The Prince Page 10

  She had removed the whiskers and discarded the neck cloth and waistcoat, but wore trousers and shirt and a loose coat. The shirt collar had fallen open and he saw no binding about her breasts, only smooth, pale, rounded skin.

  He imagined waking her, drawing her to him, and tasting that skin, feeling it beneath his lips. When she looked at him there was more than clinical assessment in her eyes. There was agitation. And desire. She was far too well informed for the usual naïveté of young Englishwomen. He had no hope that, maiden or not, she did not recognize lust for what it was.

  If he touched her, she would not resist.

  Setting down the jar softly, he went to the hearth, piled wood on the embers, then left.

  Chapter 10

  Awakening

  Libby awoke to the parlor steeped in the gray of almost-dawn and the sense that a sound had nudged her from sleep. A shout, perhaps? Not from within the house, certainly. Despite his cane, her host was uncannily quiet.

  Straightening, and stiff muscles flinching, she rubbed the bleariness from her eyes, scowled at the crinkled page of Russell’s Singular Variety of Hernia upon which she had fallen asleep, and groaned when her fingers strafed her cheeks.

  The skin irritation was unendurable. But before her mirror she had studied her face sans whiskers too many times to have any illusion that she looked like anything but a woman dressed in men’s clothing. The whiskers, her hair treatment, and the darkening of her brows together had a significant effect.

  But she had no uncertainty as to the real reason the other students and her teachers believed her disguise: they did not think a woman capable of medical science. Even if they thought her unusually effeminate, it would simply never occur to them that a woman could accomplish what she was now accomplishing.

  On the table beside Russell’s study was a small jar.

  It was not yet light out, still too early for Mrs. Coutts or Mr. Gibbs to have arrived. Which meant that her host had left the jar here while she slept.

  Libby’s heartbeat did an uncomfortable little stumble.

  Prying out the cork, she discovered a thin, oily substance. She sniffed. It was nearly odorless. Perhaps it was a balm or soap, to soothe her rash. He had not complained about the blemishes on her face, but he mustn’t like to draw them. Skimming her fingertip over it, she touched her thumb to forefinger. The digits stuck together.

  Adhesive!

  Shutting off the lamp, she took the jar to her bedchamber. As she dressed she heard Mrs. Coutts arrive, and shortly the scents of cooking twined through the house.

  In the dining room, Libby poured a cup of tea and let the steam dampen her face. She tweaked a few whiskers. They held.

  Setting down the cup, she went to the back of the house.

  Pale morning light illumined the windows of his studio, casting him in a pearly aura as he stood at the easel. Arms crossed and stance remarkably solid, he stared intently at the large canvas.

  “I am sorry I fell asleep in the parlor,” she said.

  “You may sleep anywhere you wish in this house,” he said, not turning his attention from the painting. “But you may not disturb me while I am working. Begone.”

  “There is no evidence of brush or palette anywhere. You are not working. You are pondering.”

  “Pondering is part of the work.” His arms tightened across his chest, making the coat strain at his shoulders. Good Lord, he was thoroughly virile. She could study the shape of his clavicles and scapulae—his entire pectoral girdle—for hours.

  “The adhesive is marvelous,” she said. “Miraculous, in fact. Extraordinarily light yet strong. Even dry it is elastic. What will dissolve it?”

  “Linseed oil.”

  “Oh, of course. Its base is linseed. Ingenious. Where did you purchase it?”

  “I made it.”

  “You?”

  Finally he turned his gaze upon her. But he said nothing.

  “You are a chemist?” she said.

  “Among other talents.”

  “You must concoct your own pigments and solutions.”

  He nodded, again that regal tilt of his head that seemed to compliment her as it suggested a great distance between them.

  “But human skin is entirely different from canvas,” she said. “How do you know this adhesive would not be an even fiercer irritant than the adhesive I have been using?”

  “Your new best friend helped.”

  “My new best—oh. Truly ingenious! Pigs are susceptible to many of the same ailments as humans, of course. And the piglet’s skin must be at least as sensitive as mine. That was clever of you. The experiment did not harm it, I hope.”

  “The compounds were mild.” The shadow of a smile crossed his lips. “The creature rather enjoyed the attention, I think.”

  “Now that you are finished with it—that is, I have not seen it this morning. Have you returned it to the butcher?”

  “If I had?”

  “You haven’t.”

  “For a person of science you are a remarkably softhearted girl.”

  “One is not counterindicative of the other. And I am not a girl.”

  “No,” he said, his eyes hooding as his gaze dipped. But he was looking at neither a girl nor a woman, rather a young man. “You are not,” he said as though beneath the coat and waistcoat and trousers he saw her woman’s body—her breasts and hips and thighs and fluttering belly.

  He looked again into her eyes. “It is in the kitchen with Mrs. Coutts. Not in the pot. Rather, begging for scraps for breakfast. Now haven’t you a lecture to attend, or some such?”

  “Thank you. You did this even when you needn’t have.”

  “The clarity of your skin is of interest to me.” He returned his attention to the canvas.

  When she passed the kitchen doorway the piglet scampered out and ran circles around her feet. Scooping it up, she examined it in the light from the parlor windows. On its stomach, a small square of fur had been shaven away. The skin there was healthy.

  He had kept a farm animal in his clean, elegant house in order to devise an adhesive that would not irritate her skin. Yet he had no interest in talking to her, in drinking a pint with her, or in seeing her other than for a single hour each Sunday morning.

  Libby had trouble keeping her attention on Dr. Jones’s lecture. The whiskers felt too light, her cheeks too elastic, and she could not stop thinking that the adhesive had failed and had fallen off and she would be exposed before everybody.

  “Fine news, what?” Archie whispered beside her.

  Below, Dr. Jones was pointing his baton at a diagram of the vascular system.

  “What news?”

  “What news? Jones has announced we’ll have cadavers come January! You know what that means.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Means we’ve a month to find a private surgery course an’ have ourselves practice dissectin’ afore Jones is watchin’ our every cut. ’Tis the only way to have a jump on the others.” His freckles bunched up in a frown. “Under the weather, lad? Been stayin’ out late with Cheddar an’ his mates, have you?”

  “Of course not. I am only a bit distracted today.”

  “Now I’ve seen it all. Joseph Smart, distracted from studies. Lad, get your head outta the clouds.”

  But she could not manage to focus, and when lecture ended she did not go to the library with Archie, as they had taken to doing after lecture, to be followed by a visit to the pub. Instead she went to the closest place she could think to go: her friend Tabitha’s modiste shop.

  Through the small window she saw no one inside. The bell on the door jingled as she entered and went directly to the mirror.

  The whiskers were intact. The adhesive he had contrived was light and essentially invisible. He was an extraordinary chemist.

  And he was her ally.

  “Good day.” Tabitha said, coming around a wide screen from behind which women were speaking softly. They were probably doing measurements or a fitting
on the dais, precisely where Tabitha had made Libby’s first set of man’s clothes. “I am Mrs. Bellarmine.” Her soft West Indies accent, rounded shoulders, and gown of delicate muslin were a contrast to her wary eyes. “How may I help you, sir?”

  Sir.

  Men did not call at modiste shops. Having escaped enslavement in the West Indies, Tabitha had plenty of reason to mistrust men who behaved out of the ordinary. Married now to a Scotsman, still she was an outsider making her home in a new land, and vulnerable.

  Just as Libby’s housemate was.

  “Mum needs a wrap,” she muttered, gesturing at a display of shawls. “That’ll do.” Digging into her wallet, she slapped a banknote on the counter.

  She kept her head down as her friend wrapped up the shawl and made change.

  “I hope your mother enjoys it.”

  “M’thanks,” she mumbled.

  By the time she made it around the corner and out of sight of the shop she was dizzy. Dragging in a lungful of air, she stared at the paper package in her hands.

  One of her closest friends did not even recognize her.

  Are you prepared to be always alone?

  He had warned her. But she had not truly understood. And she had not considered how it would affect him if she were discovered—how he, as a foreigner in this city, could be endangered by her ruse.

  “What’s in the package?” Archie said as Libby settled beside him at the table that was becoming their usual spot in the pub. Archie’s friends Peter “Pincushion” Pincher and George Allan were already seated, with pints of ale.

  “A shawl.”

  Archie pushed a teacup toward her. On her first visit here, she had made the mistake of drinking a whole pot of tea before discovering that students typically relieved themselves in the gutter in the alley behind the building. She sipped slowly.

  “A shawl? If you’ve no’ gone an’ replaced yourself with another Joe Smart, I’ll be flabbergasted. Sure it’s no’ a bag o’ bones?”

  “Or a rat to dissect?” Pincushion said with a grin.

  “Or surgical instruments?” George added.

  They had taken her measure swiftly. Was she entirely transparent?

  She frowned. The adhesive moved so easily with her skin she didn’t even feel it. He was a miracle chemist. She wished she had half of his talent.

  Tickling heat sped into her belly. To be here with her new companions yet thinking of him was strange and wonderful. Her life had become secrets upon secrets. Yet thoughts of him felt honest.

  “It’s only a shawl,” she said.

  “Perhaps for that pretty cousin?” Pincushion said, poking a knobby elbow into Archie’s ribs.

  “Fine news about the cadavers comin’ at the New Year, aye?” Archie said in an obvious redirection. “Thought we’d have to wait till the next course.”

  “It isn’t all it’s made out to be,” George mumbled. He had brown hair that spiked like a pitchfork and thick spectacles.

  “Aw, Allan,” Pincushion said, “you’re only afraid you’ll toss your breakfast again this year too.”

  “This year?” Libby said.

  “George is repeatin’ anatomy,” Archie explained. “Failed the diploma exam.”

  George nodded in glum confirmation.

  “Couldn’t hold the knife steady enough to cut,” Pincushion said, wiggling his brows. “Turned green every day.”

  “If you cannot endure dissecting, George, why are you studying surgery?” Libby said.

  “He doesn’t want to be a surgeon,” Pincushion said. “Or a physician.”

  “Rather be a solicitor,” Archie said. “But his father’s a physician.”

  “And his father’s father,” Pincushion said.

  “And my father’s father’s father,” George said.

  “The old man’s a right bloody bastard,” Pincushion said.

  “An’ he’s got money. George finished last term—”

  “In disgrace,” George inserted.

  “But his father’s bought him back in again.”

  “That is a rotten deal, George,” Libby said, imagining the women who would rejoice in having George Allan’s money and liberty to study medicine in his place.

  “Enough gloom, lads,” Archie declared. “Despite havin’ his head in the clouds, Joe recited the lymphatic system to everybody in lecture today. Jones was beamin’. A toast to our young mate!”

  They toasted her and she drank lightly.

  On Friday Libby gave the shawl to Coira.

  Coira cooed. “What am I to do with a wrap bonnie as this?”

  “Wear it to church,” Libby suggested.

  “Church! Laddie, you’re a precious one, to be sure.”

  Libby suspected where the shawl would go: the same place Coira’s wages went, a grandmother she had spoken of with affection.

  With a jaunty bow, copied from the sorts of jaunty bows she’d seen Archie give women, Libby headed to lecture.

  In the lecture hall, the physician stood at a dissection table upon which was a collection of jars.

  “Gentlemen, today we will begin dissecting preserved organs,” Dr. Jones said, gesturing to a man entering the theater. “Mr. Plath here will assist with dissections for the remainder of the session. He is an advanced surgical student.”

  Libby’s mouth went entirely dry. Mr. Plath was the young man from the party she had attended with Constance and Saint, whose hands had made bruises on her arms.

  Plath perused the tiers of students. Pausing on George, his eyes narrowed.

  “Plath hates me,” George whispered. “He told me I’m a mama’s boy.”

  “Your saintly mum’s the only reason you’re no’ a thorough bounder, lad.”

  “As soon as they open those jars I’ll gag and he’ll crucify me again.”

  Libby unscrewed the lid of a little tub of scented balm. “Rub this on your upper lip, George. It will mask the stench.”

  Archie and Pincushion swiped balm above their lips too. Libby couldn’t; she had no idea how the adhesive and balm would mix.

  “Mr. Smart and Mr. Chedham,” Dr. Jones said. “Your marks are at present the highest. You will begin.”

  “Perfect,” she heard Chedham mutter.

  Palms damp, she approached the table.

  “Mr. Chedham,” Plath said. “You will dissect the heart.” He looked directly into her face from a yard away. “Mr. Smart, you have the brain.”

  He had no idea.

  “The rest of you,” Dr. Jones said, “open your notebooks.”

  “Dr. Jones,” Libby said. “I have already dissected the brain several times and committed all the parts to memory. May Mr. Armstrong perform the dissection of this brain while I describe it?” From a family of prosperous farmers, Archie only lacked experience to be a fine man of medicine.

  “This is an unusual request, Mr. Smart. But you may. Mr. Armstrong, approach.”

  Archie sprang up from his chair. As he grabbed an instrument and began working, she felt Dr. Jones’s gaze on her, and prayed it was approving.

  “I dinna know how you bear it, lad.” Archie’s fuzzy eyes stared at where Chedham stood with his usual sycophants clustered around him.

  “Bear what?” she mumbled, light-headed and not quite certain how she had come to be clasping an empty ale glass. The pub was full of students, all boisterous. George and Pincushion were chuckling over something, both looking merry as ploughmen on a Sunday.

  Right. They were celebrating George’s triumph over nausea. And she privately was celebrating the success of her disguise. Plath had not recognized her. Even Tabitha had not recognized her. And these boys believed she was one of them. Her transformation into Joseph Smart was complete. When Archie had bought her a pint, celebrating seemed in order.

  “Apprenticing alongside Cheddar,” he said. “He’s got a coldness I dinna trust, as though he’s got no fellow feelin’. But enough o’ him.” Archie smacked the table. “Let’s talk about females.”

  �
��Gotten up the courage to invite Joe’s cousin for a stroll yet?” Pincushion said.

  Archie’s cheeks flushed pink through the freckles.

  “It ain’t the courage he’s got up for the lass,” George said, laughing. “Aye, Archibald?”

  “Look at him!” Pincushion cried. “I’ll bet our lad’s gone stiff as a cadaver at only the mention of the girl.”

  “Sod off, Peter,” Archie said cheerfully, but he cast Libby a worried glance. “Pincher was raised in a barn, Joe. I’ve nothin’ but respect for your cousin. Dinna take it amiss, will you?”

  “Why should I?”

  Archie’s gaze shifted over her shoulder, then abruptly widened in alarm. Libby followed it with hers.

  Eyes rolled up in his head and mouth hanging open, Pincushion was slowly stroking his ale glass up and down, then gradually quicker. He started moaning. George chortled madly.

  Archie’s complexion got even redder. “Odd’s blood,” he said desperately. Casting his gaze about, he called out to a pair of students nearby. “How about a game tomorrow, lads? I’ll bring the ball.”

  An hour later, Libby walked home in a haze, her vision bleary and thoughts thoroughly muddled. That action Pincushion had been doing with his glass . . .

  It was certainly sexual. And George’s reference to “up” seemed clear enough.

  Obviously Archie had a tendre for Iris. After only one meeting, that seemed silly. But attraction for a female did often cause a male erection. The female body functioned similarly, although much less obviously. Anatomy texts glossed over both, describing the functions of the muscles and fascia and blood vessels, but little about how it all actually occurred. They needn’t elaborate on male arousal; all those books were meant for only men to read.

  Inside the house she went into the parlor.

  “P’raps the French will have something to say.” Her consonants slurred. Pulling a thick volume off the shelf, she opened it and blinked hard to bring the words into focus. But even the French text was vague.

  If her father were home, he would tell her.