Page 32 of The Forger and the Duke
“Yes, I’m familiar with the work.” She wasn’t lying; she’d seen the volumes spread out on the table in the library of Hunsdon House. “What an excellent ambition, to preserve your knowledge for your students. I find Mr. Karim’s work of the highest standard.”
The man’s gimlet eye focused on her. “Shopping with the Moor, are you? A literary lady?”
No lady at all, Amaranthe thought but did not say. Mr. Karim, bustling through from the back room, saved her from reply. “Here it is, Mr. Oliver! Half calf over paper boards, withgilt stamping. I used the basic Coptic stitch for the binding, though you’ll see that?—”
“Yes, yes, all in order.” Oliver reached for the hefty volume. “Send the invoice to my lodgings, of course.”
Mr. Karim’s face fell. Clearly he would much rather have coin in hand than send a bill that could be ignored. “Can I interest you in something else? I have copies of Mr. Macpherson’s history of Great Britain, the Comte de Mirabeau’s essay on despotism, in French, of course, Mr. John Wesley’s address to the American colonies?—”
“And theSecretum Secretorum,” Mr. Oliver said in surprise, his gaze falling on the sheets of parchment stacked neatly on the counter. “A fine copy, and a neat hand.”
“Miss Illingworth is responsible for that fine hand.” Mr. Karim’s expression grew animated. “I have promised another patron the right of first refusal, but if you are interested, sir?—”
“A copyist?” Mr. Oliver glared at her again, and Amaranthe guessed why students avoided his lectures. “I suppose it don’t take much to follow the lines.”
“No, it does not.” She gave him a bland smile.
“That reminds me.” Mr. Karim cleared his throat. “Miss Illingworth, here is that Arabic grammar I promised to loan to you, to go along with the dictionary. Perhaps it will aid in recognizing theKitab al-Asrar, should you happen to come across it.”
“Ashkuraka,” Amaranthe murmured as she took the small book, thanking Mr. Karim in Arabic just to see the look on Oliver’s face.
It was, to her surprise, a calculating look, and he turned it quickly on Mal. “A learned lady! Grey, I didn’t think you had the wits to attract a woman of intellect.”
“Er,” Mal said, breaking his uncharacteristic silence. “Indeed?”
“Indeed not. We all had you pegged as a worthless lie-about, living off the duke, and made bets on how soon you’d hare off if a better opportunity presented. Kicking up larks with that Vierling, for instance—it don’t look well on you, hanging about with the likes of him.”
Oliver scrutinized Amaranthe once more. She hoped her bonnet was not askew and she did not have the dust of the street on her hem.
“But if you were, say, to have a wife to support—you’d look a deal more serious to the Benchers,” Oliver said. “A clever woman settles a man, teaches him how to go on. A good wife keeps a man’s head clear, if you understand me.”
Amaranthe stared at the barrister, keeping her expression neutral. She caught his meaning, all too well, and from the look of gathering thunder on Mal’s face, he understood, too.
“I appreciate the hint, Mr. Oliver,” Mal said through gritted teeth. “I shall take your remarks under careful consideration.”
“See that you do.” Oliver adjusted his wig and tucked his book under his arm. “I told the Benchers you were smarter than Froggart, but that one just announced his betrothal, and a man needs an income if he’s to support his wife.” Oliver glared at Mal once more. “Show us you’re serious, and I’ll have a good word for you when the next call comes, Grey. Duke’s throw or not,” he added for good measure, and Mal’s face shuttered completely.
“You can’t begin to comprehend my gratitude,” he ground out.
Oliver tipped his hat to Amaranthe and strolled out the door.
Amaranthe tucked the small Arabic grammar into her valise. If she was not mistaken, Mr. Karim was encouraging her to produce a fake original of the much-coveted advice of Aristotle to Alexander; to her knowledge, Arabic copies of the manuscript had never reached Britain. And he had all but begged herto locate Hunsdon’s copy of the even more esoteric chemical treatise likewise known as theBook of Secrets.
She would have sworn Mr. Karin was both innocent and above her machinations, but perhaps he was in a position similar to hers. She would sort it out in her mind later. Her more immediate concern was that Mal looked consumed by wrath.
“Married!” he muttered under his breath as he conducted her out the door. A street boy held the reins of the pair hitched to the curricle, and when Mal tossed him a coin, he caught it deftly, bit it to test the metal, and shoved it deep into a dirty pocket.
“Married!” Mal seethed again as he steered them through the noisy, crowded intersection with Cheapside and into the quieter environs of St. Paul’s Churchyard.
“Stop, please,” Amaranthe murmured as she saw the trio of young girls standing in the shadow of the great church, delivering their singing patter to passersby. “Grey, pause here.” She put a hand on his sleeve to get his attention, and the firm warmth of his arm sent a shock from her fingers to her head.
“Oranges! Get yer oranges ’ere!” a young girl bawled near them as Mal slowed the horses. She tilted her basket in their direction and caught Amaranthe’s eye. “One for thruppence, two for a kick!”
Amaranthe smiled at her accent. “How many for a dozen?” she leaned over to ask.
The girl’s eyes flared wide. She was scarcely older than Derwa, her round, childish cheeks blooming pink under the ties of a loose white cap, her apron thrown over one arm as she balanced the heavy basket against her hips. Costermongers started young and typically began with watercress, herbs, and flowers. This girl was already a seasoned hawker if she were selling fruit.
“Three bob, miss! Lovely, are’em?”
