A Duke in Disguise Read online

  “And what will you do there?” Nate demanded.

  “Not watch you go to prison.”

  Ash was holding his breath and thought Charlie was too.

  “I don’t believe you,” Nate said.

  “Do you really want to call my bluff?”

  “Damn it, Verity. This isn’t fair play.”

  “The Queen of Arabia sails from Liverpool. If you leave tomorrow on the stagecoach, you can get there with time to spare.”

  “Tomorrow,” Nate repeated. “This is madness.”

  “You need to be gone before the redcoats come back with an arrest warrant,” she said. “Either you get on the ship or I do.”

  Nate threw his hands up and stalked out of the shop.

  “Two passages?” Charlie asked, eyes narrowed.

  “One is yours, if you want it,” Verity said. “I don’t want you to get caught up in whatever trouble is coming Nate’s way. And I don’t want to send Nate alone. He needs someone to look after him, and I know that isn’t what you signed on for—”

  “Bollocks. You and Nate have always treated me as family, and I reckon family usually try to stop one another from getting killed by redcoats or beaten senseless by a mob.”

  “Yes, but we Plums treat our family terribly.” Her voice was heavy with weariness.

  “Maybe so, but I don’t have anyone to compare you to, do I? Besides, you and Nate don’t treat one another badly. You just quarrel like Athens and Sparta. If you didn’t care about him, you wouldn’t be doing this.”

  Verity looked away, as if embarrassed. “Will you go, then?” she asked. “To America?”

  “All right,” Charlie said with a shrug. “I don’t like the idea of him rattling around America on his own, forgetting to sleep and eat.”

  “Thank you, Charlie.” She stood and rounded the table, holding her arms out as if to embrace him. She stopped short; Verity wasn’t in the habit of embracing people. Charlie, seeing her halt, rolled his eyes.

  “You’ll be bored off your head without us, you know,” he said, rising to his feet and wrapping his arms around her without hesitation. Charlie was a full head taller than Verity now, as tall as Nate, nearly as tall as Ash.

  “I will,” she admitted. “I’ve spent so long caring for Nate, I don’t know how I’ll abide on my own.”

  “Me neither,” Charlie said, not letting Verity go. “Maybe that’s why I’m going with him.”

  Ash sensed that he was intruding, that he ought to leave them alone to say their farewells, to make whatever arrangements needed to be made. “I’m going to follow Nate,” Ash said, squeezing Verity’s arm on the way out the door.

  Ash found Nate at the public house in the next street, sitting at a table in the corner. It was late and most of the tables were empty, chairs upturned on the tables, the barman already sweeping the floors. When Nate saw Ash approach he kicked a chair out for Ash to sit in. It was what he always did, half invitation and half presumption that Ash would sit with Nate as a matter of course. Ash had always been grateful for the casual, proprietary nature of Nate’s friendship. As vague and selfish as Nate could be, Ash never doubted that they were friends. Ash felt a pang at the thought that in two days Nate would be at sea, not to return for years.

  “My sister has a pistol to my head,” Nate said before Ash had even sat. “I know when I’m being strong-armed, and I don’t like it.”

  Ash wasn’t going to argue about tactics. “You and Verity are my family,” he said. If it were true for Charlie, it was true for Ash himself, and the words shouldn’t feel like a lie on his tongue. He had thought of the Plums as a family for years, now, but had never put voice to the thought. “You’re my family,” he repeated, “so I’m not going to let you be put in prison. And, Nate, I don’t think I can watch your sister suffer the way she has this past month.”

  Nate’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

  Ash opened his mouth to deny it or to feign ignorance, but there was nothing to gain from hiding the truth, and he didn’t feel ashamed of it anyway. He leaned back in his chair. “For me, it is,” he admitted. “And it has been for a while.”

  Nate scowled at him. “So, if I don’t go, then she’s going to martyr herself by leaving you behind. Either I go, or I’ve ruined the happiness of the two people I care most about.”

  Ash sucked in a breath. “Don’t—that’s not—I wouldn’t have told you if I thought you’d take it as forcing your hand.”

  “You were already forcing my hand. Don’t think I missed that bit about how you’re footing the bill for this madness.”

  “The two of you are my closest friends,” Ash said.

  Nate regarded him for a long moment, and Ash wondered what the other man saw in his face. “Be careful with my sister, Ash.”

  “I’m never anything other than careful with Verity.”

  “I meant take care to protect yourself. I don’t know if Verity knows how to be careful with other people’s hearts.”

  Ash frowned. “You’re cross with her, that’s understandable.”

  “Things ended badly between her and that Allenby woman. She’s not warm, my sister.”

  “I’ve seen things end badly between you and half a dozen people, but I’d never call you cold.”

  “What I’m trying to say is that you aren’t like that. The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve never taken up with anyone.” Ash watched in grim mortification as Nate’s eyes widened in realization. “Because you’ve been holding out for Verity. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not going to deny that I’ve always held your sister in the highest regard—” He closed his eyes and winced. “Yes. You’re right. I’ve never wanted anyone but her.”

  “Do you think my sister will marry you?” Nate asked skeptically.

  “We both know she doesn’t want a husband.”

  “Can’t blame her.” Nate frowned, and Ash knew he was thinking of his mother.

  “But I—” Ash shook his head. The truth was that he would marry Verity in a heartbeat, had known so for years. But that wasn’t what she wanted, and at the moment Ash couldn’t envision what a compromise would look like. “Look. It’s very early days yet. I haven’t broached the topic and, ah, please don’t either.”

  “When she’s through with you, where will that leave you? I’ll be in Boston—or is it New York?—wherever that ship leaves me, Roger will be in Italy, and Verity will keep you at arm’s length. Damn it, Ash. Now you have me feeling sorry for you rather than myself.” He waved over the barman for a pair of pints.

  “I think you’re wrong,” Ash said. “I’m not going to ask your sister for anything she doesn’t want to give.” Still, Nate’s words sat uneasily with him. He had seen the strain it cost her to maintain her friendship with Mrs. Allenby and did not want to ask her to do the same for him. Thus far, he could dismiss everything that happened as the result of wine and anxiety. A one off, a bit of silly fumbling about. It wasn’t too late to go back. Ash knew how he felt about her, but Verity did not. They could revert to being friends.

  Nate regarded him flatly. “For your sake, I hope you’re right, mate.”

  It shouldn’t be this easy to exile a man to the other side of the world, Verity thought as she tightened the buttons on Nate’s coats and made sure his linens were in good repair and neatly packed. She had never been any good at mending, her stitches tending to meander while her thread wound itself into a succession of knots, but she felt that she ought to have to do some kind of work to send Nate on his way. So far, it had been too easy. It made her think the past years of her life were an illusion of stability—a flick of a pen and a few well-chosen words and her life went up like a puff of dust.

  Nate staggered in while she sat in the shop, a half-mended shirt discarded on the counter before her, her arms full of books she meant to tuck into his trunk. “Are you only coming home now?” His clothes were rumpled, his jaw unshaven, and he smelled faintly of wine. It was ten in the
morning.

  “I had to make my farewells,” he said. As he approached the counter she saw lines of fatigue and sleeplessness on his face. “And some business to wrap up. I owed Johnny Burkett five bob for a job he did for me.”

  “A job he did for you?” Verity echoed, eyes narrowing. Burkett ran a rival printshop a few doors down. “Why would you need to hire a printer?”

  Nate had the grace to blush. “He printed a pamphlet for me. My name wasn’t on it, but even so.” He scuffed the toe of his boot. “Ash was quite insistent about that. Said he’d throw my presses into the river with his own hands if I printed anything even the least reasonable Tory magistrate could construe as sedition while you lived under this roof.”

  “I daresay those pamphlets were what the redcoats were after.” She sighed. “I suppose that solves one mystery, at least.”

  “Since when does that cat come indoors?” he asked, gesturing with his chin towards the top of a bookcase.

  “That’s Ash’s doing. He started leaving a dish out for her and now she follows him around when he’s home. Otherwise she stares at me like she’s ready to gouge my eyes out. A charming cat, can’t imagine why we didn’t bring her in sooner.”

  Nate reached up and made a soothing noise. The cat hissed. “Leave it to Ash to spend a fortnight courting the meanest cat in London.” He looked at her, his eyes lit up with amusement, his mouth round with surprise. “He has a type.”

  She felt her cheeks heat and turned away so he wouldn’t notice. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” she said, evening out a row of books.

  “Miss Verity,” Nan called from the street door, “where should I put the post?” Verity was about to tell her to put it on the desk upstairs, as usual, when she looked up and saw that instead of the usual three or four letters, Nan held a bulging mail sack.

  Nate took the bag out of the older woman’s hands and half an hour later they had the letters sorted on the counter. There were the usual handful of letters from writers and requests for subscriptions, but the largest stack consisted of correspondence addressed to the Ladies’ Register, either requesting advice or taking issue with the advice she had dispensed. She knew she ought to remind Nate to go upstairs and see that his trunk contained everything he meant to pack, but it was good to share space with her brother without a quarrel looming on the horizon.

  “‘Dear sir or madam.’ Ooh,” Nate said, wincing, “that’s never a good start, is it. ‘I’m writing with a heavy heart and a sense of the direst disappointment that a publication intended for the consumption of the fairer sex would expose ladies to such vile—’” Nate looked up. “He goes on like that for three entire paragraphs. What the devil did you publish, Verity? A treatise on venereal disease?” Nate hoisted himself onto the counter and picked up another letter at random.

  “It was the problem page,” Verity said. She had manufactured a letter from a woman who discovered that her husband was bigamous. It was more or less verbatim what Nate and Ash invented in her office a few weeks earlier.

  Nate opened his eyes wide. “I read that aloud to the other passengers on the stagecoach. Come to think, some of them might have thought it a bit beyond the pale to actually advise that the wives pool their funds and have the fellow knocked on the head and sent to foreign parts.”

  “I think it was a very measured response,” Verity sniffed, feigning affront. Nate threw his head back and laughed. Verity wished they could wind back the clock to a time when the sight of her brother merry and carefree was nothing extraordinary.

  “Are all the letters like this?” Nate asked, gesturing to the contents of the mail bag.

  “About half are in favor of having the bigamist sent to the colonies and praise my pragmatism in advising the lady so. The other half are less enthusiastic.”

  “What would the dissenters have advised your fictional lady?”

  “They’re of several minds. Either the lady ought to go to the magistrate—”

  “Excellent advice if she wants to be made a public spectacle and laughingstock,” Nate said.

  “Precisely. But you’d be shocked at the number of men who believe that the law is a perfectly operating organ.”

  “No, Verity, I would not,” he said dryly. “You may have noticed that I’ve been slightly agitated about the prevalence of that belief.”

  Verity laughed despite herself. She missed this Nate, the brother who made her laugh, who saw eye to eye with her on nearly all topics. “A few other correspondents suggested that the lady herself was at fault for marrying someone whose antecedents were unknown to her people. And a few writers suggested that having the husband press-ganged and sent to parts unknown was insufficient punishment, and that sailors could be bribed to have him thrown overboard.”

  Nate raised his eyebrows. “I suppose I ought to be glad that I’m only to be sent to New York with a substantial bank draught.”

  “Nate,” she said with a sigh.

  “It’s all right, Verity, I was trying to make a joke of it.”

  “I know you think I forced your hand.”

  “You did force my hand, damn you. And I think you’re being overcautious. But I’m going along with your plan because you’re my sister. Even though I think you’re wrong. I mean, you are wrong, which time will tell, and when I come back I’m going to have a good gloat about it. I plan to be thoroughly sickening, let me tell you. But meanwhile I’m willing to go because that’s what you need.” There was something about the way he spoke the words that made her think he was repeating lines someone had spoken to him, and she sensed Ash’s hand at work.

  “It’s not what I need,” she protested. “It’s what’s good for you.”

  “Why is it so hard for you to admit that you need something? What’s the worst that could happen?”

  The fact that he even had to ask just went to show how two people reared under the same roof could have radically different lives. Verity had to stand on her own two feet, had long ago learned that there was nobody to go to for help. But there was no use trying to explain, not now. “If you make me cry I really will have you thrown overboard.”

  “In any event,” Nate said, chucking her on the shoulder, “I’d say your first issue was a success.”

  “I have half a bag of letters requesting advice,” Verity said, still stunned. “Where am I supposed to come up with actual wisdom for these poor unfortunates?”

  “Piffle,” Nate said. “You’ll do fine. You always do. Frightfully competent and all that. I’m only sorry I’ll hear about it secondhand.” He slid off the counter and made for the door leading upstairs.

  “It’s only for the time being.” She pulled at his sleeve, drawing him into an embrace. “I hope one day . . .” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence in a way that wouldn’t bring tears to her eyes, and she was determined not to cry. “Here,” she said instead, pointing to the stack of books she had put aside for him. “Take whatever else you want. I haven’t tied up your trunk yet, and I left room for a good dozen books.”

  Within the hour, Nate and Ash reappeared downstairs carrying the trunk between them.

  “The hackney’s waiting,” Charlie said from the door.

  Ash embraced Nate, then shook hands with Charlie and gave him a letter that Verity knew to be a draught on his bank.

  “I see you handing that to Charlie,” Nate said as he slapped his hat onto his head. “It’s a damned insult, is what it is,” he said, but he was laughing. “Farewell, Verity,” he said, pulling her into a tight hug.

  “Be safe,” she said. “Take care of him,” she said to Charlie, over Nate’s shoulder.

  And then they were gone, leaving Verity and Ash alone in the quiet of the shop. She reached for his hand, maybe because she wanted to prove to herself that she wasn’t alone, that despite having dismantled her own life and his as well, they still had one another. He squeezed her hand and then drew her close. She tucked her head under his chin, breathing in the scent of hard soap, ink,
and copper that he always carried with him. His arms were tight around her, his pulse fast under her ear. His cravat was loose, the skin of his throat bare and exposed.

  “Ash,” she said, tilting her head up. She wanted comfort, reassurance, a chance to lose herself in whatever he had to offer.

  “Verity,” he said, his voice strangled. “I think I ought to go upstairs.” But he didn’t let her go.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said, pressing up onto her toes, speaking the words into the stubbly skin under his jaw.

  He groaned. “I can’t. We can’t.”

  She pulled back and regarded him in confusion. It had been only yesterday that they had been in one another’s arms. What could possibly have changed in less than a day?

  Then she saw the tightness around his eyes. His mouth was flat, his dark eyes flinty. He likely thought she was a monster for manipulating Nate the way she had. Hell, she might agree with him.

  “I see,” she said, stepping away. The absence of his touch felt like a layer of her skin had just been flayed off.

  “No, Verity, it’s just that we got carried away last night. It’s not a good idea.” Of course it wasn’t a good idea, she wanted to yell. What kind of fool would think it was a good idea to entrust one’s heart to a cold, unfeeling creature such as she? “We’re good friends and we work well together,” he continued, infuriatingly calm. “I don’t want to jeopardize that.”

  “You don’t want to jeopardize our working together,” she repeated. And he hadn’t even called her Plum. It was a slap in the face in addition to a rejection.

  He made as if he wanted to step close to her, then checked the movement. She bade him good night and heard the soft, final click of the door upstairs as Ash closed it.

  Chapter Seven

  Later, Ash realized the entire course of his life would have unspooled quite differently if he had gone to Arundel House in a more complaisant mood. As it was, he was on the edge of fury, mainly directed inward at himself because he seemed as good a target as any. He had spent a night tossing and turning, woken by fragmented dreams—a staircase, a ship, but always alone. The loss of Roger and Nate had awakened some pitiful, childish part of himself, a voice that told him he would always be abandoned, always sent away. It wasn’t true, he knew this. It was the story his childish mind had invented to make sense of events that held no reason, but it had taken root in his mind like an oft-repeated fable, and it had shaped his life. The loss of both Roger and Nate, and in such a short span of time, felt like the workings of a vengeful fate.