’re going as well?”
“He says it’ll be an education,” Charlie said, his voice filled with amusement, but Ash frowned. Charlie had been the late Mr. Plum’s articled apprentice. Nate was in a position of responsibility as his master; he would be doing the lad no favors by getting him mixed up with the law. Charlie had come straight from the workhouse to the Plums, and he didn’t have any parents or relations to look out for him. Ash knew that it was one apprentice in ten thousand who had a master as considerate and kind as Roger had been, but he couldn’t help but look on Nate’s behavior and see it as an abrogation of duty.
Ash descended the stairs and found Verity and Nate in the workroom behind the bookshop that held the printing press and some other supplies. From the open jar of ink that stood on a worktable and the sheets of paper that hung from the ceiling to dry, and Ash guessed the men had cleared out to give their employers space to quarrel in relative privacy. But now the room was silent. Nate leaned against the press and Verity had her back to him, deliberately arranging a stack of freshly printed copies of the first Ladies’ Register. It seemed, at least, that the shouting portion of the fight had subsided.
Ash cleared his throat. When Nate and Verity looked at him, he was struck by their similarity—light brown hair, pale brown eyes, and a lean, utilitarian build. But also they shared the same stubborn jaw and firm mouth. Both Plums were pigheaded to the end, as their father had been
before them. This worked out perfectly well when they agreed, as they did nine times out of ten. But when they disagreed neither seemed capable of begging pardon or agreeing to differ.
He vividly remembered dozens of disputes over the years he had known them. He recalled Verity, her hair in a pair of plaits and a fresh pinafore over her frock, scolding Nate for having eaten the last of the candied apples. He remembered Nate, barely old enough to shave, hollering at Verity for having snubbed some girl he was sweet on. And then there were the supper table fights, pitched battles between Mr. Plum and his children about sugar boycotts and chimney sweeps and everything in between. Nate and Verity had fought over which coffin to bury their father in, for heaven’s sake. The Plums fought the way other families played a friendly hand of whist or a round of charades. Ash had found it alarming at first; for some reason buried deep within his mind he associated raised voices with smashed crockery and crying women. But the Plums simply enjoyed a good fight, and never seemed to love one another any less for believing the other was entirely in the wrong. The late Mrs. Plum had been an exception, but it was from her that Ash learned any attempts to broker peace only spoiled their fun. Instead, he sat back and watched his friends amuse themselves, much as a spectator at a tennis match.
This time, though, he didn’t know how to do that. While Verity could have been more diplomatic—tact had never been her abiding virtue—he wholeheartedly agreed with her that Nate ought to stay far away from the Pentrich executions, should avoid any situation that might tempt him to start a riot or engage in some casual treason, and under no circumstances should he embroil Charlie.
As Ash’s gaze traveled between them, Verity caught his eye. He wasn’t sure what she saw there—perhaps a sign that Ash was on her side—but her eyes opened wide, and then she murmured something unintelligible and left Nate and Ash alone.
“You know I don’t like to intervene in your affairs,” Ash said slowly, addressing Nate. “But I don’t see why you have to bring Charlie.”
A Duke in Disguise Page 4
