10
Lady Conyngham has completely gained the summit of her ambition, and has all the honors paid her of the Royal Mistress ... to be anyone’s mistress is a miserable lot. To be a royal man’s mistress worse still, for how seldom is a Prince constant!
—From the diary of novelist Lady Charlotte Bury, 1775–1861
January 30, 1820
Carlton House, London
“I insist that the Lady Conyngham have a place of precedence, of course. And I must have new robes, as well. I’ll provide you with an entire list of my requirements in due course, but I expect events to progress quickly. Most quickly.” George waved his hands in emphasis.
Lord Liverpool cleared his throat. “Your Highness, er, Your Majesty, the late king just passed on yesterday. It might be wise to see his funeral to completion before initiating your own coronation.”
“Lord Liverpool, need I remind you, of all people, of the people’s great desire to have a smooth and happy transition between monarchs? The people will be very anxious to see me crowned, and I don’t intend to disappoint them.”
Liverpool gritted his teeth. Lord, the man was insufferable as regent. Now he was king and had already added another foot to his stature in his own mind. What came after insufferable?
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Now, where was I? Oh yes, I’ve always admired Queen Elizabeth’s coronation activities. A weak woman, but she knew how to impress the masses. Have poets, musicians, and actors posted along my coronation route, each delivering odes and prayers to my forthcoming glorious reign. I’ll keep a purse of coins on me and distribute them to each of the performers.”
Liverpool resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He tried again. “Majesty, I just caution you that it may be impossible to pull together a coronation so quickly.”
“Nonsense. Elizabeth’s men did it in two months. You can do the same. Oh, and another thing: I do not want that harpy in Italy at my coronation under any circumstances. I do not intend to allow her to be crowned.”
“But sir, she is your wife, and therefore legitimately the queen.”
“She has no legitimacy! And she wouldn’t still be my wife if Parliament was of any use or assistance to me whatsoever.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Now that I am king, perhaps you can see your way to ridding me of my treacherous, boorish, ill-behaved wife. Bless me, such talk makes me ill.” The new king patted his face with a handkerchief, his favorite accoutrement. “Please send Lady Conyngham in on your way out.”
Liverpool bowed and exited, signaling to a servant outside the door to send in the king’s new mistress.
Lady Elizabeth, the Marchioness of Conyngham, bounced up at her summons to meet with the new king. She was as voluptuous and greedy as Lady Hertford, but twice as beautiful and not nearly as cantankerous.
It had taken the forty-eight-year-old Lady Elizabeth more than a dozen years to supplant Lady Hertford. At least her husband, the Marquess of Conyngham, was willfully blind to her ambitions; else it would have taken her longer.
She supposed that she had an accommodating husband in common with Lady Hertford, too. But she would never make that lady’s mistakes. Poor Lady Hertford, she simply wasn’t experienced enough in managing men to maintain the Prince Regent in her thrall long enough to see him become king.
But Lady Elizabeth intended to hold on to the new king until one of them was laid in a coffin.
“Your Majesty!” she exclaimed as she was permitted entrance to the Circular Room. She swept into a low curtsy at his feet. She had a flash of inspiration, and dropped to the ground nearly prostrate at his feet, kissing the tops of his beribboned shoes.
“My dear one, please, you know you are my dearest friend and do not need to resort to such displays of reverence.”
“But sir, you are my king now. Whatever adoration I had for you before, and you know how considerable it was, has been swept away, to be replaced with indescribable esteem for your new and magnificent person. I can hardly be held accountable for my actions.”
“Quite so, my sweetest heart, quite so. You do bring me great comfort during these trying times. I suppose you saw Liverpool on his way out? He still won’t do anything to rid me of Caroline. Was ever a prince, nay, a king, more harassed than I?”
“Never, Your Majesty,” she replied in her most soothing voice.
He smiled. “You bring me great comfort, Lady Elizabeth. How I wish it were in my power to give you what I know would be your greatest wish, the holy union of matrimony with me. I can tell you nothing would give me more pleasure. But as long as Parliament stalls and refuses to charge Caroline with anything ...”
Now the king was just toying with her. Not only was her own marriage an impediment, but if the king were actually able to obtain a divorce and remarry, it would most certainly be to a princess.
For Lady Conyngham, mistress was the highest title she could hope for, and she was pleased enough with it.
The king was ready to move on to other subjects. “I believe I am tired of Carlton House. Besides, it’s an inadequate palace for my new, glorious monarchy, don’t you think? Perhaps St. James’s Place would be more fitting? What do you think, Lady Elizabeth?”
Actually, neither would do. She had a better idea, but she pretended to consider. “Your Majesty is too grand for merely St. James’s. Why not Buckingham House?”
“Never! That was my father’s favorite residence. Besides, it’s entirely too small.”
“Does it have to be?”
“What do you mean?”
“Isn’t it only fitting that Your Majesty renovate Buckingham House, first to make it a residence fit for your splendor, but also to eradicate the—shall we say—odor of its previous residents?”
“Ah!” Light dawned in his eyes. “Lady Elizabeth, this is one of your more brilliant ideas, and you do tend to radiate them with regularity. You are a lovely adornment and always know how to bring me to a jolly mood.”
“And does this lovely adornment deserve a reward for her imagination and intelligence?”
“Sweetheart, you’ve read my mind.” He pulled her to him for a sweaty kiss.
Not exactly the reward she had in mind, but Lady Elizabeth was nothing if not patient. After all, she’d enjoyed liaisons with Lord Ponsonby, the handsomest man in England two decades ago, as well as with Nicholas, heir to the Russian throne, when he passed through London a few years ago.
In both cases, she merely had to bide her time. As she had done while waiting to catch George’s eye. And when Buckingham House was transformed into a palatial residence, she intended to have her own suite of rooms there. Fully furnished at the king’s expense, of course.
Hmm, perhaps she was becoming more and more like a spider who sits patiently, waiting for an unsuspecting fly to bumble its way into her web. A distasteful thought, wasn’t it?
She shrugged and returned her focus to the king’s pleasure, wondering if the job of king’s mistress would be a more difficult one than that of the prince’s mistress.
The poor old king was not even buried yet, and aristocrats from all over London were sending servants to Belle, summoning her to their townhomes for redecoration advice in anticipation of their own personal balls to be held in anticipation of the coronation.
Belle just hoped the ceremony would be held off long enough for her to complete all of her new projects. Her aristocratic clients were always demanding, but with an impending coronation they were shrill and peevish.
Wesley continued to be irritable, as well, but he was making more effort around the shop. He’d recently found a new supplier of Indian calico. The dyeing work was exquisitely vivid, and for an instant Belle imagined it covering one of Put’s chairs. She dismissed the thought and instead complimented her brother for his find. He shrugged off her praise, but she caught a satisfied smile on his face as he turned away from her.
His expression reminded her of the old Wesley, the Yorkshire boy who came home at the end of a summer’s day, whistling and jangling his winnings inside his pocket. But that boy was long since gone, wasn’t he?
Tuesday, February 1, 1820
Arthur Thistlewood was in rare form this evening.
The hayloft across from the Horse and Groom had been furnished with some spare pieces from the tavern, mostly rickety benches and a couple of tables, hastily brought up via its ladder entry from the stable below.
Thistlewood addressed his inner circle, which consisted of Wesley and ten other men: his fellow hideout seeker, John Harrison; George Edwards; John Brunt; James Ings; Richard Tidd; William Davidson; Charles Cooper; Richard Bradburn; James Wilson; and John Strange.
They were tightly packed inside the unheated, twelve-by-sixteen-foot room. Two grimy windows tried vainly to filter in light, but Mr. Thistlewood insisted that they not be cleaned, so as to maintain the hayloft’s illusion of abandonment. The beamed ceiling was low, and the unplastered walls emitted an odor reminiscent of the horses and hay bales that would have once shared this space. Two rectangular holes in the floor along one wall, originally meant for tossing hay down to the stable, occupied more floor space and made the room seem even smaller.
No one cared, though, for every man leaned forward to capture and digest Thistlewood’s impassioned speech. The only break in the tension was from William Davidson, a Jamaican mulatto with an interesting, lilting accent, whose passion for cigars could not be quelled even during a meeting such as this. Smoke enveloped Davidson and Richard Tidd, sitting next to him.
Wesley’s own throat ached to share his pipe with Darcey. He hoped she wasn’t using up the last of his opium across the street while he was in this meeting. ’Twould be dreadfully unfair of her, since his presence here was mostly at her urging.
Mostly.
There was a sense of self-importance he felt to be sitting among these men who might one day be very significant in His Majesty’s government. Maybe Wesley could one day have a prominent position. Then Belle would finally understand that he was worth more than being just her fetch-and-carry boy.
Wesley didn’t know any of the other men particularly well, since he spent most of his spare time with Darcey, but he was acquainted enough with them to know that they passionately believed in Mr. Thistlewood’s vision of a radically changed government.
And tonight, Thistlewood was roused to a feverish pitch, even as plumes of cold vapor swirled from his mouth as he spoke.
“And so, friends, fellow patriots, we’ve been presented with a glorious opportunity. One that might almost be construed as a sign from the Almighty Himself. Fortunately for those of us assembled here, we do not need to wait for firm signs of divine approval, for you have me to interpret recent events as the smiling of the heavens upon our righteous efforts.”
The man knew how to grab attention. Even Davidson threw his cigar to the floor and stamped on it, so as not to be distracted from a single word Thistlewood uttered.
“You know the old king held on an unconscionably long time, living in his addled state locked up in Windsor. We’ve had the so-called rule of a regent, but the Punch and Judy man in St. James’s Park has more concern for Britain’s subjects than the new king does. And he doesn’t eat nearly as much.
“I am now convinced that the old King George lived so long to provide me with the time necessary to gather you, my closest associates, into my confidence, so that when the time was right, we could strike against the government. His death three days ago was the sign I needed. For now we have the moment. A moment of upheaval, a moment of chaos, a moment created for revolutionary change!” Thistlewood pounded his fist against his breast, then stopped to close his eyes and breathe deeply.
Wesley knew Darcey would be on the verge of a swoon if she were here. He was glad she wasn’t.
“But the Regency is gone. Instead, that bloated ignoramus now claims himself to be our king. As though men of our disposition and good sense will tolerate the rule of such a totty-headed squab, who cannot even manage to find a mistress who is an actual improvement upon his wife!”
The men clapped their approval.
“The old king was a staunch Tory, the new king a Whig. The old king a devoted family man, the new one an adulterer. The old king was abstemious, the new king a drunken glutton. The people will be nervous now, you mark my words. It is one thing for Prinny to be the regent; it’s another thing entirely for him to wear the crown.
“We are now at the precipice, fellows. Will we leap forward, or will we cower backward like ninnies? Others may say we are trying to milk the pigeon, but I say our goal is possible, and that we will be the catalyst for a brighter, better England!”
Now the men roared in agreement.
And as he always did to control his audiences, Thistlewood dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. “So we are in agreement that the uncertainty created by this change in the monarchy provides the right timing for rebellion. All that remains is to decide exactly what to do, eh?”
James Ings spoke in enthusiasm. “I was once a butcher, until everything dried up during the year without a summer. I’ll slaughter all of them in Parliament right proper and put their heads on exhibition at Westminster Bridge!”
Cheers went up all around.
Thistlewood laughed. “So we have one suggestion to send Mr. Ings in with his butcher’s knife to make steaks of the members. But may I present you with another plan?” Thistlewood motioned to George Edwards to join him at the front of the room.
Edwards, a man of average height and looks, unfolded a newspaper and read from it.
ANNOUNCEMENT
ON 23 RD FEBRUARY
SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
CABINET DINNER TO BE HELD AT THE HOME OF
LORD HARROWBY, LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COUNCIL.
LORD LIVERPOOL TO SPEAK ON ISSUES OF GREAT IMPORTANCE.
ALL MEMBERS FROM BOTH HOUSES INVITED TO ATTEND.
39 GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
MEMBERS WILL ENJOY FINE LIBATIONS
AND CIGARS FOLLOWING DINNER.
Edwards looked back to Thistlewood, who clapped him on the shoulder as he took the newspaper from him. “My thanks to Mr. Edwards, my boon companion, who uncovered this advertisement in the New Times.”
Wesley frowned. How many boon companions did Mr. Thistlewood claim?
“I suggest that this dinner provides the perfect opportunity to overthrow the entire government at once, because the fools will all be sitting together, stuffing themselves into fatted calves, and we will simply go in, and, as Mr. Ings suggests, slaughter them.”
“And put their heads on pikes on Westminster Bridge,” Ings reminded him.
“As you wish, sir. Shall we make you Chief Dispenser of Justice, then?”
“I’d wear the title proudly, I would.” Ings sat back, smug. Wesley spoke up. “What then, Mr. Thistlewood? After Parliament has been destroyed.”
Their leader smiled warmly. “Ah, excellent question, Mr. Stirling. From there we will set up a Committee of Public Safety to oversee the revolution that we initiate. From my experience, I believe we may have bloodshed in the streets for about six months. After that, we will form a provisional government. Mr. Edwards has suggested that Mansion House is a likely candidate for housing our government, since the Lord Mayor will no longer have use for it. We’ll hold the king prisoner until we decide if he can be of any use.”
So Mr. Thistlewood had already worked out this entire plan with George Edwards, and was just presenting this to them to gather support for it. Part of Wesley was irritated. This was how Belle made decisions, completely without him.
Yet, on the other hand, if all went well and his own goals were achieved, what cause for complaint did he have? For now Wesley understood that, through revolution, more could be accomplished than the mere overthrow of the government and the establishment of an important position for him. For surely in a revolutionary melee the loss of any member of the House of Commons would be blamed on the revolution.
Wesley looked across the room. Or, more likely, the melee would be blamed on someone like an ex-butcher placing heads on pikes. He brought his focus back to Thistlewood.
“So all we lack are details about the cabinet meeting itself. We would be well armed to know if they are planning more tyranny for England’s subjects. We also need a way to get past Harrowby’s servants in advance, so we can figure out the exact lay of his home. Any suggestions?”
Wesley wondered if Thistlewood really sought ideas or if he already had that worked out, as well.
Ings piped up again. “I say we storm his home like it’s a castle defended by lily-livered Frenchmen!”
“Ha! An excellent idea if they were indeed Frogs. But what we need here is the element of stealth, not brute force.”
“I suggest even more,” Edwards said. “While some of us gain entry to Lord Harrowby’s home, it would be fitting for others to set fire to nearby houses, and throw hand-grenades into passing carriages to divert attention.”
“My friend,” Thistlewood said. “You think like a true revolutionary. But I fear such activities are better left for the critical day of overthrow.”
William Davidson, the Jamaican whose burnished skin reminded Wesley of cacao beans, stood and snapped his fingers to draw attention to himself.
“Mr. Thistlewood,” he said in his singsong voice. “May I propose myself as your instrument of stealth? I worked at Lord Harrowby’s former residence some years ago, and am quite sure he still has staff of my acquaintance. I can find out what you need to know.”
All focus was now on Davidson, including that of Thistlewood, who motioned for Edwards to sit down so that Davidson could step forward. Davidson received the same shoulder-slapping, boon companion treatment.
“Mr. Davidson, ’tis another sign of heavenly favor that you have joined our group. For how else could we have been blessed by a former servant of the Harrowby household? Indeed, I charge you with getting the exact details of the cabinet meeting—what they will be discussing, how many meal courses, even what kind of port they’ll be serving. We’ll also need to know what hours Harrowby keeps at Grosvenor Square. Most important, we need a layout of the home, and you should find out if his dining hall is large enough for the event or if he will move it elsewhere. Can you do all of this?”
“Indeed, sir, I can.”
“And you will report to us again on the morrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thistlewood brandished the paper above his head. “And so you see, my fellow compatriots, the English government is too stupid by far for the likes of the Spenceans!”
Everyone in the room was murmuring with excitement. Revolution was coming to England.
It was nearly midnight before Wesley slid down the ladder and back to the Horse and Groom. Bottles of vinegary wine were produced to celebrate their upcoming victory, with Thistlewood promising to open the well-stocked cellars of every palace in Britain once the goals of the revolution were accomplished. Wesley drank his fill, then decided he’d been gone long enough that Darcey might now be in a fit of pique.
If she hadn’t already left the tavern.
But she was waiting for him in their room, eyes blazing both in anger over his long absence and in fervor over what had happened. He took great pleasure in drawing out the story as long as he could, until she was finally begging him for details.
When Wesley concluded the details of the plan, Darcey got up and sat on the bed, lost in thought.
“A Committee of Public Safety, you say? Exquisite. My father is so bound up in etiquette and protocol that he’ll have no idea how to function inside a revolutionary form of government. It will send him completely off his beetlehead. Although”—she tilted her head at Wesley—“I suppose by that point he may no longer be in existence to have a nervous attack. My sister and I will be completely free of him.”
“And you won’t have to marry any of Mr. White’s selections.”
Darcey brought her knees up and hugged them, still facing Wesley. “No, I won’t. I’ll be as free as a falcon, soaring through the clouds and snatching whatever I want on the ground.”
“And what do you want on the ground?”
“I’m sure there will still be a tasty morsel or two for me to capture in my talons.” She reached out and cupped Wesley’s neck. “But first we have to be sure this will work. When did you say the dinner is?”
“The twenty-third of this month. Three weeks away.”
She nodded. “I’m going to go home and pack a traveling case, steal some money from my father’s desk, then come back to the Horse and Groom. It doesn’t matter now if he knows I’ve run off, for he’ll have more serious matters to consider in a short time. Will you live here with me? Until everything is in motion and we can move into rooms at Mansion House together?”
“I’ll need to make excuses to Belle. It may take me a week to sort things out, but I’ll join you here.”
Wesley ignored the tiny nugget of warning deep inside himself. That inner voice sounded too much like Belle.
Wednesday, February 2, 1820
Belle put down the newspaper to greet her first customer of the day, a familiar face who frequented the shop regularly. Belle addressed the lady’s chattering with absentminded nods as she continued to think over what she’d read.
The Prince Regent had just become King George IV two days ago, but was already issuing orders that British ambassadors on the Continent use their diplomatic skills to ensure that monarchs in foreign courts follow his lead in recognizing Caroline only as a queen consort. Not queen. He was also demanding that the church omit her name from the liturgy.
The article went on to say that the new king was gathering incriminating evidence against his wife, evidence of gross misconduct and adultery while living abroad. The king intended to produce this evidence for Parliament soon. But Lord Liverpool was already hinting that he was disinclined to bring any action against the queen, no matter what evidence the king brought.
Belle cut a length of striped silk taffeta and handed it to her smiling customer, who asked for the purchase to be placed on her husband’s account. The doorbell tinkled behind the woman as she left, and Belle returned to the newspaper and her thoughts.
How could the king, such a philanderer and cruel husband, be obsessed with punishing Caroline? True, the new queen’s manners were reputed to be ghastly, and her personal hygiene only marginally better than that of a corpse. But she’d been sincere in her desire to be a good wife, and had provided the king with a daughter. Didn’t that count for something?
And if, after years of abuse heaped upon Caroline by her self-centered husband, she’d fled to Italy to find happiness, why was the king so consumed with this notion of bringing her to justice? Wasn’t marriage to him penalty enough?
And how would the prime minister’s refusal to examine the evidence affect the relationship between him and the king? And affect the ruling of the country?
Mr. Nash said she was not to ever gossip about the king, but a private thought was acceptable, wasn’t it? She sighed. Ah, well, she wasn’t in a position of influence over the king, was she?
Mind your business, she admonished herself. The king pays handsomely for your cloth.
She shook her head to clear it of her tangled views. After a review of what bolts had fewer than ten yards on them so she could prepare her next order, Belle stepped outside to check the weather. It looked like it might rain soon. Or snow. She shivered and stepped back into the warmth of the shop. For the thousandth time, she wondered where Wesley was today. She never heard him come home to their lodgings last night.
She glanced at the watch pinned to her dress. Eleven o’clock. Where was he off to all the time these days?
Every time she thought Wesley was finally coming round, he began his disappearing tricks. Belle needed to make a trip to Brighton to see what rooms were to be finished in time for the coronation and what fabrics and trims she would need to buy for those rooms. Wesley’s unreliability was making it impossible for her to leave the shop.
Honestly, maybe she should just shut the shop down and move to Brighton. She could serve the new king much more easily there, and so many of London’s aristocrats were buying seaside homes in Brighton that she could have business there for decades.
She wouldn’t have to run into Putnam Boyce anymore, either. Belle knew she needed to place an order with him for an ebonized writing box to go in Lady Logan’s bedchamber. Lady Logan had placed her old one atop her bed one day, and her Italian greyhound had wet on it as well as her bed pillows. The dog was given a biscuit afterwards, while Belle received a summons for a tongue-lashing, with Lady Logan castigating her for not having the pillows made in a fabric unattractive to canines.
But Belle hadn’t had the heart to face Put since gawking at him in the middle of the street. Soon, though, Lady Logan would be tapping a foot in impatience. Well, perhaps if Wesley finally showed up this afternoon she’d make a trip over to Shoreditch.
The door’s bell tinkled as another customer entered the shop. A young woman, probably younger than Belle, with the most beautiful, almond-shaped eyes she’d ever seen. The woman entered the shop as if she owned it, examining the shop’s layout as if determining whether to insist it be changed.
Belle went to the woman and folded her hands in front of her. “Good afternoon, madam. May I help you?”
“Perhaps, perhaps. You are, I assume, the proprietress here?”
“I am. I’m Annabelle Stirling, madam. Are you looking for material for a gown or for interior décor?”
“Hmm, I’m not quite sure yet.” The woman walked along the wall opposite the shop’s counter, fingering the hanging cloth from almost every single bolt in the store, and running her hand through baskets of buttons, thimbles, and threads.
“Madam, are you sure I cannot assist you in finding something?”
Those eyes blinked unhurriedly at her. She was as graceful as a leopard watching its prey from high atop a branch, deciding whether the prey was worth the effort of climbing down to capture it.
Belle reflexively stepped away from her customer, who had returned to examining another bolt of cloth. “That’s a lovely dotted muslin we just got in. It would make a fine day dress.”
“Yes, it probably would. Tell me, are you the sole owner of this shop?”
What? What difference did that make to a fabric purchase?
“Yes. I come from a long line of drapers, madam, originally from Yorkshire, which is, as I’m sure you know, the center of the cloth industry.”
“Actually, I didn’t know. Interesting. I come from a long line of important officeholders. So you say you run this shop entirely alone?”
Belle didn’t much care for this woman, who seemed determined to taunt her for some unknown reason.
“This shop belongs to me alone. Now, if you’ve a specific need, I’m happy to help you, Miss—?”
“White ... Whitecastle. I’m Miss Whitecastle.”
“Very well, Miss Whitecastle, if you’ve no actual business here ...”
“Oh, but we do have business together, Miss Stirling. Perhaps we’ll resume it another day. For now, I just wanted to meet you.” And on that, Miss Whitecastle strode out of the shop. Belle wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the woman had a tail swishing underneath her dress.
What in heaven’s name was that all about?
Sometimes the oddest people came through the door.
Belle brushed all thoughts of Miss Whitecastle from her mind as she steeled herself for a visit to Put. Drat Wesley and his long absences.
Put was conferring with a couple in his outer room when she arrived with the old and rank-smelling writing box. She placed it on a chair seat and tried to look as interested as she could in a grandfather clock near the door while he finished with them. Other than their conversation, the shop was quiet, so his workers must be out somewhere.
After an interminable length of time spent avoiding Put’s eyes, she was relieved when the couple left.
When she turned to face him, she saw that he was at his most comfortable, in his worn, leather apron over a white shirt and threadbare trousers. His hose needed darning, his shoes were scuffed, and, as usual, there was a sprinkling of wood shavings on his forearms. The man was noticeably happier in his trade garments.
It was baffling, though. How could she, a draper, actually find appeal in someone so raggedly dressed?
“Miss Stirling,” Put said with a bow. “It has been long since I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance, since that day in Oxford Street—”
“Yes, I remember the day well.”
“I wanted to introduce you to my—”
Fiancée? Lover? Sweetheart? Whatever she was, Belle needed no introductions.
“Not to worry, Mr. Boyce. Your relationships don’t concern me anymore.”
“Anymore? What does that mean? Did they once concern you? And anyway, Frances is—”
“As I said, I can’t be concerned. I need to place an urgent order for a writing box to replace this one.” She picked it up from the chair and showed it to him.
He took it and sniffed at it. “What the hell happened to it?”
“An impudent, mannerless dog got the box, as well as some pillows I had made, into his sights, and the result was, well, this.”
Put shook his head. “The wood has been left to sit too long in urine. I might have been able to save it if your customer brought it to you sooner.”
“Yes. Well. Anyway, I recommended to her that we do something ebonized instead of in oak, since the new king has made ebony all the rage. She agreed that that was the thing to do.”
“Same dimensions?”
“Yes.”
“Any inlay? Marquetry? Secret compartments?”
“No, just what she had before.”
“As you wish, Miss Stirling.” He folded down the hinge of his work desk so that the surface area was flat, then put the writing box down on the center of it.
“How does your own business fare?” he asked.
“Well, thank you.”
“Can I interest you in some other pieces? Another gift for your brother, perhaps? A mirror for your dresser top? I just received some Brazilian cherrywood I can show you—”
“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. “Let’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 just 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.”
Wesley grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her into his room, slamming the door shut behind her.
He held on to her arm and put his face close to hers. Through gritted teeth he said, “What did you hear?”
She pushed against him with her free arm and he released her. Enough was enough. She’d been patient with Wesley for years, but rough handling her like this was beyond the pale.
And before she could quite stop herself, Belle unleashed several years of anger on her brother.
“How dare you! You are the most arrogant, self-centered man, no, boy, I have ever encountered. One would think you were the spoiled, pampered pet of a rich mistress, as much as you strut about thinking that you’re owed some special place and favor in society for no effort. Even with me you do it. You think you deserve ownership in the shop because you wink at the female customers and make daring suggestions with them. And when I don’t consider that proof of maturity and responsibility, what do you do? Why, you take revenge on me by disappearing from the shop for hours at a time, to meet who knows what tramp or trollop.
“Is that supposed to impress me? Do you think as I stand here that I’m overcome with remorse at not making you an owner of the shop? Truly? Especially since I just overheard you discussing something that probably amounts to treachery at best, treason at worst.
“Tell me, Brother, what ingenious plan do you have for achieving the recognition that has so long eluded you? Are you helping to manufacture evidence for the king to use against the queen? Will you aid in seeing that poor woman dethroned?”
Wesley grew still. “What did you say?”
“I’m asking you if Mr. Thistlewood is an agent of the king’s. Are you two conspiring to bring false evidence against Queen Caroline so that the king can divorce her?”
Wesley blinked as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Yes. Yes, that is what’s happening. You’ve rooted us out, Belle.”
Such imprudent people were always shocked when they were discovered in their foolhardy plans, Belle thought.
But Belle didn’t like his tone. It was too ... smug. And confident. Quite unlike his attitude just moments ago.
Hmmm.
“So what will you do now?” she asked.
“What do you mean, what will I do? Do you think your sniffing presence changes anything? We’ll proceed as planned. After all, the king wants it, and what the king wants he shall have. Making it none of your concern whatsoever. In fact, I suspect His Majesty would be quite angry if he learned that you knew anything about this.”
Yes, that was probably true. Belle felt as though she’d been pricked by a sharp pin, and all of the righteous, principled air was released from her body.
“And what shiny gift has he offered you, Wesley?”
Wesley slowly smiled. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Enough, now. Run off and tend to your own affairs, and don’t worry about mine. Things will be concluded soon enough and you’ll find that all’s well.”
He pushed her out of his room like an errant child, and once again she was facing his locked door.
Once again she couldn’t begin to fathom her brother’s behavior.
And once again she fought the desire to run to Put. What could he do about it, anyway?