By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  “No, nothing else.” She didn’t dare step into his lumberyard with him. Too dangerous.

  “Very well. I guess you’re too busy to spend time with a friend.” Put took her arm and slowly walked her to the door. “I can deliver the new writing box myself in two weeks’ time—”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “You’ll pick it up personally?”

  “No, have Merrick bring it round. That would be most convenient.”

  They had reached the door of the shop. Belle put her hand out to the knob, but Put reached over and threw the latch, trapping her between him and the door.

  She wasn’t sure she liked being this close to him.

  “Miss Stirling, what is bedeviling you? If I recall correctly, I am the injured party between the two of us. So if I’m willing to make amends, on what grounds will you not?”

  She laughed weakly. “I’d no idea we were scheduled to make apologies today. I assumed this to be a business transaction.”

  “Stop it,” he growled. “No more foolishness.”

  He was pressed up against her, his head slightly turned so that his good eye plumbed the depths of both her own eyes.

  “I don’t know who you think that woman was, but let me assure you, she’s not who you think she is. If you’d just let me explain—”

  “That’s just it! You can’t explain. Because the explanation doesn’t matter. She could be your wife or your sister or a complete figment of my imagination, but it’s immaterial because I can’t allow myself to destroy one more relationship, nor to let anyone take control of my life. I’ve already made such a wreck of things with my brother, and I don’t even know how. He’s so distant and cross and incensed over I know not what, and I’m—”

  Put bent down, his lips almost touching her ear. “I’m not your brother, Belle.” He brought both hands up to cradle her face, and gently bumped his forehead against hers.

  She held her breath. What would he say next?

  He said nothing.

  Instead, he brought his mouth down to hers, startling her with its warmth and deep affection. Put didn’t force her to accept him, he merely enveloped her in his heady and intoxicating essence.

  Good Lord, was this what it felt like to fall in love with someone? To have this tingling sensation of both floating away yet melding to the man who held you?

  She responded eagerly to him, both lost in the feelings he was generating in her and irritated that she was losing control over her emotions.

  She tried to ignore the knot of annoyance. But when Put finally broke the kiss and whispered her name, the irritation won out. She wrenched away from him, fumbling for the lock behind her. She knew her eyes were wet, but she couldn’t help it, and cursed herself for her weakness.

  “I cannot,” she whispered, finally yanking open the door and fleeing back into the chilly streets toward the safety of her shop. How had she so quickly succumbed to Put that he had been the one to end their kiss? How wanton would she have become had she stayed there?

  He didn’t follow her, and she never heard him say, almost to himself, “How can a man be rejected for spending time with his cousin?”

  She was also unaware of the opportunity Put would soon receive to place himself in her path again.

  Wesley waited expectantly in the hayloft for Mr. Thistlewood to arrive. Gads, but it was cold up here, although the others didn’t seem to notice as they joked and conversed with each other in the dark room. A lone candle burned on the table at the front of the room, giving the gathering a mysterious atmosphere.

  Wesley sat alone, quietly, to think. He’d just left Darcey in their room, where she’d relayed her visit to Belle to him.

  So Belle hadn’t even mentioned that he was even a worker in her shop, much less an integral component to its success.

  Darcey was more excitable than Wesley had ever seen her before. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, with beads of sweat gathered above her lip and eyebrows, making him wonder if she’d been rummaging in his box without him. In this agitated state, she told Wesley that this was the proof he needed that Belle would never, ever share control of the draper shop with him, and that Belle, like her father, needed to be taught a lesson about oppressing those closest to them.

  “Tonight, my love, you have to make your grandest gesture yet. Mr. Thistlewood already has the outline of a plan. Make yourself as useful as you can in it so you will not only be sure that my father is taken care of, but so that you can obtain a high place for yourself.”

  Wesley had argued weakly his concern about the plan being discovered and what might happen if he and the others were caught, but Darcey dismissed him airily.

  “Once the Revolution started in France, there was no going back. The king and his ministers were powerless to stop it.”

  “Yes, but Robespierre ended up under the same blade as the king.”

  “Oh, Mr. Thistlewood is much smarter than Robespierre. He has learned from whatever mistakes the French made, so that the revolution here will be much more successful. And you, my love, will rise to the top of the milk pitcher.”

  And so, armed with Darcey’s confidence and kisses, as well as the promise of a new intoxicant she wanted them to try together when he returned later, Wesley waited for Thistlewood to start the meeting so he could find a point in which to assert himself.

  Ah, finally Mr. Thistlewood’s head appeared in the ladder shaft. He emerged into the hayloft, drawing himself up with grace despite his imposing size. He headed to one end of the room and lifted his hands in a gesture for everyone to pay attention to him.

  The room was instantly quiet.

  “Friends, thank you for returning again tonight. We have so little time that I’ll get right to the heart of things. Mr. Davidson, what have you to report to us?”

  William Davidson stood, his dark skin nearly invisible in the murky shadows of the room. Thistlewood lit two more candles, increasing the visibility in the room.

  “I was able to speak to one of Lord Harrowby’s coachmen. He said the earl isn’t even in London at the moment, but is off to the country visiting friends. There is no cabinet dinner planned.”

  Murmurs of disbelief filled the air.

  George Edwards jumped up. “What do you mean? The newspaper advertisement was very plain that Lord Harrowby was planning a cabinet dinner on the twenty-third. The coachman must be mistaken.” He looked to Thistlewood for affirmation.

  Thistlewood pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “I tend to think you’re right, Edwards. Such an advertisement couldn’t have been placed by mistake, after all. Either the servant is lying, or is confused about his master’s whereabouts.”

  Davidson shook his head. “I don’t think he is lying, nor is he confused, sir. Benks and I were close friends while I was at Grosvenor Square. There’s no reason for him to lie to me. And surely the earl’s coachman knows where his master—”

  Edwards interrupted again. “If Lord Harrowby is in the country, why isn’t his coachman with him? How does the earl plan to return to London?”

  Davidson turned to Edwards as though addressing a child. “I’m sure the earl has more than one carriage, and certainly more than one attendant for each carriage.”

  “Why, you insulting little—”

  “Friends, please, let’s maintain our temperate constitutions,” Mr. Thistlewood said. “Save your heated passions for the moment you hold knives and pistols in your hands, eh? Now, I think the only way to resolve this is to decide who holds more credence, one of the earl’s servants, or the earl himself, who placed announcement of the dinner in the newspaper. I suggest it is the latter. Therefore, Mr. Davidson, we will proceed with our assassinations as planned. However, you are to be commended for your excellent work thus far.”

  “But now we don’t know where the dinner will be held inside his home,” Davidson said. “How will we figure that out, if no one on the earl’s staff knows about the dinner?”

  Thistlewood smiled. “L
et’s not assume too much. I think what we need is an excuse to get into Lord Harrowby’s home ourselves and examine it. Suggestions?”

  James Ings piped up. “We’ll break in through the servants’ quarters in the middle of the night and club any of them over the head that gets in our way.”

  “Fool!” Davidson hissed. “The servant quarters are in the attic. Are you going to make your approach by balloon?”

  “I must agree,” Thistlewood said. “A late-night entry attempt is not only risky, but completely unworthy of men who call themselves Spencean Philanthropists. We need to be clever, yet bold.”

  John Harrison spoke, probably for the first time in one of these meetings. “I know what to do. Let’s send the good earl a gift, one of great value that he’d be happy to receive. A couple of us will serve as the deliverymen, and can inspect the place freely if we manage it during a time that most of the servants are out. Davidson can’t go, for obvious reasons.”

  Thistlewood clapped slowly and bent his head in acknowledgment to Harrison. “Excellent idea and good reasoning, Mr. Harrison.”

  “Hear, hear,” the other men called out.

  Blast it all, why hadn’t Wesley thought of such a good idea? I should volunteer to deliver the gift.

  “And so, what remains to decide is exactly what this gift should be.”

  William Davidson stood again. “If memory serves me, the earl and his countess are celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary soon. Perhaps an anniversary gift from his old servant who still esteems him?”

  They shouted suggestions as though whoever was loudest would win. “A diamond bracelet for his wife!” “A fancy dog!” “A rare book!”

  Thistlewood shook his head at all of these suggestions. He raised his hands again for more quiet. “Friends, all of these gifts are small tokens, and would be taken into the house by whatever servant answered the door, and we would promptly see that door closed in our faces. It must be heavy, or bulky, or both, to allow us access to the home.”

  “How about a piece of furniture? Bet the earl would like an elegant desk that he can sit behind so he looks important.”

  Wesley turned at the voice coming from behind him. It was Richard Tidd, a balding man with heavy jowls and thin lips, giving him a simian appearance.

  Now Thistlewood granted Tidd a beaming smile. Being shown favor by Thistlewood felt as though you were one of Christ’s apostles and had just figured out the meaning of a parable while sitting at His feet.

  Wesley wanted that smile. He cast about in his mind for something to contribute. The conspirators would gain access to Lord Harrowby’s, offering the gift of a desk as a way to access the inner reaches of the home. And once they did—oh, of course!

  Here was Wesley’s opportunity to be as useful as Davidson, Edwards, and Tidd.

  “I know a master cabinetmaker, Mr. Thistlewood.”

  Thistlewood’s eye was upon him. “Do you now? And is he discreet?”

  Was Putnam Boyce discreet? Wesley hardly knew the man.

  “He is, sir. And he makes aristocratic-quality pieces. He’ll make one for us without asking questions, long as we apply enough guineas to his palm.”

  Thistlewood nodded. “Well done, Mr. Stirling. Go see your cabinetmaker, and offer him whatever it takes to have the desk done in the next two weeks.”

  Wesley breathed deeply in self-satisfaction. He’d pleased his savior.

  The meeting broke up soon thereafter, and Wesley hurried back to the Horse and Groom, where Darcey waited for his news. He told her everything in great detail, except the part where Thistlewood cornered him at the end, to ask if he could meet with him privately elsewhere to discuss further details. It made Wesley realize that he wasn’t quite ready to give up his room at the lodging house to move in with Darcey.

  In celebration of his accomplishment, Darcey brought out a bottle full of a dark liquid. She jiggled it back and forth. “Laudanum. Have you tried it before? It’s an opium tincture; this one is blended with brandy.”

  He hadn’t. But he was more than willing to rejoice over his success in whatever way Darcey wanted. And as his mind mellowed from the potent substance, he realized it was quite easy to ignore Darcey’s increasing power over him, and to believe that it was his own decision to embroil himself in a massive conspiracy.

  Thursday, February 3, 1820

  Put was pleased with his new commission, especially since it came from Belle’s brother. The boy was a bit cagey and probably a ne’er-do-well in Put’s opinion, but Belle was blind to Wesley’s faults, and so for her sake he would also be blind to them.

  Besides, the boy seemed earnest in his desire to make a surprise gift for Belle, in the form of a secretary. Although Put understood the secrecy that had to be involved, he didn’t understand the immediacy of the project. Two weeks was hardly enough time to create the piece.

  But Wesley was eager for the desk and offered entirely too much money for it. Put suggested about half the price for it. They discussed specifications, shook hands on it, and Wesley left the shop, whistling.

  Which left Put to figure out how to produce the finest desk he could possibly imagine in a mere two weeks. He had to finalize the design, select wood from his seasoned stock, then cut, shape, glue, nail, and possibly veneer pieces together.

  It was an impossible task. The only way he could complete it in time would be to dig out some old desk carcasses from the storeroom and see which one might serve as a good foundation for what he had in mind.

  He would get it accomplished for Belle. Maybe she would actually listen to him for five minutes when he delivered it.

  Belle returned to her lodgings, exhausted from a busy day followed by a trip to St. Bart’s to drop off some lengths of Welsh wool flannel. Once again, Wesley had disappeared from the shop early, and she’d had to manage completely on her own the entire afternoon.

  It was time to talk to her brother again. How could he expect to have a greater role in the shop if he was going to randomly evaporate without warning?

  She heard his voice from behind his door and went to it, raising her hand to knock on it. She stopped when she realized that there was a second masculine voice in the room. Their voices were low, and Belle could hardly distinguish one from the other. Snatches of their conversation floated through the door.

  “... is almost ready for delivery ...”

  “His wife will be none the wiser... .”

  “Need to keep these lodgings ... may need to hide here.”

  “Pains ... penalties ... for the king.”

  “Timing is right ... prime minister ...”

  “... be rid of the tyrannical wretch ...”

  “... great reward for you, Mr. Stirling ...”

  Belle felt a knot forming in her stomach. Dear God, what were they talking about? What was Wesley involved in? She heard shuffling in the room, and scurried up the stairs to her own room, lest they open the door and find her eavesdropping on them.

  She ran to her window overlooking the street to see who would emerge from their lodging house. It was a tall, hulking man whose long, dark sideburns hung low underneath the rim of his beaver hat.

  As if he realized he was being watched, he paused and turned to look up at Belle’s window. She stepped back, but not before seeing the hateful intensity of the man’s gaze underneath his frown.

  She shivered. What manner of men was Wesley associating with? And what were they plotting?

  Furthermore, what did it mean about someone’s wife being “none the wiser” and that the timing was now right? And exactly what sort of reward was Wesley being promised?

  She sat back down and pressed her fingers to her forehead, rubbing her brow as though it would somehow inspire answers.

  It sounded as though they were talking about the king’s ongoing battle with the queen, and that Wesley was somehow engaged in it. Was he being paid to help gather evidence? Was that what was almost ready for delivery? But that was impossible. Surely she was jus
t imagining things based on the scurrilous articles she was reading in the newspapers. Besides, how could Wesley have any connection with the House of Hanover, except through her?

  She dropped her thumb to her lap as her heart thudded to a halt.

  Am I responsible? Have I unwittingly given Wesley access to the king?

  It couldn’t be. Wesley couldn’t be that foolish.

  But he’d been mysterious for months, and the king’s vitriol against his wife had been going on even longer. Who knew what men of the gutter the king might be seeking out to gather evidence? And what men of the gutter Wesley was secretly associating with?

  And if word reached the king that Wesley was her brother, then the king might think Wesley was a trusty conspirator.

  She rubbed her eyes. She was being ridiculous.

  Belle had a sudden urge to run to Put’s shop, another outlandish impulse. As though the man would want to see her again after her last jumpy performance in front of him. If only she didn’t have an overwhelming desire to flee to him when she was troubled.

  Well, there was no help for it. She’d have to confront Wesley, lest he get himself in over his head. There might still be time to prevent him harming others. Or himself.

  She went back downstairs and knocked on his door. He opened, and seemed confused to find Belle there.

  “Oh, I thought you were—never mind. What do you need, Sister?” Wesley leaned inside the door frame, his arms crossed in front of him.

  “Let me speak plainly to you,” she began.

  “Ha! Yes, please do. It’s so rare that you speak your mind to me.”

  “May I come in?”

  Wesley shrugged. “Depends what you want to say.”

  “Who was the man that just left here?”

  “You mean Mr. This—why do you ask?”

  “So that was your bosom friend, Mr. Thistlewood? He has the look of the devil about him. I heard you, Wesley. Talking. Or should I say conspiring?”

  Her brother went rigid. “What did you hear?”

  “Enough to know you’re up to something dangerous and stupid. Something that you think will earn you great favor but will probably result in catastrophe.”