The Prince Read online

  After half an hour, Ziyaeddin excused himself. Visiting Mrs. Coutts in the kitchen, he ensured that she had set the dining table for two only, and then retreated to his quarters.

  Two hours later the false boy appeared in the doorway of his studio.

  “He has invited me to call with him at the Royal Infirmary tomorrow! He wishes to see how I apply my knowledge in examining patients. I was obliged to invent a deceased uncle who was a surgeon in America. He wondered where I had gotten all of my knowledge and I could not invent an English or Scottish uncle, of course, because he would be able to research that too easily, even if my uncle were in the colonial service.”

  “I offer my condolences on the passing of your American uncle.”

  Her eyes shone as though the sun lit them from behind. “I worry that the physicians or nurses at the infirmary might recognize me. But I encountered one yesterday and he did not know me. And Mr. Bell believes that I am a young man! Rather, a boy, because of my youthful appearance. I do feel some guilt over pretending to be fifteen. At twenty years old it isn’t remarkable that I should have acquired a vast knowledge of medicine.”

  “Of course not,” he murmured.

  “But at fifteen it really does seem impressive. Yet everybody believes it. It is incredible. Wonderful! And you have made it possible. I am more grateful than you can imagine. Mr. Bell and I discussed the advantages of taking courses at the university. Naturally I can augment those studies with courses at a private surgical school. Is this where you paint?”

  She seemed never to breathe when she spoke like this, with such animation and spirit and energy. In the manner of a coach and six racing along a highway or a schooner at full sail cutting the sea, she was alluring, despite the trousers, despite the flattened chest and the cropped hair and the false whiskers. Despite all.

  How this would all end he could not fathom. Not well, probably.

  He had made a terrible mistake.

  “Yes,” he said. “This is where I paint. Recall that I require not to be disturbed.”

  “This is an exceptional occasion, of course.” She gestured to the canvas on his easel. “I met that couple you are painting once at a party with Constance. She is always dragging me to parties, hoping I will meet a young man I can endure long enough to allow him to court me. I cannot contain my happiness! I want to celebrate. Will you come for a pint with me now? I’ve never done such a thing but Archie Armstrong mentioned it the other day. I know young men are fond of drinking ale. I must become accustomed to it so that if I am ever obliged to drink ale with my fellow students, the spirits will not go to my head too swiftly.”

  She balanced on the balls of her feet in the doorway, framed in darkness, light resting on the high bones of her flushed cheeks and pale brow and golden curls, as though it feared to settle and be dislodged as swiftly.

  He must get away from her.

  “Archie Armstrong?” he said instead.

  “I made his acquaintance the day you saw me at the dissection. I am grateful for that day, that you happened to be there and recognized me. I don’t believe that our agreement is fair to you, for there is so much more advantage to me in it than to you.”

  The horrifying whiskers were insufficient to mask her vibrant beauty. Charles Bell and this Archie Armstrong and every other man she had encountered while wearing this disguise who could not see this girl were imbeciles.

  But it had always been his curse to see what others did not.

  “I have all that I need.” He did not believe this. Not any longer.

  “Nevertheless, I am aware of the disparity. And grateful. Thank you. I cannot thank you—”

  “If you weep, this arrangement is at an end.”

  “I am not weeping. I never weep. I only wish to thank you.”

  “You have thanked me. We have an accord. Nothing further need be said about it.” He turned away from her and took up his brush. He needed the wood between his fingers. “There are tears in your eyes.”

  “The adhesive causes them. I must visit the apothecary I like in Leith, as Elizabeth Shaw of course, to ask him to devise a less noxious compound.”

  “You do that. Good day, Miss Shaw.”

  “You should always call me Mr. Smart. So that you don’t accidentally do otherwise in public.”

  “When you are dressed as Joseph Smart, you should always speak to me in his voice. Then you will not accidentally do otherwise in public.”

  “Touché. You, Mr. Ibrahim Kent, are not so dull-witted after all.”

  Now he could not resist glancing at her. “You have not thought me dull-witted.”

  “No.” She bit her lips together, and the whiskers jutted out preposterously. “So will you come with me now to drink a pint to celebrate?”

  “I will not. I will never. Go now.”

  She remained. He could sense her there, as though her curiosity and thick, expansive joy, were actually reaching out and touching him.

  “Ibrahim Kent is not my name,” he said, and was abruptly aware of considerably more space beneath his ribs.

  “It isn’t?”

  He looked at her.

  “What is your name, then?” she said.

  “You, I think, will address me only as Master.”

  “I will do nothing of the sort,” she said upon laughter. It was short and choppy and musical in the manner of a drum, and wonderful.

  “Then speak to me not at all.” He was absolutely unable to not smile. “Now, be off with you.”

  With a brilliant flare of her eyes she whirled about and was gone.

  He was in hell. And heaven. At once.

  The only consolation: it was temporary.

  For five days Libby did not see the man in whose house she lived. While away from that house her life became frankly unbelievable, within the house all remained as equable as its master, with the exception of a small and reckless intrusion.

  On tiny legs it sped into the parlor where Libby had shelved her medical books, hurled itself into the grate to roll with joyful abandon in the ash, and dove past her feet to circle the table legs and then scamper out the door, leaving in its wake a trail of dust.

  She had been determined to memorize George Kellie’s commentary on the benefits derived from compression by the tourniquet. But the dawn was swiftly becoming morning and she was to accompany Mr. Bell to the Royal Infirmary. There he would introduce her to a surgeon who would take her on as an apprentice. She had trimmed her hair anew, and before she left the house she must fashion the shorn bits into whiskers more suitable for a youth of fifteen. That would take time.

  Snuffing her lamp, she followed the trail of ashes to the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Coutts, I suppose you have noticed that a piglet is running about the house?”

  “Aye, lass.” She was pressing dough into a pan.

  “Is it to be . . . dinner?”

  “There be no pork in this house! Leek an’ peas tonight, an’ kidney pie.”

  “It seems that Mr. Kent does not dine at home often.”

  “He’s been takin’ dinner down at the Gilded Quill.”

  “The coffeehouse in which artists and writers gather? Does he prefer dining there?”

  Mrs. Coutts cut her a quick glance. “Now more than afore.”

  Clearly he had changed his habits because of her requirement that he invite no one to the house.

  “I am sorry that you must prepare dinner for only me,” she said. “May I help?”

  “None o’ that, lass. I’m glad you’ve come to stay. The master’s too alone in this big empty place. ’Tis a blessin’ you’re here.” She dusted her hands on her apron and gave a little closed pail to Libby. “This’ll keep you till you come home tonight.”

  Home. As though this truly were her home, and not simply a hiding place from which to launch her subterfuge.

  “If the pig isn’t to be eaten, why is it in the house?”

  “The master’s onto one of his projects, I s’pect. Now, I’m off to m
arket. Mr. Gibbs’ll arrive shortly, so you’d best hide.” With a big basket slung over her elbow, Mrs. Coutts departed and Libby went up to her bedchamber. As she entered she touched her fingertips to the painting, exactly where she had touched it on her first day in this house and every day since. The paint’s silky, bumpy texture gave her comfort. Worries batted about in her head—about her preparation to formally study medicine, her whiskers, the surgeon she would meet today. Yet skimming her fingertips over the feet of the running boys in the marketplace spread calm beneath her ribs. How singular that a picture of strangers in an alien land should feel like the safest, most familiar thing in her world now.

  Drawing out scissors from the dressing table, the locks of her hair, and the noxious adhesive, she set to work.

  The Royal Infirmary sat massively upon a whole block of Old Town. Mr. Bell had assured her that she would have the finest surgeon in town as her mentor, one of only a handful with a permanent rotation at the infirmary.

  “Ah, there he is,” Mr. Bell said as they approached two men. “Mr. Bridges, allow me to make known to you Joseph Smart.”

  “But this is no more than a child, Charles,” Mr. Bridges said, peering down his long nose at Libby. A man of advanced years, he had a narrow chin and a shock of grayish-sandy hair.

  “Yet his mind is acute, Lewis, and his knowledge extensive already. I am persuaded you will be pleasantly surprised.”

  “We shall see.” Mr. Bridges had already begun walking away.

  With a delightfully conspiratorial nod to her, Mr. Bell departed.

  Libby looked at the other man. The arrogant student from the public dissection stared back at her, his stance bristling with affront.

  She put her hand forward. “How do you do?”

  His aristocratic lip curled. “Think you’ll win over Bridges and push me aside?”

  Her hand dropped to her side. “I don’t think anything of you at all.” She set off after the surgeon. She had not entered into this charade to be sidetracked by the petty competition of other students. She had work to do. Nothing must come in the way of that.

  By the time Libby found a low stone wall not far from the infirmary to plop down atop and open her lunch pail, she was both exhausted and exhilarated. Mr. Bridges was as brilliant a teacher as Mr. Bell had said. That he was cool and demanding Libby could easily endure. She only wished she could endure it without the company of his other apprentice, Maxwell Chedham.

  One of the nurses had answered Libby’s questions about him. From an old Derbyshire family, Chedham had first entered into politics but disliked it. Although new to the study of medicine, because of his intellect and temperament he was widely considered the most promising first-year apprentice in town.

  Obviously he didn’t like the prospect of competition for that role. As they moved through the wards, his glares at her were tiresome.

  Yet even his disagreeable company and the itchy adhesive on her face could not dull her happiness. As though celebrating her triumph too, the air was crisp and the sun bathed the cobblestones and brick in warmth. Opening the pail she dug out a savory tart.

  How marvelous it was to sit alone in a public place! The trousers gave her freedom to perch on the wall as though it were the most commodious couch.

  A door nearby opened and a woman came onto the stoop. A gown of gossamer fabric glided over her long legs that seemed free of petticoats. Leaning a hip against the railing in a position that revealed a great lot of bosom, she turned to Libby. Beneath the rouge and kohl that decorated her face, she seemed young and unhealthily gaunt.

  Libby gestured with a pastry.

  With an arched brow, the woman lifted a bottle.

  “Joseph!” Iris Tate’s voice came clearly down the alley. Dressed in a pink and white striped gown and matching bonnet, with her dark curls spilling out every which way, she was grinning.

  Libby jumped off the wall and hurried toward her friend.

  “Cousin Joseph!” Iris practically giggled. “How diverting it is to call your name! Alice said I should not tease you, but this is already the most fun I’ve had since you left. Goodness, what have you done with your hair? It’s positively dripping.”

  Libby had coated her hair with oil to make it darker and loosen the curls, then combed it straight over her brow and onto her cheeks, and Mrs. Coutts had given her a cosmetic to thicken her eyebrows.

  “Come along, cousin.” She drew Iris’s hand onto her arm as a gentleman would, and led her away. “Before someone hears you being silly.”

  “Who would hear me? Oh!” She gasped. “Libby, is that woman a—”

  “Quiet now,” she whispered. “How did you find me?”

  “The note you sent to Alice yesterday said that you expected to be at the infirmary this morning. I have been strolling around here for at least an hour—”

  “Alone? Without a footman?”

  “You always have.”

  The choices you make, Elizabeth, affect others.

  “Anyway, I hoped to come upon you,” Iris said. “And now I have!”

  “It is so good to see you, Iris. Thank you for coming.” Libby squeezed her friend’s hand.

  “I haven’t anything else to do but sit around all day listening to Mama’s complaints. And, truth be told, Alice and I miss you dreadfully. Without you I haven’t any idea what to read, and Alice only sits and embroiders silently. It’s downright dull at her house now.”

  “I miss you both too, Iris. But the more contact I have with anybody that I knew in my past life, the more likely I am to be found out.”

  “Your past life? Libby, do you mean to never be yourself again?”

  “Of course not.” Yet she felt more like herself now than she ever had. “Why have you come here?”

  “Constance has invited us all to a picnic tomorrow. Shall we tell her that you are under the weather?”

  “Constance knows that I am never under the weather. I must go.”

  “Alice intends to quiz you about Mr. Kent. She has been imagining the most shocking scenarios of seduction. It’s awfully funny, Lib—”

  “Cousin,” Libby whispered, tightening her hand over Iris’s as they passed a pair of pedestrians. “You must remember to address me as Joseph.”

  “They are fantastical stories, really . . . Joseph. In one scenario he is a powerful warlock, and he locks you in a tower to serve as his cook, but you are so clever that you become his acolyte and then his partner instead. In another he is a pirate! He spirits you away onto his ship and we never see you again. Alice says he has a peg leg. Does he? I didn’t notice it, but I only saw him that once when we were all at Haiknayes. And in another of her stories he reveals himself to be a—”

  “Iris, please.”

  “All right. But in any case, in all of the scenarios you are brilliant.”

  Turning the corner they nearly collided with Archie Armstrong.

  “Joe Smart! I wondered if I’d see you again soon.” His eyes alighted on Iris. His mouth popped wide and his clean-shaven cheeks got dusky. “Good day, miss.” He bowed. He carried a stack of books under one arm.

  Libby’s stomach knotted up in pleasure. She would have books for courses too.

  “Good day, Archie.”

  “Capital weather we’re enjoying today, aye, miss?” he said to Iris.

  “To be sure.” Iris released Libby’s arm. “I’ll run home now, Joseph,” she said with blessedly light emphasis on the name. Making a sound that was dangerously like a giggle, she practically skipped away. Regret and soft grief tugged at Libby. That she had to abandon her friends in order to follow her dreams could not be right.

  “Well there, Joe,” Archie said, staring after Iris. “How d’you come to be strolling with Aphrodite today?”

  Aphrodite? Men were infinitely silly.

  “She’s my cousin,” Libby fabricated. “Distant.”

  “Cousin! Much obliged to you then for not introducing me, friend.”

  Friend?

 
“I beg your pardon,” she muttered.

  “Dinna fret,” Archie said cheerfully. “There’ll be another occasion.”

  Not if she could prevent it.

  “I’m headin’ to the pub to meet the lads. Thought we’d page through a few anatomy texts while enjoying a pint. Join us?” Archie’s face was open and sincere.

  She shouldn’t. The more alone she kept, the safer her secret would be. Yet she nodded.

  “Not much of a talker, are you? You needna be, o’ course. I talk enough for three lads.” He laughed.

  In fact, Alice and Iris and everyone regularly pointed out that she barely ever ceased speaking. But silence was yet another practice she had to master now.

  “See you took my advice an’ shaved off those thick whiskers,” Archie said with a sideways glance at her.

  “Mm hm.” The light, silky down she had achieved this morning did look much better.

  “Don’t suppose you shaved to impress a certain lass, now? Did you?” Archie lifted a brow. “Perhaps a distant cousin?”

  “It’s not like that with Iris,” she mumbled.

  “Iris? A bonnie name! An’ she’s no’ spoken for?”

  Iris’s mother probably had a dozen titled suitors already lined up for her debut.

  She shook her head again.

  “Joe, I’ve a notion we’re to be capital good friends. Here’s the place,” he said, stopping before a tavern Libby had passed hundreds of times, but into which she had never entered. The marquee read The Dug’s Bone. The door opened and a group of young men came out laughing and talking. She heard the words “Aristotle” and “Epicurus” as they passed.

  “Now look here,” Archie said, facing her. “I’ll speak plain, Joe: my mates an’ I willna tease you about your age, so you needna wear those false whiskers again. We’re interested in one thing only: the brain in a lad’s head. Or, two things: the brain in a lad’s head an’ his favorite ale. In your case, his distant relations too,” he added with a wink. “Understood?”

  She nodded.

  “Fine then,” Archie said. “Now, I’ve a mind to toast to this city’s youngest new surgical student.”