Page 167 of The Ladies Least Likely
“Yes.”
“I do not recall that Hugh asked you to produce such a copy.”
“He did not.” To her credit, she did not falter in her gaze but met his inquisition steadily, fearlessly. The resignation on her face told him why she hadn’t allowed an embrace.
His heart tore in his chest. She was distancing herself from him. She had to, in order to do this.
“You are making a copy of this book?—”
“Parts of it,” she clarified. “There’s a segment of notes taken from the ArabicBook of Secrets. A book of alchemy that details?—”
“I am not interested in the contents,” he snapped. “Rather the fact that, from the title page, it appears you mean to create a book that I suppose you will sell to Mr. Karim. Perhaps several copies of it. I heard him asking you for such a thing.”
“That is my trade,” she said in a soft, toneless voice. “I copy books.”
“It rather looks like stealing. But then I am not much acquainted with yourtrade.”
Up her chin went another notch. “I did not steal from Hugh. I will return the book to his library.”
“After having turned its contents into other books which you will then sell for your own gain.”
“That is how I support my household, yes,” she said.
“By forgery.”
She flinched. “That is a strong word. I would not say it applies here.”
It was a very strong word. Certain types of forgery were a hanging offense. “I simply make copies of rare and valuable works,” she said, “to—to…”
“To sell as counterfeits. Under a different name. No doubt letting the client believe he is acquiring a valuable, perhaps priceless original work.”
She took a step backwards. “They are not counterfeits. Merely copies. Medieval scribes copied books all the time.”
But books of medieval provenance were old and valuable. “This one suggests it is a sixteenth century manuscript. Not a modern reproduction.” He pointed to the title page.
He needn’t say more. She hung her head.
“Tell me I have misinterpreted your intentions,” he said, hoping against hope she would correct him.
A long silence elapsed. Horse hooves clopped on the narrow cobbles of the court, one pedestrian hailed another, the ruckus of traffic rose from the busy thoroughfare of Rupert Street. His breath sounded loud and harsh in the quiet inside.
“I would use different terms to describe it,” she said in a small voice. “But you have misunderstood if you believe I intend to deceive anyone by my work.”
“You don’t think it stealing to take someone’s possessions and turn it to your own use? To let someone acquire an artifact on what may be false pretenses?”
The skin beneath her eyes tightened, as if she were holding back strong emotion. He wanted so badly to be wrong. For her to give an explanation that made sense.
Her chin stayed up, but the hands crumpling the fabric of her apron revealed her inner distress. “I do not call it stealing,” she said. “One cannot own knowledge and keep it to oneself, any more than one can possess art. These are treasures that belong to all men. And women.”
“If I commission a portrait,” Mal answered, “it is mine. If I buy a book at a bookshop, it is mine. If I author a book and register it at the Stationer’s, it is mine. If someone reproduced my book without my permission or takes my property from my library, copies it under their own name or another’s, and then sells those copies, they have stolen from me.”
She had no answer to this. Her eyes fell to the dark rug that stretched over the floor of the room.
He gathered himself like a man trying to stuff his guts back into place after he’d been sliced open by a mortal blow. “This is why you would not agree to marry me,” he guessed.
She hesitated, and then nodded. “I doubt my ability to advance your career.”
Of course. Because she was a forger and a thief. A beautiful, canny liar. It was true that no one was injured by her crimes, but that would not matter in the court of public opinion. It would not matter when it came time for his superiors to consider him for advancement and boons.
