Sleeping Evie: Lady Goosebury's Tales

By Jessica Cale

When Evie Henshawe agreed to sit as an artist’s model for the eccentric Marquess of Ashcombe, she was expecting to lose her clothes and her reputation. She wasn’t counting on losing her mind—or her heart. As a second son, Ash was never meant to be a marquess. Bookish, circumspect, and devoted to his art, he’s a visionary, not a landlord. Horrified by the realities of the Industrial Revolution, he buries himself in the past and uses his resources to build a Gothic Revival Camelot in north London, a place where he can disappear into his dreams. He plans to do exactly that—until Evie comes to wake him up.

An out-of-work seamstress sleeping rough in Highgate Cemetery, Evie is the last person who should turn Ash’s head. Having lost her fiancé and most of her friends to Paris Green, all she has left are her looks, a dark sense of humor, and a laudanum habit. Modeling is a job like any other, but she’s never met a man quite like Ash.

Through art, history, and volatile chemistry, this odd couple soon discovers they’re kindred spirits, but things at the castle aren’t as perfect as they seem. Ash has a secret that might just send Evie back to Highgate. Is there a way forward for the artist and his muse, or will his circumstances turn their dream into a nightmare?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094452470

Jessica Cale

Jessica Cale is a romance author, editor, and historian based in North Carolina. Originally from Minnesota, she lived in Wales for several years where she earned a BA in History and an MFA in Creative Writing while climbing castles and photographing mines for history magazines. She kidnapped (“married”) her very own British prince (close enough) and is enjoying her happily ever after with him in a place where no one understands his accent. She is the editor of Dirty, Sexy History and you can visit her at www.dirtysexyhistory.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

By the time Evie made it to the top of Swain’s Lane, the spire of St Michael’s appeared like an apparition, an awl piercing the black bombazine sky. Perhaps that’s what the stars were, after all. Not distant suns or watchful spirits.

Just holes.

Steadying herself on one of the two brick walls that enclosed the lane like a tunnel, she gasped to catch her breath. A sharp stitch shot across her side where uncovered whalebone bruised her ribs. Still, her corset was the only thing keeping her upright, so she couldn’t fault it. How much farther?

Jenny’s eyes darted from shadow to shadow and she shifted in her boots, clearly anxious to hurry on. It’s just opposite. Come along, then. I don’t like being alone up here.

Safer than most parts, surely. Evie dragged her feet, breathing normally at last. I haven’t seen another living soul since the bottom of that bastard hill.

It’s not the living ones that concern me. Jenny’s tone was wry, but there was an urgency in her gaze that made Evie follow it. Reaching Jenny’s vantage point, Evie could see down the lane—now just a dim tunnel perfect for hiding killers and thieves—and into the open space beside the wall.

It was a cemetery unlike any she’d seen before. As dark as it was, it seemed endless. It was completely overgrown with trees and ivy, and it was quieter than anywhere she’d been in her life.

Evie stared a moment too long. A tentative rustling came from the bushes, and Jenny screamed at the top of her voice.

A long red nose emerged, sniffing the air. A fox ran out a moment later, making his way across the street.

Evie couldn’t help it. She laughed.

Jenny punched her arm. You wouldn’t think it such a lark if you knew what people have seen down there.

With a last glance toward the cemetery and the lane beyond, Evie hurried after her friend. As tall as she was, she had to run at a good clip to keep up. As houses appeared once again, she began to relax. Why did we come this way if you’re afraid?

It’s fastest. Jenny shrugged. I didn’t think my boots could take another mile.

Evie glanced at her own boots shuffling through the grayish mulch strewn across the street. Rotting leaves seemed to cover every surface, the constant damp soaking through her stockings and filling her lungs with the musty sweet scent of decay. Poets liked autumn, and they could keep it. All Evie wanted these days was a warm place to get dry.

She pulled her coat tighter across her chest, picking at a loose button. Hopefully no one would notice it was five years out of date and in desperate need of repair. Better to worry about something else instead. "So what have people seen down there?"

You’ve never been into Highgate? Jenny shot her a look, and even the frizz of her short fringe seemed to stand on end. Sometimes I forget you’re from Denmark Hill.

Southwark, Evie corrected.

Jenny rolled her eyes. "I know, darling, but when you’re talking to this set, you’re from Denmark Hill. South of the river is bad enough, but that way at least you can say you know Ruskin."

But I don’t know Ruskin.

No one really does. Jenny sighed. It’s the vampire.

Evie stopped in her tracks. Did you say John Ruskin’s a vampire?

Jenny groaned. Forget Ruskin! Are you even listening? It’s what people have seen—a vampire, here in Highgate. Like Polidori’s Lord Ruthven. A seducer in a top hat and tails, he sleeps among the dead and only leaves to suck the life from vulnerable young ladies.

You’ve just described half the men in London. The wind picked up and Evie shivered. Does he turn into a bat?

Of course not, Jenny scoffed.

Then how do they know he’s a vampire?

You just know, Jenny answered after some consideration. It’s the thrall. With a glance, they can make you do their bidding. Oh, and they see him wandering about the cemetery on his own.

"Wandering the cemetery in black? You mean like a mourner? The absolute beast." Evie shook her head. Everyone was mourning someone. There was a reason the shop had kept running out of black crape.

As if to prove her point, two men rounded the corner, walking companionably in black coats and gleaming top hats. Her gaze immediately went to the cuffs of their trousers, though she hadn’t been paid to mend any in weeks. I beg your pardon, sirs, Evie called out. Can you turn into bats?

The men looked at her as if she’d lost her faculties as Jenny hooked her arm through Evie’s elbow and dragged her down the street. You are deranged, Jenny chided under her breath with a laugh. Already had a nip, have you?

Evie shook her head, her heart sinking. She’d run out of laudanum days before, and even then she’d only taken it so she could sleep. The truth was that she was giddy with hunger, but she wouldn’t burden Jenny with that. Not tonight, she said truthfully. Must be the moon, or perhaps the vampire has me in his thrall.

At last they reached an unassuming two-story brick house at the end of the lane. The door was inlaid with stained glass and painted arsenic green.

Evie stared at it. She’d walked at least five miles on the promise of food and the possibility of work, and at the end of it was arsenic green. She almost didn’t go in.

The decision was made for her when the door opened and a young man stepped out.

Jenny, he greeted with a saucy smile. Pleasure as always. Who’ve you brought us, then?

Jenny sighed with obvious relief at seeing him, her face glowing with hopeful anticipation. Evie’s eyebrows shot up. Jenny had mentioned they were going to an artist’s house, but not that she was in love with him.  

This is Evie Henshawe, my friend from the shop. Well, used to be. Thompkins threw her out on account of— Jenny stopped short when Evie elbowed her in the ribs. Well, it don’t signify, does it? Evie, this is Spencer.

She didn’t specify if that was his first or surname, and Spencer didn’t feel the need to clarify. Delighted to meet you, Evie. Welcome. With a last lingering look at Jenny, he turned and led them into the house.

Spencer certainly carried himself like an artist. He was young yet and fashionably lean, and he walked with the swagger of a man who only needed the one name. His shirt was of good quality if smudged in places with charcoal and chalk, and he wore it loose like he’d just thrown it over his head after falling out of bed. The house matched him perfectly—deceptively humble with clear hints of wealth, and beautiful but for a few superficial marks that would come out with vinegar and a good scrub.

A cacophony of shouts, laughter, and music reached them as they passed through the entrance hall. The smell of opium was apparent if distant, not currently burning but permanently clouding the ceiling. Evie had been expecting a party, but she wasn’t prepared for what greeted her in the sitting room.

Lit with gaslight and a few scattered candles, the room had an almost amber glow. A man dripped red wine onto the ivory settee while a dozen men and women sat in various states of undress on the Oriental rug, some smoking and others wielding crystal glinting burgundy or absinthe green. There were hands everywhere. It was very nearly an orgy, and the deity presiding over the debauchery looked more than a little familiar.

In a gilt frame above the mantle was Jenny, only rather more of Jenny than Evie had previously seen. Mary, Mother of God, Evie muttered to herself. "I knew you were a model, but you did not tell me you were Lady Godiva."

Spencer painted that last spring. Jenny blushed, the dreaminess on her face pale in comparison to her obvious ecstasy in the portrait. He’s very good.

I can see that. To her credit, Evie didn’t laugh.

Ladies and gentlemen, Spencer addressed the room to further laughter. We have more guests. Jenny Craven you know—someone whistled—and this is Miss Evie Henshawe.

The others looked her over with detached interest, talking among themselves. Good lines, someone said. Evie had no idea what that meant, but she supposed it was preferable to Show us your tits, love, which was what she usually got walking home.

As the conversation drifted away from her, Evie went in search of food. On the picked-over table, she found half a roll—which she ate without thinking twice—honey, olives, and candied almonds. An odd combination, but she’d make do.

Evie looked up as a shadow fell across her. Filling the doorway in a dramatic dark coat was the Highgate Vampire. His presence was so powerful, Evie took a full step backward. He swept off his hat with the thoughtless grace born of repetition and looked up at her with eyes so clear and bright, she dropped her plate in surprise.

Thrall was a woefully insufficient word for what he had. If she’d had her wits about her, she might have admired the breadth of his shoulders or the set of his jaw, but he was so much more than the sum of his parts. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were in the candlelight, only that they drew her toward him like an undertow dragging her out to sea.

He looked as surprised to see her as she was him. His gaze swept over her again and again, not out of lust, but something more akin to recognition.

He sighed a word to himself. It sounded a bit like Epiphany.

Evie, she blurted, only then remembering her own name. That is, Evelyn Henshawe.

As he opened his mouth to introduce himself, Evie half expected him to say Galahad. No—Lancelot, surely. She could see him as Orpheus or Hades or even Macbeth—some tragic hero as beautiful as he was tormented. She’d never thought of men as artist’s models before, but of course they must be. Someone had to pose for Michelangelo’s David.

This man had such an ageless quality, perhaps he had.

Beside her, Spencer grinned from ear to ear. She had forgotten he was there. Evie, this is Ash. Ash, Evie is a friend of Jenny’s. She’s an artist’s model.

I can see that, Ash said to himself. For such a large man, he seemed oddly bashful, withdrawn. I’m certain I’ve seen you before. Who do you sit for?

Evie looked to Spencer for help. Spencer’s encouraging nod meant nothing to her. What did he want her to say? Sit? Oh, you mean as a model. No one. At least, not yet.

He did look surprised at that. He looked her over slowly, considering her with an intensity that made her skin hot.

It was no secret many artist’s models were harlots. Whether they’d started that way or the work had driven them to it, she’d never been certain, but if Ash kept looking at her like that, she’d be scouring linen in a Magdalen Asylum before Christmas. She coughed. "Erm...who do you sit for?"

He balked as if she had slapped him, then flushed slightly around his high starched collar. Me?

Evie’s a right joker. Aren’t you, Evie? Spencer subtly pinched her hip in warning. Ash is a painter like me.

Evie wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Of course he was an artist. He was the only one who’d paid her any mind, and she’d gone and insulted him by implying he took his kit off for money. In fairness, he could. He had the kind of face that belonged on the line at the Royal Academy, the kind of eyes that ought to be gazing thoughtfully from countless reproductions across the country, not staring at her as though she were demented.

Ash waved a hand. I would never presume. You are a master, and I am still finding my way.

Spencer slapped him on the back with an encouraging smile. We’ve all got to start somewhere, haven’t we?

Ash didn’t appear to be insulted as his gaze returned to her once again, regarding her with such an intensity it was like a physical touch. Evie didn’t know if it was lust or embarrassment that made her skin burn the way it did, but the end result was the same.

She wanted to take her clothes off.

I, erm...it was a pleasure to meet you. Before she succumbed to the temptation to offer her throat to the Highgate Vampire, she made a beeline for Jenny. Perhaps she should keep running to St. Michael’s and hide in a pew. Even as she fled, she could feel his gaze on her back.

Jenny jumped as she felt Evie’s hand on her elbow. What is it?

An extraordinarily handsome man is undressing me with his eyes, Evie whispered frantically, realizing at once how ridiculous that sounded.

Jenny’s laughter bubbled up so quickly she almost blew wine out of her nose. Good! And?

Evie bit her lip. She wouldn’t look over her shoulder. She wouldn’t.

She did.

Ash was still staring at her, crestfallen.

He’s still looking! Fear ricocheted from her guts to her toes, or maybe it was excitement.

No, it was still lust.

Can I have a word with you? Evie begged. In the kitchen?

Jenny’s eyebrows rose as she caught sight of Ash over Evie’s shoulder. He probably wants to hire you, lovey.

Evie cringed. That’s what I’m afraid of.

They found the kitchen after several minutes of searching, Evie’s stomach rumbling all the way. What they didn’t find was a single sausage roll. Evie checked the cupboards and stove, incredulous. What kind of posh kitchen didn’t have any food in it?

Jenny leaned against the table with the last of her wine, unfazed. What’s all this about?

Evie’s heart sank. She needed to ask, but she didn’t want to be rude. You know I think the world of you, but...

Yes? Jenny crossed her arms.

This modeling business... Evie bit her lip. Am I expected to shag them?

Jenny’s mouth dropped open. No! Is that what you think I do?

Evie looked away. "It’s just that you and Spencer clearly—"

That’s different, Jenny snapped. You don’t have to shag anybody you don’t want to. We’re not tarts. Well, Miranda and Beatrice are, but that’s beside the point.

Evie was relieved to hear it, but there was a little disappointment in there too.

Rushed footsteps flew down the hall, and Spencer burst into the kitchen, clearly ruffled. He wasn’t cross, only panicked. Why are you hiding in my kitchen?

Evie looked at her feet. It’s nothing, I—

Jenny sighed. Evie wanted to know if shagging is part of the job.

Evie’s face flamed, but Spencer only laughed. Darling, that was the Marquess of Ashcombe you just ran away from. If he wants you, ride him into the ground and count yourself lucky to do it.

A marquess? Jenny’s voice was suddenly shrill, her face panicked. Run, Evie. Catch him before he leaves.

Evie crossed her arms and planted her heels. So he’s a marquess. That all you’re going to tell me? That’s not even his name, it’s his title. For all I know he could be in the Cannibal Club. Tell me he’s not a pornographer.

Spencer rolled his eyes so hard she could feel it. "Ashcombe, not Ashbee. At any rate, it’s not pornography when you’re that wealthy. It’s scientific study."

Evie shot him a pointed look. You didn’t answer my question.

In spite of his fluttering about, it was clear Spencer was