Page 10 of A Duke in Disguise
Ash descended the stairs and found Verity and Nate in the workroom behind the bookshop that held the printing press and some other supplies. From the open jar of ink that stood on a worktable and the sheets of paper that hung from the ceiling to dry, and Ash guessed the men had cleared out to give their employers space to quarrel in relative privacy. But now the room was silent. Nate leaned against the press and Verity had her back to him, deliberately arranging a stack of freshly printed copies of the firstLadies’ Register. It seemed, at least, that the shouting portion of the fight had subsided.
Ash cleared his throat. When Nate and Verity looked at him, he was struck by their similarity—light brown hair, pale brown eyes, and a lean, utilitarian build. But also they shared the same stubborn jaw and firm mouth. Both Plums were pigheaded to the end, as their father had been before them. This worked out perfectly well when they agreed, as they did nine times out of ten. But when they disagreed neither seemed capable of begging pardon or agreeing to differ.
He vividly remembered dozens of disputes over the years he had known them. He recalled Verity, her hair in a pair of plaits and a fresh pinafore over her frock, scolding Nate for having eaten the last of the candied apples. He remembered Nate, barely old enough to shave, hollering at Verity for having snubbed some girl he was sweet on. And then there were the supper table fights, pitched battles between Mr. Plum and his children about sugar boycotts and chimney sweeps and everything in between. Nate and Verity had fought over which coffin to bury their father in, for heaven’s sake. The Plums fought the way other families played a friendly hand of whist or a round of charades. Ash had found it alarming at first; for some reason buried deep within his mind he associated raised voices with smashed crockery and crying women. But the Plums simply enjoyed a good fight, and never seemed to love one another any less for believing the other was entirely in the wrong. The late Mrs. Plum had been an exception, but it was from her that Ash learned any attempts to broker peace only spoiled their fun. Instead, he sat back and watched his friends amuse themselves, much as a spectator at a tennis match.
This time, though, he didn’t know how to do that. While Verity could have been more diplomatic—tact had never been her abiding virtue—he wholeheartedly agreed with her that Nate ought to stay far away from the Pentrich executions, should avoid any situation that might tempt him to start a riot or engage in some casual treason, and under no circumstances should he embroil Charlie.
As Ash’s gaze traveled between them, Verity caught his eye. He wasn’t sure what she saw there—perhaps a sign that Ash was on her side—but her eyes opened wide, and then she murmured something unintelligible and left Nate and Ash alone.
“You know I don’t like to intervene in your affairs,” Ash said slowly, addressing Nate. “But I don’t see why you have to bring Charlie.”
“Come now, he wants to go,” Nate said genially, as if Ash were being unreasonable. “I don’t want to deny him the treat.”
“He’s seventeen and your apprentice. He hasn’t any way to refuse you, even if he wanted to. Besides, putting him in the path of danger is a breach of your duty to him. It’s not right.”
“Nothing harmful about watching a hanging,” said Nate. He was a terrible liar, and looked down at the toe of his boot instead of at Ash. “Some apprentices beg for a half day off to watch a hanging. They make a holiday of it.”
“And they cheer and yell and buy ha’penny slices of pie while delighting in the death of people they believe to have deserved their fate. That’s not what you’re planning to do in Derby,” Ash said.
“Charlie isn’t really my apprentice anyway.”
“You really want to take that line of argument? Come, Nate. If he’s not your apprentice, then what is he?” The late Mr. Plum had bought Charlie from the workhouse for five pounds when the boy was twelve years old, but died before the term of Charlie’s apprenticeship was complete. Upon Mr. Plum’s death, Charlie probably ought to have been assigned to another master printer, but instead Nate and Verity had started to pay the lad wages. Ash believed that Charlie nevertheless regarded Nate as occupying the place of his late master, and that Nate owed the boy something for that.
“Excuse me,” said Charlie, appearing in the doorway. “Don’t I get a say? I want to go.”
“Ha!” said Nate, triumphant.
“If I stay home, you’ll have no one to keep you out of trouble,” said Charlie.
“Come, now,” said Nate indignantly. “That’s not fair.”
“Mrs. Peabody at the Rose and Crown is giving five to one odds against you coming back from Derby in one piece, so I bet in your favor. I intend to get my money. Let’s go. I don’t want to miss the stage coach.”
“Wait for me in the street,” Nate said, and the boy left them alone again. “Makes me feel like a child,” he said to Ash, “when you and Verity scold me like that.”
Ash privately thought Nate ought to stop acting like a spoilt child, but wasn’t going to win any arguments by saying so. “Look at it from your sister’s perspective. In the last few years she’s lost both her parents—”
“So have I, mind you!”
“—and now she’s worried about losing you.”
“That’s not what she said to me. She’s going on about not wanting the militia rooting around in the shop.”
Had the woman no sense of strategy or diplomacy whatsoever? Ash didn’t doubt for a second that if Verity had clasped her brother’s hands and begged him not to leave her alone, he would have agreed immediately. But Verity wouldn’t admit, let alone feign, weakness. Ash decided to play her part for her. “If you get sent to prison, she’ll be all alone.”
“Verity?” Nate said with a huff of surprised laughter. “Like hell she will. She knows half of London.”
Knowing half of London was no substitute for having people you belonged to, and few knew that better than Ash. “That’s not the same as wanting to see her brother safe and well.”
“First of all, I won’t be well if I’m not fighting for what I know is right. Second, if Verity finds out you’ve been painting her as a helpless damsel, she’ll eat your still-beating heart. Third, she wouldn’t be alone. She’d have you.”
That shouldn’t have made Ash’s cheeks heat. He hoped the room was too dark for Nate to see him blush. “Not the same,” he repeated.
“I dare say it isn’t,” Nate said thoughtfully. Too thoughtfully. This was what came from knowing someone for over a decade. You saw right through one another. And even though Nate usually had the general appearance of a man who was blessedly unconcerned with the feelings of anyone but himself, Ash supposed that over ten years some facts made their way into even Nate’s thick skull.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ash said quellingly. Nate only laughed, and swiped a copy of theLadies’ Registeroff the top of the stack and jammed it in his pocket, presumably to read during his journey north.
Verity heaped a slice of bread with quince jam, then added a wedge of ripe cheese to her plate. She sloshed some brandy into her tea and carefully carried it all upstairs, where she settled into the high-backed chair in her study. After reading a few pages of a novel she had been saving for an occasion where nothing but a new book could elevate her spirits, she heard the patter of raindrops on the window. That ought to make Nate’s time on the stagecoach dreadfully uncomfortable. She couldn’t make up her mind whether to feel smug or sorry, so she had another bite of bread and cheese and tucked her feet beneath her, curling into the corner of the chair.
